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10606	----	proofreading Team THE TRAGEDIE OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARKE A STUDY WITH THE TEXT OF THE FOLIO OF 1623 BY GEORGE MACDONALD "What would you gracious figure?" TO MY HONOURED RELATIVE ALEXANDER STEWART MACCOLL A LITTLE _LESS_ THAN KIN, AND _MORE_ THAN KIND TO WHOM I OWE IN ESPECIAL THE TRUE UNDERSTANDING OF THE GREAT SOLILOQUY I DEDICATE WITH LOVE AND GRATITUDE THIS EFFORT TO GIVE HAMLET AND SHAKSPERE THEIR DUE GEORGE MAC DONALD BORDIGHERA _Christmas_, 1884 Summary: The Tragedie of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark: a study of the text of the folio of 1623 By George MacDonald [Motto]: "What would you, gracious figure?" Dr. Greville MacDonald looks on his father's commentary as the "most important interpretation of the play ever written... It is his intuitive understanding ... rather than learned analysis--of which there is yet overwhelming evidence--that makes it so splendid." Reading Level: Mature youth and adults. PREFACE By this edition of HAMLET I hope to help the student of Shakspere to understand the play--and first of all Hamlet himself, whose spiritual and moral nature are the real material of the tragedy, to which every other interest of the play is subservient. But while mainly attempting, from the words and behaviour Shakspere has given him, to explain the man, I have cast what light I could upon everything in the play, including the perplexities arising from extreme condensation of meaning, figure, and expression. As it is more than desirable that the student should know when he is reading the most approximate presentation accessible of what Shakspere uttered, and when that which modern editors have, with reason good or bad, often not without presumption, substituted for that which they received, I have given the text, letter for letter, point for point, of the First Folio, with the variations of the Second Quarto in the margin and at the foot of the page. Of HAMLET there are but two editions of authority, those called the Second Quarto and the First Folio; but there is another which requires remark. In the year 1603 came out the edition known as the First Quarto--clearly without the poet's permission, and doubtless as much to his displeasure: the following year he sent out an edition very different, and larger in the proportion of one hundred pages to sixty-four. Concerning the former my theory is--though it is not my business to enter into the question here--that it was printed from Shakspere's sketch for the play, written with matter crowding upon him too fast for expansion or development, and intended only for a continuous memorandum of things he would take up and work out afterwards. It seems almost at times as if he but marked certain bales of thought so as to find them again, and for the present threw them aside--knowing that by the marks he could recall the thoughts they stood for, but not intending thereby to convey them to any reader. I cannot, with evidence before me, incredible but through the eyes themselves, of the illimitable scope of printers' blundering, believe _all_ the confusion, unintelligibility, neglect of grammar, construction, continuity, sense, attributable to them. In parts it is more like a series of notes printed with the interlineations horribly jumbled; while in other parts it looks as if it had been taken down from the stage by an ear without a brain, and then yet more incorrectly printed; parts, nevertheless, in which it most differs from the authorized editions, are yet indubitably from the hand of Shakspere. I greatly doubt if any ready-writer would have dared publish some of its chaotic passages as taken down from the stage; nor do I believe the play was ever presented in anything like such an unfinished state. I rather think some fellow about the theatre, whether more rogue or fool we will pay him the thankful tribute not to enquire, chancing upon the crude embryonic mass in the poet's hand, traitorously pounced upon it, and betrayed it to the printers--therein serving the poet such an evil turn as if a sculptor's workman took a mould of the clay figure on which his master had been but a few days employed, and published casts of it as the sculptor's work.[1] To us not the less is the _corpus delicti_ precious--and that unspeakably--for it enables us to see something of the creational development of the drama, besides serving occasionally to cast light upon portions of it, yielding hints of the original intention where the after work has less plainly presented it. [Footnote 1: Shakspere has in this matter fared even worse than Sir Thomas Browne, the first edition of whose _Religio Medici_, nowise intended for the public, was printed without his knowledge.] The Second Quarto bears on its title-page, compelled to a recognition of the former,--'Newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much againe as it was, according to the true and perfect Coppie'; and it is in truth a harmonious world of which the former issue was but the chaos. It is the drama itself, the concluded work of the master's hand, though yet to be once more subjected to a little pruning, a little touching, a little rectifying. But the author would seem to have been as trusting over the work of the printers, as they were careless of his, and the result is sometimes pitiable. The blunders are appalling. Both in it and in the Folio the marginal note again and again suggests itself: 'Here the compositor was drunk, the press-reader asleep, the devil only aware.' But though the blunders elbow one another in tumultuous fashion, not therefore all words and phrases supposed to be such are blunders. The old superstition of plenary inspiration may, by its reverence for the very word, have saved many a meaning from the obliteration of a misunderstanding scribe: in all critical work it seems to me well to cling to the _word_ until one sinks not merely baffled, but exhausted. I come now to the relation between the Second Quarto and the Folio. My theory is--that Shakspere worked upon his own copy of the Second Quarto, cancelling and adding, and that, after his death, this copy came, along with original manuscripts, into the hands of his friends the editors of the Folio, who proceeded to print according to his alterations. These friends and editors in their preface profess thus: 'It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to haue bene wished, that the Author himselfe had liu'd to haue set forth, and ouerseen his owne writings; But since it hath bin ordain'd otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envie his Friends, the office of their care, and paine, to haue collected & publish'd them, as where (before) you were abus'd with diuerse stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of iniurious impostors, that expos'd them: euen those, are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceiued th[=e]. Who, as he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of it. His mind and hand went together: And what he thought, he vttered with that easinesse, that wee haue scarse receiued from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our prouince, who onely gather his works, and giue them you, to praise him. It is yours that reade him.' These are hardly the words of men who would take liberties, and liberties enormous, after ideas of their own, with the text of a friend thus honoured. But although they printed with intent altogether faithful, they did so certainly without any adequate jealousy of the printers--apparently without a suspicion of how they could blunder. Of blunders therefore in the Folio also there are many, some through mere following of blundered print, some in fresh corruption of the same, some through mistaking of the manuscript corrections, and some probably from the misprinting of mistakes, so that the corrections themselves are at times anything but correctly recorded. I assume also that the printers were not altogether above the mean passion, common to the day-labourers of Art, from Chaucer's Adam Scrivener down to the present carvers of marble, for modifying and improving the work of the master. The vain incapacity of a self-constituted critic will make him regard his poorest fancy as an emendation; seldom has he the insight of Touchstone to recognize, or his modesty to acknowledge, that although his own, it is none the less an ill-favoured thing. Not such, however, was the spirit of the editors; and all the changes of importance from the text of the Quarto I receive as Shakspere's own. With this belief there can be no presumption in saying that they seem to me not only to trim the parts immediately affected, but to render the play more harmonious and consistent. It is no presumption to take the Poet for superior to his work and capable of thinking he could better it--neither, so believing, to imagine one can see that he has been successful. A main argument for the acceptance of the Folio edition as the Poet's last presentment of his work, lies in the fact that there are passages in it which are not in the Quarto, and are very plainly from his hand. If we accept these, what right have we to regard the omission from the Folio of passages in the Quarto as not proceeding from the same hand? Had there been omissions only, we might well have doubted; but the insertions greatly tend to remove the doubt. I cannot even imagine the arguments which would prevail upon me to accept the latter and refuse the former. Omission itself shows for a master-hand: see the magnificent passage omitted, and rightly, by Milton from the opening of his _Comus_. 'But when a man has published two forms of a thing, may we not judge between him and himself, and take the reading we like better?' Assuredly. Take either the Quarto or the Folio; both are Shakspere's. Take any reading from either, and defend it. But do not mix up the two, retaining what he omits along with what he inserts, and print them so. This is what the editors do--and the thing is not Shakspere's. With homage like this, no artist could be other than indignant. It is well to show every difference, even to one of spelling where it might indicate possibly a different word, but there ought to be no mingling of differences. If I prefer the reading of the Quarto to that of the Folio, as may sometimes well happen where blunders so abound, I say I _prefer_--I do not dare to substitute. My student shall owe nothing of his text to any but the editors of the Folio, John Heminge and Henrie Condell. I desire to take him with me. I intend a continuous, but ever-varying, while one-ended lesson. We shall follow the play step by step, avoiding almost nothing that suggests difficulty, and noting everything that seems to throw light on the character of a person of the drama. The pointing I consider a matter to be dealt with as any one pleases--for the sake of sense, of more sense, of better sense, as much as if the text were a Greek manuscript without any division of words. This position I need not argue with anyone who has given but a cursory glance to the original page, or knows anything of printers' pointing. I hold hard by the word, for that is, or may be, grain: the pointing as we have it is merest chaff, and more likely to be wrong than right. Here also, however, I change nothing in the text, only suggest in the notes. Nor do I remark on any of the pointing where all that is required is the attention of the student. Doubtless many will consider not a few of the notes unnecessary. But what may be unnecessary to one, may be welcome to another, and it is impossible to tell what a student may or may not know. At the same time those form a large class who imagine they know a thing when they do not understand it enough to see there is a difficulty in it: to such, an attempt at explanation must of course seem foolish. A _number_ in the margin refers to a passage of the play or in the notes, and is the number of the page where the passage is to be found. If the student finds, for instance, against a certain line upon page 8, the number 12, and turns to page 12, he will there find the number 8 against a certain line: the two lines or passages are to be compared, and will be found in some way parallel, or mutually explanatory. Wherever I refer to the Quarto, I intend the 2nd Quarto--that is Shakspere's own authorized edition, published in his life-time. Where occasionally I refer to the surreptitious edition, the mere inchoation of the drama, I call it, as it is, the _1st Quarto_. Any word or phrase or stage-direction in the 2nd Quarto differing from that in the Folio, is placed on the margin in a line with the other: choice between them I generally leave to my student. Omissions are mainly given as footnotes. Each edition does something to correct the errors of the other. I beg my companion on this journey to let Hamlet reveal himself in the play, to observe him as he assumes individuality by the concretion of characteristics. I warn him that any popular notion concerning him which he may bring with him, will be only obstructive to a perception of the true idea of the grandest of all Shakspere's presentations. It will amuse this and that man to remark how often I speak of Hamlet as if he were a real man and not the invention of Shakspere--for indeed the Hamlet of the old story is no more that of Shakspere than a lump of coal is a diamond; but I imagine, if he tried the thing himself, he would find it hardly possible to avoid so speaking, and at the same time say what he had to say. I give hearty thanks to the press-reader, a gentleman whose name I do not know, not only for keen watchfulness over the printing-difficulties of the book, but for saving me from several blunders in derivation. BORDIGHERA: _December_, 1884. [Transcriber's Note: In the paper original, each left-facing page contained the text of the play, with sidenotes and footnote references, and the corresponding right-facing page contained the footnotes themselves and additional commentary. In this electronic text, the play-text pages are numbered (contrary to custom in electronic texts), to allow use of the cross-references provided in the sidenotes and footnotes. In the play text, sidenotes towards the left of the page are those marginal cross-references described earlier, and sidenotes toward the right of the page are the differences noted a few paragraphs later.] [Page 1] THE TRAGEDIE OF HAMLET PRINCE OF DENMARKE. [Page 2] _ACTUS PRIMUS._ _Enter Barnardo and Francisco two Centinels_[1]. _Barnardo._ Who's there? _Fran._[2] Nay answer me: Stand and vnfold yourselfe. _Bar._ Long liue the King.[3] _Fran._ _Barnardo?_ _Bar._ He. _Fran._ You come most carefully vpon your houre. _Bar._ 'Tis now strook twelue, get thee to bed _Francisco_. _Fran._ For this releefe much thankes: 'Tis [Sidenote: 42] bitter cold, And I am sicke at heart.[4] _Barn._ Haue you had quiet Guard?[5] _Fran._ Not a Mouse stirring. _Barn._ Well, goodnight. If you do meet _Horatio_ and _Marcellus_, the Riuals[6] of my Watch, bid them make hast. _Enter Horatio and Marcellus._ _Fran._ I thinke I heare them. Stand: who's there? [Sidenote: Stand ho, who is there?] _Hor._ Friends to this ground. _Mar._ And Leige-men to the Dane. _Fran._ Giue you good night. _Mar._ O farwel honest Soldier, who hath [Sidenote: souldiers] relieu'd you? [Footnote 1: --meeting. Almost dark.] [Footnote 2: --on the post, and with the right of challenge.] [Footnote 3: The watchword.] [Footnote 4: The key-note to the play--as in _Macbeth_: 'Fair is foul and foul is fair.' The whole nation is troubled by late events at court.] [Footnote 5: --thinking of the apparition.] [Footnote 6: _Companions_.] [Page 4] _Fra._ _Barnardo_ ha's my place: giue you good-night. [Sidenote: hath] _Exit Fran._ _Mar._ Holla _Barnardo_. _Bar._ Say, what is Horatio there? _Hor._ A peece of him. _Bar._ Welcome _Horatio_, welcome good _Marcellus_. _Mar._ What, ha's this thing appear'd againe to [Sidenote: _Hor_.[1]] night. _Bar._ I haue seene nothing. _Mar._ Horatio saies, 'tis but our Fantasie, And will not let beleefe take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seene of vs, Therefore I haue intreated him along With vs, to watch the minutes of this Night, That if againe this Apparition come, [Sidenote: 6] He may approue our eyes, and speake to it.[2] _Hor._ Tush, tush, 'twill not appeare. _Bar._ Sit downe a-while, And let vs once againe assaile your eares, That are so fortified against our Story, What we two Nights haue seene. [Sidenote: have two nights seen] _Hor._ Well, sit we downe, And let vs heare _Barnardo_ speake of this. _Barn._ Last night of all, When yond same Starre that's Westward from the Pole Had made his course t'illume that part of Heauen Where now it burnes, _Marcellus_ and my selfe, The Bell then beating one.[3] _Mar._ Peace, breake thee of: _Enter the Ghost_. [Sidenote: Enter Ghost] Looke where it comes againe. _Barn._ In the same figure, like the King that's dead. [Footnote 1: Better, I think; for the tone is scoffing, and Horatio is the incredulous one who has not seen it.] [Footnote 2: --being a scholar, and able to address it as an apparition ought to be addressed--Marcellus thinking, perhaps, with others, that a ghost required Latin.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q._ 'towling one.] [Page 6] [Sidenote: 4] _Mar._ Thou art a Scholler; speake to it _Horatio._ _Barn._ Lookes it not like the King? Marke it _Horatio_. [Sidenote: Looks a not] _Hora._ Most like: It harrowes me with fear and wonder. [Sidenote: horrowes[1]] _Barn._ It would be spoke too.[2] _Mar._ Question it _Horatio._ [Sidenote: Speak to it _Horatio_] _Hor._ What art thou that vsurp'st this time of night,[3] Together with that Faire and Warlike forme[4] In which the Maiesty of buried Denmarke Did sometimes[5] march: By Heauen I charge thee speake. _Mar._ It is offended.[6] _Barn._ See, it stalkes away. _Hor._ Stay: speake; speake: I Charge thee, speake. _Exit the Ghost._ [Sidenote: _Exit Ghost._] _Mar._ 'Tis gone, and will not answer. _Barn._ How now _Horatio_? You tremble and look pale: Is not this something more then Fantasie? What thinke you on't? _Hor._ Before my God, I might not this beleeue Without the sensible and true auouch Of mine owne eyes. _Mar._ Is it not like the King? _Hor._ As thou art to thy selfe, Such was the very Armour he had on, When th' Ambitious Norwey combatted: [Sidenote: when he the ambitious] So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle He smot the sledded Pollax on the Ice.[8] [Sidenote: sleaded[7]] 'Tis strange. [Sidenote: 274] _Mar._ Thus twice before, and iust at this dead houre, [Sidenote: and jump at this] [Footnote 1: _1st Q_. 'horrors mee'.] [Footnote 2: A ghost could not speak, it was believed, until it was spoken to.] [Footnote 3: It was intruding upon the realm of the embodied.] [Footnote 4: None of them took it as certainly the late king: it was only clear to them that it was like him. Hence they say, 'usurp'st the forme.'] [Footnote 5: _formerly_.] [Footnote 6: --at the word _usurp'st_.] [Footnote 7: Also _1st Q_.] [Footnote 8: The usual interpretation is 'the sledged Poles'; but not to mention that in a parley such action would have been treacherous, there is another far more picturesque, and more befitting the _angry parle_, at the same time more characteristic and forcible: the king in his anger smote his loaded pole-axe on the ice. There is some uncertainty about the word _sledded_ or _sleaded_ (which latter suggests _lead_), but we have the word _sledge_ and _sledge-hammer_, the smith's heaviest, and the phrase, 'a sledging blow.' The quarrel on the occasion referred to rather seems with the Norwegians (See Schmidt's _Shakespeare-Lexicon: Sledded_.) than with the Poles; and there would be no doubt as to the latter interpretation being the right one, were it not that _the Polacke_, for the Pole, or nation of the Poles, does occur in the play. That is, however, no reason why the Dane should not have carried a pole-axe, or caught one from the hand of an attendant. In both our authorities, and in the _1st Q_. also, the word is _pollax_--as in Chaucer's _Knights Tale_: 'No maner schot, ne pollax, ne schort knyf,'--in the _Folio_ alone with a capital; whereas not once in the play is the similar word that stands for the Poles used in the plural. In the _2nd Quarto_ there is _Pollacke_ three times, _Pollack_ once, _Pole_ once; in the _1st Quarto_, _Polacke_ twice; in the _Folio_, _Poleak_ twice, _Polake_ once. The Poet seems to have avoided the plural form.] [Page 8] With Martiall stalke,[1] hath he gone by our Watch. _Hor_. In what particular thought to work, I know not: But in the grosse and scope of my Opinion, [Sidenote: mine] This boades some strange erruption to our State. _Mar_. Good now sit downe, and tell me he that knowes [Sidenote: 16] Why this same strict and most obseruant Watch,[2] So nightly toyles the subiect of the Land, And why such dayly Cast of Brazon Cannon [Sidenote: And with such dayly cost] And Forraigne Mart for Implements of warre: Why such impresse of Ship-wrights, whose sore Taske Do's not diuide the Sunday from the weeke, What might be toward, that this sweaty hast[3] Doth make the Night ioynt-Labourer with the day: Who is't that can informe me? _Hor._ That can I, At least the whisper goes so: Our last King, Whose Image euen but now appear'd to vs, Was (as you know) by _Fortinbras_ of Norway, (Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate Pride)[4] Dar'd to the Combate. In which, our Valiant _Hamlet_, (For so this side of our knowne world esteem'd him)[5] [Sidenote: 6] Did slay this _Fortinbras_: who by a Seal'd Compact, Well ratified by Law, and Heraldrie, [Sidenote: heraldy] Did forfeite (with his life) all those his Lands [Sidenote: these] Which he stood seiz'd on,[6] to the Conqueror: [Sidenote: seaz'd of,] Against the which, a Moity[7] competent Was gaged by our King: which had return'd [Sidenote: had returne] To the Inheritance of _Fortinbras_, [Footnote 1: _1st Q_. 'Marshall stalke'.] [Footnote 2: Here is set up a frame of external relations, to inclose with fitting contrast, harmony, and suggestion, the coming show of things. 273] [Footnote 3: _1st Q_. 'sweaty march'.] [Footnote 4: Pride that leads to emulate: the ambition to excel--not oneself, but another.] [Footnote 5: The whole western hemisphere.] [Footnote 6: _stood possessed of_.] [Footnote 7: Used by Shakspere for _a part_.] [Page 10] Had he bin Vanquisher, as by the same Cou'nant [Sidenote: the same comart] And carriage of the Article designe,[1] [Sidenote: desseigne,] His fell to _Hamlet_. Now sir, young _Fortinbras_, Of vnimproued[2] Mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, heere and there, Shark'd[3] vp a List of Landlesse Resolutes, [Sidenote: of lawlesse] For Foode and Diet, to some Enterprize That hath a stomacke in't[4]: which is no other (And it doth well appeare vnto our State) [Sidenote: As it] But to recouer of vs by strong hand And termes Compulsatiue, those foresaid Lands [Sidenote: compulsatory,] So by his Father lost: and this (I take it) Is the maine Motiue of our Preparations, The Sourse of this our Watch, and the cheefe head Of this post-hast, and Romage[5] in the Land. [A]_Enter Ghost againe_. But soft, behold: Loe, where it comes againe: [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- _Bar._ I thinke it be no other, but enso; Well may it sort[6] that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these warres. _Hora._ A moth it is to trouble the mindes eye: In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest _Iulius_ fell The graues stood tennatlesse, and the sheeted dead Did squeake and gibber in the Roman streets[7] As starres with traines of fier, and dewes of blood Disasters in the sunne; and the moist starre, Vpon whose influence _Neptunes_ Empier stands Was sicke almost to doomesday with eclipse. And euen the like precurse of feare euents As harbindgers preceading still the fates And prologue to the _Omen_ comming on Haue heauen and earth together demonstrated Vnto our Climatures and countrymen.[8] _Enter Ghost_.] [Footnote 1: French désigné.] [Footnote 2: _not proved_ or _tried. Improvement_, as we use the word, is the result of proof or trial: _upon-proof-ment_.] [Footnote 3: Is _shark'd_ related to the German _scharren_? _Zusammen scharren--to scrape together._ The Anglo-Saxon _searwian_ is _to prepare, entrap, take_.] [Footnote 4: Some enterprise of acquisition; one for the sake of getting something.] [Footnote 5: In Scotch, _remish_--the noise of confused and varied movements; a _row_; a _rampage_.--Associated with French _remuage_?] [Footnote 6: _suit_: so used in Scotland still, I think.] [Footnote 7: _Julius Caesar_, act i. sc. 3, and act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 8: The only suggestion I dare make for the rectifying of the confusion of this speech is, that, if the eleventh line were inserted between the fifth and sixth, there would be sense, and very nearly grammar. and the sheeted dead Did squeake and gibber in the Roman streets, As harbindgers preceading still the fates; As starres with traines of fier, and dewes of blood (Here understand _precede_) Disasters in the sunne; The tenth will close with the twelfth line well enough. But no one, any more than myself, will be _satisfied_ with the suggestion. The probability is, of course, that a line has dropped out between the fifth and sixth. Anything like this would restore the connection: _The labouring heavens themselves teemed dire portent_ As starres &c.] [Page 12] Ile crosse it, though it blast me.[1] Stay Illusion:[2] [Sidenote: _It[4] spreads his armes_.] If thou hast any sound, or vse of Voyce,[3] Speake to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me; speak to me. If thou art priuy to thy Countries Fate (Which happily foreknowing may auoyd) Oh speake. Or, if thou hast vp-hoorded in thy life Extorted Treasure in the wombe of Earth, (For which, they say, you Spirits oft walke in death) [Sidenote: your] [Sidenote: _The cocke crowes_] Speake of it. Stay, and speake. Stop it _Marcellus_. _Mar_. Shall I strike at it with my Partizan? [Sidenote: strike it with] _Hor_. Do, if it will not stand. _Barn_. 'Tis heere. _Hor_. 'Tis heere. _Mar_. 'Tis gone. _Exit Ghost_[5] We do it wrong, being so Maiesticall[6] To offer it the shew of Violence, For it is as the Ayre, invulnerable, And our vaine blowes, malicious Mockery. _Barn_. It was about to speake, when the Cocke crew. _Hor_. And then it started, like a guilty thing Vpon a fearfull Summons. I haue heard, The Cocke that is the Trumpet to the day, [Sidenote: to the morne,] Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding Throate[7] Awake the God of Day: and at his warning, Whether in Sea, or Fire, in Earth, or Ayre, Th'extrauagant,[8] and erring[9] Spirit, hyes To his Confine. And of the truth heerein, This present Obiect made probation.[10] _Mar_. It faded on the crowing of the Cocke.[11] [Footnote 1: There are various tales of the blasting power of evil ghosts.] [Footnote 2: Plain doubt, and strong.] [Footnote 3: 'sound of voice, or use of voice': physical or mental faculty of speech.] [Footnote 4: I judge this _It_ a mistake for _H._, standing for _Horatio_: he would stop it.] [Footnote 5: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 6: 'As we cannot hurt it, our blows are a mockery; and it is wrong to mock anything so majestic': _For_ belongs to _shew_; 'We do it wrong, being so majestical, to offer it what is but a _show_ of violence, for it is, &c.'] [Footnote 7: _1st Q._ 'his earely and shrill crowing throate.'] [Footnote 8: straying beyond bounds.] [Footnote 9: wandering.] [Footnote 10: 'gave proof.'] [Footnote 11: This line said thoughtfully--as the text of the observation following it. From the _eerie_ discomfort of their position, Marcellus takes refuge in the thought of the Saviour's birth into the haunted world, bringing sweet law, restraint, and health.] [Page 14] Some sayes, that euer 'gainst that Season comes [Sidenote: say] Wherein our Sauiours Birth is celebrated, The Bird of Dawning singeth all night long: [Sidenote: This bird] And then (they say) no Spirit can walke abroad, [Sidenote: spirit dare sturre] The nights are wholsome, then no Planets strike, No Faiery talkes, nor Witch hath power to Charme: [Sidenote: fairy takes,[1]] So hallow'd, and so gracious is the time. [Sidenote: is that time.] _Hor._ So haue I heard, and do in part beleeue it. But looke, the Morne in Russet mantle clad, Walkes o're the dew of yon high Easterne Hill, [Sidenote: Eastward[2]] Breake we our Watch vp, and by my aduice [Sidenote: advise] Let vs impart what we haue scene to night Vnto yong _Hamlet_. For vpon my life, This Spirit dumbe to vs, will speake to him: Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needfull in our Loues, fitting our Duty? [Sidenote: 30] _Mar._ Let do't I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall finde him most conueniently. [Sidenote: convenient.] _Exeunt._ SCENA SECUNDA[3] _Enter Claudius King of Denmarke. Gertrude the Queene, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, and his Sister Ophelia, Lords Attendant._[4] [Sidenote: _Florish. Enter Claudius, King of Denmarke, Gertrad the Queene, Counsaile: as Polonius, and his sonne Laertes, Hamelt Cum Abijs._] _King._ Though yet of _Hamlet_ our deere Brothers death [Sidenote: _Claud._] The memory be greene: and that it vs befitted To beare our hearts in greefe, and our whole Kingdome To be contracted in one brow of woe: Yet so farre hath Discretion fought with Nature, That we with wisest sorrow thinke on him, [Footnote 1: Does it mean--_carries off any child, leaving a changeling_? or does it mean--_affect with evil_, as a disease might infect or _take_?] [Footnote 2: _1st Q_. 'hie mountaine top,'] [Footnote 3: _In neither Q._] [Footnote 4: The first court after the marriage.] [Page 16] Together with remembrance of our selues. Therefore our sometimes Sister, now our Queen, Th'Imperiall Ioyntresse of this warlike State, [Sidenote: to this] Haue we, as 'twere, with a defeated ioy, With one Auspicious, and one Dropping eye, [Sidenote: an auspitious and a] With mirth in Funerall, and with Dirge in Marriage, In equall Scale weighing Delight and Dole[1] Taken to Wife; nor haue we heerein barr'd[2] Your better Wisedomes, which haue freely gone With this affaire along, for all our Thankes. [Sidenote: 8] Now followes, that you know young _Fortinbras_,[3] Holding a weake supposall of our worth; Or thinking by our late deere Brothers death, Our State to be disioynt, and out of Frame, Colleagued with the dreame of his Aduantage;[4] [Sidenote: this dreame] He hath not fayl'd to pester vs with Message, Importing the surrender of those Lands Lost by his Father: with all Bonds of Law [Sidenote: bands] To our most valiant Brother. So much for him. _Enter Voltemand and Cornelius._[5] Now for our selfe, and for this time of meeting Thus much the businesse is. We haue heere writ To Norway, Vncle of young _Fortinbras_, Who Impotent and Bedrid, scarsely heares Of this his Nephewes purpose, to suppresse His further gate[6] heerein. In that the Leuies, The Lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subiect: and we heere dispatch You good _Cornelius_, and you _Voltemand_, For bearing of this greeting to old Norway, [Sidenote: bearers] Giuing to you no further personall power To businesse with the King, more then the scope Of these dilated Articles allow:[7] [Sidenote: delated[8]] Farewell and let your hast commend your duty.[9] [Footnote 1: weighing out an equal quantity of each.] [Footnote 2: Like _crossed_.] [Footnote 3: 'Now follows--that (_which_) you know--young Fortinbras:--'] [Footnote 4: _Colleagued_ agrees with _supposall_. The preceding two lines may be regarded as somewhat parenthetical. _Dream of advantage_--hope of gain.] [Footnote 5: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 6: _going; advance._ Note in Norway also, as well as in Denmark, the succession of the brother.] [Footnote 7: (_giving them papers_).] [Footnote 8: Which of these is right, I cannot tell. _Dilated_ means _expanded_, and would refer to _the scope; _delated_ means _committed_--to them, to limit them.] [Footnote 9: idea of duty.] [Page 18] _Volt._ In that, and all things, will we shew our duty. _King._ We doubt it nothing, heartily farewell. [Sidenote: 74] [1]_Exit Voltemand and Cornelius._ And now _Laertes_, what's the newes with you? You told vs of some suite. What is't _Laertes_? You cannot speake of Reason to the Dane, And loose your voyce. What would'st thou beg _Laertes_, That shall not be my Offer, not thy Asking?[2] The Head is not more Natiue to the Heart, The Hand more Instrumentall to the Mouth, Then is the Throne of Denmarke to thy Father.[3] What would'st thou haue _Laertes_? _Laer._ Dread my Lord, [Sidenote: My dread] Your leaue and fauour to returne to France, From whence, though willingly I came to Denmarke To shew my duty in your Coronation, Yet now I must confesse, that duty done, [Sidenote: 22] My thoughts and wishes bend againe towards toward France,[4] And bow them to your gracious leaue and pardon. _King._ Haue you your Fathers leaue? What sayes _Pollonius_? [A] _Pol._ He hath my Lord: I do beseech you giue him leaue to go. _King._ Take thy faire houre _Laertes_, time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will: But now my Cosin _Hamlet_, and my Sonne? [Footnote A: _In the Quarto_:-- _Polo._ Hath[5] my Lord wroung from me my slowe leaue By laboursome petition, and at last Vpon his will I seald my hard consent,[6] I doe beseech you giue him leaue to goe.] [Footnote 1: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 2: 'Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.'--_Isaiah_, lxv. 24.] [Footnote 3: The villain king courts his courtiers.] [Footnote 4: He had been educated there. Compare 23. But it would seem rather to the court than the university he desired to return. See his father's instructions, 38.] [Footnote 5: _H'ath_--a contraction for _He hath_.] [Footnote 6: A play upon the act of sealing a will with wax.] [Page 20] _Ham._ A little more then kin, and lesse then kinde.[1] _King._ How is it that the Clouds still hang on you? _Ham._ Not so my Lord, I am too much i'th'Sun.[2] [Sidenote: so much my ... in the sonne.] _Queen._ Good Hamlet cast thy nightly colour off,[4] [Sidenote: nighted[3]] And let thine eye looke like a Friend on Denmarke. Do not for euer with thy veyled[5] lids [Sidenote: vailed] Seeke for thy Noble Father in the dust; Thou know'st 'tis common, all that liues must dye, Passing through Nature, to Eternity. _Ham._ I Madam, it is common.[6] _Queen._ If it be; Why seemes it so particular with thee. _Ham._ Seemes Madam? Nay, it is: I know not Seemes:[7] 'Tis not alone my Inky Cloake (good Mother) [Sidenote: cloake coold mother [8]] Nor Customary suites of solemne Blacke, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitfull Riuer in the Eye, Nor the deiected hauiour of the Visage, Together with all Formes, Moods, shewes of Griefe, [Sidenote: moodes, chapes of] That can denote me truly. These indeed Seeme,[9] [Sidenote: deuote] For they are actions that a man might[10] play: But I haue that Within, which passeth show; [Sidenote: passes] These, but the Trappings, and the Suites of woe. _King._ 'Tis sweet and commendable In your Nature _Hamlet_, To giue these mourning duties to your Father:[11] But you must know, your Father lost a Father, That Father lost, lost his, and the Suruiuer bound In filiall Obligation, for some terme To do obsequious[12] Sorrow. But to perseuer In obstinate Condolement, is a course [Footnote 1: An _aside_. Hamlet's first utterance is of dislike to his uncle. He is more than _kin_ through his unwelcome marriage--less than _kind_ by the difference in their natures. To be _kind_ is to behave as one _kinned_ or related. But the word here is the noun, and means _nature_, or sort by birth.] [Footnote 2: A word-play may be here intended between _sun_ and _son_: _a little more than kin--too much i' th' Son_. So George Herbert: For when he sees my ways, I die; But I have got his _Son_, and he hath none; and Dr. Donne: at my death thy Son Shall shine, as he shines now and heretofore.] [Footnote 3: 'Wintred garments'--_As You Like It_, iii. 2.] [Footnote 4: He is the only one who has not for the wedding put off his mourning.] [Footnote 5: _lowered_, or cast down: _Fr. avaler_, to lower.] [Footnote 6: 'Plainly you treat it as a common matter--a thing of no significance!' _I_ is constantly used for _ay_, _yes_.] [Footnote 7: He pounces on the word _seems_.] [Footnote 8: Not unfrequently the type would appear to have been set up from dictation.] [Footnote 9: They are things of the outside, and must _seem_, for they are capable of being imitated; they are the natural _shows_ of grief. But he has that in him which cannot _show_ or _seem_, because nothing can represent it. These are 'the Trappings and the Suites of _woe_;' they fitly represent woe, but they cannot shadow forth that which is within him--a something different from woe, far beyond it and worse, passing all reach of embodiment and manifestation. What this something is, comes out the moment he is left by himself.] [Footnote 10: The emphasis is on _might_.] [Footnote 11: Both his uncle and his mother decline to understand him. They will have it he mourns the death of his father, though they must at least suspect another cause for his grief. Note the intellectual mastery of the hypocrite--which accounts for his success.] [Footnote 12: belonging to _obsequies_.] [Page 22] Of impious stubbornnesse. Tis vnmanly greefe, It shewes a will most incorrect to Heauen, A Heart vnfortified, a Minde impatient, [Sidenote: or minde] An Vnderstanding simple, and vnschool'd: For, what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sence, Why should we in our peeuish Opposition Take it to heart? Fye, 'tis a fault to Heauen, A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature, To Reason most absurd, whose common Theame Is death of Fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first Coarse,[1] till he that dyed to day, [Sidenote: course] This must be so. We pray you throw to earth This vnpreuayling woe, and thinke of vs As of a Father; For let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our Throne,[2] And with no lesse Nobility of Loue, Then that which deerest Father beares his Sonne, Do I impart towards you. For your intent [Sidenote: toward] [Sidenote: 18] In going backe to Schoole in Wittenberg,[3] It is most retrograde to our desire: [Sidenote: retrogard] And we beseech you, bend you to remaine Heere in the cheere and comfort of our eye, Our cheefest Courtier Cosin, and our Sonne. _Qu._ Let not thy Mother lose her Prayers _Hamlet_: [Sidenote: loose] I prythee stay with vs, go not to Wittenberg. [Sidenote: pray thee] _Ham._ I shall in all my best Obey you Madam.[4] _King._ Why 'tis a louing, and a faire Reply, Be as our selfe in Denmarke. Madam come, This gentle and vnforc'd accord of _Hamlet_[5] Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No iocond health that Denmarke drinkes to day, [Sidenote: 44] But the great Cannon to the Clowds shall tell, [Footnote 1: _Corpse_.] [Footnote 2: --seeking to propitiate him with the hope that his succession had been but postponed by his uncle's election.] [Footnote 3: Note that Hamlet was educated in Germany--at Wittenberg, the university where in 1508 Luther was appointed professor of Philosophy. Compare 19. There was love of study as well as disgust with home in his desire to return to _Schoole_: this from what we know of him afterwards.] [Footnote 4: Emphasis on _obey_. A light on the character of Hamlet.] [Footnote 5: He takes it, or pretends to take it, for far more than it was. He desires friendly relations with Hamlet.] [Page 24] And the Kings Rouce,[1] the Heauens shall bruite againe, Respeaking earthly Thunder. Come away. _Exeunt_ [Sidenote: _Florish. Exeunt all but Hamlet._] _Manet Hamlet._ [2]_Ham._ Oh that this too too solid Flesh, would melt, [Sidenote: sallied flesh[3]] Thaw, and resolue it selfe into a Dew: [Sidenote: 125,247,260] Or that the Euerlasting had not fixt [Sidenote: 121 _bis_] His Cannon 'gainst Selfe-slaughter. O God, O God! [Sidenote: seale slaughter, o God, God,] How weary, stale, flat, and vnprofitable [Sidenote: wary] Seemes to me all the vses of this world? [Sidenote: seeme] Fie on't? Oh fie, fie, 'tis an vnweeded Garden [Sidenote: ah fie,] That growes to Seed: Things rank, and grosse in Nature Possesse it meerely. That it should come to this: [Sidenote: meerely that it should come thus] But two months dead[4]: Nay, not so much; not two, So excellent a King, that was to this _Hiperion_ to a Satyre: so louing to my Mother, That he might not beteene the windes of heauen [Sidenote: beteeme[5]] Visit her face too roughly. Heauen and Earth Must I remember: why she would hang on him, [Sidenote: should] As if encrease of Appetite had growne By what it fed on; and yet within a month? Let me not thinke on't: Frailty, thy name is woman.[6] A little Month, or ere those shooes were old, With which she followed my poore Fathers body Like _Niobe_, all teares. Why she, euen she.[7] (O Heauen! A beast that wants discourse[8] of Reason [Sidenote: O God] Would haue mourn'd longer) married with mine Vnkle, [Sidenote: my] [Footnote 1: German _Rausch_, _drunkenness_. 44, 68] [Footnote 2: A soliloquy is as the drawing called a section of a thing: it shows the inside of the man. Soliloquy is only rare, not unnatural, and in art serves to reveal more of nature. In the drama it is the lifting of a veil through which dialogue passes. The scene is for the moment shifted into the lonely spiritual world, and here we begin to know Hamlet. Such is his wretchedness, both in mind and circumstance, that he could well wish to vanish from the world. The suggestion of suicide, however, he dismisses at once--with a momentary regret, it is true--but he dismisses it--as against the will of God to whom he appeals in his misery. The cause of his misery is now made plain to us--his trouble that passes show, deprives life of its interest, and renders the world a disgust to him. There is no lamentation over his father's death, so dwelt upon by the king; for loving grief does not crush. Far less could his uncle's sharp practice, in scheming for his own election during Hamlet's absence, have wrought in a philosopher like him such an effect. The one makes him sorrowful, the other might well annoy him, but neither could render him unhappy: his misery lies at his mother's door; it is her conduct that has put out the light of her son's life. She who had been to him the type of all excellence, she whom his father had idolized, has within a month of his death married his uncle, and is living in habitual incest--for as such, a marriage of the kind was then unanimously regarded. To Hamlet's condition and behaviour, his mother, her past and her present, is the only and sufficing key. His very idea of unity had been rent in twain.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q_. 'too much grieu'd and sallied flesh.' _Sallied_, sullied: compare _sallets_, 67, 103. I have a strong suspicion that _sallied_ and not _solid_ is the true word. It comes nearer the depth of Hamlet's mood.] [Footnote 4: Two months at the present moment.] [Footnote 5: This is the word all the editors take: which is right, I do not know; I doubt if either is. The word in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, act i. sc. 1-- Belike for want of rain; which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes-- I cannot believe the same word. The latter means _produce for_, as from the place of origin. The word, in the sense necessary to this passage, is not, so far as I know, to be found anywhere else. I have no suggestion to make.] [Footnote 6: From his mother he generalizes to _woman_. After having believed in such a mother, it may well be hard for a man to believe in any woman.] [Footnote 7: _Q._ omits 'euen she.'] [Footnote 8: the going abroad among things.] [Page 26] My Fathers Brother: but no more like my Father, Then I to _Hercules_. Within a Moneth? Ere yet the salt of most vnrighteous Teares Had left the flushing of her gauled eyes, [Sidenote: in her] She married. O most wicked speed, to post[1] With such dexterity to Incestuous sheets: It is not, nor it cannot come to good, But breake my heart, for I must hold my tongue.[2] _Enter Horatio, Barnard, and Marcellus._ [Sidenote: _Marcellus, and Bernardo._] _Hor._ Haile to your Lordship.[3] _Ham._ I am glad to see you well: _Horatio_, or I do forget my selfe. _Hor._ The same my Lord, And your poore Seruant euer. [Sidenote: 134] _Ham._ [4]Sir my good friend, Ile change that name with you:[5] And what make you from Wittenberg _Horatio_?[6] _Marcellus._[7] _Mar._ My good Lord. _Ham._ I am very glad to see you: good euen Sir.[8] But what in faith make you from _Wittemberge_? _Hor._ A truant disposition, good my Lord.[9] _Ham._ I would not haue your Enemy say so;[10] [Sidenote: not heare] Nor shall you doe mine eare that violence,[11] [Sidenote: my eare] [Sidenote: 134] To make it truster of your owne report Against your selfe. I know you are no Truant: But what is your affaire in _Elsenour_? Wee'l teach you to drinke deepe, ere you depart.[12] [Sidenote: you for to drinke ere] _Hor._ My Lord, I came to see your Fathers Funerall. _Ham._ I pray thee doe not mock me (fellow Student) [Sidenote: pre thee] I thinke it was to see my Mothers Wedding. [Sidenote: was to my] [Footnote 1: I suggest the pointing: speed! To post ... sheets!] [Footnote 2: Fit moment for the entrance of his father's messengers.] [Footnote 3: They do not seem to have been intimate before, though we know from Hamlet's speech (134) that he had had the greatest respect for Horatio. The small degree of doubt in Hamlet's recognition of his friend is due to the darkness, and the unexpectedness of his appearance.] [Footnote 4: _1st Q._ 'O my good friend, I change, &c.' This would leave it doubtful whether he wished to exchange servant or friend; but 'Sir, my _good friend_,' correcting Horatio, makes his intent plain.] [Footnote 5: Emphasis on _that_: 'I will exchange the name of _friend_ with you.'] [Footnote 6: 'What are you doing from--out of, _away from_--Wittenberg?'] [Footnote 7: In recognition: the word belongs to Hamlet's speech.] [Footnote 8: _Point thus_: 'you.--Good even, sir.'--_to Barnardo, whom he does not know._] [Footnote 9: An ungrammatical reply. He does not wish to give the real, painful answer, and so replies confusedly, as if he had been asked, 'What makes you?' instead of, 'What do you make?'] [Footnote 10: '--I should know how to answer him.'] [Footnote 11: Emphasis on _you_.] [Footnote 12: Said with contempt for his surroundings.] [Page 28] _Hor._ Indeed my Lord, it followed hard vpon. _Ham._ Thrift, thrift _Horatio_: the Funerall Bakt-meats Did coldly furnish forth the Marriage Tables; Would I had met my dearest foe in heauen,[1] Ere I had euer seerie that day _Horatio_.[2] [Sidenote: Or ever I had] My father, me thinkes I see my father. _Hor._ Oh where my Lord? [Sidenote: Where my] _Ham._ In my minds eye (_Horatio_)[3] _Hor._ I saw him once; he was a goodly King. [Sidenote: once, a was] _Ham._ He was a man, take him for all in all: [Sidenote: A was a man] I shall not look vpon his like againe. _Hor._ My Lord, I thinke I saw him yesternight. _Ham._ Saw? Who?[4] _Hor._ My Lord, the King your Father. _Ham._ The King my Father?[5] _Hor._ Season[6] your admiration for a while With an attent eare;[7] till I may deliuer Vpon the witnesse of these Gentlemen, This maruell to you. _Ham._ For Heauens loue let me heare. [Sidenote: God's love] _Hor._ Two nights together, had these Gentlemen (_Marcellus_ and _Barnardo_) on their Watch In the dead wast and middle of the night[8] Beene thus encountred. A figure like your Father,[9] Arm'd at all points exactly, _Cap a Pe_,[10] [Sidenote: Armed at poynt] Appeares before them, and with sollemne march Goes slow and stately: By them thrice he walkt, [Sidenote: stately by them; thrice] By their opprest and feare-surprized eyes, Within his Truncheons length; whilst they bestil'd [Sidenote: they distill'd[11]] Almost to Ielly with the Act of feare,[12] Stand dumbe and speake not to him. This to me In dreadfull[13] secrecie impart they did, And I with them the third Night kept the Watch, Whereas[14] they had deliuer'd both in time, [Footnote 1: _Dear_ is not unfrequently used as an intensive; but 'my dearest foe' is not 'the man who hates me most,' but 'the man whom most I regard as my foe.'] [Footnote 2: Note Hamlet's trouble: the marriage, not the death, nor the supplantation.] [Footnote 3: --with a little surprise at Horatio's question.] [Footnote 4: Said as if he must have misheard. Astonishment comes only with the next speech.] [Footnote 5: _1st Q_. 'Ha, ha, the King my father ke you.'] [Footnote 6: Qualify.] [Footnote 7: _1st Q_. 'an attentiue eare,'.] [Footnote 8: Possibly, _dead vast_, as in _1st Q_.; but _waste_ as good, leaving also room to suppose a play in the word.] [Footnote 9: Note the careful uncertainty.] [Footnote 10: _1st Q. 'Capapea_.'] [Footnote 11: Either word would do: the _distilling_ off of the animal spirits would leave the man a jelly; the cold of fear would _bestil_ them and him to a jelly. _1st Q. distilled_. But I judge _bestil'd_ the better, as the truer to the operation of fear. Compare _The Winter's Tale_, act v. sc. 3:-- There's magic in thy majesty, which has From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee.] [Footnote 12: Act: present influence.] [Footnote 13: a secrecy more than solemn.] [Footnote 14: 'Where, as'.] [Page 30] Forme of the thing; each word made true and good, The Apparition comes. I knew your Father: These hands are not more like. _Ham_. But where was this? _Mar_. My Lord, vpon the platforme where we watcht. [Sidenote: watch] _Ham_. Did you not speake to it? _Her_. My Lord, I did; But answere made it none: yet once me thought It lifted vp it head, and did addresse It selfe to motion, like as it would speake: But euen then, the Morning Cocke crew lowd; And at the sound it shrunke in hast away, And vanisht from our sight. _Ham_. Tis very strange. _Hor_. As I doe liue my honourd Lord 'tis true; [Sidenote: 14] And we did thinke it writ downe in our duty To let you know of it. [Sidenote: 32,52] _Ham_. Indeed, indeed Sirs; but this troubles me. [Sidenote: Indeede Sirs but] Hold you the watch to Night? _Both_. We doe my Lord. [Sidenote: _All_.] _Ham_. Arm'd, say you? _Both_. Arm'd, my Lord. [Sidenote: _All_.] _Ham_. From top to toe? _Both_. My Lord, from head to foote. [Sidenote: _All_.] _Ham_. Then saw you not his face? _Hor_. O yes, my Lord, he wore his Beauer vp. _Ham_. What, lookt he frowningly? [Sidenote: 54,174] _Hor_. A countenance more in sorrow then in anger.[1] [Sidenote: 120] _Ham_. Pale, or red? _Hor_. Nay very pale. [Footnote 1: The mood of the Ghost thus represented, remains the same towards his wife throughout the play.] [Page 32] _Ham._ And fixt his eyes vpon you? _Hor._ Most constantly. _Ham._ I would I had beene there. _Hor._ It would haue much amaz'd you. _Ham._ Very like, very like: staid it long? [Sidenote: Very like, stayd] _Hor._ While one with moderate hast might tell a hundred. [Sidenote: hundreth] _All._ Longer, longer. [Sidenote: _Both._] _Hor._ Not when I saw't. _Ham._ His Beard was grisly?[1] no. [Sidenote: grissl'd] _Hor._ It was, as I haue seene it in his life, [Sidenote: 138] A Sable[2] Siluer'd. _Ham._ Ile watch to Night; perchance 'twill wake againe. [Sidenote: walke againe.] _Hor._ I warrant you it will. [Sidenote: warn't it] [Sidenote: 44] _Ham._ If it assume my noble Fathers person,[3] Ile speake to it, though Hell it selfe should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you haue hitherto conceald this sight; Let it bee treble[5] in your silence still: [Sidenote: be tenable in[4]] And whatsoeuer els shall hap to night, [Sidenote: what someuer els] Giue it an vnderstanding but no tongue; I will requite your loues; so, fare ye well: [Sidenote: farre you] Vpon the Platforme twixt eleuen and twelue, [Sidenote: a leauen and twelfe] Ile visit you. _All._ Our duty to your Honour. _Exeunt._ _Ham._ Your loue, as mine to you: farewell. [Sidenote: loves,] My Fathers Spirit in Armes?[6] All is not well: [Sidenote: 30,52] I doubt some foule play: would the Night were come; Till then sit still my soule; foule deeds will rise, [Sidenote: fonde deedes] Though all the earth orewhelm them to mens eies. _Exit._ [Footnote 1: _grisly_--gray; _grissl'd_--turned gray;--mixed with white.] [Footnote 2: The colour of sable-fur, I think.] [Footnote 3: Hamlet does not _accept_ the Appearance as his father; he thinks it may be he, but seems to take a usurpation of his form for very possible.] [Footnote 4: _1st Q_. 'tenible'] [Footnote 5: If _treble_ be the right word, the actor in uttering it must point to each of the three, with distinct yet rapid motion. The phrase would be a strange one, but not unlike Shakspere. Compare _Cymbeline_, act v. sc. 5: 'And your three motives to the battle,' meaning 'the motives of you three.' Perhaps, however, it is only the adjective for the adverb: '_having concealed it hitherto, conceal it trebly now_.' But _tenible_ may be the word: 'let it be a thing to be kept in your silence still.'] [Footnote 6: Alone, he does not dispute _the idea_ of its being his father.] [Page 34] _SCENA TERTIA_[1] _Enter Laertes and Ophelia_. [Sidenote: _Ophelia his Sister._] _Laer_. My necessaries are imbark't; Farewell: [Sidenote: inbarckt,] And Sister, as the Winds giue Benefit, And Conuoy is assistant: doe not sleepe, [Sidenote: conuay, in assistant doe] But let me heare from you. _Ophel_. Doe you doubt that? _Laer_. For _Hamlet_, and the trifling of his fauours, [Sidenote: favour,] Hold it a fashion and a toy in Bloud; A Violet in the youth of Primy Nature; Froward,[2] not permanent; sweet not lasting The suppliance of a minute? No more.[3] [Sidenote: The perfume and suppliance] _Ophel_. No more but so.[4] _Laer_. Thinke it no more. For nature cressant does not grow alone, [Sidenote: 172] In thewes[5] and Bulke: but as his Temple waxes,[6] [Sidenote: bulkes, but as this] The inward seruice of the Minde and Soule Growes wide withall. Perhaps he loues you now,[7] And now no soyle nor cautell[8] doth besmerch The vertue of his feare: but you must feare [Sidenote: of his will, but] His greatnesse weigh'd, his will is not his owne;[9] [Sidenote: wayd] For hee himselfe is subiect to his Birth:[10] Hee may not, as vnuallued persons doe, Carue for himselfe; for, on his choyce depends The sanctity and health of the weole State. [Sidenote: The safty and | this whole] And therefore must his choyce be circumscrib'd[11] Vnto the voyce and yeelding[12] of that Body, Whereof he is the Head. Then if he sayes he loues you, It fits your wisedome so farre to beleeue it; As he in his peculiar Sect and force[13] [Sidenote: his particuler act and place] May giue his saying deed: which is no further, [Footnote 1: _Not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 2: Same as _forward_.] [Footnote 3: 'No more' makes a new line in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 4: I think this speech should end with a point of interrogation.] [Footnote 5: muscles.] [Footnote 6: The body is the temple, in which the mind and soul are the worshippers: their service grows with the temple--wide, changing and increasing its objects. The degraded use of the grand image is after the character of him who makes it.] [Footnote 7: The studied contrast between Laertes and Hamlet begins already to appear: the dishonest man, honestly judging after his own dishonesty, warns his sister against the honest man.] [Footnote 8: deceit.] [Footnote 9: 'You have cause to fear when you consider his greatness: his will &c.' 'You must fear, his greatness being weighed; for because of that greatness, his will is not his own.'] [Footnote 10: _This line not in Quarto._] [Footnote 11: limited.] [Footnote 12: allowance.] [Footnote 13: This change from the _Quarto_ seems to me to bear the mark of Shakspere's hand. The meaning is the same, but the words are more individual and choice: the _sect_, the _head_ in relation to the body, is more pregnant than _place_; and _force_, that is _power_, is a fuller word than _act_, or even _action_, for which it plainly appears to stand.] [Page 36] Then the maine voyce of _Denmarke_ goes withall. Then weigh what losse your Honour may sustaine, If with too credent eare you list his Songs; Or lose your Heart; or your chast Treasure open [Sidenote: Or loose] To his vnmastred[1] importunity. Feare it _Ophelia_, feare it my deare Sister, And keepe within the reare of your Affection;[2] [Sidenote: keepe you in the] Out of the shot and danger of Desire. The chariest Maid is Prodigall enough, [Sidenote: The] If she vnmaske her beauty to the Moone:[3] Vertue it selfe scapes not calumnious stroakes, [Sidenote: Vertue] The Canker Galls, the Infants of the Spring [Sidenote: The canker gaules the] Too oft before the buttons[6] be disclos'd, [Sidenote: their buttons] And in the Morne and liquid dew of Youth, Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in feare; Youth to it selfe rebels, though none else neere.[6] _Ophe_. I shall th'effect of this good Lesson keepe, As watchmen to my heart: but good my Brother [Sidenote: watchman] Doe not as some vngracious Pastors doe, Shew me the steepe and thorny way to Heauen; Whilst like a puft and recklesse Libertine Himselfe, the Primrose path of dalliance treads, And reaks not his owne reade.[7][8][9] _Laer_. Oh, feare me not.[10] _Enter Polonius_. I stay too long; but here my Father comes: A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles vpon a second leaue.[11] _Polon_. Yet heere _Laertes_? Aboord, aboord for shame, The winde sits in the shoulder of your saile, And you are staid for there: my blessing with you; [Sidenote: for, there my | with thee] [Footnote 1: Without a master; lawless.] [Footnote 2: Do not go so far as inclination would lead you. Keep behind your liking. Do not go to the front with your impulse.] [Footnote 3: --_but_ to the moon--which can show it so little.] [Footnote 4: Opened but not closed quotations in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 5: The French _bouton_ is also both _button_ and _bud_.] [Footnote 6: 'Inclination is enough to have to deal with, let alone added temptation.' Like his father, Laertes is wise for another--a man of maxims, not behaviour. His morality is in his intellect and for self-ends, not in his will, and for the sake of truth and righteousness.] [Footnote 7: _1st Q_. But my deere brother, do not you Like to a cunning Sophister, Teach me the path and ready way to heauen, While you forgetting what is said to me, Your selfe, like to a carelesse libertine Doth giue his heart, his appetite at ful, And little recks how that his honour dies. 'The primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.' --_Macbeth_, ii. 3: 'The flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.' _All's Well_, iv. 5.] [Footnote 8: 'heeds not his own counsel.'] [Footnote 9: Here in Quarto, _Enter Polonius._] [Footnote 10: With the fitting arrogance and impertinence of a libertine brother, he has read his sister a lecture on propriety of behaviour; but when she gently suggests that what is good for her is good for him too,--'Oh, fear me not!--I stay too long.'] [Footnote 11: 'A second leave-taking is a happy chance': the chance, or occasion, because it is happy, smiles. It does not mean that occasion smiles upon a second leave, but that, upon a second leave, occasion smiles. There should be a comma after _smiles_.] [Footnote 12: As many of Polonius' aphorismic utterances as are given in the 1st Quarto have there inverted commas; but whether intended as gleanings from books or as fruits of experience, the light they throw on the character of him who speaks them is the same: they show it altogether selfish. He is a man of the world, wise in his generation, his principles the best of their bad sort. Of these his son is a fit recipient and retailer, passing on to his sister their father's grand doctrine of self-protection. But, wise in maxim, Polonius is foolish in practice--not from senility, but from vanity.] [Page 38] And these few Precepts in thy memory,[1] See thou Character.[2] Giue thy thoughts no tongue, [Sidenote: Looke thou] Nor any vnproportion'd[3] thought his Act: Be thou familiar; but by no meanes vulgar:[4] The friends thou hast, and their adoption tride,[5] [Sidenote: Those friends] Grapple them to thy Soule, with hoopes of Steele: [Sidenote: unto] But doe not dull thy palme, with entertainment Of each vnhatch't, vnfledg'd Comrade.[6] Beware [Sidenote: each new hatcht unfledgd courage,] Of entrance to a quarrell: but being in Bear't that th'opposed may beware of thee. Giue euery man thine eare; but few thy voyce: [Sidenote: thy eare,] Take each mans censure[7]; but reserue thy Judgement; Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy; But not exprest in fancie; rich, not gawdie: For the Apparell oft proclaimes the man. And they in France of the best ranck and station, Are of a most select and generous[8] cheff in that.[10] [Sidenote: Or of a generous, chiefe[9]] Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; [Sidenote: lender boy,] For lone oft loses both it selfe and friend: [Sidenote: loue] And borrowing duls the edge of Husbandry.[11] [Sidenote: dulleth edge] This aboue all; to thine owne selfe be true: And it must follow, as the Night the Day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.[12] Farewell: my Blessing season[13] this in thee. _Laer_. Most humbly doe I take my leaue, my Lord. _Polon_. The time inuites you, goe, your seruants tend. [Sidenote: time inuests] _Laer._ Farewell _Ophelia_, and remember well What I haue said to you.[14] _Ophe_. Tis in my memory lockt, And you your selfe shall keepe the key of it, _Laer_. Farewell. _Exit Laer_. _Polon_. What ist _Ophelia_ he hath said to you? [Footnote 1: He hurries him to go, yet immediately begins to prose.] [Footnote 2: Engrave.] [Footnote 3: Not settled into its true shape (?) or, out of proportion with its occasions (?)--I cannot say which.] [Footnote 4: 'Cultivate close relations, but do not lie open to common access.' 'Have choice intimacies, but do not be _hail, fellow! well met_ with everybody.' What follows is an expansion of the lesson.] [Footnote 5: 'The friends thou hast--and the choice of them justified by trial--'_equal to_: 'provided their choice be justified &c.'] [Footnote 6: 'Do not make the palm hard, and dull its touch of discrimination, by shaking hands in welcome with every one that turns up.'] [Footnote 7: judgment, opinion.] [Footnote 8: _Generosus_, of good breed, a gentleman.] [Footnote 9: _1st Q_. 'generall chiefe.'] [Footnote 10: No doubt the omission of _of a_ gives the right number of syllables to the verse, and makes room for the interpretation which a dash between _generous_ and _chief_ renders clearer: 'Are most select and generous--chief in that,'--'are most choice and well-bred--chief, indeed--at the head or top, in the matter of dress.' But without _necessity_ or _authority_--one of the two, I would not throw away a word; and suggest therefore that Shakspere had here the French idiom _de son chef_ in his mind, and qualifies the noun in it with adjectives of his own. The Academy Dictionary gives _de son propre mouvement_ as one interpretation of the phrase. The meaning would be, 'they are of a most choice and developed instinct in dress.' _Cheff_ or _chief_ suggests the upper third of the heraldic shield, but I cannot persuade the suggestion to further development. The hypercatalectic syllables _of a_, swiftly spoken, matter little to the verse, especially as it is _dramatic_.] [Footnote 11: Those that borrow, having to pay, lose heart for saving. 'There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.'--_Macbeth_, ii. 1.] [Footnote 12: Certainly a man cannot be true to himself without being true to others; neither can he be true to others without being true to himself; but if a man make himself the centre for the birth of action, it will follow, '_as the night the day_,' that he will be true neither to himself nor to any other man. In this regard note the history of Laertes, developed in the play.] [Footnote 13: --as salt, to make the counsel keep.] [Footnote 14: See _note 9, page 37_.] [Page 40] _Ophe._ So please you, somthing touching the L. _Hamlet._ _Polon._ Marry, well bethought: Tis told me he hath very oft of late Giuen priuate time to you; and you your selfe Haue of your audience beene most free and bounteous.[1] If it be so, as so tis put on me;[2] And that in way of caution: I must tell you, You doe not vnderstand your selfe so cleerely, As it behoues my Daughter, and your Honour What is betweene you, giue me vp the truth? _Ophe._ He hath my Lord of late, made many tenders Of his affection to me. _Polon._ Affection, puh. You speake like a greene Girle, Vnsifted in such perillous Circumstance. Doe you beleeue his tenders, as you call them? _Ophe._ I do not know, my Lord, what I should thinke. _Polon._ Marry Ile teach you; thinke your self a Baby, [Sidenote: I will] That you haue tane his tenders for true pay, [Sidenote: tane these] Which are not starling. Tender your selfe more dearly; [Sidenote: sterling] Or not to crack the winde of the poore Phrase, [Sidenote: (not ... &c.] Roaming it[3] thus, you'l tender me a foole.[4] [Sidenote: Wrong it thus] _Ophe._ My Lord, he hath importun'd me with loue, In honourable fashion. _Polon._ I, fashion you may call it, go too, go too. _Ophe._ And hath giuen countenance to his speech, My Lord, with all the vowes of Heauen. [Sidenote: with almost all the holy vowes of] [Footnote 1: There had then been a good deal of intercourse between Hamlet and Ophelia: she had heartily encouraged him.] [Footnote 2: 'as so I am informed, and that by way of caution,'] [Footnote 3: --making it, 'the poor phrase' _tenders_, gallop wildly about--as one might _roam_ a horse; _larking it_.] [Footnote 4: 'you will in your own person present me a fool.'] [Page 42] _Polon_. I, Springes to catch Woodcocks.[1] I doe know [Sidenote: springs] When the Bloud burnes, how Prodigall the Soule[2] Giues the tongue vowes: these blazes, Daughter, [Sidenote: Lends the] Giuing more light then heate; extinct in both,[3] Euen in their promise, as it is a making; You must not take for fire. For this time Daughter,[4] [Sidenote: fire, from this] Be somewhat scanter of your Maiden presence; [Sidenote: something] Set your entreatments[5] at a higher rate, Then a command to parley. For Lord _Hamlet_, [Sidenote: parle;] Beleeue so much in him, that he is young, And with a larger tether may he walke, [Sidenote: tider] Then may be giuen you. In few,[6] _Ophelia_, Doe not beleeue his vowes; for they are Broakers, Not of the eye,[7] which their Inuestments show: [Sidenote: of that die] But meere implorators of vnholy Sutes, [Sidenote: imploratators] Breathing like sanctified and pious bonds, The better to beguile. This is for all:[8] [Sidenote: beguide] I would not, in plaine tearmes, from this time forth, Haue you so slander any moment leisure,[9] [Sidenote: 70, 82] As to giue words or talke with the Lord _Hamlet_:[10] Looke too't, I charge you; come your wayes. _Ophe_. I shall obey my Lord.[11] _Exeunt_. _Enter Hamlet, Horatio, Marcellus._ [Sidenote: _and Marcellus_] [Sidenote: 2] _Ham_. [12]The Ayre bites shrewdly: is it very cold?[13] _Hor_. It is a nipping and an eager ayre. _Ham_. What hower now? _Hor_. I thinke it lacks of twelue. _Mar_. No, it is strooke. _Hor_. Indeed I heard it not: then it drawes neere the season, [Sidenote: it then] Wherein the Spirit held his wont to walke. What does this meane my Lord? [14] [Sidenote: _A flourish of trumpets and 2 peeces goes of._[14]] [Footnote 1: Woodcocks were understood to have no brains.] [Footnote 2: _1st Q_. 'How prodigall the tongue lends the heart vowes.' I was inclined to take _Prodigall_ for a noun, a proper name or epithet given to the soul, as in a moral play: _Prodigall, the soul_; but I conclude it only an adjective used as an adverb, and the capital P a blunder.] [Footnote 3: --in both light and heat.] [Footnote 4: The _Quarto_ has not 'Daughter.'] [Footnote 5: _To be entreated_ is _to yield_: 'he would nowise be entreated:' _entreatments, yieldings_: 'you are not to see him just because he chooses to command a parley.'] [Footnote 6: 'In few words'; in brief.] [Footnote 7: I suspect a misprint in the Folio here--that an _e_ has got in for a _d_, and that the change from the _Quarto_ should be _Not of the dye_. Then the line would mean, using the antecedent word _brokers_ in the bad sense, 'Not themselves of the same colour as their garments (_investments_); his vows are clothed in innocence, but are not innocent; they are mere panders.' The passage is rendered yet more obscure to the modern sense by the accidental propinquity of _bonds, brokers_, and _investments_--which have nothing to do with _stocks_.] [Footnote 8: 'This means in sum:'.] [Footnote 9: 'so slander any moment with the name of leisure as to': to call it leisure, if leisure stood for talk with Hamlet, would be to slander the time. We might say, 'so slander any man friend as to expect him to do this or that unworthy thing for you.'] [Footnote 10: _1st Q_. _Ofelia_, receiue none of his letters, For louers lines are snares to intrap the heart; [Sidenote: 82] Refuse his tokens, both of them are keyes To vnlocke Chastitie vnto Desire; Come in _Ofelia_; such men often proue, Great in their wordes, but little in their loue. '_men often prove such_--great &c.'--Compare _Twelfth Night_, act ii. sc. 4, lines 120, 121, _Globe ed.] [Footnote 11: Fresh trouble for Hamlet_.] [Footnote 12: _1st Q._ The ayre bites shrewd; it is an eager and An nipping winde, what houre i'st?] [Footnote 13: Again the cold.] [Footnote 14: The stage-direction of the _Q_. is necessary here.] [Page 44] [Sidenote: 22, 25] _Ham_. The King doth wake to night, and takes his rouse, Keepes wassels and the swaggering vpspring reeles,[1] [Sidenote: wassell | up-spring] And as he dreines his draughts of Renish downe, The kettle Drum and Trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his Pledge. _Horat_. Is it a custome? _Ham_. I marry ist; And to my mind, though I am natiue heere, [Sidenote: But to] And to the manner borne: It is a Custome More honour'd in the breach, then the obseruance. [A] _Enter Ghost._ _Hor_. Looke my Lord, it comes. [Sidenote: 172] _Ham_. Angels and Ministers of Grace defend vs: [Sidenote: 32] Be thou a Spirit of health, or Goblin damn'd, Bring with thee ayres from Heauen, or blasts from Hell,[2] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:--_ This heauy headed reueale east and west[3] Makes vs tradust, and taxed of other nations, They clip[4] vs drunkards, and with Swinish phrase Soyle our addition,[5] and indeede it takes From our atchieuements, though perform'd at height[6] The pith and marrow of our attribute, So oft it chaunces in particuler men,[7] That for some vicious mole[8] of nature in them As in their birth wherein they are not guilty,[8] (Since nature cannot choose his origin) By their ore-grow'th of some complextion[10] Oft breaking downe the pales and forts of reason Or by[11] some habit, that too much ore-leauens The forme of plausiue[12] manners, that[13] these men Carrying I say the stamp of one defect Being Natures liuery, or Fortunes starre,[14] His[15] vertues els[16] be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may vndergoe,[17] Shall in the generall censure[18] take corruption From that particuler fault:[19] the dram of eale[20] Doth all the noble substance of a doubt[21] To his[22] owne scandle.] [Footnote 1: Does Hamlet here call his uncle an _upspring_, an _upstart_? or is the _upspring_ a dance, the English equivalent of 'the high _lavolt_' of _Troil. and Cress_. iv. 4, and governed by _reels_--'keeps wassels, and reels the swaggering upspring'--a dance that needed all the steadiness as well as agility available, if, as I suspect, it was that in which each gentleman lifted the lady high, and kissed her before setting her down? I cannot answer, I can only put the question. The word _swaggering_ makes me lean to the former interpretation.] [Footnote 2: Observe again Hamlet's uncertainty. He does not take it for granted that it is _his father's_ spirit, though it is plainly his form.] [Footnote 3: The Quarto surely came too early for this passage to have been suggested by the shameful habits which invaded the court through the example of Anne of Denmark! Perhaps Shakspere cancelled it both because he would not have it supposed he had meant to reflect on the queen, and because he came to think it too diffuse.] [Footnote 4: clepe, _call_.] [Footnote 5: Same as _attribute_, two lines lower--the thing imputed to, or added to us--our reputation, our title or epithet.] [Footnote 6: performed to perfection.] [Footnote 7: individuals.] [Footnote 8: A mole on the body, according to the place where it appeared, was regarded as significant of character: in that relation, a _vicious mole_ would be one that indicated some special vice; but here the allusion is to a live mole of constitutional fault, burrowing within, whose presence the mole-_heap_ on the skin indicates.] [Footnote 9: The order here would be: 'for some vicious mole of nature in them, as by their o'er-growth, in their birth--wherein they are not guilty, since nature cannot choose his origin (or parentage)--their o'ergrowth of (their being overgrown or possessed by) some complexion, &c.'] [Footnote 10: _Complexion_, as the exponent of the _temperament_, or masterful tendency of the nature, stands here for _temperament_--'oft breaking down &c.' Both words have in them the element of _mingling_--a mingling to certain results.] [Footnote 11: The connection is: That for some vicious mole-- As by their o'ergrowth-- Or by some habit, &c.] [Footnote 12: pleasing.] [Footnote 13: Repeat from above '--so oft it chaunces,' before 'that these men.'] [Footnote 14: 'whether the thing come by Nature or by Destiny,' _Fortune's star_: the mark set on a man by fortune to prove her share in him. 83.] [Footnote 15: A change to the singular.] [Footnote l6: 'be his virtues besides as pure &c.'] [Footnote 17: _walk under; carry_.] [Footnote 18: the judgment of the many.] [Footnote 19: 'Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour: so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour.' Eccles. x. 1.] [Footnote 20: Compare Quarto reading, page 112: The spirit that I haue scene May be a deale, and the deale hath power &c. If _deale_ here stand for _devil_, then _eale_ may in the same edition be taken to stand for _evil_. It is hardly necessary to suspect a Scotch printer; _evil_ is often used as a monosyllable, and _eale_ may have been a pronunciation of it half-way towards _ill_, which is its contraction.] [Footnote 21: I do not believe there is any corruption in the rest of the passage. 'Doth it of a doubt:' _affects it with a doubt_, brings it into doubt. The following from _Measure for Measure_, is like, though not the same. I have on Angelo imposed the office, Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home And yet my nature never in the fight _To do in slander._ 'To do my nature in slander'; to affect it with slander; to bring it into slander, 'Angelo may punish in my name, but, not being present, I shall not be accused of cruelty, which would be to slander my nature.'] [Footnote 22: _his_--the man's; see _note_ 13 above.] [Page 46] [Sidenote: 112] Be thy euents wicked or charitable, [Sidenote: thy intent] Thou com'st in such a questionable shape[1] That I will speake to thee. Ile call thee _Hamlet_,[2] King, Father, Royall Dane: Oh, oh, answer me, [Sidenote: Dane, ô answere] Let me not burst in Ignorance; but tell Why thy Canoniz'd bones Hearsed in death,[3] Haue burst their cerments; why the Sepulcher Wherein we saw thee quietly enurn'd,[4] [Sidenote: quietly interr'd[3]] Hath op'd his ponderous and Marble iawes, To cast thee vp againe? What may this meane? That thou dead Coarse againe in compleat steele, Reuisits thus the glimpses of the Moone, Making Night hidious? And we fooles of Nature,[6] So horridly to shake our disposition,[7] With thoughts beyond thee; reaches of our Soules,[8] [Sidenote: the reaches] Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we doe?[9] _Ghost beckens Hamlet._ _Hor._ It beckons you to goe away with it, [Sidenote: Beckins] As if it some impartment did desire To you alone. _Mar._ Looke with what courteous action It wafts you to a more remoued ground: [Sidenote: waues] But doe not goe with it. _Hor._ No, by no meanes. _Ham_. It will not speake: then will I follow it. [Sidenote: I will] _Hor._ Doe not my Lord. _Ham._ Why, what should be the feare? I doe not set my life at a pins fee; And for my Soule, what can it doe to that? Being a thing immortall as it selfe:[10] It waues me forth againe; Ile follow it. _Hor._ What if it tempt you toward the Floud my Lord?[11] [Footnote 1: --that of his father, so moving him to question it. _Questionable_ does not mean _doubtful_, but _fit to be questioned_.] [Footnote 2: 'I'll _call_ thee'--for the nonce.] [Footnote 3: I think _hearse_ was originally the bier--French _herse_, a harrow--but came to be applied to the coffin: _hearsed_ in death--_coffined_ in death.] [Footnote 4: There is no impropriety in the use of the word _inurned_. It is a figure--a word once-removed in its application: the sepulchre is the urn, the body the ashes. _Interred_ Shakspere had concluded incorrect, for the body was not laid in the earth.] [Footnote 5: So in _1st Q_.] [Footnote 6: 'fooles of Nature'--fools in the presence of her knowledge--to us no knowledge--of her action, to us inexplicable. _A fact_ that looks unreasonable makes one feel like a fool. See Psalm lxxiii. 22: 'So foolish was I and ignorant, I was as a beast before thee.' As some men are our fools, we are all Nature's fools; we are so far from knowing anything as it is.] [Footnote 7: Even if Shakspere cared more about grammar than he does, a man in Hamlet's perturbation he might well present as making a breach in it; but we are not reduced even to justification. _Toschaken_ (_to_ as German _zu_ intensive) is a recognized English word; it means _to shake to pieces_. The construction of the passage is, 'What may this mean, that thou revisitest thus the glimpses of the moon, and that we so horridly to-shake our disposition?' So in _The Merry Wives_, And fairy-like to-pinch the unclean knight. 'our disposition': our _cosmic structure_.] [Footnote 8: 'with thoughts that are too much for them, and as an earthquake to them.'] [Footnote 9: Like all true souls, Hamlet wants to know what he is _to do_. He looks out for the action required of him.] [Footnote 10: Note here Hamlet's mood--dominated by his faith. His life in this world his mother has ruined; he does not care for it a pin: he is not the less confident of a nature that is immortal. In virtue of this belief in life, he is indifferent to the form of it. When, later in the play, he seems to fear death, it is death the consequence of an action of whose rightness he is not convinced.] [Footnote 11: _The Quarto has dropped out_ 'Lord.'] [Page 48] Or to the dreadfull Sonnet of the Cliffe, [Sidenote: somnet] That beetles[1] o're his base into the Sea, [Sidenote: bettles] [Sidenote: 112] And there assumes some other horrible forme,[2] [Sidenote: assume] Which might depriue your Soueraignty[3] of Reason And draw you into madnesse thinke of it? [A] _Ham._ It wafts me still; goe on, Ile follow thee. [Sidenote: waues] _Mar._ You shall not goe my Lord. _Ham._ Hold off your hand. [Sidenote: hands] _Hor._ Be rul'd, you shall not goe. _Ham._ My fate cries out, And makes each petty Artire[4] in this body, [Sidenote: arture[4]] As hardy as the Nemian Lions nerue: Still am I cal'd? Vnhand me Gentlemen: By Heau'n, Ile make a Ghost of him that lets me: I say away, goe on, Ile follow thee. _Exeunt Ghost & Hamlet._ _Hor._ He waxes desperate with imagination.[5] [Sidenote: imagion] _Mar._ Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him. _Hor._ Haue after, to what issue will this come? _Mar._ Something is rotten in the State of Denmarke. _Hor._ Heauen will direct it. _Mar._ Nay, let's follow him. _Exeunt._ _Enter Ghost and Hamlet._ _Ham._ Where wilt thou lead me? speak; Ile go no further. [Sidenote: Whether] _Gho._ Marke me. _Ham._ I will. [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- The very place puts toyes of desperation Without more motiue, into euery braine That lookes so many fadoms to the sea And heares it rore beneath.] [Footnote 1: _1st Q_. 'beckles'--perhaps for _buckles--bends_.] [Footnote 2: Note the unbelief in the Ghost.] [Footnote 3: sovereignty--_soul_: so in _Romeo and Juliet_, act v. sc. 1, l. 3:-- My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne.] [Footnote 4: The word _artery_, invariably substituted by the editors, is without authority. In the first Quarto, the word is _Artiue_; in the second (see margin) _arture_. This latter I take to be the right one--corrupted into _Artire_ in the Folio. It seems to have troubled the printers, and possibly the editors. The third Q. has followed the second; the fourth has _artyre_; the fifth Q. and the fourth F. have _attire_; the second and third Folios follow the first. Not until the sixth Q. does _artery_ appear. See _Cambridge Shakespeare. Arture_ was to all concerned, and to the language itself, a new word. That _artery_ was not Shakspere's intention might be concluded from its unfitness: what propriety could there be in _making an artery hardy_? The sole, imperfect justification I was able to think of for such use of the word arose from the fact that, before the discovery of the circulation of the blood (published in 1628), it was believed that the arteries (found empty after death) served for the movements of the animal spirits: this might vaguely _associate_ the arteries with _courage_. But the sight of the word _arture_ in the second Quarto at once relieved me. I do not know if a list has ever been gathered of the words _made_ by Shakspere: here is one of them--_arture_, from the same root as _artus, a joint--arcere, to hold together_, adjective _arctus, tight. Arture_, then, stands for _juncture_. This perfectly fits. In terror the weakest parts are the joints, for their _artures_ are not _hardy_. 'And you, my sinews, ... bear me stiffly up.' 55, 56. Since writing as above, a friend informs me that _arture_ is the exact equivalent of the [Greek: haphae] of Colossians ii. 19, as interpreted by Bishop Lightfoot--'the relation between contiguous limbs, not the parts of the limbs themselves in the neighbourhood of contact,'--for which relation 'there is no word in our language in common use.'] [Footnote 5: 'with the things he imagines.'] [Page 50] _Gho._ My hower is almost come,[1] When I to sulphurous and tormenting Flames Must render vp my selfe. _Ham._ Alas poore Ghost. _Gho._ Pitty me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall vnfold. _Ham._ Speake, I am bound to heare. _Gho._ So art thou to reuenge, when thou shalt heare. _Ham._ What? _Gho._ I am thy Fathers Spirit, Doom'd for a certaine terme to walke the night;[2] And for the day confin'd to fast in Fiers,[3] Till the foule crimes done in my dayes of Nature Are burnt and purg'd away? But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my Prison-House; I could a Tale vnfold, whose lightest word[4] Would harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like Starres, start from their Spheres, Thy knotty and combined locks to part, [Sidenote: knotted] And each particular haire to stand an end,[5] Like Quilles vpon the fretfull[6] Porpentine [Sidenote: fearefull[6]] But this eternall blason[7] must not be To eares of flesh and bloud; list _Hamlet_, oh list, [Sidenote: blood, list, ô list;] If thou didst euer thy deare Father loue. _Ham._ Oh Heauen![8] [Sidenote: God] _Gho._ Reuenge his foule and most vnnaturall Murther.[9] _Ham._ Murther? _Ghost._ Murther most foule, as in the best it is; But this most foule, strange, and vnnaturall. _Ham._ Hast, hast me to know it, [Sidenote: Hast me to know't,] That with wings as swift [Footnote 1: The night is the Ghost's day.] [Footnote 2: To walk the night, and see how things go, without being able to put a finger to them, is part of his cleansing.] [Footnote 3: More horror yet for Hamlet.] [Footnote 4: He would have him think of life and its doings as of awful import. He gives his son what warning he may.] [Footnote 5: _An end_ is like _agape, an hungred_. 71, 175.] [Footnote 6: The word in the Q. suggests _fretfull_ a misprint for _frightful_. It is _fretfull_ in the 1st Q. as well.] [Footnote 7: To _blason_ is to read off in proper heraldic terms the arms blasoned upon a shield. _A blason_ is such a reading, but is here used for a picture in words of other objects.] [Footnote 8: --in appeal to God whether he had not loved his father.] [Footnote 9: The horror still accumulates. The knowledge of evil--not evil in the abstract, but evil alive, and all about him--comes darkening down upon Hamlet's being. Not only is his father an inhabitant of the nether fires, but he is there by murder.] [Page 52] As meditation, or the thoughts of Loue, May sweepe to my Reuenge.[1] _Ghost._ I finde thee apt, And duller should'st thou be then the fat weede[2] [Sidenote: 194] That rots it selfe in ease, on Lethe Wharfe,[4] [Sidenote: rootes[3]] Would'st thou not stirre in this. Now _Hamlet_ heare: It's giuen out, that sleeping in mine Orchard, [Sidenote: 'Tis] A Serpent stung me: so the whole eare of Denmarke, Is by a forged processe of my death Rankly abus'd: But know thou Noble youth, The Serpent that did sting thy Fathers life, Now weares his Crowne. [Sidenote: 30,32] _Ham._ O my Propheticke soule: mine Vncle?[5] [Sidenote: my] _Ghost._ I that incestuous, that adulterate Beast[6] With witchcraft of his wits, hath Traitorous guifts. [Sidenote: wits, with] Oh wicked Wit, and Gifts, that haue the power So to seduce? Won to to this shamefull Lust [Sidenote: wonne to his] The will of my most seeming vertuous Queene: Oh _Hamlet_, what a falling off was there, [Sidenote: what failing] From me, whose loue was of that dignity, That it went hand in hand, euen with[7] the Vow I made to her in Marriage; and to decline Vpon a wretch, whose Naturall gifts were poore To those of mine. But Vertue, as it neuer wil be moued, Though Lewdnesse court it in a shape of Heauen: So Lust, though to a radiant Angell link'd, [Sidenote: so but though] Will sate it selfe in[8] a Celestiall bed, and prey on Garbage.[9] [Sidenote: Will sort it selfe] But soft, me thinkes I sent the Mornings Ayre; [Sidenote: morning ayre,] Briefe let me be: Sleeping within mine Orchard, [Sidenote: my] My custome alwayes in the afternoone; [Sidenote: of the] Vpon my secure hower thy Vncle stole [Footnote 1: Now, _for the moment_, he has no doubt, and vengeance is his first thought.] [Footnote 2: Hamlet may be supposed to recall this, if we suppose him afterwards to accuse himself so bitterly and so unfairly as in the _Quarto_, 194.] [Footnote 3: Also _1st Q_.] [Footnote 4: landing-place on the bank of Lethe, the hell-river of oblivion.] [Footnote 5: This does not mean that he had suspected his uncle, but that his dislike to him was prophetic.] [Footnote 6: How can it be doubted that in this speech the Ghost accuses his wife and brother of adultery? Their marriage was not adultery. See how the ghastly revelation grows on Hamlet--his father in hell--murdered by his brother--dishonoured by his wife!] [Footnote 7: _parallel with; correspondent to_.] [Footnote 8: _1st Q_. 'fate itself from a'.] [Footnote 9: This passage, from 'Oh _Hamlet_,' most indubitably asserts the adultery of Gertrude.] [Page 54] With iuyce of cursed Hebenon[1] in a Violl, [Sidenote: Hebona] And in the Porches of mine eares did poure [Sidenote: my] The leaperous Distilment;[2] whose effect Holds such an enmity with bloud of Man, That swift as Quick-siluer, it courses[3] through The naturall Gates and Allies of the Body; And with a sodaine vigour it doth posset [Sidenote: doth possesse] And curd, like Aygre droppings into Milke, [Sidenote: eager[4]] The thin and wholsome blood: so did it mine; And a most instant Tetter bak'd about, [Sidenote: barckt about[5]] Most Lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, All my smooth Body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a Brothers hand, Of Life, of Crowne, and Queene at once dispatcht; [Sidenote: of Queene] [Sidenote: 164] Cut off euen in the Blossomes of my Sinne, Vnhouzzled, disappointed, vnnaneld,[6] [Sidenote: Vnhuzled, | vnanueld,] [Sidenote: 262] No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head; Oh horrible, Oh horrible, most horrible: If thou hast nature in thee beare it not; Let not the Royall Bed of Denmarke be A Couch for Luxury and damned Incest.[7] But howsoeuer thou pursuest this Act, [Sidenote: howsomeuer thou pursues] [Sidenote: 30,174] Taint not thy mind; nor let thy Soule contriue [Sidenote: 140] Against thy Mother ought; leaue her to heauen, And to those Thornes that in her bosome lodge, To pricke and sting her. Fare thee well at once; The Glow-worme showes the Matine to be neere, And gins to pale his vneffectuall Fire: Adue, adue, _Hamlet_: remember me. _Exit_. [Sidenote: Adiew, adiew, adiew, remember me.[8]] _Ham._ Oh all you host of Heauen! Oh Earth: what els? And shall I couple Hell?[9] Oh fie[10]: hold my heart; [Sidenote: hold, hold my] And you my sinnewes, grow not instant Old; [Footnote 1: Ebony.] [Footnote 2: _producing leprosy_--as described in result below.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q_. 'posteth'.] [Footnote 4: So also _1st Q_.] [Footnote 5: This _barckt_--meaning _cased as a bark cases its tree_--is used in _1st Q_. also: 'And all my smoothe body, barked, and tetterd ouer.' The word is so used in Scotland still.] [Footnote 6: _Husel (Anglo-Saxon)_ is _an offering, the sacrament. Disappointed, not appointed_: Dr. Johnson. _Unaneled, unoiled, without the extreme unction_.] [Footnote 7: It is on public grounds, as a king and a Dane, rather than as a husband and a murdered man, that he urges on his son the execution of justice. Note the tenderness towards his wife that follows--more marked, 174; here it is mingled with predominating regard to his son to whose filial nature he dreads injury.] [Footnote 8: _Q_. omits _Exit_.] [Footnote 9: He must: his father is there!] [Footnote 10: The interjection is addressed to _heart_ and _sinews_, which forget their duty.] [Page 56] But beare me stiffely vp: Remember thee?[1] [Sidenote: swiftly vp] I, thou poore Ghost, while memory holds a seate [Sidenote: whiles] In this distracted Globe[2]: Remember thee? Yea, from the Table of my Memory,[3] Ile wipe away all triuiall fond Records, All sawes[4] of Bookes, all formes, all presures past, That youth and obseruation coppied there; And thy Commandment all alone shall liue Within the Booke and Volume of my Braine, Vnmixt with baser matter; yes, yes, by Heauen: [Sidenote: matter, yes by] [Sidenote: 168] Oh most pernicious woman![5] Oh Villaine, Villaine, smiling damned Villaine! My Tables, my Tables; meet it is I set it downe,[6] [Sidenote: My tables, meet] That one may smile, and smile and be a Villaine; At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmarke; [Sidenote: I am] So Vnckle there you are: now to my word;[7] It is; Adue, Adue, Remember me:[8] I haue sworn't. [Sidenote: _Enter Horatio, and Marcellus_] _Hor. and Mar. within_. My Lord, my Lord. [Sidenote: _Hora._ My] _Enter Horatio and Marcellus._ _Mar_. Lord _Hamlet_. _Hor_. Heauen secure him. [Sidenote: Heauens] _Mar_. So be it. _Hor_. Illo, ho, ho, my Lord. _Ham_. Hillo, ho, ho, boy; come bird, come.[9] [Sidenote: boy come, and come.] _Mar_. How ist't my Noble Lord? _Hor_. What newes, my Lord? _Ham_. Oh wonderfull![10] _Hor_. Good my Lord tell it. _Ham_. No you'l reueale it. [Sidenote: you will] _Hor_. Not I, my Lord, by Heauen. _Mar_. Nor I, my Lord. _Ham_. How say you then, would heart of man once think it? But you'l be secret? [Footnote 1: For the moment he has no doubt that he has seen and spoken with the ghost of his father.] [Footnote 2: his head.] [Footnote 3: The whole speech is that of a student, accustomed to books, to take notes, and to fix things in his memory. 'Table,' _tablet_.] [Footnote 4: _wise sayings_.] [Footnote 5: The Ghost has revealed her adultery: Hamlet suspects her of complicity in the murder, 168.] [Footnote 6: It may well seem odd that Hamlet should be represented as, at such a moment, making a note in his tablets; but without further allusion to the student-habit, I would remark that, in cases where strongest passion is roused, the intellect has yet sometimes an automatic trick of working independently. For instance from Shakspere, see Constance in _King John_--how, in her agony over the loss of her son, both her fancy, playing with words, and her imagination, playing with forms, are busy. Note the glimpse of Hamlet's character here given: he had been something of an optimist; at least had known villainy only from books; at thirty years of age it is to him a discovery that a man may smile and be a villain! Then think of the shock of such discoveries as are here forced upon him! Villainy is no longer a mere idea, but a fact! and of all villainous deeds those of his own mother and uncle are the worst! But note also his honesty, his justice to humanity, his philosophic temperament, in the qualification he sets to the memorandum, '--at least in Denmark!'] [Footnote 7: 'my word,'--the word he has to keep in mind; his cue.] [Footnote 8: Should not the actor here make a pause, with hand uplifted, as taking a solemn though silent oath?] [Footnote 9: --as if calling to a hawk.] [Footnote 10: Here comes the test of the actor's _possible_: here Hamlet himself begins to act, and will at once assume a _rôle_, ere yet he well knows what it must be. One thing only is clear to him--that the communication of the Ghost is not a thing to be shared--that he must keep it with all his power of secrecy: the honour both of father and of mother is at stake. In order to do so, he must begin by putting on himself a cloak of darkness, and hiding his feelings--first of all the present agitation which threatens to overpower him. His immediate impulse or instinctive motion is to force an air, and throw a veil of grimmest humour over the occurrence. The agitation of the horror at his heart, ever working and constantly repressed, shows through the veil, and gives an excited uncertainty to his words, and a wild vacillation to his manner and behaviour.] [Page 58] _Both_. I, by Heau'n, my Lord.[1] _Ham_. There's nere a villaine dwelling in all Denmarke But hee's an arrant knaue. _Hor_. There needs no Ghost my Lord, come from the Graue, to tell vs this. _Ham_. Why right, you are i'th'right; [Sidenote: in the] And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands, and part: You, as your busines and desires shall point you: [Sidenote: desire] For euery man ha's businesse and desire,[2] [Sidenote: hath] Such as it is: and for mine owne poore part, [Sidenote: my] Looke you, Ile goe pray.[4] [Sidenote: I will goe pray.[3]] _Hor_. These are but wild and hurling words, my Lord. [Sidenote: whurling[5]] _Ham_. I'm sorry they offend you heartily: [Sidenote: I am] Yes faith, heartily. _Hor_. There's no offence my Lord. _Ham_. Yes, by Saint _Patricke_, but there is my Lord,[6] [Sidenote: there is _Horatio_] And much offence too, touching this Vision heere;[7] [Sidenote: 136] It is an honest Ghost, that let me tell you:[8] For your desire to know what is betweene vs, O'remaster't as you may. And now good friends, As you are Friends, Schollers and Soldiers, Giue me one poore request. _Hor_. What is't my Lord? we will. _Ham_. Neuer make known what you haue seen to night.[9] _Both_. My Lord, we will not. _Ham_. Nay, but swear't. _Hor_. Infaith my Lord, not I.[10] _Mar_. Nor I my Lord: in faith. _Ham_. Vpon my sword.[11] [Footnote 1: _Q. has not_ 'my Lord.'] [Footnote 2: Here shows the philosopher.] [Footnote 3: _Q. has not_ 'Looke you.'] [Footnote 4: '--nothing else is left me.' This seems to me one of the finest touches in the revelation of Hamlet.] [Footnote 5: _1st Q_. 'wherling'.] [Footnote 6: I take the change from the _Quarto_ here to be no blunder.] [Footnote 7: _Point thus_: 'too!--Touching.'] [Footnote 8: The struggle to command himself is plain throughout.] [Footnote 9: He could not endure the thought of the resulting gossip;--which besides would interfere with, possibly frustrate, the carrying out of his part.] [Footnote 10: This is not a refusal to swear; it is the oath itself: '_In faith I will not_!'] [Footnote 11: He would have them swear on the cross-hilt of his sword.] [Page 60] _Marcell._ We haue sworne my Lord already.[1] _Ham._ Indeed, vpon my sword, Indeed. _Gho._ Sweare.[2] _Ghost cries vnder the Stage._[3] _Ham._ Ah ha boy, sayest thou so. Art thou [Sidenote: Ha, ha,] there truepenny?[4] Come one you here this fellow [Sidenote: Come on, you heare] in the selleredge Consent to sweare. _Hor._ Propose the Oath my Lord.[5] _Ham._ Neuer to speake of this that you haue seene. Sweare by my sword. _Gho._ Sweare. _Ham. Hic & vbique_? Then wee'l shift for grownd, [Sidenote: shift our] Come hither Gentlemen, And lay your hands againe vpon my sword, Neuer to speake of this that you haue heard:[6] Sweare by my Sword. _Gho._ Sweare.[7] [Sidenote: Sweare by his sword.] _Ham._ Well said old Mole, can'st worke i'th' ground so fast? [Sidenote: it'h' earth] A worthy Pioner, once more remoue good friends. _Hor._ Oh day and night: but this is wondrous strange. _Ham._ And therefore as a stranger giue it welcome. There are more things in Heauen and Earth, _Horatio_, Then are dream't of in our Philosophy But come, [Sidenote: in your] Here as before, neuer so helpe you mercy, How strange or odde so ere I beare my selfe; [Sidenote: How | so mere] (As I perchance heereafter shall thinke meet [Sidenote: As] [Sidenote: 136, 156, 178] To put an Anticke disposition on:)[8] [Sidenote: on] That you at such time seeing me, neuer shall [Sidenote: times] With Armes encombred thus, or thus, head shake; [Sidenote: or this head] [Footnote 1: He feels his honour touched.] [Footnote 2: The Ghost's interference heightens Hamlet's agitation. If he does not talk, laugh, jest, it will overcome him. Also he must not show that he believes it his father's ghost: that must be kept to himself--for the present at least. He shows it therefore no respect--treats the whole thing humorously, so avoiding, or at least parrying question. It is all he can do to keep the mastery of himself, dodging horror with half-forced, half-hysterical laughter. Yet is he all the time intellectually on the alert. See how, instantly active, he makes use of the voice from beneath to enforce his requisition of silence. Very speedily too he grows quiet: a glimmer of light as to the course of action necessary to him has begun to break upon him: it breaks from his own wild and disjointed behaviour in the attempt to hide the conflict of his feelings--which suggests to him the idea of shrouding himself, as did David at the court of the Philistines, in the cloak of madness: thereby protected from the full force of what suspicion any absorption of manner or outburst of feeling must occasion, he may win time to lay his plans. Note how, in the midst of his horror, he is yet able to think, plan, resolve.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q. 'The Gost under the stage.'_] [Footnote 4: While Hamlet seems to take it so coolly, the others have fled in terror from the spot. He goes to them. Their fear must be what, on the two occasions after, makes him shift to another place when the Ghost speaks.] [Footnote 5: Now at once he consents.] [Footnote 6: In the _Quarto_ this and the next line are transposed.] [Footnote 7: What idea is involved as the cause of the Ghost's thus interfering?--That he too sees what difficulties must encompass the carrying out of his behest, and what absolute secrecy is thereto essential.] [Footnote 8: This idea, hardly yet a resolve, he afterwards carries out so well, that he deceives not only king and queen and court, but the most of his critics ever since: to this day they believe him mad. Such must have studied in the play a phantom of their own misconception, and can never have seen the Hamlet of Shakspere. Thus prejudiced, they mistake also the effects of moral and spiritual perturbation and misery for further sign of intellectual disorder--even for proof of moral weakness, placing them in the same category with the symptoms of the insanity which he simulates, and by which they are deluded.] [Page 62] Or by pronouncing of some doubtfull Phrase; As well, we know, or we could and if we would, [Sidenote: As well, well, we] Or if we list to speake; or there be and if there might, [Sidenote: if they might] Or such ambiguous giuing out to note, [Sidenote: note] That you know ought of me; this not to doe: [Sidenote: me, this doe sweare,] So grace and mercy at your most neede helpe you: Sweare.[1] _Ghost_. Sweare.[2] _Ham_. Rest, rest perturbed Spirit[3]: so Gentlemen, With all my loue I doe commend me to you; And what so poore a man as _Hamlet_ is, May doe t'expresse his loue and friending to you, God willing shall not lacke: let vs goe in together, And still your fingers on your lippes I pray, The time is out of ioynt: Oh cursed spight,[4] [Sidenote: 126] That euer I was borne to set it right. Nay, come let's goe together. _Exeunt._[5] * * * * * SUMMARY OF ACT I. This much of Hamlet we have now learned: he is a thoughtful man, a genuine student, little acquainted with the world save through books, and a lover of his kind. His university life at Wittenberg is suddenly interrupted by a call to the funeral of his father, whom he dearly loves and honours. Ere he reaches Denmark, his uncle Claudius has contrived, in an election (202, 250, 272) probably hastened and secretly influenced, to gain the voice of the representatives at least of the people, and ascend the throne. Hence his position must have been an irksome one from the first; but, within a month of his father's death, his mother's marriage with his uncle--a relation universally regarded as incestuous--plunges him in the deepest misery. The play introduces him at the first court held after the wedding. He is attired in the mourning of his father's funeral, which he had not laid aside for the wedding. His aspect is of absolute dejection, and he appears in a company for which he is so unfit only for the sake of desiring permission to leave the court, and go back to his studies at Wittenberg.[A] Left to himself, he breaks out in agonized and indignant lamentation over his mother's conduct, dwelling mainly on her disregard of his father's memory. Her conduct and his partial discovery of her character, is the sole cause of his misery. In such his mood, Horatio, a fellow-student, brings him word that his father's spirit walks at night. He watches for the Ghost, and receives from him a frightful report of his present condition, into which, he tells him, he was cast by the murderous hand of his brother, with whom his wife had been guilty of adultery. He enjoins him to put a stop to the crime in which they are now living, by taking vengeance on his uncle. Uncertain at the moment how to act, and dreading the consequences of rousing suspicion by the perturbation which he could not but betray, he grasps at the sudden idea of affecting madness. We have learned also Hamlet's relation to Ophelia, the daughter of the selfish, prating, busy Polonius, who, with his son Laertes, is destined to work out the earthly fate of Hamlet. Of Laertes, as yet, we only know that he prates like his father, is self-confident, and was educated at Paris, whither he has returned. Of Ophelia we know nothing but that she is gentle, and that she is fond of Hamlet, whose attentions she has encouraged, but with whom, upon her father's severe remonstrance, she is ready, outwardly at least, to break. [Footnote A: Roger Ascham, in his _Scholemaster_, if I mistake not, sets the age, up to which a man should be under tutors, at twenty-nine.] [Footnote 1: 'Sweare' _not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 2: They do not this time shift their ground, but swear--in dumb show.] [Footnote 3: --for now they had obeyed his command and sworn secrecy.] [Footnote 4: 'cursed spight'--not merely that he had been born to do hangman's work, but that he should have been born at all--of a mother whose crime against his father had brought upon him the wretched necessity which must proclaim her ignominy. Let the student do his best to realize the condition of Hamlet's heart and mind in relation to his mother.] [Footnote: 5 This first act occupies part of a night, a day, and part of the next night.] [Page 64] ACTUS SECUNDUS.[1] _Enter Polonius, and Reynoldo._ [Sidenote: _Enter old Polonius, with his man, or two._] _Polon._ Giue him his money, and these notes _Reynoldo_.[2] [Sidenote: this money] _Reynol._ I will my Lord. _Polon._ You shall doe maruels wisely: good _Reynoldo_, [Sidenote: meruiles] Before you visite him you make inquiry [Sidenote: him, to make inquire] Of his behauiour.[3] _Reynol._ My Lord, I did intend it. _Polon._ Marry, well said; Very well said. Looke you Sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who; what meanes; and where they keepe: What company, at what expence: and finding By this encompassement and drift of question, That they doe know my sonne: Come you more neerer[4] Then your particular demands will touch it, Take you as 'twere some distant knowledge of him, And thus I know his father and his friends, [Sidenote: As thus] And in part him. Doe you marke this _Reynoldo_? _Reynol._ I, very well my Lord. _Polon._ And in part him, but you may say not well; But if't be hee I meane, hees very wilde; Addicted so and so; and there put on him What forgeries you please: marry, none so ranke, As may dishonour him; take heed of that: But Sir, such wanton, wild, and vsuall slips, As are Companions noted and most knowne To youth and liberty. [Footnote 1: _Not in Quarto._ Between this act and the former, sufficient time has passed to allow the ambassadors to go to Norway and return: 74. See 138, and what Hamlet says of the time since his father's death, 24, by which together the interval _seems_ indicated as about two months, though surely so much time was not necessary. Cause and effect _must_ be truly presented; time and space are mere accidents, and of small consequence in the drama, whose very idea is compression for the sake of presentation. All that is necessary in regard to time is, that, either by the act-pause, or the intervention of a fresh scene, the passing of it should be indicated. This second act occupies the forenoon of one day.] [Footnote 2: _1st Q._ _Montano_, here, these letters to my sonne, And this same mony with my blessing to him, And bid him ply his learning good _Montano_.] [Footnote 3: The father has no confidence in the son, and rightly, for both are unworthy: he turns on him the cunning of the courtier, and sends a spy on his behaviour. The looseness of his own principles comes out very clear in his anxieties about his son; and, having learned the ideas of the father as to what becomes a gentleman, we are not surprised to find the son such as he afterwards shows himself. Till the end approaches, we hear no more of Laertes, nor is more necessary; but without this scene we should have been unprepared for his vileness.] [Footnote 4: _Point thus_: 'son, come you more nearer; then &c.' The _then_ here does not stand for _than_, and to change it to _than_ makes at once a contradiction. The sense is: 'Having put your general questions first, and been answered to your purpose, then your particular demands will come in, and be of service; they will reach to the point--_will touch it_.' The _it_ is impersonal. After it should come a period.] [Page 66] _Reynol._ As gaming my Lord. _Polon._ I, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarelling, drabbing. You may goe so farre. _Reynol._ My Lord that would dishonour him. _Polon._ Faith no, as you may season it in the charge;[1] [Sidenote: Fayth as you] You must not put another scandall on him, That hee is open to Incontinencie;[2] That's not my meaning: but breath his faults so quaintly, That they may seeme the taints of liberty; The flash and out-breake of a fiery minde, A sauagenes in vnreclaim'd[3] bloud of generall assault.[4] _Reynol._ But my good Lord.[5] _Polon._ Wherefore should you doe this?[6] _Reynol._ I my Lord, I would know that. _Polon._ Marry Sir, heere's my drift, And I belieue it is a fetch of warrant:[7] [Sidenote: of wit,] You laying these slight sulleyes[8] on my Sonne, [Sidenote: sallies[8]] As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i'th'working: [Sidenote: soiled with working,] Marke you your party in conuerse; him you would sound, Hauing euer seene. In the prenominate crimes, [Sidenote: seene in the] The youth you breath of guilty, be assur'd He closes with you in this consequence: Good sir, or so, or friend, or Gentleman. According to the Phrase and the Addition,[9] [Sidenote: phrase or the] Of man and Country. _Reynol._ Very good my Lord. _Polon._ And then Sir does he this? [Sidenote: doos a this a doos, what was _I_] He does: what was I about to say? I was about to say somthing: where did I leaue? [Sidenote: By the masse I was] _Reynol._ At closes in the consequence: At friend, or so, and Gentleman.[10] [Footnote 1: _1st Q._ I faith not a whit, no not a whit, As you may bridle it not disparage him a iote.] [Footnote 2: This may well seem prating inconsistency, but I suppose means that he must not be represented as without moderation in his wickedness.] [Footnote 3: _Untamed_, as a hawk.] [Footnote 4: The lines are properly arranged in _Q_. A sauagenes in vnreclamed blood, Of generall assault. --that is, 'which assails all.'] [Footnote 5: Here a hesitating pause.] [Footnote 6: --with the expression of, 'Is that what you would say?'] [Footnote 7: 'a fetch with warrant for it'--a justifiable trick.] [Footnote 8: Compare _sallied_, 25, both Quartos; _sallets_ 67, 103; and see _soil'd_, next line.] [Footnote 9: 'Addition,' epithet of courtesy in address.] [Footnote 10: _Q_. has not this line] [Page 68] _Polon._ At closes in the consequence, I marry, He closes with you thus. I know the Gentleman, [Sidenote: He closes thus,] I saw him yesterday, or tother day; [Sidenote: th'other] Or then or then, with such and such; and as you say, [Sidenote: or such,] [Sidenote: 25] There was he gaming, there o'retooke in's Rouse, [Sidenote: was a gaming there, or tooke] There falling out at Tennis; or perchance, I saw him enter such a house of saile; [Sidenote: sale,] _Videlicet_, a Brothell, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falshood, takes this Cape of truth; [Sidenote: take this carpe] And thus doe we of wisedome and of reach[1] With windlesses,[2] and with assaies of Bias, By indirections finde directions out: So by my former Lecture and aduice Shall you my Sonne; you haue me, haue you not? _Reynol._ My Lord I haue. _Polon._ God buy you; fare you well, [Sidenote: ye | ye] _Reynol._ Good my Lord. _Polon._ Obserue his inclination in your selfe.[3] _Reynol._ I shall my Lord. _Polon._ And let him[4] plye his Musicke. _Reynol._ Well, my Lord. _Exit_. _Enter Ophelia_. _Polon_. Farewell: How now _Ophelia_, what's the matter? _Ophe_. Alas my Lord, I haue beene so affrighted. [Sidenote: O my Lord, my Lord,] _Polon_. With what, in the name of Heauen? [Sidenote: i'th name of God?] _Ophe_. My Lord, as I was sowing in my Chamber, [Sidenote: closset,] Lord _Hamlet_ with his doublet all vnbrac'd,[5] No hat vpon his head, his stockings foul'd, Vngartred, and downe giued[6] to his Anckle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a looke so pitious in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell, [Footnote 1: of far reaching mind.] [Footnote 2: The word windlaces is explained in the dictionaries as _shifts, subtleties_--but apparently on the sole authority of this passage. There must be a figure in _windlesses_, as well as in _assaies of Bias_, which is a phrase plain enough to bowlers: the trying of other directions than that of the _jack_, in the endeavour to come at one with the law of the bowl's bias. I find _wanlass_ a term in hunting: it had to do with driving game to a given point--whether in part by getting to windward of it, I cannot tell. The word may come of the verb wind, from its meaning '_to manage by shifts or expedients_': _Barclay_. As he has spoken of fishing, could the _windlesses_ refer to any little instrument such as now used upon a fishing-rod? I do not think it. And how do the words _windlesses_ and _indirections_ come together? Was a windless some contrivance for determining how the wind blew? I bethink me that a thin withered straw is in Scotland called a _windlestrae_: perhaps such straws were thrown up to find out 'by indirection' the direction of the wind. The press-reader sends me two valuable quotations, through Latham's edition of Johnson's Dictionary, from Dr. H. Hammond (1605-1660), in which _windlass_ is used as a verb:-- 'A skilful woodsman, by windlassing, presently gets a shoot, which, without taking a compass, and thereby a commodious stand, he could never have obtained.' 'She is not so much at leasure as to windlace, or use craft, to satisfy them.' To _windlace_ seems then to mean 'to steal along to leeward;' would it be absurd to suggest that, so-doing, the hunter _laces the wind_? Shakspere, with many another, I fancy, speaks of _threading the night_ or _the darkness_. Johnson explains the word in the text as 'A handle by which anything is turned.'] [Footnote 3: 'in your selfe.' may mean either 'through the insight afforded by your own feelings'; or 'in respect of yourself,' 'toward yourself.' I do not know which is intended.] [Footnote 4: 1st Q. 'And bid him'.] [Footnote 5: loose; _undone_.] [Footnote 6: His stockings, slipped down in wrinkles round his ankles, suggested the rings of _gyves_ or fetters. The verb _gyve_, of which the passive participle is here used, is rarer.] [Page 70] To speake of horrors: he comes before me. _Polon._ Mad for thy Loue? _Ophe._ My Lord, I doe not know: but truly I do feare it.[1] _Polon._ What said he? _Ophe._[2] He tooke me by the wrist, and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arme; And with his other hand thus o're his brow, He fals to such perusall of my face, As he would draw it. Long staid he so, [Sidenote: As a] At last, a little shaking of mine Arme: And thrice his head thus wauing vp and downe; He rais'd a sigh, so pittious and profound, That it did seeme to shatter all his bulke, [Sidenote: As it] And end his being. That done, he lets me goe, And with his head ouer his shoulders turn'd, [Sidenote: shoulder] He seem'd to finde his way without his eyes, For out adores[3] he went without their helpe; [Sidenote: helps,] And to the last, bended their light on me. _Polon._ Goe with me, I will goe seeke the King, [Sidenote: Come, goe] This is the very extasie of Loue, Whose violent property foredoes[4] it selfe, And leads the will to desperate Vndertakings, As oft as any passion vnder Heauen, [Sidenote: passions] That does afflict our Natures. I am sorrie, What haue you giuen him any hard words of late? _Ophe_. No my good Lord: but as you did command, [Sidenote: 42, 82] I did repell his Letters, and deny'de His accesse to me.[5] _Pol_. That hath made him mad. I am sorrie that with better speed and Judgement [Sidenote: better heede] [Sidenote: 83] I had not quoted[6] him. I feare he did but trifle, [Sidenote: coted[6] | fear'd] And meant to wracke thee: but beshrew my iealousie: [Footnote 1: She would be glad her father should think so.] [Footnote 2: The detailed description of Hamlet and his behaviour that follows, must be introduced in order that the side mirror of narrative may aid the front mirror of drama, and between them be given a true notion of his condition both mental and bodily. Although weeks have passed since his interview with the Ghost, he is still haunted with the memory of it, still broods over its horrible revelation. That he had, probably soon, begun to feel far from certain of the truth of the apparition, could not make the thoughts and questions it had awaked, cease tormenting his whole being. The stifling smoke of his mother's conduct had in his mind burst into loathsome flame, and through her he has all but lost his faith in humanity. To know his uncle a villain, was to know his uncle a villain; to know his mother false, was to doubt women, doubt the whole world. In the meantime Ophelia, in obedience to her father, and evidently without reason assigned, has broken off communication with him: he reads her behaviour by the lurid light of his mother's. She too is false! she too is heartless! he can look to her for no help! She has turned against him to curry favour with his mother and his uncle! Can she be such as his mother! Why should she not be? His mother had seemed as good! He would give his life to know her honest and pure. Might he but believe her what he had believed her, he would yet have a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest! If he could but know the truth! Alone with her once more but for a moment, he would read her very soul by the might of his! He must see her! He would see her! In the agony of a doubt upon which seemed to hang the bliss or bale of his being, yet not altogether unintimidated by a sense of his intrusion, he walks into the house of Polonius, and into the chamber of Ophelia. Ever since the night of the apparition, the court, from the behaviour assumed by Hamlet, has believed his mind affected; and when he enters her room, Ophelia, though such is the insight of love that she is able to read in the face of the son the father's purgatorial sufferings, the picture of one 'loosed out of hell, to speak of horrors,' attributes all the strangeness of his appearance and demeanour, such as she describes them to her father, to that supposed fact. But there is, in truth, as little of affected as of actual madness in his behaviour in her presence. When he comes before her pale and trembling, speechless and with staring eyes, it is with no simulated insanity, but in the agonized hope, scarce distinguishable from despair, of finding, in the testimony of her visible presence, an assurance that the doubts ever tearing his spirit and sickening his brain, are but the offspring of his phantasy. There she sits!--and there he stands, vainly endeavouring through her eyes to read her soul! for, alas, there's no art To find the mind's construction in the face! --until at length, finding himself utterly baffled, but unable, save by the removal of his person, to take his eyes from her face, he retires speechless as he came. Such is the man whom we are now to see wandering about the halls and corridors of the great castle-palace. He may by this time have begun to doubt even the reality of the sight he had seen. The moment the pressure of a marvellous presence is removed, it is in the nature of man the same moment to begin to doubt; and instead of having any reason to wish the apparition a true one, he had every reason to desire to believe it an illusion or a lying spirit. Great were his excuse even if he forced likelihoods, and suborned witnesses in the court of his own judgment. To conclude it false was to think his father in heaven, and his mother not an adulteress, not a murderess! At once to kill his uncle would be to seal these horrible things irrevocable, indisputable facts. Strongest reasons he had for not taking immediate action in vengeance; but no smallest incapacity for action had share in his delay. The Poet takes recurrent pains, as if he foresaw hasty conclusions, to show his hero a man of promptitude, with this truest fitness for action, that he would not make unlawful haste. Without sufficing assurance, he would have no part in the fate either of the uncle he disliked or the mother he loved.] [Footnote 3: _a doors_, like _an end_. 51, 175.] [Footnote 4: _undoes, frustrates, destroys_.] [Footnote 5: See quotation from _1st Quarto,_ 43.] [Footnote 6: _Quoted_ or _coted: observed_; Fr. _coter_, to mark the number. Compare 95.] [Page 72] It seemes it is as proper to our Age, [Sidenote: By heauen it is] To cast beyond our selues[1] in our Opinions, As it is common for the yonger sort To lacke discretion.[2] Come, go we to the King, This must be knowne, which being kept close might moue More greefe to hide, then hate to vtter loue.[3] [Sidenote: Come.] _Exeunt._ _SCENA SECUNDA._[4] _Enter King, Queene, Rosincrane, and Guildensterne Cum alijs. [Sidenote: Florish: Enter King and Queene, Rosencraus and Guyldensterne.[5]] _King._ Welcome deere _Rosincrance_ and _Guildensterne_. Moreouer,[6] that we much did long to see you, The neede we haue to vse you, did prouoke [Sidenote: 92] Our hastie sending.[7] Something haue you heard Of _Hamlets_ transformation: so I call it, [Sidenote: so call] Since not th'exterior, nor the inward man [Sidenote: Sith nor] Resembles that it was. What it should bee More then his Fathers death, that thus hath put him So much from th'understanding of himselfe, I cannot deeme of.[8] I intreat you both, [Sidenote: dreame] That being of so young dayes[9] brought vp with him: And since so Neighbour'd to[10] his youth,and humour, [Sidenote: And sith | and hauior,] That you vouchsafe your rest heere in our Court Some little time: so by your Companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather [Sidenote: 116] So much as from Occasions you may gleane, [Sidenote: occasion] [A] That open'd lies within our remedie.[11] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- Whether ought to vs vnknowne afflicts him thus,] [Footnote 1: 'to be overwise--to overreach ourselves' 'ambition, which o'erleaps itself,' --_Macbeth_, act i. sc. 7.] [Footnote 2: Polonius is a man of faculty. His courtier-life, his self-seeking, his vanity, have made and make him the fool he is.] [Footnote 3: He hopes now to get his daughter married to the prince. We have here a curious instance of Shakspere's not unfrequently excessive condensation. Expanded, the clause would be like this: 'which, being kept close, might move more grief by the hiding of love, than to utter love might move hate:' the grief in the one case might be greater than the hate in the other would be. It verges on confusion, and may not be as Shakspere wrote it, though it is like his way. _1st Q._ Lets to the king, this madnesse may prooue, Though wilde a while, yet more true to thy loue.] [Footnote 4: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 5: _Q._ has not _Cum alijs._] [Footnote 6: 'Moreover that &c.': _moreover_ is here used as a preposition, with the rest of the clause for its objective.] [Footnote 7: Rosincrance and Guildensterne are, from the first and throughout, the creatures of the king.] [Footnote 8: The king's conscience makes him suspicious of Hamlet's suspicion.] [Footnote 9: 'from such an early age'.] [Footnote 10: 'since then so familiar with'.] [Footnote 11: 'to gather as much as you may glean from opportunities, of that which, when disclosed to us, will lie within our remedial power.' If the line of the Quarto be included, it makes plainer construction. The line beginning with '_So much_,' then becomes parenthetical, and _to gather_ will not immediately govern that line, but the rest of the sentence.] [Page 74] _Qu._ Good Gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you, And sure I am, two men there are not liuing, [Sidenote: there is not] To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To shew vs so much Gentrie,[1] and good will, As to expend your time with vs a-while, For the supply and profit of our Hope,[2] Your Visitation shall receiue such thankes As fits a Kings remembrance. _Rosin._ Both your Maiesties Might by the Soueraigne power you haue of vs, Put your dread pleasures, more into Command Then to Entreatie, _Guil._ We both[3] obey, [Sidenote: But we] And here giue vp our selues, in the full bent,[4] To lay our Seruices freely at your feete, [Sidenote: seruice] To be commanded. _King._ Thankes _Rosincrance_, and gentle _Guildensterne_. _Qu._ Thankes _Guildensterne_ and gentle _Rosincrance_,[5] And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed Sonne. Go some of ye, [Sidenote: you] And bring the Gentlemen where _Hamlet_ is, [Sidenote: bring these] _Guil._ Heauens make our presence and our practises Pleasant and helpfull to him. _Exit_[6] _Queene._ Amen. [Sidenote: Amen. _Exeunt Ros. and Guyld._] _Enter Polonius._ [Sidenote: 18] _Pol._ Th'Ambassadors from Norwey, my good Lord, Are ioyfully return'd. [Footnote 1: gentleness, grace, favour.] [Footnote 2: Their hope in Hamlet, as their son and heir.] [Footnote 3: both majesties.] [Footnote 4: If we put a comma after _bent_, the phrase will mean 'in the full _purpose_ or _design_ to lay our services &c.' Without the comma, the content of the phrase would be general:--'in the devoted force of our faculty.' The latter is more like Shakspere.] [Footnote 5: Is there not tact intended in the queen's reversal of her husband's arrangement of the two names--that each might have precedence, and neither take offence?] [Footnote 6: _Not in Quarto._] [Page 76] _King._ Thou still hast bin the Father of good Newes. _Pol._ Haue I, my Lord?[1] Assure you, my good Liege, [Sidenote: I assure my] I hold my dutie, as I hold my Soule, Both to my God, one to my gracious King:[2] [Sidenote: God, and to[2]] And I do thinke, or else this braine of mine Hunts not the traile of Policie, so sure As I haue vs'd to do: that I haue found [Sidenote: it hath vsd] The very cause of _Hamlets_ Lunacie. _King._ Oh speake of that, that I do long to heare. [Sidenote: doe I long] _Pol._ Giue first admittance to th'Ambassadors, My Newes shall be the Newes to that great Feast, [Sidenote: the fruite to that] _King._ Thy selfe do grace to them, and bring them in. He tels me my sweet Queene, that he hath found [Sidenote: my deere Gertrard he] The head[3] and sourse of all your Sonnes distemper. _Qu._ I doubt it is no other, but the maine, His Fathers death, and our o're-hasty Marriage.[4] [Sidenote: our hastie] _Enter Polonius, Voltumand, and Cornelius._ [Sidenote: _Enter_ Embassadors.] _King._ Well, we shall sift him. Welcome good Frends: [Sidenote: my good] Say _Voltumand_, what from our Brother Norwey? _Volt._ Most faire returne of Greetings, and Desires. Vpon our first,[5] he sent out to suppresse His Nephewes Leuies, which to him appear'd To be a preparation 'gainst the Poleak: [Sidenote: Pollacke,] But better look'd into, he truly found It was against your Highnesse, whereat greeued, That so his Sicknesse, Age, and Impotence Was falsely borne in hand,[6] sends[7] out Arrests On _Fortinbras_, which he (in breefe) obeyes, [Footnote 1: To be spoken triumphantly, but in the peculiar tone of one thinking, 'You little know what better news I have behind!'] [Footnote 2: I cannot tell which is the right reading; if the _Q.'s_, it means, '_I hold my duty precious as my soul, whether to my God or my king_'; if the _F.'s_, it is a little confused by the attempt of Polonius to make a fine euphuistic speech:--'_I hold my duty as I hold my soul,--both at the command of my God, one at the command of my king_.'] [Footnote 3: the spring; the river-head 'The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood' _Macbeth,_ act ii. sc. 3.] [Footnote 4: She goes a step farther than the king in accounting for Hamlet's misery--knows there is more cause of it yet, but hopes he does not know so much cause for misery as he might know.] [Footnote 5: Either 'first' stands for _first desire_, or it is a noun, and the meaning of the phrase is, 'The instant we mentioned the matter'.] [Footnote 6: 'borne in hand'--played with, taken advantage of. 'How you were borne in hand, how cross'd,' _Macbeth,_ act iii. sc. 1.] [Footnote 7: The nominative pronoun was not _quite_ indispensable to the verb in Shakspere's time.] [Page 78] Receiues rebuke from Norwey: and in fine, Makes Vow before his Vnkle, neuer more To giue th'assay of Armes against your Maiestie. Whereon old Norwey, ouercome with ioy, Giues him three thousand Crownes in Annuall Fee, [Sidenote: threescore thousand] And his Commission to imploy those Soldiers So leuied as before, against the Poleak: [Sidenote: Pollacke,] With an intreaty heerein further shewne, [Sidenote: 190] That it might please you to giue quiet passe Through your Dominions, for his Enterprize, [Sidenote: for this] On such regards of safety and allowance, As therein are set downe. _King_. It likes vs well: And at our more consider'd[1] time wee'l read, Answer, and thinke vpon this Businesse. Meane time we thanke you, for your well-tooke Labour. Go to your rest, at night wee'l Feast together.[2] Most welcome home. _Exit Ambass_. [Sidenote: Exeunt Embassadors] _Pol_. This businesse is very well ended.[3] [Sidenote: is well] My Liege, and Madam, to expostulate[4] What Maiestie should be, what Dutie is,[5] Why day is day; night, night; and time is time, Were nothing but to waste Night, Day and Time. Therefore, since Breuitie is the Soule of Wit, [Sidenote: Therefore breuitie] And tediousnesse, the limbes and outward flourishes,[6] I will be breefe. Your Noble Sonne is mad: Mad call I it; for to define true Madnesse, What is't, but to be nothing else but mad.[7] But let that go. _Qu_. More matter, with lesse Art.[8] _Pol_. Madam, I sweare I vse no Art at all: That he is mad, 'tis true: 'Tis true 'tis pittie, [Sidenote: hee's mad] And pittie it is true; A foolish figure,[9] [Sidenote: pitty tis tis true,] [Footnote 1: time given up to, or filled with consideration; _or, perhaps_, time chosen for a purpose.] [Footnote 2: He is always feasting.] [Footnote 3: Now for _his_ turn! He sets to work at once with his rhetoric.] [Footnote 4: to lay down beforehand as postulates.] [Footnote 5: We may suppose a dash and pause after '_Dutie is_'. The meaning is plain enough, though logical form is wanting.] [Footnote 6: As there is no imagination in Polonius, we cannot look for great aptitude in figure.] [Footnote 7: The nature of madness also is a postulate.] [Footnote 8: She is impatient, but wraps her rebuke in a compliment. Art, so-called, in speech, was much favoured in the time of Elizabeth. And as a compliment Polonius takes the form in which she expresses her dislike of his tediousness, and her anxiety after his news: pretending to wave it off, he yet, in his gratification, coming on the top of his excitement with the importance of his fancied discovery, plunges immediately into a very slough of _art_, and becomes absolutely silly.] [Footnote 9: It is no figure at all. It is hardly even a play with the words.] [Page 80] But farewell it: for I will vse no Art. Mad let vs grant him then: and now remaines That we finde out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect; For this effect defectiue, comes by cause, Thus it remaines, and the remainder thus. Perpend, I haue a daughter: haue, whil'st she is mine, [Sidenote: while] Who in her Dutie and Obedience, marke, Hath giuen me this: now gather, and surmise. _The Letter_.[1] _To the Celestiall, and my Soules Idoll, the most beautified Ophelia_. That's an ill Phrase, a vilde Phrase, beautified is a vilde Phrase: but you shall heare these in her thus in her excellent white bosome, these.[2] [Sidenote: these, &c] _Qu_. Came this from _Hamlet_ to her. _Pol_. Good Madam stay awhile, I will be faithfull. _Doubt thou, the Starres are fire_, [Sidenote: _Letter_] _Doubt, that the Sunne doth moue; Doubt Truth to be a Lier, But neuer Doubt, I loue.[3] O deere Ophelia, I am ill at these Numbers: I haue not Art to reckon my grones; but that I loue thee best, oh most Best beleeue it. Adieu. Thine euermore most deere Lady, whilst this Machine is to him_, Hamlet. This in Obedience hath my daughter shew'd me: [Sidenote: _Pol_. This showne] And more aboue hath his soliciting, [Sidenote: more about solicitings] As they fell out by Time, by Meanes, and Place, All giuen to mine eare. _King_. But how hath she receiu'd his Loue? _Pol_. What do you thinke of me? _King_. As of a man, faithfull and Honourable. _Pol_. I wold faine proue so. But what might you think? [Footnote 1: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 2: _Point thus_: 'but you shall heare. _These, in her excellent white bosom, these_:' Ladies, we are informed, wore a small pocket in front of the bodice;--but to accept the fact as an explanation of this passage, is to cast the passage away. Hamlet _addresses_ his letter, not to Ophelia's pocket, but to Ophelia herself, at her house--that is, in the palace of her bosom, excellent in whiteness. In like manner, signing himself, he makes mention of his body as a machine of which he has the use for a time. So earnest is Hamlet that when he makes love, he is the more a philosopher. But he is more than a philosopher: he is a man of the Universe, not a man of this world only. We must not allow the fashion of the time in which the play was written, to cause doubt as to the genuine heartiness of Hamlet's love-making.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q._ Doubt that in earth is fire, Doubt that the starres doe moue, Doubt trueth to be a liar, But doe not doubt I loue.] [Page 82] When I had seene this hot loue on the wing, As I perceiued it, I must tell you that Before my Daughter told me, what might you Or my deere Maiestie your Queene heere, think, If I had playd the Deske or Table-booke,[1] Or giuen my heart a winking, mute and dumbe, [Sidenote: working] Or look'd vpon this Loue, with idle sight,[2] What might you thinke? No, I went round to worke, And (my yong Mistris) thus I did bespeake[3] Lord _Hamlet_ is a Prince out of thy Starre,[4] This must not be:[5] and then, I Precepts gaue her, [Sidenote: I prescripts] That she should locke her selfe from his Resort, [Sidenote: from her] [Sidenote: 42[6], 43, 70] Admit no Messengers, receiue no Tokens: Which done, she tooke the Fruites of my Aduice,[7] And he repulsed. A short Tale to make, [Sidenote: repell'd, a] Fell into a Sadnesse, then into a Fast,[8] Thence to a Watch, thence into a Weaknesse, [Sidenote: to a wath,] Thence to a Lightnesse, and by this declension [Sidenote: to lightnes] Into the Madnesse whereon now he raues, [Sidenote: wherein] And all we waile for.[9] [Sidenote: mourne for] _King_. Do you thinke 'tis this?[10] [Sidenote: thinke this?] _Qu_. It may be very likely. [Sidenote: like] _Pol_. Hath there bene such a time, I'de fain know that, [Sidenote: I would] That I haue possitiuely said, 'tis so, When it prou'd otherwise? _King_. Not that I know. _Pol_. Take this from this[11]; if this be otherwise, If Circumstances leade me, I will finde Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeede Within the Center. _King_. How may we try it further? [Footnote 1: --behaved like a piece of furniture.] [Footnote 2: The love of talk makes a man use many idle words, foolish expressions, and useless repetitions.] [Footnote 3: Notwithstanding the parenthesis, I take 'Mistris' to be the objective to 'bespeake'--that is, _address_.] [Footnote 4: _Star_, mark of sort or quality; brand (45). The _1st Q_. goes on-- An'd one that is vnequall for your loue: But it may mean, as suggested by my _Reader_, 'outside thy destiny,'--as ruled by the star of nativity--and I think it does.] [Footnote 5: Here is a change from the impression conveyed in the first act: he attributes his interference to his care for what befitted royalty; whereas, talking to Ophelia (40, 72), he attributes it entirely to his care for her;--so partly in the speech correspondent to the present in _1st Q_.:-- Now since which time, seeing his loue thus cross'd, Which I tooke to be idle, and but sport, He straitway grew into a melancholy,] [Footnote 6: See also passage in note from _1st Q_.] [Footnote 7: She obeyed him. The 'fruits' of his advice were her conformed actions.] [Footnote 8: When the appetite goes, and the sleep follows, doubtless the man is on the steep slope of madness. But as to Hamlet, and how matters were with him, what Polonius says is worth nothing.] [Footnote 9: '_wherein_ now he raves, and _wherefor_ all we wail.'] [Footnote 10: _To the queen_.] [Footnote 11: head from shoulders.] [Page 84] _Pol_. You know sometimes He walkes foure houres together, heere[1] In the Lobby. _Qu_. So he ha's indeed. [Sidenote: he dooes indeede] [Sidenote: 118] _Pol_. At such a time Ile loose my Daughter to him, Be you and I behinde an Arras then, Marke the encounter: If he loue her not, And be not from his reason falne thereon; Let me be no Assistant for a State, And keepe a Farme and Carters. [Sidenote: But keepe] _King_. We will try it. _Enter Hamlet reading on a Booke._[2] _Qu_. But looke where sadly the poore wretch Comes reading.[3] _Pol_. Away I do beseech you, both away, He boord[4] him presently. _Exit King & Queen_[5] Oh giue me leaue.[6] How does my good Lord _Hamlet_? _Ham_. Well, God-a-mercy. _Pol_. Do you know me, my Lord? [Sidenote: 180] _Ham_. Excellent, excellent well: y'are a Fish-monger.[7] [Sidenote: Excellent well, you are] _Pol_. Not I my Lord. _Ham_. Then I would you were so honest a man. _Pol_. Honest, my Lord? _Ham_. I sir, to be honest as this world goes, is to bee one man pick'd out of two thousand. [Sidenote: tenne thousand[8]] _Pol_. That's very true, my Lord. _Ham_.[9] For if the Sun breed Magots in a dead dogge, being a good kissing Carrion--[10] [Sidenote: carrion. Have] Haue you a daughter?[11] _Pol_. I haue my Lord. [Footnote 1: _1st Q_. The Princes walke is here in the galery, There let _Ofelia_, walke vntill hee comes: Your selfe and I will stand close in the study,] [Footnote 2: _Not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 3: _1st Q_.-- _King_. See where hee comes poring vppon a booke.] [Footnote 4: The same as accost, both meaning originally _go to the side of_.] [Footnote 5: _A line back in the Quarto_.] [Footnote 6: 'Please you to go away.' 89, 203. Here should come the preceding stage-direction.] [Footnote 7: Now first the Play shows us Hamlet in his affected madness. He has a great dislike to the selfish, time-serving courtier, who, like his mother, has forsaken the memory of his father--and a great distrust of him as well. The two men are moral antipodes. Each is given to moralizing--but compare their reflections: those of Polonius reveal a lover of himself, those of Hamlet a lover of his kind; Polonius is interested in success; Hamlet in humanity.] [Footnote 8: So also in _1st Q_.] [Footnote 9: --reading, or pretending to read, the words from the book he carries.] [Footnote 10: When the passion for emendation takes possession of a man, his opportunities are endless--so many seeming emendations offer themselves which are in themselves not bad, letters and words affording as much play as the keys of a piano. 'Being a god kissing carrion,' is in itself good enough; but Shakspere meant what stands in both Quarto and Folio: _the dead dog being a carrion good at kissing_. The arbitrary changes of the editors are amazing.] [Footnote 11: He cannot help his mind constantly turning upon women; and if his thoughts of them are often cruelly false, it is not Hamlet but his mother who is to blame: her conduct has hurled him from the peak of optimism into the bottomless pool of pessimistic doubt, above the foul waters of which he keeps struggling to lift his head.] [Page 86] _Ham_. Let her not walke i'th'Sunne: Conception[1] is a blessing, but not as your daughter may [Sidenote: but as your] conceiue. Friend looke too't. [Sidenote: 100] _Pol_.[2] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said [Sidenote: a sayd I] I was a Fishmonger: he is farre gone, farre gone: [Sidenote: Fishmonger, a is farre gone, and truly] and truly in my youth, I suffred much extreamity and truly for loue: very neere this. Ile speake to him againe. What do you read my Lord? _Ham_. Words, words, words. _Pol_. What is the matter, my Lord? _Ham_. Betweene who?[3] _Pol_. I meane the matter you meane, my [Sidenote: matter that you reade my] Lord. _Ham_. Slanders Sir: for the Satyricall slaue [Sidenote: satericall rogue sayes] saies here, that old men haue gray Beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thicke Amber, or Plum-Tree Gumme: and that they haue [Sidenote: Amber, and] a plentifull locke of Wit, together with weake [Sidenote: lacke | with most weake] Hammes. All which Sir, though I most powerfully, and potently beleeue; yet I holde it not Honestie[4] to haue it thus set downe: For you [Sidenote: for your selfe sir shall grow old as I am:] your selfe Sir, should be old as I am, if like a Crab you could go backward. _Pol_.[5] Though this be madnesse, Yet there is Method in't: will you walke Out of the ayre[6] my Lord? _Ham_. Into my Graue? _Pol_. Indeed that is out o'th'Ayre: [Sidenote: that's out of the ayre;] How pregnant (sometimes) his Replies are? A happinesse, That often Madnesse hits on, Which Reason and Sanitie could not [Sidenote: sanctity] So prosperously be deliuer'd of. [Footnote 1: One of the meanings of the word, and more in use then than now, is _understanding_.] [Footnote 2: (_aside_).] [Footnote 3: --pretending to take him to mean by _matter_, the _point of quarrel_.] [Footnote 4: Propriety.] [Footnote 5: (_aside_).] [Footnote 6: the draught.] [Page 88] [A] I will leaue him, And sodainely contriue the meanes of meeting Betweene him,[1] and my daughter. My Honourable Lord, I will most humbly Take my leaue of you. _Ham_. You cannot Sir take from[2] me any thing, that I will more willingly part withall, except my [Sidenote: will not more | my life, except my] life, my life.[3] [Sidenote: _Enter Guyldersterne, and Rosencrans_.] _Polon_. Fare you well my Lord. _Ham_. These tedious old fooles. _Polon_. You goe to seeke my Lord _Hamlet_; [Sidenote: the Lord] there hee is. _Enter Rosincran and Guildensterne_.[4] _Rosin_. God saue you Sir. _Guild_. Mine honour'd Lord? _Rosin_. My most deare Lord? _Ham_. My excellent good friends? How do'st [Sidenote: My extent good] thou _Guildensterne_? Oh, _Rosincrane_; good Lads: [Sidenote: A Rosencraus] How doe ye both? [Sidenote: you] _Rosin_. As the indifferent Children of the earth. _Guild_. Happy, in that we are not ouer-happy: [Sidenote: euer happy on] on Fortunes Cap, we are not the very Button. [Sidenote: Fortunes lap,] _Ham_. Nor the Soales of her Shoo? _Rosin_. Neither my Lord. _Ham_. Then you liue about her waste, or in the middle of her fauour? [Sidenote: fauors.] _Guil_. Faith, her priuates, we. _Ham_. In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, most true: she is a Strumpet.[5] What's the newes? [Sidenote: What newes?] _Rosin_. None my Lord; but that the World's [Sidenote: but the] growne honest. _Ham_. Then is Doomesday neere: But your [Footnote A: _In the Quarto, the speech ends thus_:--I will leaue him and my daughter.[6] My Lord, I will take my leaue of you.] [Footnote 1: From 'And sodainely' _to_ 'betweene him,' _not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 2: It is well here to recall the modes of the word _leave_: '_Give me leave_,' Polonius says with proper politeness to the king and queen when he wants _them_ to go--that is, 'Grant me your _departure_'; but he would, going himself, _take_ his leave, his departure, _of_ or _from_ them--by their permission to go. Hamlet means, 'You cannot take from me anything I will more willingly part with than your leave, or, my permission to you to go.' 85, 203. See the play on the two meanings of the word in _Twelfth Night_, act ii. sc. 4: _Duke_. Give me now leave to leave thee; though I suspect it ought to be-- _Duke_. Give me now leave. _Clown_. To leave thee!--Now, the melancholy &c.] [Footnote 3: It is a relief to him to speak the truth under the cloak of madness--ravingly. He has no one to whom to open his heart: what lies there he feels too terrible for even the eye of Horatio. He has not apparently told him as yet more than the tale of his father's murder.] [Footnote 4: _Above, in Quarto_.] [Footnote 5: In this and all like utterances of Hamlet, we see what worm it is that lies gnawing at his heart.] [Footnote 6: This is a slip in the _Quarto_--rectified in the _Folio_: his daughter was not present.] [Page 90] newes is not true.[1] [2] Let me question more in particular: what haue you my good friends, deserued at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to Prison hither? _Guil_. Prison, my Lord? _Ham_. Denmark's a Prison. _Rosin_. Then is the World one. _Ham_. A goodly one, in which there are many Confines, Wards, and Dungeons; _Denmarke_ being one o'th'worst. _Rosin_. We thinke not so my Lord. _Ham_. Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so[3]: to me it is a prison. _Rosin_. Why then your Ambition makes it one: 'tis too narrow for your minde.[4] _Ham_. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count my selfe a King of infinite space; were it not that I haue bad dreames. _Guil_. Which dreames indeed are Ambition: for the very substance[5] of the Ambitious, is meerely the shadow of a Dreame. _Ham_. A dreame it selfe is but a shadow. _Rosin_. Truely, and I hold Ambition of so ayry and light a quality, that it is but a shadowes shadow. _Ham_. Then are our Beggers bodies; and our Monarchs and out-stretcht Heroes the Beggers Shadowes: shall wee to th'Court: for, by my fey[6] I cannot reason?[7] _Both_. Wee'l wait vpon you. _Ham_. No such matter.[8] I will not sort you with the rest of my seruants: for to speake to you like an honest man: I am most dreadfully attended;[9] but in the beaten way of friendship,[10] [Sidenote: But in] What make you at _Elsonower_? [Footnote 1: 'it is not true that the world is grown honest': he doubts themselves. His eye is sharper because his heart is sorer since he left Wittenberg. He proceeds to examine them.] [Footnote 2: This passage, beginning with 'Let me question,' and ending with 'dreadfully attended,' is not in the _Quarto_. Who inserted in the Folio this and other passages? Was it or was it not Shakspere? Beyond a doubt they are Shakspere's all. Then who omitted those omitted? Was Shakspere incapable of refusing any of his own work? Or would these editors, who profess to have all opportunity, and who, belonging to the theatre, must have had the best of opportunities, have desired or dared to omit what far more painstaking editors have since presumed, though out of reverence, to restore?] [Footnote 3: 'but it is thinking that makes it so:'] [Footnote 4: --feeling after the cause of Hamlet's strangeness, and following the readiest suggestion, that of chagrin at missing the succession.] [Footnote 5: objects and aims.] [Footnote 6: _foi_.] [Footnote 7: Does he choose beggars as the representatives of substance because they lack ambition--that being shadow? Or does he take them as the shadows of humanity, that, following Rosincrance, he may get their shadows, the shadows therefore of shadows, to parallel _monarchs_ and _heroes_? But he is not satisfied with his own analogue--therefore will to the court, where good logic is not wanted--where indeed he knows a hellish lack of reason.] [Footnote 8: 'On no account.'] [Footnote 9: 'I have very bad servants.' Perhaps he judges his servants spies upon him. Or might he mean that he was _haunted with bad thoughts_? Or again, is it a stroke of his pretence of madness--suggesting imaginary followers?] [Footnote: 10: 'to speak plainly, as old friends.'] [Page 92] _Rosin_. To visit you my Lord, no other occasion. _Ham_. Begger that I am, I am euen poore in [Sidenote: am ever poore] thankes; but I thanke you: and sure deare friends my thanks are too deare a halfepeny[1]; were you [Sidenote: 72] not sent for? Is it your owne inclining? Is it a free visitation?[2] Come, deale iustly with me: come, come; nay speake. [Sidenote: come, come,] _Guil_. What should we say my Lord?[3] _Ham_. Why any thing. But to the purpose; [Sidenote: Any thing but to'th purpose:] you were sent for; and there is a kinde confession [Sidenote: kind of confession] in your lookes; which your modesties haue not craft enough to color, I know the good King and [Sidenote: 72] Queene haue sent for you. _Rosin_. To what end my Lord? _Ham_. That you must teach me: but let mee coniure[4] you by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth,[5] by the Obligation of our euer-preserued loue, and by what more deare, a better proposer could charge you withall; [Sidenote: can] be euen and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no. _Rosin_. What say you?[6] _Ham_. Nay then I haue an eye of you[7]: if you loue me hold not off.[8] [Sidenote: 72] _Guil_. My Lord, we were sent for. _Ham_. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation preuent your discouery of your secricie to [Sidenote: discovery, and your secrecie to the King and Queene moult no feather,[10]] the King and Queene[9] moult no feather, I haue [Sidenote: 116] of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custome of exercise; and indeed, [Sidenote: exercises;] it goes so heauenly with my disposition; that this [Sidenote: heauily] goodly frame the Earth, seemes to me a sterrill Promontory; this most excellent Canopy the Ayre, look you, this braue ore-hanging, this Maiesticall [Sidenote: orehanging firmament,] Roofe, fretted with golden fire: why, it appeares no [Sidenote: appeareth] [Footnote 1: --because they were by no means hearty thanks.] [Footnote 2: He wants to know whether they are in his uncle's employment and favour; whether they pay court to himself for his uncle's ends.] [Footnote 3: He has no answer ready.] [Footnote 4: He will not cast them from him without trying a direct appeal to their old friendship for plain dealing. This must be remembered in relation to his treatment of them afterwards. He affords them every chance of acting truly--conjuring them to honesty--giving them a push towards repentance.] [Footnote 5: Either, 'the harmony of our young days,' or, 'the sympathies of our present youth.'] [Footnote 6: --_to Guildenstern_.] [Footnote 7: (_aside_) 'I will keep an eye upon you;'.] [Footnote 8: 'do not hold back.'] [Footnote 9: The _Quarto_ seems here to have the right reading.] [Footnote 10: 'your promise of secrecy remain intact;'.] [Page 94] other thing to mee, then a foule and pestilent congregation [Sidenote: nothing to me but a] of vapours. What a piece of worke is [Sidenote: what peece] a man! how Noble in Reason? how infinite in faculty? in forme and mouing how expresse and [Sidenote: faculties,] admirable? in Action, how like an Angel? in apprehension, how like a God? the beauty of the world, the Parragon of Animals; and yet to me, what is this Quintessence of Dust? Man delights not me;[1] no, nor Woman neither; though by your [Sidenote: not me, nor women] smiling you seeme to say so.[2] _Rosin._ My Lord, there was no such stuffe in my thoughts. _Ham._ Why did you laugh, when I said, Man [Sidenote: yee laugh then, when] delights not me? _Rosin._ To thinke, my Lord, if you delight not in Man, what Lenton entertainment the Players shall receiue from you:[3] wee coated them[4] on the way, and hither are they comming to offer you Seruice. _Ham._[5] He that playes the King shall be welcome; his Maiesty shall haue Tribute of mee: [Sidenote: on me,] the aduenturous Knight shal vse his Foyle and Target: the Louer shall not sigh _gratis_, the humorous man[6] shall end his part in peace: [7] the Clowne shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled a'th' sere:[8] and the Lady shall say her minde freely; or the blanke Verse shall halt for't[9]: [Sidenote: black verse] what Players are they? _Rosin._ Euen those you Were wont to take [Sidenote: take such delight] delight in the Tragedians of the City. _Ham._ How chances it they trauaile? their residence both in reputation and profit was better both wayes. _Rosin._ I thinke their Inhibition comes by the meanes of the late Innouation?[10] [Footnote 1: A genuine description, so far as it goes, of the state of Hamlet's mind. But he does not reveal the operating cause--his loss of faith in women, which has taken the whole poetic element out of heaven, earth, and humanity: he would have his uncle's spies attribute his condition to mere melancholy.] [Footnote 2: --said angrily, I think.] [Footnote 3: --a ready-witted subterfuge.] [Footnote 4: came alongside of them; got up with them; apparently rather from Fr. _côté_ than _coter_; like _accost_. Compare 71. But I suspect it only means _noted_, _observed_, and is from _coter_.] [Footnote 5: --_with humorous imitation, perhaps, of each of the characters_.] [Footnote 6: --the man with a whim.] [Footnote 7: This part of the speech--from [7] to [8], is not in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 8: Halliwell gives a quotation in which the touch-hole of a pistol is called the _sere_: the _sere_, then, of the lungs would mean the opening of the lungs--the part with which we laugh: those 'whose lungs are tickled a' th' sere,' are such as are ready to laugh on the least provocation: _tickled_--_irritable, ticklish_--ready to laugh, as another might be to cough. 'Tickled o' the sere' was a common phrase, signifying, thus, _propense_. _1st Q._ The clowne shall make them laugh That are tickled in the lungs,] [Footnote 9: Does this refer to the pause that expresses the unutterable? or to the ruin of the measure of the verse by an incompetent heroine?] [Footnote 10: Does this mean, 'I think their prohibition comes through the late innovation,'--of the children's acting; or, 'I think they are prevented from staying at home by the late new measures,'--such, namely, as came of the puritan opposition to stage-plays? This had grown so strong, that, in 1600, the Privy Council issued an order restricting the number of theatres in London to two: by such an _innovation_ a number of players might well be driven to the country.] [Page 96] _Ham_. Doe they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the City? Are they so follow'd? _Rosin_. No indeed, they are not. [Sidenote: are they not.] [1]_Ham_. How comes it? doe they grow rusty? _Rosin_. Nay, their indeauour keepes in the wonted pace; But there is Sir an ayrie of Children,[2] little Yases,[3] that crye out[4] on the top of question;[5] and are most tyrannically clap't for't: these are now the fashion, and so be-ratled the common Stages[6] (so they call them) that many wearing Rapiers,[7] are affraide of Goose-quils, and dare scarse come thither.[8] _Ham_. What are they Children? Who maintains 'em? How are they escoted?[9] Will they pursue the Quality[10] no longer then they can sing?[11] Will they not say afterwards if they should grow themselues to common Players (as it is like most[12] if their meanes are no better) their Writers[13] do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their owne Succession.[14] _Rosin_. Faith there ha's bene much to do on both sides: and the Nation holds it no sinne, to tarre them[15] to Controuersie. There was for a while, no mony bid for argument, vnlesse the Poet and the Player went to Cuffes in the Question.[16] _Ham_. Is't possible? _Guild_. Oh there ha's beene much throwing about of Braines. _Ham_. Do the Boyes carry it away?[17] _Rosin_. I that they do my Lord, _Hercules_ and his load too.[18] _Ham_. It is not strange: for mine Vnckle is [Sidenote: not very strange, | my] King of Denmarke, and those that would make mowes at him while my Father liued; giue twenty, [Sidenote: make mouths] [Footnote 1: The whole of the following passage, beginning with 'How comes it,' and ending with 'Hercules and his load too,' belongs to the _Folio_ alone--is not in the _Quarto_. In the _1st Quarto_ we find the germ of the passage--unrepresented in the _2nd_, developed in the _Folio_. _Ham_. Players, what Players be they? _Ross_. My Lord, the Tragedians of the Citty, Those that you tooke delight to see so often. _Ham_. How comes it that they trauell? Do they grow restie? _Gil_. No my Lord, their reputation holds as it was wont. _Ham_. How then? _Gil_. Yfaith my Lord, noueltie carries it away, For the principall publike audience that Came to them, are turned to priuate playes,[19] And to the humour[20] of children. _Ham_. I doe not greatly wonder of it, For those that would make mops and moes At my vncle, when my father liued, &c.] [Footnote 2: _a nest of children_. The acting of the children of two or three of the chief choirs had become the rage.] [Footnote 3: _Eyases_--unfledged hawks.] [Footnote 4: Children _cry out_ rather than _speak_ on the stage.] [Footnote 5: 'cry out beyond dispute'--_unquestionably_; 'cry out and no mistake.' 'He does not top his part.' _The Rehearsal_, iii. 1.--'_He is not up to it_.' But perhaps here is intended _above reason_: 'they cry out excessively, excruciatingly.' 103. This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,--_A Lover's Complaint_.] [Footnote 6: I presume it should be the present tense, _beratle_--except the _are_ of the preceding member be understood: 'and so beratled _are_ the common stages.' If the _present_, then the children 'so abuse the grown players,'--in the pieces they acted, particularly in the new _arguments_, written for them--whence the reference to _goose-quills_.] [Footnote 7: --of the play-going public.] [Footnote 8: --for dread of sharing in the ridicule.] [Footnote 9: _paid_--from the French _escot_, a shot or reckoning: _Dr. Johnson_.] [Footnote 10: --the quality of players; the profession of the stage.] [Footnote 11: 'Will they cease playing when their voices change?'] [Footnote 12: Either _will_ should follow here, or _like_ and _most_ must change places.] [Footnote 13: 'those that write for them'.] [Footnote 14: --what they had had to come to themselves.] [Footnote 15: 'to incite the children and the grown players to controversy': _to tarre them on like dogs_: see _King John_, iv. 1.] [Footnote 16: 'No stage-manager would buy a new argument, or prologue, to a play, unless the dramatist and one of the actors were therein represented as falling out on the question of the relative claims of the children and adult actors.'] [Footnote 17: 'Have the boys the best of it?'] [Footnote 18: 'That they have, out and away.' Steevens suggests that allusion is here made to the sign of the Globe Theatre--Hercules bearing the world for Atlas.] [Footnote 19: amateur-plays.] [Footnote 20: whimsical fashion.] [Page 98] forty, an hundred Ducates a peece, for his picture[1] [Sidenote: fortie, fifty, a hundred] in Little.[2] There is something in this more then [Sidenote: little, s'bloud there is] Naturall, if Philosophic could finde it out. _Flourish for tke Players_.[3] [Sidenote: _A Florish_.] _Guil_. There are the Players. _Ham_. Gentlemen, you are welcom to _Elsonower_: your hands, come: The appurtenance of [Sidenote: come then, th'] Welcome, is Fashion and Ceremony. Let me [Sidenote: 260] comply with you in the Garbe,[4] lest my extent[5] to [Sidenote: in this garb: let me extent] the Players (which I tell you must shew fairely outward) should more appeare like entertainment[6] [Sidenote: outwards,] then yours.[7] You are welcome: but my Vnckle Father, and Aunt Mother are deceiu'd. _Guil_. In what my deere Lord? _Ham_. I am but mad North, North-West: when the Winde is Southerly, I know a Hawke from a Handsaw.[8] _Enter Polonius_. _Pol_. Well[9] be with you Gentlemen. _Ham_. Hearke you _Guildensterne_, and you too: at each eare a hearer: that great Baby you see there, is not yet out of his swathing clouts. [Sidenote: swadling clouts.] _Rosin_. Happily he's the second time come to [Sidenote: he is] them: for they say, an old man is twice a childe. _Ham_. I will Prophesie. Hee comes to tell me of the Players. Mark it, you say right Sir: for a [Sidenote: sir, a Monday] Monday morning 'twas so indeed.[10] [Sidenote: t'was then indeede.] _Pol_. My Lord, I haue Newes to tell you. _Ham_. My Lord, I haue Newes to tell you. When _Rossius_ an Actor in Rome----[11] [Sidenote: _Rossius_ was an] _Pol_. The Actors are come hither my Lord. _Ham_. Buzze, buzze.[12] _Pol_. Vpon mine Honor.[13] [Sidenote: my] _Ham_. Then can each Actor on his Asse---- [Sidenote: came each] [Footnote 1: If there be any logical link here, except that, after the instance adduced, no change in social fashion--nothing at all indeed, is to be wondered at, I fail to see it. Perhaps the speech is intended to belong to the simulation. The last sentence of it appears meant to convey the impression that he suspects nothing--is only bewildered by the course of things.] [Footnote 2: his miniature.] [Footnote 3: --to indicate their approach.] [Footnote 4: _com'ply_--accent on first syllable--'pass compliments with you' (260)--_in the garb_, either 'in appearance,' or 'in the fashion of the hour.'] [Footnote 5: 'the amount of courteous reception I extend'--'my advances to the players.'] [Footnote 6: reception, welcome.] [Footnote 7: He seems to desire that they shall no more be on the footing of fellow-students, and thus to rid himself of the old relation. Perhaps he hints that they are players too. From any further show of friendliness he takes refuge in convention--and professed convention--supplying a reason in order to escape a dangerous interpretation of his sudden formality--'lest you should suppose me more cordial to the players than to you.' The speech is full of inwoven irony, doubtful, and refusing to be ravelled out. With what merely half-shown, yet scathing satire it should be spoken and accompanied!] [Footnote 8: A proverb of the time comically corrupted--_handsaw for hernshaw_--a heron, the quarry of the hawk. He denies his madness as madmen do--and in terms themselves not unbefitting madness--so making it seem the more genuine. Yet every now and then, urged by the commotion of his being, he treads perilously on the border of self-betrayal.] [Footnote 9: used as a noun.] [Footnote 10: _Point thus_: 'Mark it.--You say right, sir; &c.' He takes up a speech that means nothing, and might mean anything, to turn aside the suspicion their whispering might suggest to Polonius that they had been talking about him--so better to lay his trap for him.] [Footnote 11: He mentions the _actor_ to lead Polonius so that his prophecy of him shall come true.] [Footnote 12: An interjection of mockery: he had made a fool of him.] [Footnote 13: Polonius thinks he is refusing to believe him.] [Page 100] _Polon_. The best Actors in the world, either for Tragedie, Comedie, Historic, Pastorall: Pastoricall- Comicall-Historicall-Pastorall: [1] Tragicall-Historicall: Tragicall-Comicall--Historicall-Pastorall[1]: Scene indiuible,[2] or Poem vnlimited.[3] _Seneca_ cannot [Sidenote: scene indeuidible,[2]] be too heauy, nor _Plautus_ too light, for the law of Writ, and the Liberty. These are the onely men.[4] _Ham_. O _Iephta_ Iudge of Israel, what a Treasure had'st thou? _Pol_. What a Treasure had he, my Lord?[5] _Ham_. Why one faire Daughter, and no more,[6] The which he loued passing well.[6] [Sidenote: 86] _Pol_. Still on my Daughter. _Ham_. Am I not i'th'right old _Iephta_? _Polon_. If you call me _Iephta_ my Lord, I haue a daughter that I loue passing well. _Ham_. Nay that followes not.[7] _Polon_. What followes then, my Lord? _Ham_. Why, As by lot, God wot:[6] and then you know, It came to passe, as most like it was:[6] The first rowe of the _Pons[8] Chanson_ will shew you more, [Sidenote: pious chanson] For looke where my Abridgements[9] come. [Sidenote: abridgment[9] comes] _Enter foure or fiue Players._ [Sidenote: _Enter the Players._] Y'are welcome Masters, welcome all. I am glad [Sidenote: You are] to see thee well: Welcome good Friends. O my [Sidenote: oh old friend, why thy face is valanct[10]] olde Friend? Thy face is valiant[10] since I saw thee last: Com'st thou to beard me in Denmarke? What, my yong Lady and Mistris?[11] Byrlady [Sidenote: by lady] your Ladiship is neerer Heauen then when I saw [Sidenote: nerer to] you last, by the altitude of a Choppine.[12] Pray God your voice like a peece of vncurrant Gold be not crack'd within the ring.[13] Masters, you are all welcome: wee'l e'ne to't like French Faulconers,[14] [Sidenote: like friendly Fankner] flie at any thing we see: wee'l haue a Speech [Footnote 1: From [1] to [1] is not in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 2: Does this phrase mean _all in one scene_?] [Footnote 3: A poem to be recited only--one not _limited_, or _divided_ into speeches.] [Footnote 4: _Point thus_: 'too light. For the law of Writ, and the Liberty, these are the onely men':--_either for written plays_, that is, _or for those in which the players extemporized their speeches_. _1st Q_. 'For the law hath writ those are the onely men.'] [Footnote 5: Polonius would lead him on to talk of his daughter.] [Footnote 6: These are lines of the first stanza of an old ballad still in existence. Does Hamlet suggest that as Jephthah so Polonius had sacrificed his daughter? Or is he only desirous of making him talk about her?] [Footnote 7: 'That is not as the ballad goes.'] [Footnote 8: That this is a corruption of the _pious_ in the _Quarto_, is made clearer from the _1st Quarto_: 'the first verse of the godly Ballet wil tel you all.'] [Footnote 9: _abridgment_--that which _abridges_, or cuts short. His 'Abridgements' were the Players.] [Footnote 10: _1st Q_. 'Vallanced'--_with a beard_, that is. Both readings may be correct.] [Footnote 11: A boy of course: no women had yet appeared on the stage.] [Footnote 12: A Venetian boot, stilted, sometimes very high.] [Footnote 13: --because then it would be unfit for a woman-part. A piece of gold so worn that it had a crack reaching within the inner circle was no longer current. _1st Q_. 'in the ring:'--was a pun intended?] [Footnote 14: --like French sportsmen of the present day too.] [Page 102] straight. Come giue vs a tast of your quality: come, a passionate speech. _1. Play._ What speech, my Lord? [Sidenote: my good Lord?] _Ham._ I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was neuer Acted: or if it was, not aboue once, for the Play I remember pleas'd not the Million, 'twas _Cauiarie_ to the Generall[1]: but it was (as I receiu'd it, and others, whose iudgement in such matters, cried in the top of mine)[2] an excellent Play; well digested in the Scoenes, set downe with as much modestie, as cunning.[3] I remember one said there was no Sallets[4] in the lines, to make the [Sidenote: were] matter sauoury; nor no matter in the phrase,[5] that might indite the Author of affectation, but cal'd it [Sidenote: affection,] an honest method[A]. One cheefe Speech in it, I [Sidenote: one speech in't I] cheefely lou'd, 'twas _�neas_ Tale to _Dido_, and [Sidenote: _Aeneas_ talke to] thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of [Sidenote: when] _Priams_[6] slaughter. If it liue in your memory, begin at this Line, let me see, let me see: The rugged _Pyrrhus_ like th'_Hyrcanian_ Beast.[7] It is [Sidenote: tis not] not so: it begins[8] with _Pyrrhus_.[9] [10] The rugged _Pyrrhus_, he whose Sable Armes[11] Blacke as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the Ominous[12] Horse, Hath now this dread and blacke Complexion smear'd With Heraldry more dismall: Head to foote Now is he to take Geulles,[13] horridly Trick'd [Sidenote: is he totall Gules [18]] With blood of Fathers, Mothers, Daughters, Sonnes, [14] Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous, and damned light [Sidenote: and a damned] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:_-- as wholesome as sweete, and by very much, more handsome then fine:] [Footnote 1: The salted roe of the sturgeon is a delicacy disliked by most people.] [Footnote 2: 'were superior to mine.' The _1st Quarto_ has, 'Cried in the toppe of their iudgements, an excellent play,'--that is, _pronounced it, to the best of their judgments, an excellent play_. Note the difference between 'the top of _my_ judgment', and 'the top of _their_ judgments'. 97.] [Footnote 3: skill.] [Footnote 4: coarse jests. 25, 67.] [Footnote 5: _style_.] [Footnote 6: _1st Q_. 'Princes slaughter.'] [Footnote 7: _1st Q_. 'th'arganian beast:' 'the Hyrcan tiger,' Macbeth, iii. 4.] [Footnote 8: 'it _begins_': emphasis on begins.] [Footnote 9: A pause; then having recollected, he starts afresh.] [Footnote 10: These passages are Shakspere's own, not quotations: the Quartos differ. But when he wrote them he had in his mind a phantom of Marlowe's _Dido, Queen of Carthage_. I find Steevens has made a similar conjecture, and quotes from Marlowe two of the passages I had marked as being like passages here.] [Footnote 11: The poetry is admirable in its kind--intentionally _charged_, to raise it to the second stage-level, above the blank verse, that is, of the drama in which it is set, as that blank verse is raised above the ordinary level of speech. 143. The correspondent passage in _1st Q_. runs nearly parallel for a few lines.] [Footnote 12:--like _portentous_.] [Footnote 13: 'all red', _1st Q_. 'totall guise.'] [Footnote 14: Here the _1st Quarto_ has:-- Back't and imparched in calagulate gore, Rifted in earth and fire, olde grandsire _Pryam_ seekes: So goe on.] [Page 104] To their vilde Murthers, roasted in wrath and fire, [Sidenote: their Lords murther,] And thus o're-sized with coagulate gore, With eyes like Carbuncles, the hellish _Pyrrhus_ Old Grandsire _Priam_ seekes.[1] [Sidenote: seekes; so proceede you.[2]] _Pol_. Fore God, my Lord, well spoken, with good accent, and good discretion.[3] _1. Player_. Anon he findes him, [Sidenote: _Play_] Striking too short at Greekes.[4] His anticke Sword, Rebellious to his Arme, lyes where it falles Repugnant to command[4]: vnequall match, [Sidenote: matcht,] _Pyrrhus_ at _Priam_ driues, in Rage strikes wide: But with the whiffe and winde of his fell Sword, Th'vnnerued Father fals.[5] Then senselesse Illium,[6] Seeming to feele his blow, with flaming top [Sidenote: seele[7] this blowe,] Stoopes to his Bace, and with a hideous crash Takes Prisoner _Pyrrhus_ eare. For loe, his Sword Which was declining on the Milkie head Of Reuerend _Priam_, seem'd i'th'Ayre to sticke: So as a painted Tyrant _Pyrrhus_ stood,[8] [Sidenote: stood Like] And like a Newtrall to his will and matter,[9] did nothing.[10] [11] But as we often see against some storme, A silence in the Heauens, the Racke stand still, The bold windes speechlesse, and the Orbe below As hush as death: Anon the dreadfull Thunder [Sidenote: 110] Doth rend the Region.[11] So after _Pyrrhus_ pause, Arowsed Vengeance sets him new a-worke, And neuer did the Cyclops hammers fall On Mars his Armours, forg'd for proofe Eterne, [Sidenote: _Marses_ Armor] With lesse remorse then _Pyrrhus_ bleeding sword Now falles on _Priam_. [12] Out, out, thou Strumpet-Fortune, all you Gods, In generall Synod take away her power: Breake all the Spokes and Fallies from her wheele, [Sidenote: follies] [Footnote 1: This, though horrid enough, is in degree below the description in _Dido_.] [Footnote 2: He is directing the player to take up the speech there where he leaves it. See last quotation from _1st Q_.] [Footnote 3: _judgment_.] [Footnote 4: --with an old man's under-reaching blows--till his arm is so jarred by a missed blow, that he cannot raise his sword again.] [Footnote 5: Whereat he lifted up his bedrid limbs, And would have grappled with Achilles' son, * * * * * Which he, disdaining, whisk'd his sword about, And with the wound[13] thereof the king fell down. Marlowe's _Dido, Queen of Carthage_.] [Footnote 6: The _Quarto_ has omitted '_Then senselesse Illium_,' or something else.] [Footnote 7: Printed with the long f[symbol for archaic long s].] [Footnote 8: --motionless as a tyrant in a picture.] [Footnote 9: 'standing between his will and its object as if he had no relation to either.'] [Footnote 10: And then in triumph ran into the streets, Through which he could not pass for slaughtered men; So, leaning on his sword, he stood stone still, Viewing the fire wherewith rich Ilion burnt. Marlowe's _Dido, Queen of Carthage_.] [Footnote 11: Who does not feel this passage, down to 'Region,' thoroughly Shaksperean!] [Footnote 12: Is not the rest of this speech very plainly Shakspere's?] [Footnote 13: _wind_, I think it should be.] [Page 106] And boule the round Naue downe the hill of Heauen, As low as to the Fiends. _Pol_. This is too long. _Ham_. It shall to'th Barbars, with your beard. [Sidenote: to the] Prythee say on: He's for a Iigge, or a tale of Baudry, or hee sleepes. Say on; come to _Hecuba_. _1. Play_. But who, O who, had seen the inobled[1] Queen. [Sidenote: But who, a woe, had | mobled[1]] _Ham_. The inobled[1] Queene? [Sidenote: mobled] _Pol_. That's good: Inobled[1] Queene is good.[2] _1. Play_. Run bare-foot vp and downe, Threatning the flame [Sidenote: flames] With Bisson Rheume:[3] A clout about that head, [Sidenote: clout vppon] Where late the Diadem stood, and for a Robe About her lanke and all ore-teamed Loines,[4] A blanket in th'Alarum of feare caught vp. [Sidenote: the alarme] Who this had seene, with tongue in Venome steep'd, 'Gainst Fortunes State, would Treason haue pronounc'd?[5] But if the Gods themselues did see her then, When she saw _Pyrrhus_ make malicious sport In mincing with his Sword her Husbands limbes,[6] [Sidenote: husband] The instant Burst of Clamour that she made (Vnlesse things mortall moue them not at all) Would haue made milche[7] the Burning eyes of Heauen, And passion in the Gods.[8] _Pol_. Looke where[9] he ha's not turn'd his colour, and ha's teares in's eyes. Pray you no more. [Sidenote: prethee] _Ham_. 'Tis well, He haue thee speake out the rest, soone. Good my Lord, will you see the [Sidenote: rest of this] Players wel bestow'd. Do ye heare, let them be [Sidenote: you] well vs'd: for they are the Abstracts and breefe [Sidenote: abstract] Chronicles of the time. After your death, you [Footnote 1: '_mobled_'--also in _1st Q_.--may be the word: _muffled_ seems a corruption of it: compare _mob-cap_, and 'The moon does mobble up herself' --_Shirley_, quoted by _Farmer_; but I incline to '_inobled_,' thrice in the _Folio_--once with a capital: I take it to stand for _'ignobled,' degraded_.] [Footnote 2: 'Inobled Queene is good.' _Not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 3: --threatening to put the flames out with blind tears: '_bisen,' blind_--Ang. Sax.] [Footnote 4: --she had had so many children.] [Footnote 5: There should of course be no point of interrogation here.] [Footnote 6: This butcher, whilst his hands were yet held up, Treading upon his breast, struck off his hands. Marlowe's _Dido, Queen of Carthage_.] [Footnote 7: '_milche_'--capable of giving milk: here _capable of tears_, which the burning eyes of the gods were not before.] [Footnote 8: 'And would have made passion in the Gods.'] [Footnote 9: 'whether'.] [Page 108] were better haue a bad Epitaph, then their ill report while you liued.[1] [Sidenote: live] _Pol_. My Lord, I will vse them according to their desart. _Ham_. Gods bodykins man, better. Vse euerie [Sidenote: bodkin man, much better,] man after his desart, and who should scape whipping: [Sidenote: shall] vse them after your own Honor and Dignity. The lesse they deserue, the more merit is in your bountie. Take them in. _Pol_. Come sirs. _Exit Polon_.[2] _Ham_. Follow him Friends: wee'l heare a play to morrow.[3] Dost thou heare me old Friend, can you play the murther of _Gonzago_? _Play_. I my Lord. _Ham_. Wee'l ha't to morrow night. You could for a need[4] study[5] a speech of some dosen or sixteene [Sidenote: for neede | dosen lines, or] lines, which I would set downe, and insert in't? Could ye not?[6] [Sidenote: you] _Play_. I my Lord. _Ham_. Very well. Follow that Lord, and looke you mock him not.[7] My good Friends, Ile leaue you til night you are welcome to _Elsonower_? [Sidenote: _Exeuent Pol. and Players_.] _Rosin_. Good my Lord. _Exeunt_. _Manet Hamlet_.[8] _Ham_. I so, God buy'ye[9]: Now I am alone. [Sidenote: buy to you,[9]] Oh what a Rogue and Pesant slaue am I?[10] Is it not monstrous that this Player heere,[11] But in a Fixion, in a dreame of Passion, Could force his soule so to his whole conceit,[12] [Sidenote: his own conceit] That from her working, all his visage warm'd; [Sidenote: all the visage wand,] Teares in his eyes, distraction in's Aspect, [Sidenote: in his] A broken voyce, and his whole Function suiting [Sidenote: an his] With Formes, to his Conceit?[13] And all for nothing? [Footnote 1: Why do the editors choose the present tense of the _Quarto_? Hamlet does not mean, 'It is worse to have the ill report of the Players while you live, than a bad epitaph after your death.' The order of the sentence has provided against that meaning. What he means is, that their ill report in life will be more against your reputation after death than a bad epitaph.] [Footnote 2: _Not in Quarto_.] [Footnote 3: He detains their leader.] [Footnote 4: 'for a special reason'.] [Footnote 5: _Study_ is still the Player's word for _commit to memory_.] [Footnote 6: Note Hamlet's quick resolve, made clearer towards the end of the following soliloquy.] [Footnote 7: Polonius is waiting at the door: this is intended for his hearing.] [Footnote 8: _Not in Q_.] [Footnote 9: Note the varying forms of _God be with you_.] [Footnote 10: _1st Q_. Why what a dunghill idiote slaue am I? Why these Players here draw water from eyes: For Hecuba, why what is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?] [Footnote 11: Everything rings on the one hard, fixed idea that possesses him; but this one idea has many sides. Of late he has been thinking more upon the woman-side of it; but the Player with his speech has brought his father to his memory, and he feels he has been forgetting him: the rage of the actor recalls his own 'cue for passion.' Always more ready to blame than justify himself, he feels as if he ought to have done more, and so falls to abusing himself.] [Footnote 12: _imagination_.] [Footnote 13: 'his whole operative nature providing fit forms for the embodiment of his imagined idea'--of which forms he has already mentioned his _warmed visage_, his _tears_, his _distracted look_, his _broken voice_. In this passage we have the true idea of the operation of the genuine _acting faculty_. Actor as well as dramatist, the Poet gives us here his own notion of his second calling.] [Page 110] For _Hecuba_? What's _Hecuba_ to him, or he to _Hecuba_,[1] [Sidenote: or he to her,] That he should weepe for her? What would he doe, Had he the Motiue and the Cue[2] for passion [Sidenote: , and that for] That I haue? He would drowne the Stage with teares, And cleaue the generall eare with horrid speech: Make mad the guilty, and apale[3] the free,[4] Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, The very faculty of Eyes and Eares. Yet I, [Sidenote: faculties] A dull and muddy-metled[5] Rascall, peake Like Iohn a-dreames, vnpregnant of my cause,[6] And can say nothing: No, not for a King, Vpon whose property,[7] and most deere life, A damn'd defeate[8] was made. Am I a Coward?[9] Who calles me Villaine? breakes my pate a-crosse? Pluckes off my Beard, and blowes it in my face? Tweakes me by'th'Nose?[10] giues me the Lye i'th' Throate, [Sidenote: by the] As deepe as to the Lungs? Who does me this? Ha? Why I should take it: for it cannot be, [Sidenote: Hah, s'wounds I] But I am Pigeon-Liuer'd, and lacke Gall[11] To make Oppression bitter, or ere this, [Sidenote: 104] I should haue fatted all the Region Kites [Sidenote: should a fatted] With this Slaues Offall, bloudy: a Bawdy villaine, [Sidenote: bloody, baudy] Remorselesse,[12] Treacherous, Letcherous, kindles[13] villaine! Oh Vengeance![14] Who? What an Asse am I? I sure, this is most braue, [Sidenote: Why what an Asse am I, this] That I, the Sonne of the Deere murthered, [Sidenote: a deere] Prompted to my Reuenge by Heauen, and Hell, Must (like a Whore) vnpacke my heart with words, And fall a Cursing like a very Drab,[15] A Scullion? Fye vpon't: Foh. About my Braine.[16] [Sidenote: a stallyon, | braines; hum,] [Footnote 1: Here follows in 1st _Q_. What would he do and if he had my losse? His father murdred, and a Crowne bereft him, [Sidenote: 174] He would turne all his teares to droppes of blood, Amaze the standers by with his laments, &c. &c.] [Footnote 2: Speaking of the Player, he uses the player-word.] [Footnote 3: _make pale_--appal.] [Footnote 4: _the innocent_.] [Footnote 5: _Mettle_ is spirit--rather in the sense of _animal-spirit_: _mettlesome_--spirited, _as a horse_.] [Footnote 6: '_unpossessed by_ my cause'.] [Footnote 7: _personality, proper person_.] [Footnote 8: _undoing, destruction_--from French _défaire_.] [Footnote 9: In this mood he no more understands, and altogether doubts himself, as he has previously come to doubt the world.] [Footnote 10: _1st Q_. 'or twites my nose.'] [Footnote 11: It was supposed that pigeons had no gall--I presume from their livers not tasting bitter like those of perhaps most birds.] [Footnote 12: _pitiless_.] [Footnote 13: _unnatural_.] [Footnote 14: This line is not in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 15: Here in _Q._ the line runs on to include _Foh_. The next line ends with _heard_.] [Footnote 16: _Point thus_: 'About! my brain.' He apostrophizes his brain, telling it to set to work.] [Page 112] I haue heard, that guilty Creatures sitting at a Play, Haue by the very cunning of the Scoene,[1] Bene strooke so to the soule, that presently They haue proclaim'd their Malefactions. For Murther, though it haue no tongue, will speake With most myraculous Organ.[2] Ile haue these Players, Play something like the murder of my Father, Before mine Vnkle. Ile obserue his lookes, [Sidenote: 137] Ile tent him to the quicke: If he but blench[3] [Sidenote: if a doe blench] I know my course. The Spirit that I haue seene [Sidenote: 48] May[4] be the Diuell, and the Diuel hath power [Sidenote: May be a deale, and the deale] T'assume a pleasing shape, yea and perhaps Out of my Weaknesse, and my Melancholly,[5] As he is very potent with such Spirits,[6] [Sidenote: 46] Abuses me to damne me.[7] Ile haue grounds More Relatiue then this: The Play's the thing, Wherein Ile catch the Conscience of the King. _Exit._ * * * * * SUMMARY. The division between the second and third acts is by common consent placed here. The third act occupies the afternoon, evening, and night of the same day with the second. This soliloquy is Hamlet's first, and perhaps we may find it correct to say _only_ outbreak of self-accusation. He charges himself with lack of feeling, spirit, and courage, in that he has not yet taken vengeance on his uncle. But unless we are prepared to accept and justify to the full his own hardest words against himself, and grant him a muddy-mettled, pigeon-livered rascal, we must examine and understand him, so as to account for his conduct better than he could himself. If we allow that perhaps he accuses himself too much, we may find on reflection that he accuses himself altogether wrongfully. If a man is content to think the worst of Hamlet, I care to hold no argument with that man. We must not look for _expressed_ logical sequence in a soliloquy, which is a vocal mind. The mind is seldom conscious of the links or transitions of a yet perfectly logical process developed in it. This remark, however, is more necessary in regard to the famous soliloquy to follow. In Hamlet, misery has partly choked even vengeance; and although sure in his heart that his uncle is guilty, in his brain he is not sure. Bitterly accusing himself in an access of wretchedness and rage and credence, he forgets the doubt that has restrained him, with all besides which he might so well urge in righteous defence, not excuse, of his delay. But ungenerous criticism has, by all but universal consent, accepted his own verdict against himself. So in common life there are thousands on thousands who, upon the sad confession of a man immeasurably greater than themselves, and showing his greatness in the humility whose absence makes admission impossible to them, immediately pounce upon him with vituperation, as if he were one of the vile, and they infinitely better. Such should be indignant with St. Paul and say--if he was the chief of sinners, what insolence to lecture _them_! and certainly the more justified publican would never by them have been allowed to touch the robe of the less justified Pharisee. Such critics surely take little or no pains to understand the object of their contempt: because Hamlet is troubled and blames himself, they without hesitation condemn him--and there where he is most commendable. It is the righteous man who is most ready to accuse himself; the unrighteous is least ready. Who is able when in deep trouble, rightly to analyze his feelings? Delay in action is not necessarily abandonment of duty; in Hamlet's case it is a due recognition of duty, which condemns precipitancy--and action in the face of doubt, so long as it is nowise compelled, is precipitancy. The first thing is _to be sure_: Hamlet has never been sure; he spies at length a chance of making himself sure; he seizes upon it; and while his sudden resolve to make use of the players, like the equally sudden resolve to shroud himself in pretended madness, manifests him fertile in expedient, the carrying out of both manifests him right capable and diligent in execution--_a man of action in every true sense of the word_. The self-accusation of Hamlet has its ground in the lapse of weeks during which nothing has been done towards punishing the king. Suddenly roused to a keen sense of the fact, he feels as if surely he might have done something. The first act ends with a burning vow of righteous vengeance; the second shows him wandering about the palace in profoundest melancholy--such as makes it more than easy for him to assume the forms of madness the moment he marks any curious eye bent upon him. Let him who has never loved and revered a mother, call such melancholy weakness. He has indeed done nothing towards the fulfilment of his vow; but the way in which he made the vow, the terms in which he exacted from his companions their promise of silence, and his scheme for eluding suspicion, combine to show that from the first he perceived its fulfilment would be hard, saw the obstacles in his way, and knew it would require both time and caution. That even in the first rush of his wrath he should thus be aware of difficulty, indicates moral symmetry; but the full weight of what lay in his path could appear to him only upon reflection. Partly in the light of passages yet to come, I will imagine the further course of his thoughts, which the closing couplet of the first act shows as having already begun to apale 'the native hue of resolution.' 'But how shall I take vengeance on my uncle? Shall I publicly accuse him, or slay him at once? In the one case what answer can I make to his denial? in the other, what justification can I offer? If I say the spirit of my father accuses him, what proof can I bring? My companions only saw the apparition--heard no word from him; and my uncle's party will assert, with absolute likelihood to the minds of those who do not know me--and who here knows me but my mother!--that charge is a mere coinage of jealous disappointment, working upon the melancholy I have not cared to hide. (174-6.) When I act, it must be to kill him, and to what misconstruction shall I not expose myself! (272) If the thing must so be, I must brave all; but I could never present myself thereafter as successor to the crown of one whom I had first slain and then vilified on the accusation of an apparition whom no one heard but myself! I must find _proof_--such proof as will satisfy others as well as myself. My immediate duty is _evidence_, not vengeance.' We have seen besides, that, when informed of the haunting presence of the Ghost, he expected the apparition with not a little doubt as to its authenticity--a doubt which, even when he saw it, did not immediately vanish: is it any wonder that when the apparition was gone, the doubt should return? Return it did, in accordance with the reaction which waits upon all high-strung experience. If he did not believe in the person who performed it, would any man long believe in any miracle? Hamlet soon begins to question whether he can with confidence accept the appearance for that which it appeared and asserted itself to be. He steps over to the stand-point of his judges, and doubts the only testimony he has to produce. Far more:--was he not bound in common humanity, not to say _filialness_, to doubt it? To doubt the Ghost, was to doubt a testimony which to accept was to believe his father in horrible suffering, his uncle a murderer, his mother at least an adulteress; to kill his uncle was to set his seal to the whole, and, besides, to bring his mother into frightful suspicion of complicity in his father's murder. Ought not the faintest shadow of a doubt, assuaging ever so little the glare of the hell-sun of such crime, to be welcome to the tortured heart? Wretched wife and woman as his mother had shown herself, the Ghost would have him think her far worse--perhaps, even accessory to her husband's murder! For action he _must_ have proof! At the same time, what every one knew of his mother, coupled now with the mere idea of the Ghost's accusation, wrought in him such misery, roused in him so many torturing and unanswerable questions, so blotted the face of the universe and withered the heart of hope, that he could not but doubt whether, in such a world of rogues and false women, it was worth his while to slay one villain out of the swarm. Ophelia's behaviour to him, in obedience to her father, of which she gives him no explanation, has added 'the pangs of disprized love,' and increased his doubts of woman-kind. 120. But when his imagination, presenting afresh the awful interview, brings him more immediately under the influence of the apparition and its behest, he is for the moment delivered both from the stunning effect of its communication and his doubt of its truth; forgetting then the considerations that have wrought in him, he accuses himself of remissness, blames himself grievously for his delay. Soon, however, his senses resume their influence, and he doubts again. So goes the mill-round of his thoughts, with the revolving of many wheels. His whole conscious nature is frightfully shaken: he would be the poor creature most of his critics would make of him, were it otherwise; it is because of his greatness that he suffers so terribly, and doubts so much. A mother's crime is far more paralyzing than a father's murder is stimulating; and either he has not set himself in thorough earnest to find the proof he needs, or he has as yet been unable to think of any serviceable means to the end, when the half real, half simulated emotion of the Player yet again rouses in him the sense of remissness, leads him to accuse himself of forgotten obligation and heartlessness, and simultaneously suggests a device for putting the Ghost and his words to the test. Instantly he seizes the chance: when a thing has to be done, and can be done, Hamlet is _never_ wanting--shows himself the very promptest of men. In the last passage of this act I do not take it that he is expressing an idea then first occurring to him: that the whole thing may be a snare of the devil is a doubt with which during weeks he has been familiar. The delay through which, in utter failure to comprehend his character, he has been so miserably misjudged, falls really between the first and second acts, although it seems in the regard of most readers to underlie and protract the whole play. Its duration is measured by the journey of the ambassadors to and from the neighbouring kingdom of Norway. It is notably odd, by the way, that those who accuse Hamlet of inaction, are mostly the same who believe his madness a reality! In truth, however, his affected madness is one of the strongest signs of his activity, and his delay one of the strongest proofs of his sanity. This second act, the third act, and a part always given to the fourth, but which really belongs to the third, occupy in all only one day. [Footnote 1: Here follows in _1st Q._ confest a murder Committed long before. This spirit that I haue seene may be the Diuell, And out of my weakenesse and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such men, Doth seeke to damne me, I will haue sounder proofes, The play's the thing, &c.] [Footnote 2: 'Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;' &c. _Macbeth_, iii. 4.] [Footnote 3: In the _1st Q._ Hamlet, speaking to Horatio (l 37), says, And if he doe not bleach, and change at that,-- _Bleach_ is radically the same word as _blench_:--to bleach, to blanch, to blench--_to grow white_.] [Footnote 4: Emphasis on _May_, as resuming previous doubtful thought and suspicion.] [Footnote 5: --caused from the first by his mother's behaviour, not constitutional.] [Footnote 6: --'such conditions of the spirits'.] [Footnote 7: Here is one element in the very existence of the preceding act: doubt as to the facts of the case has been throughout operating to restrain him; and here first he reveals, perhaps first recognizes its influence. Subject to change of feeling with the wavering of conviction, he now for a moment regards his uncertainty as involving unnatural distrust of a being in whose presence he cannot help _feeling_ him his father. He was familiar with the lore of the supernatural, and knew the doubt he expresses to be not without support.--His companions as well had all been in suspense as to the identity of the apparition with the late king.] [Page 116] _Enter King, Queene, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosincrance, Guildenstern, and Lords._[1] [Sidenote: Guyldensterne, Lords.] [Sidenote: 72] _King._ And can you by no drift of circumstance [Sidenote: An can | of conference] Get from him why he puts on[2] this Confusion: Grating so harshly all his dayes of quiet With turbulent and dangerous Lunacy. _Rosin._ He does confesse he feeles himselfe distracted, [Sidenote: 92] But from what cause he will by no meanes speake. [Sidenote: a will] _Guil._ Nor do we finde him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty Madnesse[3] keepes aloofe: When we would bring him on to some Confession Of his true state. _Qu._ Did he receiue you well? _Rosin._ Most like a Gentleman. _Guild._ But with much forcing of his disposition.[4] _Rosin._ Niggard of question, but of our demands Most free in his reply.[5] _Qu._ Did you assay him to any pastime? _Rosin._ Madam, it so fell out, that certaine Players We ore-wrought on the way: of these we told him, [Sidenote: ore-raught[6]] And there did seeme in him a kinde of ioy To heare of it: They are about the Court, [Sidenote: are heere about] And (as I thinke) they haue already order This night to play before him. _Pol._ 'Tis most true; And he beseech'd me to intreate your Majesties To heare, and see the matter. _King._ With all my heart, and it doth much content me To heare him so inclin'd. Good Gentlemen, [Footnote 1: This may be regarded as the commencement of the Third Act.] [Footnote 2: The phrase seems to imply a doubt of the genuineness of the lunacy.] [Footnote 3: _Nominative pronoun omitted here._] [Footnote 4: He has noted, without understanding them, the signs of Hamlet's suspicion of themselves.] [Footnote 5: Compare the seemingly opposite statements of the two: Hamlet had bewildered them.] [Foonote 6: _over-reached_--came up with, caught up, overtook.] [Page 118] Giue him a further edge,[1] and driue his purpose on [Sidenote: purpose into these] To these delights. _Rosin._ We shall my Lord. _Exeunt._ [Sidenote: _Exeunt Ros. & Guyl._] _King._ Sweet Gertrude leaue vs too, [Sidenote: Gertrard | two] For we haue closely sent for _Hamlet_ hither, [Sidenote: 84] That he, as 'twere by accident, may there [Sidenote: heere] Affront[2] _Ophelia_. Her Father, and my selfe[3] (lawful espials)[4] Will so bestow our selues, that seeing vnseene We may of their encounter frankely iudge, And gather by him, as he is behaued, If't be th'affliction of his loue, or no, That thus he suffers for. _Qu._ I shall obey you, And for your part _Ophelia_,[5] I do wish That your good Beauties be the happy cause Of _Hamlets_ wildenesse: so shall I hope your Vertues [Sidenote: 240] Will bring him to his wonted way againe, To both your Honors.[6] _Ophe._ Madam, I wish it may. _Pol. Ophelia_, walke you heere. Gracious so please ye[7] [Sidenote: you,] We will bestow our selues: Reade on this booke,[8] That shew of such an exercise may colour Your lonelinesse.[9] We are oft too blame in this,[10] [Sidenote: lowlines:] 'Tis too much prou'd, that with Deuotions visage, And pious Action, we do surge o're [Sidenote: sugar] The diuell himselfe. [Sidenote: 161] _King._ Oh 'tis true: [Sidenote: tis too true] How smart a lash that speech doth giue my Conscience? The Harlots Cheeke beautied with plaist'ring Art Is not more vgly to the thing that helpes it,[11] Then is my deede, to my most painted word.[12] Oh heauie burthen![13] [Footnote 1: '_edge_ him on'--somehow corrupted into _egg_.] [Footnote 2: _confront_.] [Footnote 3: _Clause in parenthesis not in Q._] [Footnote 4: --apologetic to the queen.] [Footnote 5: --_going up to Ophelia_--I would say, who stands at a little distance, and has not heard what has been passing between them.] [Footnote 6: The queen encourages Ophelia in hoping to marry Hamlet, and may so have a share in causing a certain turn her madness takes.] [Footnote 7: --_aside to the king_.] [Footnote 8: --_to Ophelia:_ her prayer-book. 122.] [Footnote 9: _1st Q._ And here _Ofelia_, reade you on this booke, And walke aloofe, the King shal be vnseene.] [Footnote 10: --_aside to the king._ I insert these _asides_, and suggest the queen's going up to Ophelia, to show how we may easily hold Ophelia ignorant of their plot. Poor creature as she was, I would believe Shakspere did not mean her to lie to Hamlet. This may be why he omitted that part of her father's speech in the _1st Q._ given in the note immediately above, telling her the king is going to hide. Still, it would be excuse enough for _her_, that she thought his madness justified the deception.] [Footnote 11: --ugly to the paint that helps by hiding it--to which it lies so close, and from which it has no secrets. Or, 'ugly to' may mean, 'ugly _compared with_.'] [Footnote 12: 'most painted'--_very much painted_. His painted word is the paint to the deed. _Painted_ may be taken for _full of paint_.] [Footnote 13: This speech of the king is the first _assurance_ we have of his guilt.] [Page 120] _Pol._ I heare him comming, let's withdraw my Lord. [Sidenote: comming, with-draw] _Exeunt._[1] _Enter Hamlet._[2] _Ham._ To be, or not to be, that is the Question: Whether 'tis Nobler in the minde to suffer The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune, [Sidenote: 200,250] Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,[3] And by opposing end them:[4] to dye, to sleepe No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes That Flesh is heyre too? 'Tis a consummation Deuoutly to be wish'd.[5] To dye to sleepe, To sleepe, perchance to Dreame;[6] I, there's the rub, For in that sleepe of death, what[7] dreames may come,[8] When we haue shuffle'd off this mortall coile, [Sidenote: 186] Must giue vs pawse.[9] There's the respect That makes Calamity of so long life:[10] For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time, The Oppressors wrong, the poore mans Contumely, [Sidenote: proude mans] [Sidenote: 114] The pangs of dispriz'd Loue,[11] the Lawes delay, [Sidenote: despiz'd] The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes That patient merit of the vnworthy takes, [Sidenote: th'] When he himselfe might his _Quietus_ make [Sidenote: 194,252-3] With a bare Bodkin?[12] Who would these Fardles beare[13] [Sidenote: would fardels] To grunt and sweat vnder a weary life, [Sidenote: 194] But that the dread of something after death,[14] The vndiscouered Countrey, from whose Borne No Traueller returnes,[15] Puzels the will, And makes vs rather beare those illes we haue, Then flye to others that we know not of. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of vs all,[16] [Sidenote: 30] And thus the Natiue hew of Resolution[17] Is sicklied o're, with the pale cast of Thought,[18] [Sidenote: sickled] [Footnote 1: _Not in Q._--They go behind the tapestry, where it hangs over the recess of the doorway. Ophelia thinks they have left the room.] [Footnote 2: _In Q. before last speech._] [Footnote 3: Perhaps to a Danish or Dutch critic, or one from the eastern coast of England, this simile would not seem so unfit as it does to some.] [Footnote 4: To print this so as I would have it read, I would complete this line from here with points, and commence the next with points. At the other breaks of the soliloquy, as indicated below, I would do the same--thus: And by opposing end them.... ....To die--to sleep,] [Footnote 5: _Break_.] [Footnote 6: _Break_.] [Footnote 7: Emphasis on _what_.] [Footnote 8: Such dreams as the poor Ghost's.] [Footnote 9: _Break._ --'_pawse_' is the noun, and from its use at page 186, we may judge it means here 'pause for reflection.'] [Footnote 10: 'makes calamity so long-lived.'] [Footnote 11: --not necessarily disprized by the _lady_; the disprizer in Hamlet's case was the worldly and suspicious father--and that in part, and seemingly to Hamlet altogether, for the king's sake.] [Footnote 12: _small sword_. If there be here any allusion to suicide, it is on the general question, and with no special application to himself. 24. But it is the king and the bare bodkin his thought associates. How could he even glance at the things he has just mentioned, as each, a reason for suicide? It were a cowardly country indeed where the question might be asked, 'Who would not commit suicide because of any one of these things, except on account of what may follow after death?'! One might well, however, be tempted to destroy an oppressor, _and risk his life in that._] [Footnote 13: _Fardel_, burden: the old French for _fardeau_, I am informed.] [Footnote 14: --a dread caused by conscience.] [Footnote 15: The Ghost could not be imagined as having _returned_.] [Footnote 16: 'of us all' _not in Q._ It is not the fear of evil that makes us cowards, but the fear of _deserved_ evil. The Poet may intend that conscience alone is the cause of fear in man. '_Coward_' does not here involve contempt: it should be spoken with a grim smile. But Hamlet would hardly call turning from _suicide_ cowardice in any sense. 24.] [Footnote 17: --such as was his when he vowed vengeance.] [Footnote 18: --such as immediately followed on that The _native_ hue of resolution--that which is natural to man till interruption comes--is ruddy; the hue of thought is pale. I suspect the '_pale cast_' of an allusion to whitening with _rough-cast_.] [Page 122] And enterprizes of great pith and moment,[1] [Sidenote: pitch [1]] With this regard their Currants turne away, [Sidenote: awry] And loose the name of Action.[2] Soft you now, [Sidenote: 119] The faire _Ophelia_? Nimph, in thy Orizons[3] Be all my sinnes remembred.[4] _Ophe._ Good my Lord, How does your Honor for this many a day? _Ham._ I humbly thanke you: well, well, well.[5] _Ophe._ My Lord, I haue Remembrances of yours, That I haue longed long to re-deliuer. I pray you now, receiue them. _Ham._ No, no, I neuer gaue you ought.[6] [Sidenote: No, not I, I never] _Ophe._ My honor'd Lord, I know right well you did, [Sidenote: you know] And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd, As made the things more rich, then perfume left: [Sidenote: these things | their perfume lost.[7]] Take these againe, for to the Noble minde Rich gifts wax poore, when giuers proue vnkinde. There my Lord.[8] _Ham._ Ha, ha: Are you honest?[9] _Ophe._ My Lord. _Ham._ Are you faire? _Ophe._ What meanes your Lordship? _Ham._ That if you be honest and faire, your [Sidenote: faire, you should admit] Honesty[10] should admit no discourse to your Beautie. _Ophe._ Could Beautie my Lord, haue better Comerce[11] then your Honestie?[12] [Sidenote: Then with honestie?[11]] _Ham._ I trulie: for the power of Beautie, will sooner transforme Honestie from what it is, to a Bawd, then the force of Honestie can translate Beautie into his likenesse. This was sometime a Paradox, but now the time giues it proofe. I did loue you once.[13] _Ophe._ Indeed my Lord, you made me beleeue so. [Footnote 1: How could _suicide_ be styled _an enterprise of great pith_? Yet less could it be called _of great pitch_.] [Footnote 2: I allow this to be a general reflection, but surely it serves to show that _conscience_ must at least be one of Hamlet's restraints.] [Footnote 3: --by way of intercession.] [Footnote 4: Note the entire change of mood from that of the last soliloquy. The right understanding of this soliloquy is indispensable to the right understanding of Hamlet. But we are terribly trammelled and hindered, as in the understanding of Hamlet throughout, so here in the understanding of his meditation, by traditional assumption. I was roused to think in the right direction concerning it, by the honoured friend and relative to whom I have feebly acknowledged my obligation by dedicating to him this book. I could not at first see it as he saw it: 'Think about it, and you will,' he said. I did think, and by degrees--not very quickly--my prejudgments thinned, faded, and almost vanished. I trust I see it now as a whole, and in its true relations, internal and external--its relations to itself, to the play, and to the Hamlet, of Shakspere. Neither in its first verse, then, nor in it anywhere else, do I find even an allusion to suicide. What Hamlet is referring to in the said first verse, it is not possible with certainty to determine, for it is but the vanishing ripple of a preceding ocean of thought, from which he is just stepping out upon the shore of the articulate. He may have been plunged in some profound depth of the metaphysics of existence, or he may have been occupied with the one practical question, that of the slaying of his uncle, which has, now in one form, now in another, haunted his spirit for weeks. Perhaps, from the message he has just received, he expects to meet the king, and conscience, confronting temptation, has been urging the necessity of proof; perhaps a righteous consideration of consequences, which sometimes have share in the primary duty, has been making him shrink afresh from the shedding of blood, for every thoughtful mind recoils from the irrevocable, and that is an awful form of the irrevocable. But whatever thought, general or special, this first verse may be dismissing, we come at once thereafter into the light of a definite question: 'Which is nobler--to endure evil fortune, or to oppose it _à outrance_; to bear in passivity, or to resist where resistance is hopeless--resist to the last--to the death which is its unavoidable end?' Then comes a pause, during which he is thinking--we will not say 'too precisely on the event,' but taking his account with consequences: the result appears in the uttered conviction that the extreme possible consequence, death, is a good and not an evil. Throughout, observe, how here, as always, he generalizes, himself being to himself but the type of his race. Then follows another pause, during which he seems prosecuting the thought, for he has already commenced further remark in similar strain, when suddenly a new and awful element introduces itself: ....To die--to sleep.-- --To _sleep_! perchance to _dream_! He had been thinking of death only as the passing away of the present with its troubles; here comes the recollection that death has its own troubles--its own thoughts, its own consciousness: if it be a sleep, it has its dreams. '_What dreams may come_' means, 'the sort of dreams that may come'; the emphasis is on the _what_, not on the _may_; there is no question whether dreams will come, but there is question of the character of the dreams. This consideration is what makes calamity so long-lived! 'For who would bear the multiform ills of life'--he alludes to his own wrongs, but mingles, in his generalizing way, others of those most common to humanity, and refers to the special cure for some of his own which was close to his hand--'who would bear these things if he could, as I can, make his quietus with a bare bodkin'--that is, by slaying his enemy--'who would then bear them, but that he fears the future, and the divine judgment upon his life and actions--that conscience makes a coward of him!'[14] To run, not the risk of death, but the risks that attend upon and follow death, Hamlet must be certain of what he is about; he must be sure it is a right thing he does, or he will leave it undone. Compare his speech, 250, 'Does it not, &c.':--by the time he speaks this speech, he has had perfect proof, and asserts the righteousness of taking vengeance in almost an agony of appeal to Horatio. The more continuous and the more formally logical a soliloquy, the less natural it is. The logic should be all there, but latent; the bones of it should not show: they do not show here.] [Footnote 5: _One_ 'well' _only in Q._] [Footnote 6: He does not want to take them back, and so sever even that weak bond between them. He has not given her up.] [Footnote 7: The _Q._ reading seems best. The perfume of his gifts was the sweet words with which they were given; those words having lost their savour, the mere gifts were worth nothing.] [Footnote 8: Released from the commands her father had laid upon her, and emboldened by the queen's approval of more than the old relation between them, she would timidly draw Hamlet back to the past--to love and a sound mind.] [Footnote 9: I do not here suppose a noise or movement of the arras, or think that the talk from this point bears the mark of the madness he would have assumed on the least suspicion of espial. His distrust of Ophelia comes from a far deeper source--suspicion of all women, grown doubtful to him through his mother. Hopeless for her, he would give his life to know that Ophelia was not like her. Hence the cruel things he says to her here and elsewhere; they are the brood of a heart haunted with horrible, alas! too excusable phantoms of distrust. A man wretched as Hamlet must be forgiven for being rude; it is love suppressed, love that can neither breathe nor burn, that makes him rude. His horrid insinuations are a hungry challenge to indignant rejection. He would sting Ophelia to defence of herself and her sex. But, either from her love, or from gentleness to his supposed madness, as afterwards in the play-scene, or from the poverty and weakness of a nature so fathered and so brothered, she hears, and says nothing. 139.] [Footnote 10: Honesty is here figured as a porter,--just after, as a porter that may be corrupted.] [Footnote 11: If the _Folio_ reading is right, _commerce_ means _companionship_; if the _Quarto_ reading, then it means _intercourse_. Note _then_ constantly for our _than_.] [Footnote 12: I imagine Ophelia here giving Hamlet a loving look--which hardens him. But I do not think she lays emphasis on _your_; the word is here, I take it, used (as so often then) impersonally.] [Footnote 13: '--proof in you and me: _I_ loved _you_ once, but my honesty did not translate your beauty into its likeness.'] [Footnote 14: That the Great Judgement was here in Shakspere's thought, will be plain to those who take light from the corresponding passage in the _1st Quarto_. As it makes an excellent specimen of that issue in the character I am most inclined to attribute to it--that of original sketch and continuous line of notes, with more or less finished passages in place among the notes--I will here quote it, recommending it to my student's attention. If it be what I suggest, it is clear that Shakspere had not at first altogether determined how he would carry the soliloquy--what line he was going to follow in it: here hope and fear contend for the place of motive to patience. The changes from it in the text are well worth noting: the religion is lessened: the hope disappears: were they too much of pearls to cast before 'barren spectators'? The manuscript could never have been meant for any eye but his own, seeing it was possible to print from it such a chaos--over which yet broods the presence of the formative spirit of the Poet. _Ham._ To be, or not to be, I there's the point, To Die, to sleepe, is that all? I all: No, to sleepe, to dreame, I mary there it goes, For in that dreame of death, when wee awake, [Sidenote: 24, 247, 260] And borne before an euerlasting Iudge, From whence no passenger euer retur'nd, The vndiscouered country, at whose sight The happy smile, and the accursed damn'd. But for this, the ioyfull hope of this, Whol'd beare the scornes and flattery of the world, Scorned by the right rich, the rich curssed of the poore? The widow being oppressed, the orphan wrong'd, The taste of hunger, or a tirants raigne, And thousand more calamities besides, To grunt and sweate vnder this weary life, When that he may his full _Quietus_ make, With a bare bodkin, who would this indure, But for a hope of something after death? Which pulses the braine, and doth confound the sence, Which makes vs rather beare those euilles we haue, Than flie to others that we know not of. I that, O this conscience makes cowardes of vs all, Lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembred.] [Page 126] _Ham._ You should not haue beleeued me. For vertue cannot so innocculate[1] our old stocke,[2] but we shall rellish of it.[3] I loued you not.[4] _Ophe._ I was the more deceiued. _Ham._ Get thee to a Nunnerie. Why would'st [Sidenote: thee a] thou be a breeder of Sinners? I am my selfe indifferent[5] [Sidenote: 132] honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things,[6] that it were better my Mother had [Sidenote: 62] not borne me,[7] I am very prowd, reuengefull, Ambitious, with more offences at my becke, then I haue thoughts to put them in imagination, to giue them shape, or time to acte them in. What should such Fellowes as I do, crawling betweene Heauen [Sidenote: earth and heauen] and Earth.[8] We are arrant Knaues all[10], beleeue none of vs.[9] Goe thy wayes to a Nunnery. Where's your Father?[11] _Ophe._ At home, my Lord.[12] _Ham._ Let the doores be shut vpon him, that he may play the Foole no way, but in's owne house.[13] [Sidenote: no where but] Farewell.[14] _Ophe._ O helpe him, you sweet Heauens. _Ham._[15] If thou doest Marry, Ile giue thee this Plague for thy Dowrie. Be thou as chast as Ice, as pure as Snow, thou shalt not escape Calumny.[16] Get thee to a Nunnery. Go,[17] Farewell.[18] Or if thou wilt needs Marry, marry a fool: for Wise men know well enough, what monsters[19] you make of them. To a Nunnery go, and quickly too. Farwell.[20] _Ophe._ O[21] heauenly Powers, restore him. _Ham._[22] I haue heard of your pratlings[23] too wel [Sidenote: your paintings well] enough. God has giuen you one pace,[23] and you [Sidenote: hath | one face,] make your selfe another: you gidge, you amble, [Sidenote: selfes | you gig and amble, and] and you lispe, and nickname Gods creatures, and [Sidenote: you list you nickname] make your Wantonnesse, your[24] Ignorance.[25] Go [Footnote 1: 'inoculate'--_bud_, in the horticultural use.] [Footnote 2: _trunk_ or _stem_ of the family tree.] [Footnote 3: Emphasis on _relish_--'keep something of the old flavour of the stock.'] [Footnote 4: He tries her now with denying his love--perhaps moved in part by a feeling, taught by his mother's, of how imperfect it was.] [Footnote 5: tolerably.] [Footnote 6: He turns from baiting woman in her to condemn himself. Is it not the case with every noble nature, that the knowledge of wrong in another arouses in it the consciousness of its own faults and sins, of its own evil possibilities? Hurled from the heights of ideal humanity, Hamlet not only recognizes in himself every evil tendency of his race, but almost feels himself individually guilty of every transgression. 'God, God, forgive us all!' exclaims the doctor who has just witnessed the misery of Lady Macbeth, unveiling her guilt. This whole speech of Hamlet is profoundly sane--looking therefore altogether insane to the shallow mind, on which the impression of its insanity is deepened by its coming from him so freely. The common nature disappointed rails at humanity; Hamlet, his earthly ideal destroyed, would tear his individual human self to pieces.] [Footnote 7: This we may suppose uttered with an expression as startling to Ophelia as impenetrable.] [Footnote 8: He is disgusted with himself, with his own nature and consciousness--] [Footnote 9: --and this reacts on his kind.] [Footnote 10: 'all' _not in Q._] [Footnote 11: Here, perhaps, he grows suspicious--asks himself why he is allowed this prolonged _tête à tête_.] [Footnote 12: I am willing to believe she thinks so.] [Footnote 13: Whether he trusts Ophelia or not, he does not take her statement for correct, and says this in the hope that Polonius is not too far off to hear it. The speech is for him, not for Ophelia, and will seem to her to come only from his madness.] [Footnote 14: _Exit_.] [Footnote 15: (_re-entering_)] [Footnote 16: 'So many are bad, that your virtue will not be believed in.'] [Footnote 17: 'Go' _not in Q._] [Footnote 18: _Exit, and re-enter._] [Footnote 19: _Cornuti._] [Footnote 20: _Exit._] [Footnote 21: 'O' _not in Q._] [Footnote 22: (_re-entering_)] [Footnote 23: I suspect _pratlings_ to be a corruption, not of the printed _paintings_, but of some word substituted for it by the Poet, perhaps _prancings_, and _pace_ to be correct.] [Footnote 24: 'your' _not in Q._] [Footnote 25: As the present type to him of womankind, he assails her with such charges of lightness as are commonly brought against women. He does not go farther: she is not his mother, and he hopes she is innocent. But he cannot make her speak!] [Page 128] too, Ile no more on't, it hath made me mad. I say, we will haue no more Marriages.[1] Those that are [Sidenote: no mo marriage,] married already,[2] all but one shall liue, the rest shall keep as they are. To a Nunnery, go. _Exit Hamlet_. [Sidenote: _Exit_] [3]_Ophe._ O what a Noble minde is heere o're-throwne? The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers: Eye, tongue, sword, Th'expectansie and Rose[4] of the faire State, [Sidenote: Th' expectation,] The glasse of Fashion,[5] and the mould of Forme,[6] Th'obseru'd of all Obseruers, quite, quite downe. Haue I of Ladies most deiect and wretched, [Sidenote: And I of] That suck'd the Honie of his Musicke Vowes: [Sidenote: musickt] Now see that Noble, and most Soueraigne Reason, [Sidenote: see what] Like sweet Bels iangled out of tune, and harsh,[7] [Sidenote: out of time] That vnmatch'd Forme and Feature of blowne youth,[8] [Sidenote: and stature of] Blasted with extasie.[9] Oh woe is me, T'haue scene what I haue scene: see what I see.[10] [Sidenote: _Exit_.] _Enter King, and Polonius_. _King_. Loue? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack'd Forme a little, [Sidenote: Not] Was not like Madnesse.[11] There's something in his soule? O're which his Melancholly sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch, and the disclose[12] Will be some danger,[11] which to preuent [Sidenote: which for to] I haue in quicke determination [Sidenote: 138, 180] Thus set it downe. He shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected Tribute: Haply the Seas and Countries different [Footnote 1: 'The thing must be put a stop to! the world must cease! it is not fit to go on.'] [Footnote 2: 'already--(_aside_) all but one--shall live.'] [Footnote 3: _1st Q_. _Ofe._ Great God of heauen, what a quicke change is this? The Courtier, Scholler, Souldier, all in him, All dasht and splinterd thence, O woe is me, To a seene what I haue seene, see what I see. _Exit_. To his cruel words Ophelia is impenetrable--from the conviction that not he but his madness speaks. The moment he leaves her, she breaks out in such phrase as a young girl would hardly have used had she known that the king and her father were listening. I grant, however, the speech may be taken as a soliloquy audible to the spectators only, who to the persons of a play are _but_ the spiritual presences.] [Footnote 4: 'The hope and flower'--The _rose_ is not unfrequently used in English literature as the type of perfection.] [Footnote 5: 'he by whom Fashion dressed herself'--_he who set the fashion_. His great and small virtues taken together, Hamlet makes us think of Sir Philip Sidney--ten years older than Shakspere, and dead sixteen years before _Hamlet_ was written.] [Footnote 6: 'he after whose ways, or modes of behaviour, men shaped theirs'--therefore the mould in which their forms were cast;--_the object of universal imitation_.] [Footnote 7: I do not know whether this means--the peal rung without regard to tune or time--or--the single bell so handled that the tongue checks and jars the vibration. In some country places, I understand, they go about ringing a set of hand-bells.] [Footnote 8: youth in full blossom.] [Footnote 9: madness 177.] [Footnote 10: 'to see now such a change from what I saw then.'] [Footnote 11: The king's conscience makes him keen. He is, all through, doubtful of the madness.] [Footnote 12: --of the fact- or fancy-egg on which his melancholy sits brooding] [Page 130] With variable Obiects, shall expell This something setled matter[1] in his heart Whereon his Braines still beating, puts him thus From[2] fashion of himselfe. What thinke you on't? _Pol_. It shall do well. But yet do I beleeue The Origin and Commencement of this greefe [Sidenote: his greefe,] Sprung from neglected loue.[3] How now _Ophelia_? You neede not tell vs, what Lord _Hamlet_ saide, We heard it all.[4] My Lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit after the Play, Let his Queene Mother all alone intreat him To shew his Greefes: let her be round with him, [Sidenote: griefe,] And Ile be plac'd so, please you in the eare Of all their Conference. If she finde him not,[5] To England send him: Or confine him where Your wisedome best shall thinke. _King_. It shall be so: Madnesse in great Ones, must not vnwatch'd go.[6] [Sidenote: unmatched] _Exeunt_. _Enter Hamlet, and two or three of the Players_. [Sidenote: _and three_] _Ham_.[7] Speake the Speech I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you trippingly[8] on the Tongue: But if you mouth it, as many of your Players do, [Sidenote: of our Players] I had as liue[9] the Town-Cryer had spoke my [Sidenote: cryer spoke] Lines:[10] Nor do not saw the Ayre too much your [Sidenote: much with] hand thus, but vse all gently; for in the verie Torrent, Tempest, and (as I may say) the Whirlewinde [Sidenote: say, whirlwind] of Passion, you must acquire and beget a [Sidenote: of your] Temperance that may giue it Smoothnesse.[11] O it offends mee to the Soule, to see a robustious Perywig-pated [Sidenote: to heare a] Fellow, teare a Passion to tatters, to [Sidenote: totters,] verie ragges, to split the eares of the Groundlings:[12] [Sidenote: spleet] who (for the most part) are capeable[13] of nothing, but inexplicable dumbe shewes,[14] and noise:[15] I could haue such a Fellow whipt for o're-doing [Sidenote: would] [Footnote 1: 'something of settled matter'--_idée fixe_.] [Footnote 2: '_away from_ his own true likeness'; 'makes him so unlike himself.'] [Footnote 3: Polonius is crestfallen, but positive.] [Footnote 4: This supports the notion of Ophelia's ignorance of the espial. Polonius thinks she is about to disclose what has passed, and _informs_ her of its needlessness. But it _might_ well enough be taken as only an assurance of the success of their listening--that they had heard without difficulty.] [Footnote 5: 'If she do not find him out': a comparable phrase, common at the time, was, _Take me with you_, meaning, _Let me understand you_. Polonius, for his daughter's sake, and his own in her, begs for him another chance.] [Footnote 6: 'in the insignificant, madness may roam the country, but in the great it must be watched.' The _unmatcht_ of the _Quarto_ might bear the meaning of _countermatched_.] [Footnote 7: I should suggest this exhortation to the Players introduced with the express purpose of showing how absolutely sane Hamlet was, could I believe that Shakspere saw the least danger of Hamlet's pretence being mistaken for reality.] [Footnote 8: He would have neither blundering nor emphasis such as might rouse too soon the king's suspicion, or turn it into certainty.] [Footnote 9: 'liue'--_lief_] [Footnote 10: 1st Q.:-- I'de rather heare a towne bull bellow, Then such a fellow speake my lines. _Lines_ is a player-word still.] [Footnote 11: --smoothness such as belongs to the domain of Art, and will both save from absurdity, and allow the relations with surroundings to manifest themselves;--harmoniousness, which is the possibility of co-existence.] [Footnote 12: those on the ground--that is, in the pit; there was no gallery then.] [Footnote 13: _receptive_.] [Footnote 14: --gestures extravagant and unintelligible as those of a dumb show that could not by the beholder be interpreted; gestures incorrespondent to the words. A _dumb show_ was a stage-action without words.] [Footnote 15: Speech that is little but rant, and scarce related to the sense, is hardly better than a noise; it might, for the purposes of art, as well be a sound inarticulate.] [Page 132] Termagant[1]: it out-Herod's Herod[2] Pray you auoid it. _Player._ I warrant your Honor. _Ham._ Be not too tame neyther: but let your owne Discretion be your Tutor. Sute the Action to the Word, the Word to the Action, with this speciall obseruance: That you ore-stop not the [Sidenote: ore-steppe] modestie of Nature; for any thing so ouer-done, [Sidenote ore-doone] is fro[3] the purpose of Playing, whose end both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twer the Mirrour vp to Nature; to shew Vertue her owne [Sidenote: her feature;] Feature, Scorne[4] her owne Image, and the verie Age and Bodie of the Time, his forme and pressure.[5] Now, this ouer-done, or come tardie off,[6] though it make the vnskilfull laugh, cannot but make the [Sidenote: it makes] Iudicious greeue; The censure of the which One,[7] [Sidenote: of which one] must in your allowance[8] o're-way a whole Theater of Others. Oh, there bee Players that I haue scene Play, and heard others praise, and that highly [Sidenote: praysd,] (not to speake it prophanely) that neyther hauing the accent of Christians, nor the gate of Christian, Pagan, or Norman, haue so strutted and bellowed, [Sidenote: Pagan, nor man, haue] that I haue thought some of Natures Iouerney-men had made men, and not made them well, they imitated Humanity so abhominably.[9] [Sidenote: 126] _Play._ I hope we haue reform'd that indifferently[10] with vs, Sir. _Ham._ O reforme it altogether. And let those that play your Clownes, speake no more then is set downe for them.[12] For there be of them, that will themselues laugh, to set on some quantitie of barren Spectators to laugh too, though in the meane time, some necessary Question of the Play be then to be considered:[12] that's Villanous, and shewes a most pittifull Ambition in the Fool that vses it.[13] Go make you readie. _Exit Players_ [Footnote 1: 'An imaginary God of the Mahometans, represented as a most violent character in the old Miracle-plays and Moralities.'--_Sh. Lex._] [Footnote 2: 'represented as a swaggering tyrant in the old dramatic performances.'--_Sh. Lex._] [Footnote 3: _away from_: inconsistent with.] [Footnote 4: --that which is deserving of scorn.] [Footnote 5: _impression_, as on wax. Some would persuade us that Shakspere's own plays do not do this; but such critics take the _accidents_ or circumstances of a time for the _body_ of it--the clothes for the person. _Human_ nature is 'Nature,' however _dressed_. There should be a comma after 'Age.'] [Footnote 6: 'laggingly represented'--A word belonging to _time_ is substituted for a word belonging to _space_:--'this over-done, or inadequately effected'; 'this over-done, or under-done.'] [Footnote 7: 'and the judgment of such a one.' '_the which_' seems equivalent to _and--such_.] [Footnote 8: 'must, you will grant.'] [Footnote 9: Shakspere may here be playing with a false derivation, as I was myself when the true was pointed out to me--fancying _abominable_ derived from _ab_ and _homo_. If so, then he means by the phrase: 'they imitated humanity so from the nature of man, so _inhumanly_.'] [Footnote 10: tolerably.] [Footnote 11: 'Sir' _not in Q._] [Footnote 12: Shakspere must have himself suffered from such clowns: Coleridge thinks some of their _gag_ has crept into his print.] [Footnote 13: Here follow in the _1st Q._ several specimens of such a clown's foolish jests and behaviour.] [Page 134] _Enter Polonius, Rosincrance, and Guildensterne_.[1] [Sidenote: _Guyldensterne, & Rosencraus_.] How now my Lord, Will the King heare this peece of Worke? _Pol_. And the Queene too, and that presently.[2] _Ham_. Bid the Players make hast. _Exit Polonius_.[3] Will you two helpe to hasten them?[4] _Both_. We will my Lord. _Exeunt_. [Sidenote: _Ros_. I my Lord. _Exeunt they two_.] _Enter Horatio_[5] _Ham_. What hoa, _Horatio_? [Sidenote: What howe,] _Hora_. Heere sweet Lord, at your Seruice. [Sidenote: 26] _Ham_.[7] _Horatio_, thou art eene as iust a man As ere my Conversation coap'd withall. _Hora_. O my deere Lord.[6] _Ham_.[7] Nay do not thinke I flatter: For what aduancement may I hope from thee,[8] That no Reuennew hast, but thy good spirits To feed and cloath thee. Why shold the poor be flatter'd? No, let the Candied[9] tongue, like absurd pompe, [Sidenote: licke] And crooke the pregnant Hindges of the knee,[10] Where thrift may follow faining? Dost thou heare, [Sidenote: fauning;] Since my deere Soule was Mistris of my choyse;[11] [Sidenote: her choice,] And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for her selfe. For thou hast bene [Sidenote: S'hath seald] [Sidenote: 272] As one in suffering all, that suffers nothing. A man that Fortunes buffets, and Rewards Hath 'tane with equall Thankes. And blest are those, [Sidenote: Hast] Whose Blood and Iudgement are so well co-mingled, [Sidenote: comedled,[12]] [Sidenote: 26] That they are not a Pipe for Fortunes finger, To sound what stop she please.[13] Giue me that man, That is not Passions Slaue,[14] and I will weare him In my hearts Core: I, in my Heart of heart,[15] As I do thee. Something too much of this.[16] [Footnote 1: _In Q. at end of speech._] [Footnote 2: He humours Hamlet as if he were a child.] [Footnote 3: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 4: He has sent for Horatio, and is expecting him.] [Footnote 5: _In Q. after next speech._] [Footnote 6: --repudiating the praise.] [Footnote 7: To know a man, there is scarce a readier way than to hear him talk of his friend--why he loves, admires, chooses him. The Poet here gives us a wide window into Hamlet. So genuine is his respect for _being_, so indifferent is he to _having_, that he does not shrink, in argument for his own truth, from reminding his friend to his face that, being a poor man, nothing is to be gained from him--nay, from telling him that it is through his poverty he has learned to admire him, as a man of courage, temper, contentment, and independence, with nothing but his good spirits for an income--a man whose manhood is dominant both over his senses and over his fortune--a true Stoic. He describes an ideal man, then clasps the ideal to his bosom as his own, in the person of his friend. Only a great man could so worship another, choosing him for such qualities; and hereby Shakspere shows us his Hamlet--a brave, noble, wise, pure man, beset by circumstances the most adverse conceivable. That Hamlet had not misapprehended Horatio becomes evident in the last scene of all. 272.] [Footnote 8: The mother of flattery is self-advantage.] [Footnote 9: _sugared_. _1st Q._: Let flattery sit on those time-pleasing tongs; To glose with them that loues to heare their praise; And not with such as thou _Horatio_. There is a play to night, &c.] [Footnote 10: A pregnant figure and phrase, requiring thought.] [Footnote 11: 'since my real self asserted its dominion, and began to rule my choice,' making it pure, and withdrawing it from the tyranny of impulse and liking.] [Footnote 12: The old word _medle_ is synonymous with _mingle._] [Footnote 13: To Hamlet, the lordship of man over himself, despite of circumstance, is a truth, and therefore a duty.] [Footnote 14: The man who has chosen his friend thus, is hardly himself one to act without sufficing reason, or take vengeance without certain proof of guilt.] [Footnote 15: He justifies the phrase, repeating it.] [Footnote 16: --apologetic for having praised him to his face.] [Page 136] There is a Play to night before the King, One Scoene of it comes neere the Circumstance Which I haue told thee, of my Fathers death. I prythee, when thou see'st that Acte a-foot,[1] Euen with the verie Comment of my[2] Soule [Sidenote: thy[2] soule] Obserue mine Vnkle: If his occulted guilt, [Sidenote: my Vncle,] Do not it selfe vnkennell in one speech, [Sidenote: 58] It is a damned Ghost that we haue seene:[3] And my Imaginations are as foule As Vulcans Stythe.[4] Giue him needfull note, [Sidenote: stithy; | heedfull] For I mine eyes will riuet to his Face: And after we will both our iudgements ioyne,[5] To censure of his seeming.[6] [Sidenote: in censure] _Hora._ Well my Lord. If he steale ought the whil'st this Play is Playing. [Sidenote: if a] And scape detecting, I will pay the Theft.[1] [Sidenote: detected,] _Enter King, Queene, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosincrance, Guildensterne, and other Lords attendant with his Guard carrying Torches. Danish March. Sound a Flourish._ [Sidenote: _Enter Trumpets and Kettle Drummes, King, Queene, Polonius, Ophelia._] _Ham._ They are comming to the Play: I must [Sidenote: 60, 156, 178] be idle.[7] Get you a place. _King._ How fares our Cosin _Hamlet_? _Ham._ Excellent Ifaith, of the Camelions dish: [Sidenote: 154] I eate the Ayre promise-cramm'd,[8] you cannot feed Capons so.[9] _King._ I haue nothing with this answer _Hamlet_, these words are not mine.[10] _Ham._ No, nor mine. Now[11] my Lord, you plaid once i'th'Vniuersity, you say? _Polon._ That I did my Lord, and was accounted [Sidenote: did I] a good Actor. [Footnote 1: Here follows in _1st Q._ Marke thou the King, doe but obserue his lookes, For I mine eies will riuet to his face: [Sidenote: 112] And if he doe not bleach, and change at that, It is a damned ghost that we haue seene. _Horatio_, haue a care, obserue him well. _Hor_. My lord, mine eies shall still be on his face, And not the smallest alteration That shall appeare in him, but I shall note it.] [Footnote 2: I take 'my' to be right: 'watch my uncle with the comment--the discriminating judgment, that is--of _my_ soul, more intent than thine.'] [Footnote 3: He has then, ere this, taken Horatio into his confidence--so far at least as the Ghost's communication concerning the murder.] [Footnote 4: a dissyllable: _stithy_, _anvil_; Scotch, _studdy_. Hamlet's doubt is here very evident: he hopes he may find it a false ghost: what good man, what good son would not? He has clear cause and reason--it is his duty to delay. That the cause and reason and duty are not invariably clear to Hamlet himself--not clear in every mood, is another thing. Wavering conviction, doubt of evidence, the corollaries of assurance, the oppression of misery, a sense of the worthlessness of the world's whole economy--each demanding delay, might yet well, all together, affect the man's feeling as mere causes of rather than reasons for hesitation. The conscientiousness of Hamlet stands out the clearer that, throughout, his dislike to his uncle, predisposing him to believe any ill of him, is more than evident. By his incompetent or prejudiced judges, Hamlet's accusations and justifications of himself are equally placed to the _discredit_ of his account. They seem to think a man could never accuse himself except he were in the wrong; therefore if ever he excuses himself, he is the more certainly in the wrong: whatever point may tell on the other side, it is to be disregarded.] [Footnote 5: 'bring our two judgments together for comparison.'] [Footnote 6: 'in order to judge of the significance of his looks and behaviour.'] [Footnote 7: Does he mean _foolish_, that is, _lunatic_? or _insouciant_, and _unpreoccupied_?] [Footnote 8: The king asks Hamlet how he _fares_--that is, how he gets on; Hamlet pretends to think he has asked him about his diet. His talk has at once become wild; ere the king enters he has donned his cloak of madness. Here he confesses to ambition--will favour any notion concerning himself rather than give ground for suspecting the real state of his mind and feeling. In the _1st Q._ 'the Camelions dish' almost appears to mean the play, not the king's promises.] [Footnote 9: In some places they push food down the throats of the poultry they want to fatten, which is technically, I believe, called _cramming_ them.] [Footnote 10: 'You have not taken me with you; I have not laid hold of your meaning; I have nothing by your answer.' 'Your words have not become my property; they have not given themselves to me in their meaning.'] [Footnote 11: _Point thus_: 'No, nor mine now.--My Lord,' &c. '--not mine, now I have uttered them, for so I have given them away.' Or does he mean to disclaim their purport?] [Page 138] _Ham._ And[1] what did you enact? _Pol._ I did enact _Iulius Caesar_, I was kill'd i'th'Capitol: _Brutus_ kill'd me. _Ham._ It was a bruite part of him, to kill so Capitall a Calfe there.[2] Be the Players ready? _Rosin._ I my Lord, they stay vpon your patience. _Qu._ Come hither my good _Hamlet_, sit by me. [Sidenote: my deere] _Ham._ No good Mother, here's Mettle more attractiue.[3] _Pol._ Oh ho, do you marke that?[4] _Ham._ Ladie, shall I lye in your Lap? _Ophe._ No my Lord. _Ham._ I meane, my Head vpon your Lap?[5] _Ophe._ I my Lord.[6] _Ham._ Do you thinke I meant Country[7] matters? _Ophe._ I thinke nothing, my Lord. _Ham._ That's a faire thought to ly between Maids legs. _Ophe._ What is my Lord? _Ham._ Nothing. _Ophe._ You are merrie, my Lord? _Ham._ Who I? _Ophe._ I my Lord.[8] _Ham._ Oh God, your onely Iigge-maker[9]: what should a man do, but be merrie. For looke you how cheerefully my Mother lookes, and my Father dyed within's two Houres. [Sidenote: 65] _Ophe._ Nay, 'tis twice two moneths, my Lord.[10] _Ham._ So long? Nay then let the Diuel weare [Sidenote: 32] blacke, for Ile haue a suite of Sables.[11] Oh Heauens! dye two moneths ago, and not forgotten yet?[12] Then there's hope, a great mans Memorie, may out-liue his life halfe a yeare: But byrlady [Sidenote: ber Lady a] he must builde Churches then: or else shall he [Sidenote: shall a] [Footnote 1: 'And ' _not in Q._] [Footnote 2: Emphasis on _there_. 'There' is not in _1st Q._ Hamlet means it was a desecration of the Capitol.] [Footnote 3: He cannot be familiar with his mother, so avoids her--will not sit by her, cannot, indeed, bear to be near her. But he loves and hopes in Ophelia still.] [Footnote 4: '--Did I not tell you so?'] [Footnote 5: This speech and the next are not in the _Q._, but are shadowed in the _1st Q._] [Footnote 6: _--consenting_.] [Footnote 7: In _1st Quarto_, 'contrary.' Hamlet hints, probing her character--hoping her unable to understand. It is the festering soreness of his feeling concerning his mother, making him doubt with the haunting agony of a loathed possibility, that prompts, urges, forces from him his ugly speeches--nowise to be justified, only to be largely excused in his sickening consciousness of his mother's presence. Such pain as Hamlet's, the ferment of subverted love and reverence, may lightly bear the blame of hideous manners, seeing, they spring from no wantonness, but from the writhing of tortured and helpless Purity. Good manners may be as impossible as out of place in the presence of shameless evil.] [Footnote 8: Ophelia bears with him for his own and his madness' sake, and is less uneasy because of the presence of his mother. To account _satisfactorily_ for Hamlet's speeches to her, is not easy. The freer custom of the age, freer to an extent hardly credible in this, will not _satisfy_ the lovers of Hamlet, although it must have _some_ weight. The necessity for talking madly, because he is in the presence of his uncle, and perhaps, to that end, for uttering whatever comes to him, without pause for choice, might give us another hair's-weight. Also he may be supposed confident that Ophelia would not understand him, while his uncle would naturally set such worse than improprieties down to wildest madness. But I suspect that here as before (123), Shakepere would show Hamlet's soul full of bitterest, passionate loathing; his mother has compelled him to think of horrors and women together, so turning their preciousness into a disgust; and this feeling, his assumed madhess allows him to indulge and partly relieve by utterance. Could he have provoked Ophelia to rebuke him with the severity he courted, such rebuke would have been joy to him. Perhaps yet a small addition of weight to the scale of his excuse may be found in his excitement about his play, and the necessity for keeping down that excitement. Suggestion is easier than judgment.] [Footnote 9: 'here's for the jig-maker! he's the right man!' Or perhaps he is claiming the part as his own: 'I am your only jig-maker!'] [Footnote 10: This needs not be taken for the exact time. The statement notwithstanding suggests something like two months between the first and second acts, for in the first, Hamlet says his father has not been dead two months. 24. We are not bound to take it for more than a rough approximation; Ophelia would make the best of things for the queen, who is very kind to her.] [Footnote 11: the fur of the sable.] [Footnote 12: _1st Q._ nay then there's some Likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie, But by my faith &c.] [Page 140] suffer not thinking on, with the Hoby-horsse, whose Epitaph is, For o, For o, the Hoby-horse is forgot. _Hoboyes play. The dumbe shew enters._ [Sidenote: _The Trumpets sounds. Dumbe show followes._] _Enter a King and Queene, very louingly; the Queene [Sidenote: _and a Queene, the queen_] embracing him. She kneeles, and makes shew of [Sidenote: _embracing him, and he her, he takes her up, and_] Protestation vnto him. He takes her vp, and declines his head vpon her neck. Layes him downe [Sidenote: _necke, he lyes_] vpon a Banke of Flowers. She seeing him a-sleepe, leaues him. Anon comes in a Fellow, [Sidenote: _anon come in an other man_,] takes off his Crowne, kisses it, and powres poyson [Sidenote: _it, pours_] in the Kings eares, and Exits. The Queene returnes, [Sidenote: _the sleepers eares, and leaues him:_] findes the King dead, and makes passionate [Sidenote: dead, makes] Action. The Poysoner, with some two or [Sidenote: _some three or foure come in againe, seeme to condole_] three Mutes comes in againe, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away: The [Sidenote: _with her, the_] Poysoner Wooes the Queene with Gifts, she [Sidenote: 54] seemes loath and vnwilling awhile, but in the end, [Sidenote: _seemes harsh awhile_,] accepts his loue.[1] _Exeunt[2]_ [Sidenote: _accepts loue._] _Ophe._ What meanes this, my Lord? _Ham._ Marry this is Miching _Malicho_[3] that [Sidenote: this munching _Mallico_] meanes Mischeefe. _Ophe._ Belike this shew imports the Argument of the Play? _Ham._ We shall know by these Fellowes: [Sidenote: this fellow, _Enter Prologue_] the Players cannot keepe counsell, they'l tell [Sidenote: keepe, they'le] all.[4] _Ophe._ Will they tell vs what this shew meant? [Sidenote: Will a tell] _Ham._ I, or any shew that you'l shew him. Bee [Sidenote: you will] not you asham'd to shew, hee'l not shame to tell you what it meanes. _Ophe._ You are naught,[5] you are naught, Ile marke the Play. [Footnote 1: The king, not the queen, is aimed at. Hamlet does not forget the injunction of the Ghost to spare his mother. 54. The king should be represented throughout as struggling not to betray himself.] [Footnote 2: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 3: _skulking mischief_: the latter word is Spanish, To _mich_ is to _play truant_. How tenderly her tender hands betweene In yvorie cage she did the micher bind. _The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia_, page 84. My _Reader_ tells me the word is still in use among printers, with the pronunciation _mike_, and the meaning _to skulk_ or _idle_.] [Footnote 4: --their part being speech, that of the others only dumb show.] [Footnote 5: _naughty_: persons who do not behave well are treated as if they were not--are made nought of--are set at nought; hence our word naughty. 'Be naught awhile' (_As You Like It_, i. 1)--'take yourself away;' 'be nobody;' 'put yourself in the corner.'] [Page 142] _Enter[1] Prologue._ _For vs, and for our Tragedie, Heere stooping to your Clemencie: We begge your hearing Patientlie._ _Ham._ Is this a Prologue, or the Poesie[2] of a [Sidenote: posie] Ring? _Ophe._ 'Tis[3] briefe my Lord. _Ham._ As Womans loue. [4] _Enter King and his Queene._ [Sidenote: _and Queene_] [Sidenote: 234] _King._ Full thirtie times[5] hath Phoebus Cart gon round, Neptunes salt Wash, and _Tellus_ Orbed ground: [Sidenote: orb'd the] And thirtie dozen Moones with borrowed sheene, About the World haue times twelue thirties beene, Since loue our hearts, and _Hymen_ did our hands Vnite comutuall, in most sacred Bands.[6] _Bap._ So many iournies may the Sunne and Moone [Sidenote: _Quee._] Make vs againe count o're, ere loue be done. But woe is me, you are so sicke of late, So farre from cheere, and from your forme state, [Sidenote: from our former state,] That I distrust you: yet though I distrust, Discomfort you (my Lord) it nothing must: [A] For womens Feare and Loue, holds quantitie, [Sidenote: And womens hold] In neither ought, or in extremity:[7] [Sidenote: Eyther none, in neither] Now what my loue is, proofe hath made you know, [Sidenote: my Lord is proofe] And as my Loue is siz'd, my Feare is so. [Sidenote: ciz'd,] [B] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- For women feare too much, euen as they loue,] [Footnote B: _Here in the Quarto_:-- Where loue is great, the litlest doubts are feare, Where little feares grow great, great loue growes there.] [Footnote 1: _Enter_ not in _Q._] [Footnote 2: Commonly _posy_: a little sentence engraved inside a ring--perhaps originally a tiny couplet, therefore _poesy_, _1st Q._, 'a poesie for a ring?'] [Footnote 3: Emphasis on ''Tis.'] [Footnote 4: Very little blank verse of any kind was written before Shakspere's; the usual form of dramatic verse was long, irregular, rimed lines: the Poet here uses the heroic couplet, which gives a resemblance to the older plays by its rimes, while also by its stately and monotonous movement the play-play is differenced from the play into which it is introduced, and caused to _look_ intrinsically like a play in relation to the rest of the play of which it is part. In other words, it stands off from the surrounding play, slightly elevated both by form and formality. 103.] [Footnote 5: _1st Q._ _Duke._ Full fortie yeares are past, their date is gone, Since happy time ioyn'd both our hearts as one: And now the blood that fill'd my youthfull veines, Ruunes weakely in their pipes, and all the straines Of musicke, which whilome pleasde mine eare, Is now a burthen that Age cannot beare: And therefore sweete Nature must pay his due, To heauen must I, and leaue the earth with you.] [Footnote 6: Here Hamlet gives the time his father and mother had been married, and Shakspere points at Hamlet's age. 234. The Poet takes pains to show his hero's years.] [Footnote 7: This line, whose form in the _Quarto_ is very careless, seems but a careless correction, leaving the sense as well as the construction obscure: 'Women's fear and love keep the scales level; in _neither_ is there ought, or in _both_ there is fulness;' or: 'there is no moderation in their fear and their love; either they have _none_ of either, or they have _excess_ of both.' Perhaps he tried to express both ideas at once. But compression is always in danger of confusion.] [Page 144] _King._ Faith I must leaue thee Loue, and shortly too: My operant Powers my Functions leaue to do: [Sidenote: their functions] And thou shall liue in this faire world behinde, Honour'd, belou'd, and haply, one as kinde. For Husband shalt thou---- _Bap._ Oh confound the rest: [Sidenote: _Quee._] Such Loue, must needs be Treason in my brest: In second Husband, let me be accurst, None wed the second, but who kill'd the first.[1] _Ham._ Wormwood, Wormwood. [Sidenote: _Ham_. That's wormwood[2]] _Bapt._ The instances[3] that second Marriage moue, Are base respects of Thrift,[4] but none of Loue. A second time, I kill my Husband dead, When second Husband kisses me in Bed. _King._ I do beleeue you. Think what now you speak: But what we do determine, oft we breake: Purpose is but the slaue to Memorie,[5] Of violent Birth, but poore validitie:[6] Which now like Fruite vnripe stickes on the Tree, [Sidenote: now the fruite] But fall vnshaken, when they mellow bee.[7] Most necessary[8] 'tis, that we forget To pay our selues, what to our selues is debt: What to our selues in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of other Greefe or Ioy, [Sidenote: eyther,] Their owne ennactors with themselues destroy: [Sidenote: ennactures] Where Ioy most Reuels, Greefe doth most lament; Greefe ioyes, Ioy greeues on slender accident.[9] [Sidenote: Greefe ioy ioy griefes] This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That euen our Loues should with our Fortunes change. For 'tis a question left vs yet to proue, Whether Loue lead Fortune, or else Fortune Loue. [Footnote 1: Is this to be supposed in the original play, or inserted by Hamlet, embodying an unuttered and yet more fearful doubt with regard to his mother?] [Footnote 2: This speech is on the margin in the _Quarto_, and the Queene's speech runs on without break.] [Footnote 3: the urgencies; the motives.] [Footnote 4: worldly advantage.] [Footnote 5: 'Purpose holds but while Memory holds.'] [Footnote 6: 'Purpose is born in haste, but is of poor strength to live.'] [Footnote 7: Here again there is carelessness of construction, as if the Poet had not thought it worth his while to correct this subsidiary portion of the drama. I do not see how to lay the blame on the printer.--'Purpose is a mere fruit, which holds on or falls only as it must. The element of persistency is not in it.'] [Footnote 8: unavoidable--coming of necessity.] [Footnote 9: 'Grief turns into joy, and joy into grief, on a slight chance.'] [Page 146] The great man downe, you marke his fauourites flies, [Sidenote: fauourite] The poore aduanc'd, makes Friends of Enemies: And hitherto doth Loue on Fortune tend, For who not needs, shall neuer lacke a Frend: And who in want a hollow Friend doth try, Directly seasons him his Enemie.[1] But orderly to end, where I begun, Our Willes and Fates do so contrary run, That our Deuices still are ouerthrowne, Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our owne.[2] [Sidenote: 246] So thinke thou wilt no second Husband wed. But die thy thoughts, when thy first Lord is dead. _Bap._ Nor Earth to giue me food, nor Heauen light, [Sidenote: _Quee._] Sport and repose locke from me day and night:[3] [A] Each opposite that blankes the face of ioy, Meet what I would haue well, and it destroy: Both heere, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,[4] If once a Widdow, euer I be Wife.[5] [Sidenote: once I be a | be a wife] _Ham._ If she should breake it now.[6] _King._ 'Tis deepely sworne: Sweet, leaue me heere a while, My spirits grow dull, and faine I would beguile The tedious day with sleepe. _Qu._ Sleepe rocke thy Braine, [Sidenote: Sleepes[7]] And neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine, _Exit_ [Sidenote: _Exeunt._] _Ham._ Madam, how like you this Play? _Qu._ The Lady protests to much me thinkes, [Sidenote: doth protest] _Ham._ Oh but shee'l keepe her word. [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:_-- To desperation turne my trust and hope,[8] And Anchors[9] cheere in prison be my scope] [Footnote 1: All that is wanted to make a real enemy of an unreal friend is the seasoning of a requested favour.] [Footnote 2: 'Our thoughts are ours, but what will come of them we cannot tell.'] [Footnote 3: 'May Day and Night lock from me sport and repose.'] [Footnote 4: 'May strife pursue me in the world and out of it.'] [Footnote 5: In all this, there is nothing to reflect on his mother beyond what everybody knew.] [Footnote 6: _This speech is in the margin of the Quarto._] [Footnote 7: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 8: 'May my trust and hope turn to despair.'] [Footnote 9: an anchoret's.] [Page 148] _King_. Haue you heard the Argument, is there no Offence in't?[1] _Ham_. No, no, they do but iest, poyson in iest, no Offence i'th'world.[2] _King_. What do you call the Play? _Ham._ The Mouse-trap: Marry how? Tropically:[3] This Play is the Image of a murder done in _Vienna: Gonzago_ is the Dukes name, his wife _Baptista_: you shall see anon: 'tis a knauish peece of worke: But what o'that? Your Maiestie, and [Sidenote: of that?] wee that haue free soules, it touches vs not: let the gall'd iade winch: our withers are vnrung.[4] _Enter Lucianus._[5] This is one _Lucianus_ nephew to the King. _Ophe_. You are a good Chorus, my Lord. [Sidenote: are as good as a Chorus] _Ham_. I could interpret betweene you and your loue: if I could see the Puppets dallying.[6] _Ophe_. You are keene my Lord, you are keene. _Ham_. It would cost you a groaning, to take off my edge. [Sidenote: mine] _Ophe_. Still better and worse. _Ham_. So you mistake Husbands.[7] [Sidenote: mistake your] Begin Murderer. Pox, leaue thy damnable Faces, [Sidenote: murtherer, leave] and begin. Come, the croaking Rauen doth bellow for Reuenge.[8] _Lucian_. Thoughts blacke, hands apt, Drugges fit, and Time agreeing: Confederate season, else, no Creature seeing:[9] [Sidenote: Considerat] Thou mixture ranke, of Midnight Weeds collected, With Hecats Ban, thrice blasted, thrice infected, [Sidenote: invected] Thy naturall Magicke, and dire propertie, On wholsome life, vsurpe immediately. [Sidenote: vsurps] _Powres the poyson in his eares_.[10] _Ham_. He poysons him i'th Garden for's estate: [Sidenote: A poysons | for his] [Footnote 1: --said, perhaps, to Polonius. Is there a lapse here in the king's self-possession? or is this speech only an outcome of its completeness--a pretence of fearing the play may glance at the queen for marrying him?] [Footnote 2: 'It is but jest; don't be afraid: there is no reality in it'--as one might say to a child seeing a play.] [Footnote 3: Figuratively: from _trope_. In the _1st Q._ the passage stands thus: _Ham_. Mouse-trap: mary how trapically: this play is The image of a murder done in _guyana_,] [Footnote 4: Here Hamlet endangers himself to force the king to self-betrayal.] [Footnote 5: _In Q. after next line._] [Footnote 6: In a puppet-play, if she and her love were the puppets, he could supply the speeches.] [Footnote 7: Is this a misprint for 'so you _must take_ husbands'--for better and worse, namely? or is it a thrust at his mother--'So you mis-take husbands, going from the better to a worse'? In _1st Q._: 'So you must take your husband, begin.'] [Footnote 8: Probably a mocking parody or burlesque of some well-known exaggeration--such as not a few of Marlowe's lines.] [Footnote 9: 'none beholding save the accomplice hour:'.] [Footnote 10: _Not in Q._] [Page 150] His name's _Gonzago_: the Story is extant and writ [Sidenote: and written] in choyce Italian. You shall see anon how the [Sidenote: in very choice] Murtherer gets the loue of _Gonzago's_ wife. _Ophe_. The King rises.[1] _Ham_. What, frighted with false fire.[2] _Qu_. How fares my Lord? _Pol_. Giue o're the Play. _King_. Giue me some Light. Away.[3] _All_. Lights, Lights, Lights. _Exeunt_ [Sidenote: _Pol. | Exeunt all but Ham. & Horatio._] _Manet Hamlet & Horatio._ _Ham_.[4] Why let the strucken Deere go weepe, The Hart vngalled play: For some must watch, while some must sleepe; So runnes the world away. Would not this[5] Sir, and a Forrest of Feathers, if the rest of my Fortunes turne Turke with me; with two Prouinciall Roses[6] on my rac'd[7] Shooes, get me [Sidenote: with prouinciall | raz'd] a Fellowship[8] in a crie[9] of Players sir. [Sidenote: Players?] _Hor_. Halfe a share. _Ham_. A whole one I,[10] [11] For thou dost know: Oh Damon deere, This Realme dismantled was of Loue himselfe, And now reignes heere. A verie verie Paiocke.[12] _Hora_. You might haue Rim'd.[13] _Ham_. Oh good _Horatio_, Ile take the Ghosts word for a thousand pound. Did'st perceiue? _Hora_. Verie well my Lord. _Ham_. Vpon the talke of the poysoning? _Hora_. I did verie well note him. _Enter Rosincrance and Guildensterne_.[14] _Ham_. Oh, ha? Come some Musick.[15] Come the Recorders: [Sidenote: Ah ha,] [Footnote 1: --in ill suppressed agitation.] [Footnote 2: _This speech is not in the Quarto_.--Is the 'false fire' what we now call _stage-fire_?--'What! frighted at a mere play?'] [Footnote 3: The stage--the stage-stage, that is--alone is lighted. Does the king stagger out blindly, madly, shaking them from him? I think not--but as if he were taken suddenly ill.] [Footnote 4: --_singing_--that he may hide his agitation, restrain himself, and be regarded as careless-mad, until all are safely gone.] [Footnote 5: --his success with the play.] [Footnote 6: 'Roses of Provins,' we are told--probably artificial.] [Footnote 7: The meaning is very doubtful. But for the _raz'd_ of the _Quarto_, I should suggest _lac'd_. Could it mean _cut low_?] [Footnote 8: _a share_, as immediately below.] [Footnote 9: A _cry_ of hounds is a pack. So in _King Lear_, act v. sc. 3, 'packs and sects of great ones.'] [Footnote 10: _I_ for _ay_--that is, _yes_!--He insists on a whole share.] [Footnote 11: Again he takes refuge in singing.] [Footnote 12: The lines are properly measured in the _Quarto_: For thou doost know oh Damon deere This Realme dismantled was Of _Ioue_ himselfe, and now raignes heere A very very paiock. By _Jove_, he of course intends _his father_. 170. What 'Paiocke' means, whether _pagan_, or _peacock_, or _bajocco_, matters nothing, since it is intended for nonsense.] [Footnote 13: To rime with _was_, Horatio naturally expected _ass_ to follow as the end of the last line: in the wanton humour of his excitement, Hamlet disappointed him.] [Footnote 14: _In Q. after next speech_.] [Footnote 15: He hears Rosincrance and Guildensterne coming, and changes his behaviour--calling for music to end the play with. Either he wants, under its cover, to finish his talk with Horatio in what is for the moment the safest place, or he would mask himself before his two false friends. Since the departure of the king--I would suggest--he has borne himself with evident apprehension, every now and then glancing about him, as fearful of what may follow his uncle's recognition of the intent of the play. Three times he has burst out singing. Or might not his whole carriage, with the call for music, be the outcome of a grimly merry satisfaction at the success of his scheme?] [Page 152] For if the King like not the Comedie, Why then belike he likes it not perdie.[1] Come some Musicke. _Guild._ Good my Lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. _Ham._ Sir, a whole History. _Guild._ The King, sir. _Ham._ I sir, what of him? _Guild._ Is in his retyrement, maruellous distemper'd. _Ham._ With drinke Sir? _Guild._ No my Lord, rather with choller.[2] [Sidenote: Lord, with] _Ham._ Your wisedome should shew it selfe more richer, to signifie this to his Doctor: for me to [Sidenote: the Doctor,] put him to his Purgation, would perhaps plundge him into farre more Choller.[2] [Sidenote: into more] _Guild._ Good my Lord put your discourse into some frame,[3] and start not so wildely from my [Sidenote: stare] affayre. _Ham._ I am tame Sir, pronounce. _Guild._ The Queene your Mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. _Ham._ You are welcome.[4] _Guild._ Nay, good my Lord, this courtesie is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholsome answer, I will doe your Mothers command'ment: if not, your pardon, and my returne shall bee the end of my Businesse. [Sidenote: of busines.] _Ham._ Sir, I cannot. _Guild._ What, my Lord? _Ham._ Make you a wholsome answere: my wits diseas'd. But sir, such answers as I can make, you [Sidenote: answere] shal command: or rather you say, my Mother: [Sidenote: rather as you] therfore no more but to the matter. My Mother you say. [Footnote 1: These two lines he may be supposed to sing.] [Footnote 2: Choler means bile, and thence anger. Hamlet in his answer plays on the two meanings:--'to give him the kind of medicine I think fit for him, would perhaps much increase his displeasure.'] [Footnote 3: some logical consistency.] [Footnote 4: _--with an exaggeration of courtesy_.] [Page 154] _Rosin._ Then thus she sayes: your behauior hath stroke her into amazement, and admiration.[1] _Ham._ Oh wonderfull Sonne, that can so astonish [Sidenote: stonish] a Mother. But is there no sequell at the heeles of this Mothers admiration? [Sidenote: admiration, impart.] _Rosin._ She desires to speake with you in her Closset, ere you go to bed. _Ham._ We shall obey, were she ten times our Mother. Haue you any further Trade with vs? _Rosin._ My Lord, you once did loue me. _Ham._ So I do still, by these pickers and [Sidenote: And doe still] stealers.[2] _Rosin._ Good my Lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do freely barre the doore of your [Sidenote: surely barre the door vpon your] owne Libertie, if you deny your greefes to your your Friend. _Ham._ Sir I lacke Aduancement. _Rosin._ How can that be, when you haue the [Sidenote: 136] voyce of the King himselfe, for your Succession in Denmarke? [3] _Ham._ I, but while the grasse growes,[4] the [Sidenote: I sir,] Prouerbe is something musty. _Enter one with a Recorder._[5] O the Recorder. Let me see, to withdraw with, [Sidenote: ô the Recorders, let mee see one, to] you,[6] why do you go about to recouer the winde of mee,[7] as if you would driue me into a toyle?[8] _Guild._ O my Lord, if my Dutie be too bold, my loue is too vnmannerly.[9] _Ham._ I do not well vnderstand that.[10] Will you, play vpon this Pipe? _Guild._ My Lord, I cannot. _Ham._ I pray you. _Guild._ Beleeue me, I cannot. _Ham._ I do beseech you. [Footnote 1: wonder, astonishment.] [Footnote 2: He swears an oath that will not hold, being by the hand of a thief. In the Catechism: 'Keep my hands from picking and stealing.'] [Footnote 3: Here in Quarto, _Enter the Players with Recorders._] [Footnote 4: '... the colt starves.'] [Footnote 5: _Not in Q._ The stage-direction of the _Folio_ seems doubtful. Hamlet has called for the orchestra: we may either suppose one to precede the others, or that the rest are already scattered; but the _Quarto_ direction and reading seem better.] [Footnote 6: _--taking Guildensterne aside_.] [Footnote 7: 'to get to windward of me.'] [Footnote 8: 'Why do you seek to get the advantage of me, as if you would drive me to betray myself?'--Hunters, by sending on the wind their scent to the game, drive it into their toils.] [Footnote 9: Guildensterne tries euphuism, but hardly succeeds. He intends to plead that any fault in his approach must be laid to the charge of his love. _Duty_ here means _homage_--so used still by the common people.] [Footnote 10: --said with a smile of gentle contempt.] [Page 156] _Guild_. I know no touch of it, my Lord. _Ham_. Tis as easie as lying: gouerne these [Sidenote: It is] Ventiges with your finger and thumbe, giue it [Sidenote: fingers, & the vmber, giue] breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most [Sidenote: most eloquent] excellent Musicke. Looke you, these are the stoppes. _Guild_. But these cannot I command to any vtterance of hermony, I haue not the skill. _Ham_. Why looke you now, how vnworthy a thing you make of me: you would play vpon mee; you would seeme to know my stops: you would pluck out the heart of my Mysterie; you would sound mee from my lowest Note, to the top of my [Sidenote: note to my compasse] Compasse: and there is much Musicke, excellent Voice, in this little Organe, yet cannot you make [Sidenote: it speak, s'hloud do you think I] it. Why do you thinke, that I am easier to bee plaid on, then a Pipe? Call me what Instrument you will, though you can fret[1] me, you cannot [Sidenote: you fret me not,] [Sidenote: 184] play vpon me. God blesse you Sir.[2] _Enter Polonius_. _Polon_. My Lord; the Queene would speak with you, and presently. _Ham_. Do you see that Clowd? that's almost in [Sidenote: yonder clowd] shape like a Camell. [Sidenote: shape of a] _Polon_. By'th'Misse, and it's like a Camell [Sidenote: masse and tis,] indeed. _Ham_. Me thinkes it is like a Weazell. _Polon_. It is back'd like a Weazell. _Ham_. Or like a Whale?[3] _Polon_. Verie like a Whale.[4] _Ham_. Then will I come to my Mother, by and by: [Sidenote: I will] [Sidenote: 60, 136, 178] They foole me to the top of my bent.[5] I will come by and by. [Footnote 1: --with allusion to the _frets_ or _stop-marks_ of a stringed instrument.] [Footnote 2: --_to Polonius_.] [Footnote 3: There is nothing insanely arbitrary in these suggestions of likeness; a cloud might very well be like every one of the three; the camel has a hump, the weasel humps himself, and the whale is a hump.] [Footnote 4: He humours him in everything, as he would a madman.] [Footnote 5: Hamlet's cleverness in simulating madness is dwelt upon in the old story. See '_Hystorie of Hamblet, prince of Denmarke_.'] [Page 158] _Polon_.[1] I will say so. _Exit_.[1] _Ham_.[1] By and by, is easily said. Leaue me Friends: 'Tis now the verie witching time of night, When Churchyards yawne, and Hell it selfe breaths out [Sidenote: brakes[2]] Contagion to this world.[3] Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter businesse as the day [Sidenote: such busines as the bitter day] Would quake to looke on.[4] Soft now, to my Mother: Oh Heart, loose not thy Nature;[5] let not euer The Soule of _Nero_[6] enter this firme bosome: Let me be cruell, not vnnaturall. [Sidenote: 172] I will speake Daggers[7] to her, but vse none: [Sidenote: dagger] My Tongue and Soule in this be Hypocrites.[8] How in my words someuer she be shent,[9] To giue them Seales,[10] neuer my Soule consent.[4] [Sidenote: _Exit._] _Enter King, Rosincrance, and Guildensterne_. _King_. I like him not, nor stands it safe with vs, To let his madnesse range.[11] Therefore prepare you, [Sidenote: 167] I your Commission will forthwith dispatch,[12] [Sidenote: 180] And he to England shall along with you: The termes of our estate, may not endure[13] Hazard so dangerous as doth hourely grow [Sidenote: so neer's as] Out of his Lunacies. [Sidenote: his browes.] _Guild_. We will our selues prouide: Most holie and Religious feare it is[14] To keepe those many many bodies safe That liue and feede vpon your Maiestie.[15] _Rosin_. The single And peculiar[16] life is bound With all the strength and Armour of the minde, [Footnote 1: The _Quarto_, not having _Polon., Exit, or Ham._, and arranging differently, reads thus:-- They foole me to the top of my bent, I will come by and by, Leaue me friends. I will, say so. By and by is easily said, Tis now the very &c.] [Footnote 2: _belches_.] [Footnote 3: --thinking of what the Ghost had told him, perhaps: it was the time when awful secrets wander about the world. Compare _Macbeth_, act ii. sc. 1; also act iii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 4: The assurance of his uncle's guilt, gained through the effect of the play upon him, and the corroboration of his mother's guilt by this partial confirmation of the Ghost's assertion, have once more stirred in Hamlet the fierceness of vengeance. But here afresh comes out the balanced nature of the man--say rather, the supremacy in him of reason and will. His dear soul, having once become mistress of his choice, remains mistress for ever. He _could_ drink hot blood, he _could_ do bitter business, but he will carry himself as a son, and the son of his father, _ought_ to carry himself towards a guilty mother--_mother_ although guilty.] [Footnote 5: Thus he girds himself for the harrowing interview. Aware of the danger he is in of forgetting his duty to his mother, he strengthens himself in filial righteousness, dreading to what word or deed a burst of indignation might drive him. One of his troubles now is the way he feels towards his mother.] [Footnote 6: --who killed his mother.] [Footnote 7: His words should be as daggers.] [Footnote 8: _Pretenders_.] [Footnote 9: _reproached_ or _rebuked_--though oftener _scolded_.] [Footnote 10: 'to seal them with actions'--Actions are the seals to words, and make them irrevocable.] [Footnote 11: _walk at liberty_.] [Footnote 12: _get ready_.] [Footnote 13: He had, it would appear, taken them into his confidence in the business; they knew what was to be in their commission, and were thorough traitors to Hamlet.] [Footnote 14: --holy and religious precaution for the sake of the many depending on him.] [Footnote 15: Is there not unconscious irony of their own parasitism here intended?] [Footnote 16: _private individual_.] [Page 160] To keepe it selfe from noyance:[1] but much more, That Spirit, vpon whose spirit depends and rests [Sidenote: whose weale depends] The lives of many, the cease of Maiestie [Sidenote: cesse] Dies not alone;[2] but like a Gulfe doth draw What's neere it, with it. It is a massie wheele [Sidenote: with it, or it is] Fixt on the Somnet of the highest Mount, To whose huge Spoakes, ten thousand lesser things [Sidenote: hough spokes] Are mortiz'd and adioyn'd: which when it falles, Each small annexment, pettie consequence Attends the boystrous Ruine. Neuer alone [Sidenote: raine,] Did the King sighe, but with a generall grone. [Sidenote: but a[3]] _King._[4] Arme you,[5] I pray you to this speedie Voyage; [Sidenote: viage,] For we will Fetters put vpon this feare,[6] [Sidenote: put about this] Which now goes too free-footed. _Both._ We will haste vs. _Exeunt Gent_ _Enter Polonius._ Pol. My Lord, he's going to his Mothers Closset: Behinde the Arras Ile conuey my selfe To heare the Processe. Ile warrant shee'l tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meete that some more audience then a Mother, Since Nature makes them partiall, should o're-heare The speech of vantage.[7] Fare you well my Liege, Ile call vpon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. [Sidenote: Exit.] _King._ Thankes deere my Lord. Oh my offence is ranke, it smels to heauen, It hath the primall eldest curse vpon't, A Brothers murther.[8] Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharpe as will: My stronger guilt,[9] defeats my strong intent, [Footnote 1: The philosophy of which self is the centre. The speeches of both justify the king in proceeding to extremes against Hamlet.] [Footnote 2: The same as to say: 'The passing, ceasing, or ending of majesty dies not--is not finished or accomplished, without that of others;' 'the dying ends or ceases not,' &c.] [Footnote 3: The _but_ of the _Quarto_ is better, only the line halts. It is the preposition, meaning _without_.] [Footnote 4: _heedless of their flattery_. It is hardly applicable enough to interest him.] [Footnote 5: 'Provide yourselves.'] [Footnote 6: fear active; cause of fear; thing to be afraid of; the noun of the verb _fear_, to _frighten_: Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear! _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, act v. sc. i.] [Footnote 7: Schmidt (_Sh. Lex._) says _of vantage_ means _to boot_. I do not think he is right. Perhaps Polonius means 'from a position of advantage.' Or perhaps 'The speech of vantage' is to be understood as implying that Hamlet, finding himself in a position of vantage, that is, alone with his mother, will probably utter himself with little restraint.] [Footnote 8: This is the first proof positive of his guilt accorded even to the spectator of the play: here Claudius confesses not merely guilt (118), but the very deed. Thoughtless critics are so ready to judge another as if he knew all they know, that it is desirable here to remind the student that only he, not Hamlet, hears this soliloquy. The falseness of half the judgments in the world comes from our not taking care and pains first to know accurately the actions, and then to understand the mental and moral condition, of those we judge.] [Footnote 9: --his present guilty indulgence--stronger than his strong intent to pray.] [Page 162] And like a man to double businesse bound,[1] I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both[2] neglect; what if this cursed hand Were thicker then it selfe with Brothers blood, Is there not Raine enough in the sweet Heauens To wash it white as Snow? Whereto serues mercy, But to confront the visage of Offence? And what's in Prayer, but this two-fold force, To be fore-stalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being downe? Then Ile looke vp, [Sidenote: pardon] My fault is past. But oh, what forme of Prayer Can serue my turne? Forgiue me my foule Murther: That cannot be, since I am still possest Of those effects for which I did the Murther.[3] My Crowne, mine owne Ambition, and my Queene: May one be pardon'd, and retaine th'offence? In the corrupted currants of this world, Offences gilded hand may shoue by Iustice [Sidenote: showe] And oft 'tis seene, the wicked prize it selfe Buyes out the Law; but 'tis not so aboue, There is no shuffling, there the Action lyes In his true Nature, and we our selues compell'd Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To giue in euidence. What then? What rests? Try what Repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?[4] Oh wretched state! Oh bosome, blacke as death! Oh limed[5] soule, that strugling to be free, Art more ingag'd[6]: Helpe Angels, make assay:[7] Bow stubborne knees, and heart with strings of Steele, Be soft as sinewes of the new-borne Babe, All may be well. [Footnote 1: Referring to his double guilt--the one crime past, the other in continuance. Here is the corresponding passage in the _1st Q._, with the adultery plainly confessed:-- _Enter the King._ _King_. O that this wet that falles vpon my face Would wash the crime cleere from my conscience! When I looke vp to heauen, I see my trespasse, The earth doth still crie out vpon my fact, Pay me the murder of a brother and a king, And the adulterous fault I haue committed: O these are sinnes that are vnpardonable: Why say thy sinnes were blacker then is ieat, Yet may contrition make them as white as snowe: I but still to perseuer in a sinne, It is an act gainst the vniuersall power, Most wretched man, stoope, bend thee to thy prayer, Aske grace of heauen to keepe thee from despaire.] [Footnote 2: both crimes.] [Footnote 3: He could repent of and pray forgiveness for the murder, if he could repent of the adultery and incest, and give up the queen. It is not the sins they have done, but the sins they will not leave, that damn men. 'This is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.' The murder deeply troubled him; the adultery not so much; the incest and usurpation mainly as interfering with the forgiveness of the murder.] [Footnote 4: Even hatred of crime committed is not repentance: repentance is the turning away from wrong doing: 'Cease to do evil; learn to do well.'] [Footnote 5: --caught and held by crime, as a bird by bird-lime.] [Footnote 6: entangled.] [Footnote 7: _said to his knees_. Point thus:--'Helpe Angels! Make assay--bow, stubborne knees!'] [Page 164] _Enter Hamlet_. _Ham_.[1] Now might I do it pat, now he is praying, [Sidenote: doe it, but now a is a praying,] And now Ile doo't, and so he goes to Heauen, [Sidenote: so a goes] And so am I reueng'd: that would be scann'd, [Sidenote: reuendge,] A Villaine killes my Father, and for that I his foule Sonne, do this same Villaine send [Sidenote: sole sonne] To heauen. Oh this is hyre and Sallery, not Reuenge. [Sidenote: To heauen. Why, this is base and silly, not] He tooke my Father grossely, full of bread, [Sidenote: A tooke] [Sidenote: 54, 262] With all his Crimes broad blowne, as fresh as May, [Sidenote: as flush as] And how his Audit stands, who knowes, saue Heauen:[2] But in our circumstance and course of thought 'Tis heauie with him: and am I then reueng'd, To take him in the purging of his Soule, When he is fit and season'd for his passage? No. Vp Sword, and know thou a more horrid hent[3] When he is drunke asleepe: or in his Rage, Or in th'incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing, or about some acte [Sidenote: At game a swearing,] That ha's no rellish of Saluation in't, Then trip him,[4] that his heeles may kicke at Heauen, And that his Soule may be as damn'd and blacke As Hell, whereto it goes.[5] My Mother stayes,[6] This Physicke but prolongs thy sickly dayes.[7] _Exit_. _King_. My words flye vp, my thoughts remain below, Words without thoughts, neuer to Heauen go.[8] _Exit_. _Enter Queene and Polonius_. [Sidenote: _Enter Gertrard and_] _Pol_. He will come straight: [Sidenote: A will] Looke you lay home to him [Footnote 1: In the _1st Q._ this speech commences with, 'I so, come forth and worke thy last,' evidently addressed to his sword; afterwards, having changed his purpose, he says, 'no, get thee vp agen.'] [Footnote 2: This indicates doubt of the Ghost still. He is unwilling to believe in him.] [Footnote 3: _grasp_. This is the only instance I know of _hent_ as a noun. The verb _to hent, to lay hold of_, is not so rare. 'Wait till thou be aware of a grasp with a more horrid purpose in it.'] [Footnote 4: --still addressed to his sword.] [Footnote 5: Are we to take Hamlet's own presentment of his reasons as exhaustive? Doubtless to kill him at his prayers, whereupon, after the notions of the time, he would go to heaven, would be anything but justice--the murdered man in hell--the murderer in heaven! But it is easy to suppose Hamlet finding it impossible to slay a man on his knees--and that from behind: thus in the unseen Presence, he was in sanctuary, and the avenger might well seek reason or excuse for not _then_, not _there_ executing the decree.] [Footnote 6: 'waits for me.'] [Footnote 7: He seems now to have made up his mind, and to await only fit time and opportunity; but he is yet to receive confirmation strong as holy writ. This is the first chance Hamlet has had--within the play--of killing the king, and any imputation of faulty irresolution therein is simply silly. It shows the soundness of Hamlet's reason, and the steadiness of his will, that he refuses to be carried away by passion, or the temptation of opportunity. The sight of the man on his knees might well start fresh doubt of his guilt, or even wake the thought of sparing a repentant sinner. He knows also that in taking vengeance on her husband he could not avoid compromising his mother. Besides, a man like Hamlet could not fail to perceive how the killing of his uncle, and in such an attitude, would look to others. It may be judged, however, that the reason he gives to himself for not slaying the king, was only an excuse, that his soul revolted from the idea of assassination, and was calmed in a measure by the doubt whether a man could thus pray--in supposed privacy, we must remember--and be a murderer. Not even yet had he proof _positive_, absolute, conclusive: the king might well take offence at the play, even were he innocent; and in any case Hamlet would desire _presentable_ proof: he had positively none to show the people in justification of vengeance. As in excitement a man's moods may be opalescent in their changes, and as the most contrary feelings may coexist in varying degrees, all might be in a mind, which I have suggested as present in that of Hamlet. To have been capable of the kind of action most of his critics would demand of a man, Hamlet must have been the weakling they imagine him. When at length, after a righteous delay, partly willed, partly inevitable, he holds documents in the king's handwriting as proofs of his treachery--_proofs which can be shown_--giving him both right and power over the life of the traitor, then, and only then, is he in cool blood absolutely satisfied as to his duty--which conviction, working with opportunity, and that opportunity plainly the last, brings the end; the righteous deed is done, and done righteously, the doer blameless in the doing of it. The Poet is not careful of what is called poetic justice in his play, though therein is no failure; what he is careful of is personal rightness in the hero of it.] [Footnote 8: _1st Q_. _King_ My wordes fly vp, my sinnes remaine below. No King on earth is safe, if Gods his foe. _Exit King_. So he goes to make himself safe by more crime! His repentance is mainly fear.] [Page 166] Tell him his prankes haue been too broad to beare with, And that your Grace hath scree'nd, and stoode betweene Much heate, and him. Ile silence me e'ene heere: [Sidenote: euen heere,] Pray you be round[1] with him.[2] [Sidenote: _Enter Hamlet_.] _Ham. within_. Mother, mother, mother.[3] _Qu_. Ile warrant you, feare me not. [Sidenote: _Ger_. Ile wait you,] Withdraw, I heare him comming. _Enter Hamlet_.[4] _Ham_.[5] Now Mother, what's the matter? _Qu_. _Hamlet_, thou hast thy Father much offended. [Sidenote: _Ger_.] _Ham_. Mother, you haue my Father much offended. _Qu_. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. [Sidenote: _Ger_.] _Ham._ Go, go, you question with an idle tongue. [Sidenote: with a wicked tongue.] _Qu_. Why how now _Hamlet_?[6] [Sidenote: _Ger_.] _Ham_. Whats the matter now? _Qu_. Haue you forgot me?[7] [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham_. No by the Rood, not so: You are the Queene, your Husbands Brothers wife, But would you were not so. You are my Mother.[8] [Sidenote: And would it were] _Qu_. Nay, then Ile set those to you that can speake.[9] [Sidenote: _Ger_.] _Ham_. Come, come, and sit you downe, you shall not boudge: You go not till I set you vp a glasse, Where you may see the inmost part of you? [Sidenote: the most part] _Qu_. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther [Sidenote: _Ger_.] me?[10] Helpe, helpe, hoa. [Sidenote: Helpe how.] _Pol_. What hoa, helpe, helpe, helpe. [Sidenote: What how helpe.] _Ham_. How now, a Rat? dead for a Ducate, dead.[11] [Footnote 1: _The Quarto has not_ 'with him.'] [Footnote 2: _He goes behind the arras._] [Footnote 3: _The Quarto has not this speech._] [Footnote 4: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 5: _1st Q._ _Ham_. Mother, mother, O are you here? How i'st with you mother? _Queene_ How i'st with you? _Ham_, I'le tell you, but first weele make all safe. Here, evidently, he bolts the doors.] [Footnote 6: _1st Q._ _Queene_ How now boy? _Ham_. How now mother! come here, sit downe, for you shall heare me speake.] [Footnote 7: --'that you speak to me in such fashion?'] [Footnote 8: _Point thus_: 'so: you'--'would you were not so, for you are _my_ mother.'--_with emphasis on_ 'my.' The whole is spoken sadly.] [Footnote 9: --'speak so that you must mind them.'] [Footnote 10: The apprehension comes from the combined action of her conscience and the notion of his madness.] [Footnote 11: There is no precipitancy here--only instant resolve and execution. It is another outcome and embodiment of Hamlet's rare faculty for action, showing his delay the more admirable. There is here neither time nor call for delay. Whoever the man behind the arras might be, he had, by spying upon him in the privacy of his mother's room, forfeited to Hamlet his right to live; he had heard what he had said to his mother, and his death was necessary; for, if he left the room, Hamlet's last chance of fulfilling his vow to the Ghost was gone: if the play had not sealed, what he had now spoken must seal his doom. But the decree had in fact already gone forth against his life. 158.] [Page 168] _Pol._ Oh I am slaine. [1]_Killes Polonius._[2] _Qu._ Oh me, what hast thou done? [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ Nay I know not, is it the King?[3] _Qu._ Oh what a rash, and bloody deed is this? [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ A bloody deed, almost as bad good Mother, [Sidenote: 56] As kill a King,[4] and marrie with his Brother. _Qu._ As kill a King? [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ I Lady, 'twas my word.[5] [Sidenote: it was] Thou wretched, rash, intruding foole farewell, I tooke thee for thy Betters,[3] take thy Fortune, [Sidenote: better,] Thou find'st to be too busie, is some danger, Leaue wringing of your hands, peace, sit you downe, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall If it be made of penetrable stuffe; If damned Custome haue not braz'd it so, That it is proofe and bulwarke against Sense. [Sidenote: it be] _Qu._ What haue I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tong, [Sidenote: _Ger._] In noise so rude against me?[6] _Ham._ Such an Act That blurres the grace and blush of Modestie,[7] Calls Vertue Hypocrite, takes off the Rose From the faire forehead of an innocent loue, And makes a blister there.[8] Makes marriage vowes [Sidenote: And sets a] As false as Dicers Oathes. Oh such a deed, As from the body of Contraction[9] pluckes The very soule, and sweete Religion makes A rapsidie of words. Heauens face doth glow, [Sidenote: dooes] Yea this solidity and compound masse, [Sidenote: Ore this] With tristfull visage as against the doome, [Sidenote: with heated visage,] Is thought-sicke at the act.[10] [Sidenote: thought sick] _Qu._ Aye me; what act,[11] that roares so lowd,[12] and thunders in the Index.[13] [Footnote 1: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 2: --_through the arras_.] [Footnote 3: Hamlet takes him for, hopes it is the king, and thinks here to conclude: he is not praying now! and there is not a moment to be lost, for he has betrayed his presence and called for help. As often as immediate action is demanded of Hamlet, he is immediate with his response--never hesitates, never blunders. There is no blunder here: being where he was, the death of Polonius was necessary now to the death of the king. Hamlet's resolve is instant, and the act simultaneous with the resolve. The weak man is sure to be found wanting when immediate action is necessary; Hamlet never is. Doubtless those who blame him as dilatory, here blame him as precipitate, for they judge according to appearance and consequence. All his delay after this is plainly compelled, although I grant he was not sorry to have to await such _more presentable_ evidence as at last he procured, so long as he did not lose the final possibility of vengeance.] [Footnote 4: This is the sole reference in the interview to the murder. I take it for tentative, and that Hamlet is satisfied by his mother's utterance, carriage, and expression, that she is innocent of any knowledge of that crime. Neither does he allude to the adultery: there is enough in what she cannot deny, and that only which can be remedied needs be taken up; while to break with the king would open the door of repentance for all that had preceded.] [Footnote 5: He says nothing of the Ghost to his mother.] [Footnote 6: She still holds up and holds out.] [Footnote 7: 'makes Modesty itself suspected.'] [Footnote 8: 'makes Innocence ashamed of the love it cherishes.'] [Footnote 9: 'plucks the spirit out of all forms of contracting or agreeing.' We have lost the social and kept only the physical meaning of the noun.] [Footnote 10: I cannot help thinking the _Quarto_ reading of this passage the more intelligible, as well as much the more powerful. We may imagine a red aurora, by no means a very unusual phenomenon, over the expanse of the sky:-- Heaven's face doth glow (_blush_) O'er this solidity and compound mass, (_the earth, solid, material, composite, a corporeal mass in confrontment with the spirit-like etherial, simple, uncompounded heaven leaning over it_) With tristful (_or_ heated, _as the reader may choose_) visage: as against the doom, (_as in the presence, or in anticipation of the revealing judgment_) Is thought sick at the act. (_thought is sick at the act of the queen_) My difficulties as to the _Folio_ reading are--why the earth should be so described without immediate contrast with the sky; and--how the earth could be showing a tristful visage, and the sickness of its thought. I think, if the Poet indeed made the alterations and they are not mere blunders, he must have made them hurriedly, and without due attention. I would not forget, however, that there may be something present but too good for me to find, which would make the passage plain as it stands. Compare _As you like it_, act i. sc. 3. For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.] [Footnote 11: In Q. the rest of this speech is Hamlet's; his long speech begins here, taking up the queen's word.] [Footnote 12: She still stands out.] [Footnote 13: 'thunders in the very indication or mention of it.' But by 'the Index' may be intended the influx or table of contents of a book, at the beginning of it.] [Page 170] _Ham._ Looke heere vpon this Picture, and on this, The counterfet presentment of two Brothers:[1] See what a grace was seated on his Brow, [Sidenote: on this] [Sidenote: 151] _Hyperions_ curies, the front of Ioue himselfe, An eye like Mars, to threaten or command [Sidenote: threaten and] A Station, like the Herald Mercurie New lighted on a heauen kissing hill: [Sidenote: on a heaue, a kissing] A Combination, and a forme indeed, Where euery God did seeme to set his Seale, To giue the world assurance of a man.[2] This was your Husband. Looke you now what followes. Heere is your Husband, like a Mildew'd eare Blasting his wholsom breath. Haue you eyes? [Sidenote: wholsome brother,] Could you on this faire Mountaine leaue to feed, And batten on this Moore?[3] Ha? Haue you eyes? You cannot call it Loue: For at your age, The hey-day[4] in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waites vpon the Judgement: and what Iudgement Would step from this, to this? [A] What diuell was't, That thus hath cousend you at hoodman-blinde?[5] [Sidenote: hodman] [B] O Shame! where is thy Blush? Rebellious Hell, If thou canst mutine in a Matrons bones, [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- sence sure youe haue Els could you not haue motion, but sure that sence Is appoplext, for madnesse would not erre Nor sence to extacie[6] was nere so thral'd But it reseru'd some quantity of choise[7] To serue in such[8] a difference,] [Footnote B: _Here in the Quarto_:-- Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight. Eares without hands, or eyes, smelling sance[9] all, Or but a sickly part of one true sence Could not so mope:[10]] [Footnote 1: He points to the portraits of the two brothers, side by side on the wall.] [Footnote 2: See _Julius Caesar_, act v. sc. 5,--speech of _Antony_ at the end.] [Footnote 3: --perhaps an allusion as well to the complexion of Claudius, both moral and physical.] [Footnote 4: --perhaps allied to the German _heida_, and possibly the English _hoyden_ and _hoity-toity_. Or is it merely _high-day--noontide_?] [Footnote 5: 'played tricks with you while hooded in the game of _blind-man's-bluff_?' The omitted passage of the _Quarto_ enlarges the figure. _1st Q._ 'hob-man blinde.'] [Footnote 6: madness.] [Footnote 7: Attributing soul to sense, he calls its distinguishment _choice_.] [Footnote 8: --emphasis on _such_.] [Footnote 9: This spelling seems to show how the English word _sans_ should be pronounced.] [Footnote 10: --'be so dull.'] [Page 172] To flaming youth, let Vertue be as waxe, And melt in her owne fire. Proclaime no shame, When the compulsiue Ardure giues the charge, Since Frost it selfe,[1] as actiuely doth burne, As Reason panders Will. [Sidenote: And reason pardons will.] _Qu._ O Hamlet, speake no more.[2] [Sidenote: _Ger._] Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soule, [Sidenote: my very eyes into my soule,] And there I see such blacke and grained[3] spots, [Sidenote: greeued spots] As will not leaue their Tinct.[4] [Sidenote: will leaue there their] _Ham._ Nay, but to liue[5] In the ranke sweat of an enseamed bed, [Sidenote: inseemed] Stew'd in Corruption; honying and making loue [Sidenote: 34] Ouer the nasty Stye.[6] _Qu._ Oh speake to me, no more, [Sidenote: _Ger._] [Sidenote: 158] These words like Daggers enter in mine eares. [Sidenote: my] No more sweet _Hamlet_. _Ham._ A Murderer, and a Villaine: A Slaue, that is not twentieth part the tythe [Sidenote: part the kyth] Of your precedent Lord. A vice[7] of Kings, A Cutpurse of the Empire and the Rule. That from a shelfe, the precious Diadem stole, And put it in his Pocket. _Qu._ No more.[8] [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Enter Ghost._[9] _Ham._ A King of shreds and patches. [Sidenote: 44] Saue me; and houer o're me with your wings[10] You heauenly Guards. What would you gracious figure? [Sidenote: your gracious] _Qu._ Alas he's mad.[11] [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ Do you not come your tardy Sonne to chide, That laps't in Time and Passion, lets go by[12] Th'important acting of your dread command? Oh say.[13] [Footnote 1: --his mother's matronly age.] [Footnote 2: She gives way at last.] [Footnote 3: --spots whose blackness has sunk into the grain, or final particles of the substance.] [Footnote 4: --transition form of tint:--'will never give up their colour;' 'will never be cleansed.'] [Footnote 5: He persists.] [Footnote 6: --Claudius himself--his body no 'temple of the Holy Ghost,' but a pig-sty. 3.] [Footnote 7: The clown of the old Moral Play.] [Footnote 8: She seems neither surprised nor indignant at any point in the accusation: her consciousness of her own guiit has overwhelmed her.] [Footnote 9: The _1st Q._ has _Enter the ghost in his night gowne_. It was then from the first intended that he should not at this point appear in armour--in which, indeed, the epithet _gracious figure_ could hardly be applied to him, though it might well enough in one of the costumes in which Hamlet was accustomed to see him--as this dressing-gown of the _1st Q._ A ghost would appear in the costume in which he naturally imagined himself, and in his wife's room would not show himself clothed as when walking among the fortifications of the castle. But by the words lower down (174)-- My Father in his habite, as he liued, the Poet indicates, not his dressing-gown, but his usual habit, _i.e._ attire.] [Footnote 10: --almost the same invocation as when first he saw the apparition.] [Footnote 11: The queen cannot see the Ghost. Her conduct has built such a wall between her and her husband that I doubt whether, were she a ghost also, she could see him. Her heart had left him, so they are no more together in the sphere of mutual vision. Neither does the Ghost wish to show himself to her. As his presence is not corporeal, a ghost may be present to but one of a company.] [Footnote 12: 1. 'Who, lapsed (_fallen, guilty_), lets action slip in delay and suffering.' 2. 'Who, lapsed in (_fallen in, overwhelmed by_) delay and suffering, omits' &c. 3. 'lapsed in respect of time, and because of passion'--the meaning of the preposition _in_, common to both, reacted upon by the word it governs. 4. 'faulty both in delaying, and in yielding to suffering, when action is required.' 5. 'lapsed through having too much time and great suffering.' 6. 'allowing himself to be swept along by time and grief.' Surely there is not another writer whose words would so often admit of such multiform and varied interpretation--each form good, and true, and suitable to the context! He seems to see at once all the relations of a thing, and to try to convey them at once, in an utterance single as the thing itself. He would condense the infinite soul of the meaning into the trembling, overtaxed body of the phrase!] [Footnote 13: In the renewed presence of the Ghost, all its former influence and all the former conviction of its truth, return upon him. He knows also how his behaviour must appear to the Ghost, and sees himself as the Ghost sees him. Confronted with the gracious figure, how should he think of self-justification! So far from being able to explain things, he even forgets the doubt that had held him back--it has vanished from the noble presence! He is now in the world of belief; the world of doubt is nowhere!--Note the masterly opposition of moods.] [Page 174] _Ghost._ Do not forget: this Visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.[1] But looke, Amazement on thy Mother sits;[2] [Sidenote: 30, 54] O step betweene her, and her fighting Soule,[3] [Sidenote: 198] Conceit[4] in weakest bodies, strongest workes. Speake to her _Hamlet_.[5] _Ham._ How is it with you Lady?[6] _Qu._ Alas, how is't with you? [Sidenote: _Ger._] That you bend your eye on vacancie, [Sidenote: you do bend] And with their corporall ayre do hold discourse. [Sidenote: with th'incorporall ayre] Forth at your eyes, your spirits wildely peepe, And as the sleeping Soldiours in th'Alarme, Your bedded haire, like life in excrements,[7] Start vp, and stand an end.[8] Oh gentle Sonne, Vpon the heate and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle coole patience. Whereon do you looke?[9] _Ham._ On him, on him: look you how pale he glares, His forme and cause conioyn'd, preaching to stones, Would make them capeable.[10] Do not looke vpon me,[11] Least with this pitteous action you conuert My sterne effects: then what I haue to do,[12] [Sidenote: 111] Will want true colour; teares perchance for blood.[13] _Qu._ To who do you speake this? [Sidenote: _Ger._ To whom] _Ham._ Do you see nothing there? _Qu._ Nothing at all, yet all that is I see.[14] [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ Nor did you nothing heare? _Qu._ No, nothing but our selues. [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ Why look you there: looke how it steals away: [Sidenote: 173] My Father in his habite, as he liued, Looke where he goes euen now out at the Portall. _Exit._ [Sidenote: _Exit Ghost._] [Sidenote: 114] _Qu._ This is the very coynage of your Braine, [Sidenote: _Ger._] [Footnote 1: The Ghost here judges, as alone is possible to him, from what he knows--from the fact that his brother Claudius has not yet made his appearance in the ghost-world. Not understanding Hamlet's difficulties, he mistakes Hamlet himself.] [Footnote 2: He mistakes also, through his tenderness, the condition of his wife--imagining, it would seem, that she feels his presence, though she cannot see him, or recognize the source of the influence which he supposes to be moving her conscience: she is only perturbed by Hamlet's behaviour.] [Footnote 3: --fighting within itself, as the sea in a storm may be said to fight. He is careful as ever over the wife he had loved and loves still; careful no less of the behaviour of the son to his mother. In the _1st Q._ we have:-- But I perceiue by thy distracted lookes, Thy mother's fearefull, and she stands amazde: Speake to her Hamlet, for her sex is weake, Comfort thy mother, Hamlet, thinke on me.] [Footnote 4: --not used here for bare _imagination_, but imagination with its concomitant feeling:--_conception_. 198.] [Footnote 5: His last word ere he vanishes utterly, concerns his queen; he is tender and gracious still to her who sent him to hell. This attitude of the Ghost towards his faithless wife, is one of the profoundest things in the play. All the time she is not thinking of him any more than seeing him--for 'is he not dead!'--is looking straight at where he stands, but is all unaware of him.] [Footnote 6: I understand him to speak this with a kind of lost, mechanical obedience. The description his mother gives of him makes it seem as if the Ghost were drawing his ghost out to himself, and turning his body thereby half dead.] [Footnote 7: 'as if there were life in excrements.' The nails and hair were 'excrements'--things _growing out_.] [Footnote 8: Note the form _an end_--not _on end_. 51, 71.] [Footnote 9: --all spoken coaxingly, as to one in a mad fit. She regards his perturbation as a sudden assault of his ever present malady. One who sees what others cannot see they are always ready to count mad.] [Footnote 10: able to _take_, that is, to _understand_.] [Footnote 11: --_to the Ghost_.] [Footnote 12: 'what is in my power to do.'] [Footnote 13: Note antithesis here: '_your piteous action_;' '_my stern effects_'--the things, that is, 'which I have to effect.' 'Lest your piteous show convert--change--my stern doing; then what I do will lack true colour; the result may be tears instead of blood; I shall weep instead of striking.'] [Footnote 14: It is one of the constantly recurring delusions of humanity that we see all there is.] [Page 176] [Sidenote: 114] This bodilesse Creation extasie[1] is very cunning in.[2] _Ham._ Extasie?[3] My Pulse as yours doth temperately keepe time, And makes as healthfull Musicke.[4] It is not madnesse That I haue vttered; bring me to the Test And I the matter will re-word: which madnesse [Sidenote: And the] Would gamboll from. Mother, for loue of Grace, Lay not a flattering Vnction to your soule, [Sidenote: not that flattering] That not your trespasse, but my madnesse speakes: [Sidenote: 182] It will but skin and filme the Vlcerous place, Whil'st ranke Corruption mining all within, [Sidenote: whiles] Infects vnseene, Confesse your selfe to Heauen, Repent what's past, auoyd what is to come, And do not spred the Compost or the Weedes, [Sidenote: compost on the] To make them ranke. Forgiue me this my Vertue, [Sidenote: ranker,] For in the fatnesse of this pursie[5] times, [Sidenote: these] Vertue it selfe, of Vice must pardon begge, Yea courb,[6] and woe, for leaue to do him good. [Sidenote: curbe and wooe] _Qu._ Oh Hamlet, [Sidenote: _Ger._] Thou hast cleft my heart in twaine. _Ham._ O throw away the worser part of it, And Liue the purer with the other halfe. [Sidenote: And leaue the] Good night, but go not to mine Vnkles bed, [Sidenote: my] Assume a Vertue, if you haue it not,[7][A] refraine to night [Sidenote: Assune | to refraine night,] And that shall lend a kinde of easinesse [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- [8]That monster custome, who all sence doth eate Of habits deuill,[9] is angell yet in this That to the vse of actions faire and good, He likewise giues a frock or Liuery That aptly is put on] [Footnote 1: madness 129.] [Footnote 2: Here is the correspondent speech in the _1st Q._ I give it because of the queen's denial of complicity in the murder. _Queene_ Alas, it is the weakenesse of thy braine. Which makes thy tongue to blazon thy hearts griefe: But as I haue a soule, I sweare by heauen, I neuer knew of this most horride murder: But Hamlet, this is onely fantasie, And for my loue forget these idle fits. _Ham_. Idle, no mother, my pulse doth beate like yours, It is not madnesse that possesseth Hamlet.] [Footnote 3: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 4: --_time_ being a great part of music. Shakspere more than once or twice employs _music_ as a symbol with reference to corporeal condition: see, for instance, _As you like it_, act i. sc. 2, 'But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking?' where the _broken music_ may be regarded as the antithesis of the _healthful music_ here.] [Footnote 5: _swoln, pampered_: an allusion to the _purse_ itself, whether intended or not, is suggested.] [Footnote 6: _bend, bow_.] [Footnote 7: To _assume_ is to take to one: by _assume a virtue_, Hamlet does not mean _pretend_--but the very opposite: _to pretend_ is _to hold forth, to show_; what he means is, 'Adopt a virtue'--that of _abstinence_--'and act upon it, order your behaviour by it, although you may not _feel_ it. Choose the virtue--take it, make it yours.'] [Footnote 8: This omitted passage is obscure with the special Shaksperean obscurity that comes of over-condensation. He omitted it, I think, because of its obscurity. Its general meaning is plain enough--that custom helps the man who tries to assume a virtue, as well as renders it more and more difficult for him who indulges in vice to leave it. I will paraphrase: 'That monster, Custom, who eats away all sense, the devil of habits, is angel yet in this, that, for the exercise of fair and good actions, he also provides a habit, a suitable frock or livery, that is easily put on.' The play with the two senses of the word _habit_ is more easily seen than set forth. To paraphrase more freely: 'That devil of habits, Custom, who eats away all sense of wrong-doing, has yet an angel-side to him, in that he gives a man a mental dress, a habit, helpful to the doing of the right thing.' The idea of hypocrisy does not come in at all. The advice of Hamlet is: 'Be virtuous in your actions, even if you cannot in your feelings; do not do the wrong thing you would like to do, and custom will render the abstinence easy.'] [Footnote 9: I suspect it should be '_Of habits evil_'--the antithesis to _angel_ being _monster_.] [Page 178] To the next abstinence. [A] Once more goodnight, And when you are desirous to be blest, Ile blessing begge of you.[1] For this same Lord, I do repent: but heauen hath pleas'd it so,[2] To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their[3] Scourge and Minister. I will bestow him,[4] and will answer well The death I gaue him:[5] so againe, good night. I must be cruell, onely to be kinde;[6] Thus bad begins,[7] and worse remaines behinde.[8] [Sidenote: This bad] [B] _Qu_. What shall I do? [Sidenote: _Ger_.] _Ham_. Not this by no meanes that I bid you do: Let the blunt King tempt you againe to bed, [Sidenote: the blowt King] Pinch Wanton on your cheeke, call you his Mouse, And let him for a paire of reechie[9] kisses, Or padling in your necke with his damn'd Fingers, Make you to rauell all this matter out, [Sidenote: rouell] [Sidenote: 60, 136, 156] That I essentially am not in madnesse. But made in craft.[10] 'Twere good you let him know, [Sidenote: mad] For who that's but a Queene, faire, sober, wise, Would from a Paddocke,[11] from a Bat, a Gibbe,[12] Such deere concernings hide, Who would do so, No in despight of Sense and Secrecie, Vnpegge the Basket on the houses top: Let the Birds flye, and like the famous Ape To try Conclusions[13] in the Basket, creepe And breake your owne necke downe.[14] _Qu_. Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath, [Sidenote: _Ger_.] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto;_-- the next more easie:[15] For vse almost can change the stamp of nature, And either[16] the deuill, or throwe him out With wonderous potency:] [Footnote B: _Here in the Quarto:_-- One word more good Lady.[17]] [Footnote 1: In bidding his mother good night, he would naturally, after the custom of the time, have sought her blessing: it would be a farce now: when she seeks the blessing of God, he will beg hers; now, a plain _good night_ must serve.] [Footnote 2: Note the curious inverted use of _pleased_. It is here a transitive, not an impersonal verb. The construction of the sentence is, 'pleased it so, _in order to_ punish us, that I must' &c.] [Footnote 3: The noun to which _their_ is the pronoun is _heaven_--as if he had written _the gods_.] [Footnote 4: 'take him to a place fit for him to lie in.'] [Footnote 5: 'hold my face to it, and justify it.'] [Footnote 6: --omitting or refusing to embrace her.] [Footnote 7: --looking at Polonius.] [Footnote 8: Does this mean for himself to do, or for Polonius to endure?] [Footnote 9: reeky, smoky, fumy.] [Footnote 10: Hamlet considers his madness the same that he so deliberately assumed. But his idea of himself goes for nothing where the experts conclude him mad! His absolute clarity where he has no occasion to act madness, goes for as little, for 'all madmen have their sane moments'!] [Footnote 11: _a toad_; in Scotland, _a frog_.] [Footnote 12: an old cat.] [Footnote 13: _Experiments_, Steevens says: is it not rather _results_?] [Footnote 14: I fancy the story, which so far as I know has not been traced, goes on to say that the basket was emptied from the house-top to send the pigeons flying, and so the ape got his neck broken. The phrase 'breake your owne necke _downe_' seems strange: it could hardly have been written _neck-bone_!] [Footnote 15: This passage would fall in better with the preceding with which it is vitally one--for it would more evenly continue its form--if the preceding _devil_ were, as I propose above, changed to _evil_. But, precious as is every word in them, both passages are well omitted.] [Footnote 16: Plainly there is a word left out, if not lost here. There is no authority for the supplied _master_. I am inclined to propose a pause and a gesture, with perhaps an _inarticulation_.] [Footnote 17: --interrogatively perhaps, Hamlet noting her about to speak; but I would prefer it thus: 'One word more:--good lady--' Here he pauses so long that she speaks. Or we _might_ read it thus: _Qu._ One word more. _Ham._ Good lady? _Qu._ What shall I do?] [Page 180] And breath of life: I haue no life to breath What thou hast saide to me.[1] [Sidenote: 128, 158] _Ham._ I must to England, you know that?[2] _Qu._ Alacke I had forgot: Tis so concluded on. [Sidenote: _Ger._] _Ham._ [A] This man shall set me packing:[3] Ile lugge the Guts into the Neighbor roome,[4] Mother goodnight. Indeede this Counsellor [Sidenote: night indeed, this] Is now most still, most secret, and most graue, [Sidenote: 84] Who was in life, a foolish prating Knaue. [Sidenote: a most foolish] Come sir, to draw toward an end with you.[5] Good night Mother. _Exit Hamlet tugging in Polonius._[6] [Sidenote: _Exit._] [7] _Enter King._ [Sidenote: Enter King, and Queene, with Rosencraus and Guyldensterne.] _King._ There's matters in these sighes. These profound heaues You must translate; Tis fit we vnderstand them. Where is your Sonne?[8] _Qu._ [B] Ah my good Lord, what haue I seene to night? [Sidenote: _Ger._ | Ah mine owne Lord,] _King._ What _Gertrude_? How do's _Hamlet_? _Qu._ Mad as the Seas, and winde, when both contend [Sidenote: _Ger._ | sea and] Which is the Mightier, in his lawlesse fit[9] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- [10]Ther's letters seald, and my two Schoolefellowes, Whom I will trust as I will Adders fang'd, They beare the mandat, they must sweep my way And marshall me to knauery[11]: let it worke, For tis the sport to haue the enginer Hoist[12] with his owne petar,[13] an't shall goe hard But I will delue one yard belowe their mines, And blowe them at the Moone: ô tis most sweete When in one line two crafts directly meete,] [Footnote B: _Here in the Quarto_:-- Bestow this place on vs a little while.[14]] [Footnote 1: _1st Q._ O mother, if euer you did my deare father loue, Forbeare the adulterous bed to night, And win your selfe by little as you may, In time it may be you wil lothe him quite: And mother, but assist mee in reuenge, And in his death your infamy shall die. _Queene. Hamlet_, I vow by that maiesty, That knowes our thoughts, and lookes into our hearts, I will conceale, consent, and doe my best, What stratagem soe're thou shalt deuise.] [Footnote 2: The king had spoken of it both before and after the play: Horatio might have heard of it and told Hamlet.] [Footnote 3: 'My banishment will be laid to this deed of mine.'] [Footnote 4: --to rid his mother of it.] [Footnote 5: It may cross him, as he says this, dragging the body out by one end of it, and toward the end of its history, that he is himself drawing toward an end along with Polonius.] [Footnote 6: --_and weeping_. 182. See _note_ 5, 183.] [Footnote 7: Here, according to the editors, comes 'Act IV.' For this there is no authority, and the point of division seems to me very objectionable. The scene remains the same, as noted from Capell in _Cam. Sh._, and the entrance of the king follows immediately on the exit of Hamlet. He finds his wife greatly perturbed; she has not had time to compose herself. From the beginning of Act II., on to where I would place the end of Act III., there is continuity.] [Footnote 8: I would have this speech uttered with pauses and growing urgency, mingled at length with displeasure.] [Footnote 9: She is faithful to her son, declaring him mad, and attributing the death of 'the unseen' Polonius to his madness.] [Footnote 10: This passage, like the rest, I hold to be omitted by Shakspere himself. It represents Hamlet as divining the plot with whose execution his false friends were entrusted. The Poet had at first intended Hamlet to go on board the vessel with a design formed upon this for the out-witting of his companions, and to work out that design. Afterwards, however, he alters his plan, and represents his escape as more plainly providential: probably he did not see how to manage it by any scheme of Hamlet so well as by the attack of a pirate; possibly he wished to write the passage (246) in which Hamlet, so consistently with his character, attributes his return to the divine shaping of the end rough-hewn by himself. He had designs--'dear plots'--but they were other than fell out--a rough-hewing that was shaped to a different end. The discomfiture of his enemies was not such as he had designed: it was brought about by no previous plot, but through a discovery. At the same time his deliverance was not effected by the fingering of the packet, but by the attack of the pirate: even the re-writing of the commission did nothing towards his deliverance, resulted only in the punishment of his traitorous companions. In revising the Quarto, the Poet sees that the passage before us, in which is expressed the strongest suspicion of his companions, with a determination to outwit and punish them, is inconsistent with the representation Hamlet gives afterwards of a restlessness and suspicion newly come upon him, which he attributes to the Divinity. Neither was it likely he would say so much to his mother while so little sure of her as to warn her, on the ground of danger to herself, against revealing his sanity to the king. As to this, however, the portion omitted might, I grant, be regarded as an _aside_.] [Footnote 11: --to be done _to_ him.] [Footnote 12: _Hoised_, from verb _hoise_--still used in Scotland.] [Footnote 13: a kind of explosive shell, which was fixed to the object meant to be destroyed. Note once more Hamlet's delight in action.] [Footnote 14: --_said to Ros. and Guild._: in plain speech, 'Leave us a little while.'] [Page 182] Behinde the Arras, hearing something stirre, He whips his Rapier out, and cries a Rat, a Rat, [Sidenote: Whyps out his Rapier, cryes a] And in his brainish apprehension killes [Sidenote: in this] The vnseene good old man. _King._ Oh heauy deed: It had bin so with vs[1] had we beene there: His Liberty is full of threats to all,[2] To you your selfe, to vs, to euery one. Alas, how shall this bloody deede be answered? It will be laide to vs, whose prouidence Should haue kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt, This mad yong man.[2] But so much was our loue, We would not vnderstand what was most fit, But like the Owner of a foule disease, [Sidenote: 176] To keepe it from divulging, let's it feede [Sidenote: let it] Euen on the pith of life. Where is he gone? _Qu._ To draw apart the body he hath kild, [Sidenote: Ger.] O're whom his very madnesse[3] like some Oare Among a Minerall of Mettels base [Sidenote: 181] Shewes it selfe pure.[4] He weepes for what is done.[5] [Sidenote: pure, a weeepes] _King:_ Oh _Gertrude_, come away: The Sun no sooner shall the Mountaines touch, But we will ship him hence, and this vilde deed, We must with all our Maiesty and Skill [Sidenote: 200] Both countenance, and excuse.[6] _Enter Ros. & Guild_.[7] Ho _Guildenstern_: Friends both go ioyne you with some further ayde: _Hamlet_ in madnesse hath Polonius slaine, And from his Mother Clossets hath he drag'd him. [Sidenote: closet | dreg'd] Go seeke him out, speake faire, and bring the body Into the Chappell. I pray you hast in this. _Exit Gent_[8] Come _Gertrude_, wee'l call vp our wisest friends, To let them know both what we meane to do, [Sidenote: And let] [Footnote 1: the royal plural.] [Footnote 2: He knows the thrust was meant for him. But he would not have it so understood; he too lays it to his madness, though he too knows better.] [Footnote 3: 'he, although mad'; 'his nature, in spite of his madness.'] [Footnote 4: by his weeping, in the midst of much to give a different impression.] [Footnote 5: We have no reason to think the queen inventing here: what could she gain by it? the point indeed was rather against Hamlet, as showing it was not Polonius he had thought to kill. He was more than ever annoyed with the contemptible old man, who had by his meddlesomeness brought his death to his door; but he was very sorry nevertheless over Ophelia's father: those rough words in his last speech are spoken with the tears running down his face. We have seen the strange, almost discordant mingling in him of horror and humour, after the first appearance of the Ghost, 58, 60: something of the same may be supposed when he finds he has killed Polonius: in the highstrung nervous condition that must have followed such a talk with his mother, it would be nowise strange that he should weep heartily even in the midst of contemptuous anger. Or perhaps a sudden breakdown from attempted show of indifference, would not be amiss in the representation.] [Footnote 6: 'both countenance with all our majesty, and excuse with all our skill.'] [Footnote 7: In the _Quarto_ a line back.] [Footnote 8: _Not in Q._] [Page 184] And what's vntimely[1] done. [A] Oh come away, [Sidenote: doone,] My soule is full of discord and dismay. _Exeunt._ _Enter Hamlet._ [Sidenote: _Hamlet, Rosencrans, and others._] _Ham._ Safely stowed.[2] [Sidenote: stowed, but soft, what noyse,] _Gentlemen within._ _Hamlet_. Lord _Hamlet_? _Ham._ What noise? Who cals on _Hamlet_? Oh heere they come. _Enter Ros. and Guildensterne._[4] _Ro._ What haue you done my Lord with the dead body? _Ham._ Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis Kinne.[5] [Sidenote: Compound it] _Rosin._ Tell vs where 'tis, that we may take it thence, And beare it to the Chappell. _Ham._ Do not beleeue it.[6] _Rosin._ Beleeue what? [Sidenote: 156] _Ham._ That I can keepe your counsell, and not mine owne. Besides, to be demanded of a Spundge, what replication should be made by the Sonne of a King.[7] _Rosin._ Take you me for a Spundge, my Lord? _Ham._ I sir, that sokes vp the Kings Countenance, his Rewards, his Authorities, but such Officers do the King best seruice in the end. He keepes them like an Ape in the corner of his iaw,[8] first [Sidenote: like an apple in] mouth'd to be last swallowed, when he needes what you haue glean'd, it is but squeezing you, and Spundge you shall be dry againe. _Rosin._ I vnderstand you not my Lord. [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- Whose whisper ore the worlds dyameter,[9] [Sidenote: 206] As leuell as the Cannon to his blanck,[10] Transports his poysned shot, may miffe[11] our Name, And hit the woundlesse ayre.] [Footnote 1: unhappily.] [Footnote 2: He has hid the body--to make the whole look the work of a mad fit.] [Footnote 3: This line is not in the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 4: _Not in Q. See margin above._] [Footnote 5: He has put it in a place which, little visited, is very dusty.] [Footnote 6: He is mad to them--sane only to his mother and Horatio.] [Footnote 7: _euphuistic_: 'asked a question by a sponge, what answer should a prince make?'] [Footnote 8: _1st Q._: For hee doth keep you as an Ape doth nuttes, In the corner of his Iaw, first mouthes you, Then swallowes you:] [Footnote 9: Here most modern editors insert, '_so, haply, slander_'. But, although I think the Poet left out this obscure passage merely from dissatisfaction with it, I believe it renders a worthy sense as it stands. The antecedent to _whose_ is _friends_: _cannon_ is nominative to _transports_; and the only difficulty is the epithet _poysned_ applied to _shot_, which seems transposed from the idea of an _unfriendly_ whisper. Perhaps Shakspere wrote _poysed shot_. But taking this as it stands, the passage might be paraphrased thus: 'Whose (favourable) whisper over the world's diameter (_from one side of the world to the other_), as level (_as truly aimed_) as the cannon (of an evil whisper) transports its poisoned shot to his blank (_the white centre of the target_), may shoot past our name (so keeping us clear), and hit only the invulnerable air.' ('_the intrenchant air_': _Macbeth_, act v. sc. 8). This interpretation rests on the idea of over-condensation with its tendency to seeming confusion--the only fault I know in the Poet--a grand fault, peculiarly his own, born of the beating of his wings against the impossible. It is much as if, able to think two thoughts at once, he would compel his phrase to utter them at once.] [Footnote 10: for the harlot king Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank And level of my brain, plot-proof; _The Winter's Tale_, act ii. sc. 3. My life stands in the level of your dreams, _Ibid_, act iii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 11: two _ff_ for two long _ss_.] [Page 186] _Ham._ I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleepes in a foolish eare. _Rosin._ My Lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the King. _Ham._ The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body.[1] The King, is a thing---- _Guild._ A thing my Lord? _Ham._ Of nothing[2]: bring me to him, hide Fox, and all after.[3] _Exeunt_[4] _Enter King._ [Sidenote: _King, and two or three._] _King._ I have sent to seeke him, and to find the bodie: How dangerous is it that this man goes loose:[5] Yet must not we put the strong Law on him: [Sidenote: 212] Hee's loved of the distracted multitude,[6] Who like not in their iudgement, but their eyes: And where 'tis so, th'Offenders scourge is weigh'd But neerer the offence: to beare all smooth, and euen, [Sidenote: neuer the] This sodaine sending him away, must seeme [Sidenote: 120] Deliberate pause,[7] diseases desperate growne, By desperate appliance are releeved, Or not at all. _Enter Rosincrane._ [Sidenote: _Rosencraus and all the rest._] How now? What hath befalne? _Rosin._ Where the dead body is bestow'd my Lord, We cannot get from him. _King._ But where is he?[8] _Rosin._ Without my Lord, guarded[9] to know your pleasure. _King._ Bring him before us. _Rosin._ Hoa, Guildensterne? Bring in my Lord. [Sidenote: _Ros._ How, bring in the Lord. _They enter._] _Enter Hamlet and Guildensterne_[10] _King._ Now _Hamlet_, where's _Polonius?_ [Footnote 1: 'The body is in the king's house, therefore with the king; but the king knows not where, therefore the king is not with the body.'] [Footnote 2: 'A thing of nothing' seems to have been a common phrase.] [Footnote 3: The _Quarto_ has not 'hide Fox, and all after.'] [Footnote 4: Hamlet darts out, with the others after him, as in a hunt. Possibly there was a game called _Hide fox, and all after_.] [Footnote 5: He is a hypocrite even to himself.] [Footnote 6: This had all along helped to Hamlet's safety.] [Footnote 7: 'must be made to look the result of deliberate reflection.' Claudius fears the people may imagine Hamlet treacherously used, driven to self-defence, and hurried out of sight to be disposed of.] [Footnote 8: Emphasis on _he_; the point of importance with the king, is _where he is_, not where the body is.] [Footnote 9: Henceforward he is guarded, or at least closely watched, according to the _Folio_--left much to himself according to the _Quarto_. 192.] [Footnote 10: _Not in Quarto._] [Page 188] _Ham._ At Supper. _King._ At Supper? Where? _Ham._ Not where he eats, but where he is eaten, [Sidenote: where a is] a certaine conuocation of wormes are e'ne at him. [Sidenote: of politique wormes[1]] Your worm is your onely Emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat vs, and we fat our selfe [Sidenote: ourselves] for Magots. Your fat King, and your leane Begger is but variable seruice to dishes, but to one [Sidenote: two dishes] Table that's the end. [A] _King._ What dost thou meane by this?[2] _Ham._ Nothing but to shew you how a King may go a Progresse[3] through the guts of a Begger.[4] _King._ Where is _Polonius_. _Ham._ In heauen, send thither to see. If your Messenger finde him not there, seeke him i'th other place your selfe: but indeed, if you finde him not [Sidenote: but if indeed you find him not within this] this moneth, you shall nose him as you go vp the staires into the Lobby. _King._ Go seeke him there. _Ham._ He will stay till ye come. [Sidenote: A will stay till you] _K._ _Hamlet_, this deed of thine, for thine especial safety [Sidenote: this deede for thine especiall] Which we do tender, as we deerely greeue For that which thou hast done,[5] must send thee hence With fierie Quicknesse.[6] Therefore prepare thy selfe, The Barke is readie, and the winde at helpe,[7] Th'Associates tend,[8] and euery thing at bent [Sidenote: is bent] For England. [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:_-- _King_ Alas, alas.[9] _Ham._ A man may fish with the worme that hath eate of a King, and eate of the fish that hath fedde of that worme.] [Footnote 1: --such as Rosincrance and Guildensterne!] [Footnote 2: I suspect this and the following speech ought by the printers to have been omitted also: without the preceding two speeches of the Quarto they are not accounted for.] [Footnote 3: a royal progress.] [Footnote 4: Hamlet's philosophy deals much now with the worthlessness of all human distinctions and affairs.] [Footnote 5: 'and we care for your safety as much as we grieve for the death of Polonius.'] [Footnote 6: 'With fierie Quicknesse.' _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 7: fair--ready to help.] [Footnote 8: attend, wait.] [Footnote 9: pretending despair over his madness.] [Page 190] _Ham._ For England? _King._ I _Hamlet_. _Ham._ Good. _King._ So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. _Ham._ I see a Cherube that see's him: but [Sidenote: sees them,] come, for England. Farewell deere Mother. _King._ Thy louing Father _Hamlet_. _Hamlet._ My Mother: Father and Mother is man and wife: man and wife is one flesh, and so [Sidenote: flesh, so my] my mother.[1] Come, for England. _Exit_ [Sidenote: 195] _King._ Follow him at foote,[2] Tempt him with speed aboord: Delay it not, He haue him hence to night. Away, for euery thing is Seal'd and done That else leanes on[3] th'Affaire pray you make hast. And England, if my loue thou holdst at ought, As my great power thereof may giue thee sense, Since yet thy Cicatrice lookes raw and red[4] After the Danish Sword, and thy free awe Payes homage to vs[5]; thou maist not coldly set[6] Our Soueraigne Processe,[7] which imports at full By Letters conjuring to that effect [Sidenote: congruing] The present death of _Hamlet_. Do it England, For like the Hecticke[8] in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me: Till I know 'tis done, How ere my happes,[9] my ioyes were ne're begun.[10] [Sidenote: ioyes will nere begin.] _Exit_[11] [Sidenote: 274] [12]_Enter Fortinbras with an Armie._ [Sidenote: with his Army ouer the stage.] _For._ Go Captaine, from me greet the Danish King, Tell him that by his license, _Fortinbras_ [Sidenote: 78] Claimes the conueyance[13] of a promis'd March [Sidenote: Craues the] Ouer his Kingdome. You know the Rendeuous:[14] [Footnote 1: He will not touch the hand of his father's murderer.] [Footnote 2: 'at his heels.'] [Footnote 3: 'belongs to.'] [Footnote 4: 'as my great power may give thee feeling of its value, seeing the scar of my vengeance has hardly yet had time to heal.'] [Footnote 5: 'and thy fear uncompelled by our presence, pays homage to us.'] [Footnote 6: 'set down to cool'; 'set in the cold.'] [Footnote 7: _mandate_: 'Where's Fulvia's process?' _Ant. and Cl._, act i. sc. 1. _Shakespeare Lexicon_.] [Footnote 8: _hectic fever--habitual_ or constant fever.] [Footnote 9: 'whatever my fortunes.'] [Footnote 10: The original, the _Quarto_ reading--'_my ioyes will nere begin_' seems to me in itself better, and the cause of the change to be as follows. In the _Quarto_ the next scene stands as in our modern editions, ending with the rime, ô from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth. _Exit_. This was the act-pause, the natural end of act iii. But when the author struck out all but the commencement of the scene, leaving only the three little speeches of Fortinbras and his captain, then plainly the act-pause must fall at the end of the preceding scene. He therefore altered the end of the last verse to make it rime with the foregoing, in accordance with his frequent way of using a rime before an important pause. It perplexes us to think how on his way to the vessel, Hamlet could fall in with the Norwegian captain. This may have been one of Shakspere's reasons for striking the whole scene out--but he had other and more pregnant reasons.] [Footnote 11: Here is now the proper close of the _Third Act_.] [Footnote 12: _Commencement of the Fourth Act._ Between the third and the fourth passes the time Hamlet is away; for the latter, in which he returns, and whose scenes are _contiguous_, needs no more than one day.] [Footnote 13: 'claims a convoy in fulfilment of the king's promise to allow him to march over his kingdom.' The meaning is made plainer by the correspondent passage in the _1st Quarto_: Tell him that _Fortenbrasse_ nephew to old _Norway_, Craues a free passe and conduct ouer his land, According to the Articles agreed on:] [Footnote 14: 'where to rejoin us.'] [Page 192] If that his Maiesty would ought with vs, We shall expresse our dutie in his eye,[1] And let[2] him know so. _Cap._ I will doo't, my Lord. _For._ Go safely[3] on. _Exit._ [Sidenote: softly] [A] [4] _Enter Queene and Horatio_. [Sidenote: _Enter Horatio, Gertrard, and a Gentleman_.] _Qu._ I will not speake with her. _Hor._[5] She is importunate, indeed distract, her [Sidenote: _Gent_.] moode will needs be pittied. _Qu_. What would she haue? _Hor_. She speakes much of her Father; saies she heares [Sidenote: _Gent_.] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- _Enter Hamlet, Rosencraus, &c._ _Ham_. Good sir whose powers are these? _Cap_. They are of _Norway_ sir. _Ham_. How purposd sir I pray you? _Cap_. Against some part of _Poland_. _Ham_. Who commaunds them sir? _Cap_. The Nephew to old _Norway, Fortenbrasse_. _Ham_. Goes it against the maine of _Poland_ sir, Or for some frontire? _Cap_. Truly to speake, and with no addition,[6] We goe to gaine a little patch of ground[7] That hath in it no profit but the name To pay fiue duckets, fiue I would not farme it; Nor will it yeeld to _Norway_ or the _Pole_ A rancker rate, should it be sold in fee. _Ham_. Why then the Pollacke neuer will defend it. _Cap_. Yes, it is already garisond. _Ham_. Two thousand soules, and twenty thousand duckets Will not debate the question of this straw This is th'Impostume of much wealth and peace, That inward breakes, and showes no cause without Why the man dies.[8] I humbly thanke you sir. _Cap_. God buy you sir. _Ros_. Wil't please you goe my Lord? [Sidenote: 187, 195] _Ham_. Ile be with you straight, goe a little before.[9] [10]How all occasions[11] doe informe against me, [Continued on next text page.]] [Footnote 1: 'we shall pay our respects, waiting upon his person.'] [Footnote 2: 'let,' _imperative mood_.] [Footnote 3: 'with proper precaution,' _said to his attendant officers._] [Footnote 4: This was originally intended, I repeat, for the commencement of the act. But when the greater part of the foregoing scene was omitted, and the third act made to end with the scene before that, then the small part left of the all-but-cancelled scene must open the fourth act.] [Footnote 5: Hamlet absent, we find his friend looking after Ophelia. Gertrude seems less friendly towards her.] [Footnote 6: exaggeration.] [Footnote 7: --probably a small outlying island or coast-fortress, _not far off_, else why should Norway care about it at all? If the word _frontier_ has the meaning, as the _Shakespeare Lexicon_ says, of 'an outwork in fortification,' its use two lines back would, taken figuratively, tend to support this.] [Footnote 8: The meaning may be as in the following paraphrase: 'This quarrelling about nothing is (the breaking of) the abscess caused by wealth and peace--which breaking inward (in general corruption), would show no outward sore in sign of why death came.' Or it might be _forced_ thus:-- This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace. That (which) inward breaks, and shows no cause without-- Why, the man dies! But it may mean:--'The war is an imposthume, which will break within, and cause much affliction to the people that make the war.' On the other hand, Hamlet seems to regard it as a process for, almost a sign of health.] [Footnote 9: Note his freedom.] [Footnote 10: _See_ 'examples grosse as earth' _below_.] [Footnote 11: While every word that Shakspere wrote we may well take pains to grasp thoroughly, my endeavour to cast light on this passage is made with the distinct understanding in my own mind that the author himself disapproved of and omitted it, and that good reason is not wanting why he should have done so. At the same time, if my student, for this book is for those who would have help and will take pains to the true understanding of the play, would yet retain the passage, I protest against the acceptance of Hamlet's judgment of himself, except as revealing the simplicity and humility of his nature and character. That as often as a vivid memory of either interview with the Ghost came back upon him, he should feel rebuked and ashamed, and vexed with himself, is, in the morally, intellectually, and emotionally troubled state of his mind, nowise the less natural that he had the best of reasons for the delay because of which he _here_ so unmercifully abuses himself. A man of self-satisfied temperament would never in similar circumstances have done so. But Hamlet was, by nature and education, far from such self-satisfaction; and there is in him besides such a strife and turmoil of opposing passions and feelings and apparent duties, as can but rarely rise in a human soul. With which he ought to side, his conscience is not sure--sides therefore now with one, now with another. At the same time it is by no means the long delay the critics imagine of which he is accusing himself--it is only that the thing _is not done_. In certain moods the action a man dislikes will _therefore_ look to him the more like a duty; and this helps to prevent Hamlet from knowing always how great a part conscience bears in the omission because of which he condemns and even contemns himself. The conscience does not naturally examine itself--is not necessarily self-conscious. In any soliloquy, a man must speak from his present mood: we who are not suffering, and who have many of his moods before us, ought to understand Hamlet better than he understands himself. To himself, sitting in judgment on himself, it would hardly appear a decent cause of, not to say reason for, a moment's delay in punishing his uncle, that he was so weighed down with misery because of his mother and Ophelia, that it seemed of no use to kill one villain out of the villainous world; it would seem but 'bestial oblivion'; and, although his reputation as a prince was deeply concerned, _any_ reflection on the consequences to himself would at times appear but a 'craven scruple'; while at times even the whispers of conscience might seem a 'thinking too precisely on the event.' A conscientious man of changeful mood wilt be very ready in either mood to condemn the other. The best and rightest men will sometimes accuse themselves in a manner that seems to those who know them best, unfounded, unreasonable, almost absurd. We must not, I say, take the hero's judgment of himself as the author's judgment of him. The two judgments, that of a man upon himself from within, and that of his beholder upon him from without, are not congeneric. They are different in origin and in kind, and cannot be adopted either of them into the source of the other without most serious and dangerous mistake. So adopted, each becomes another thing altogether. It is to me probable that, although it involves other unfitnesses, the Poet omitted the passage chiefly from coming to see the danger of its giving occasion, or at least support, to an altogether mistaken and unjust idea of his Hamlet.] [Page 194] There's trickes i'th'world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurnes enuiously at Strawes,[1] speakes things in doubt,[2] That carry but halfe sense: Her speech is nothing,[3] Yet the vnshaped vse of it[4] doth moue The hearers to Collection[5]; they ayme[6] at it, [Sidenote: they yawne at] And botch the words[7] vp fit to their owne thoughts [_Continuation of quote from Quarto from previous text page_:-- And spur my dull reuenge. [8]What is a man If his chiefe good and market of his time Be but to sleepe and feede, a beast, no more; Sure he that made vs with such large discourse[9] Looking before and after, gaue vs not That capabilitie and god-like reason To fust in vs vnvsd,[8] now whether it be [Sidenote: 52, 120] Bestiall obliuion,[10] or some crauen scruple Of thinking too precisely on th'euent,[11] A thought which quarterd hath but one part wisedom, And euer three parts coward, I doe not know Why yet I liue to say this thing's to doe, Sith I haue cause, and will, and strength, and meanes To doo't;[12] examples grosse as earth exhort me, Witnes this Army of such masse and charge, [Sidenote: 235] Led by a delicate and tender Prince, Whose spirit with diuine ambition puft, Makes mouthes at the invisible euent, [Sidenote: 120] Exposing what is mortall, and vnsure, To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,[13] Euen for an Egge-shell. Rightly to be great, Is not to stirre without great argument, But greatly to find quarrell in a straw When honour's at the stake, how stand I then That haue a father kild, a mother staind, Excytements of my reason, and my blood, And let all sleepe,[14] while to my shame I see The iminent death of twenty thousand men, That for a fantasie and tricke[15] of fame Goe to their graues like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,[16] Which is not tombe enough and continent[17] To hide the slaine,[18] ô from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.[19] _Exit._] [Footnote 1: trifles.] [Footnote 2: doubtfully.] [Footnote 3: 'there is nothing in her speech.'] [Footnote 4: 'the formless mode of it.'] [Footnote 5: 'to gathering things and putting them together.'] [Footnote 6: guess.] [Footnote 7: Ophelia's words.] [Footnote 8: I am in doubt whether this passage from 'What is a man' down to 'unused,' does not refer to the king, and whether Hamlet is not persuading himself that it can be no such objectionable thing to kill one hardly above a beast. At all events it is far more applicable to the king: it was not one of Hamlet's faults, in any case, to fail of using his reason. But he may just as well accuse himself of that too! At the same time the worst neglect of reason lies in not carrying out its conclusions, and if we cannot justify Hamlet in his delay, the passage is of good application to him. 'Bestiall oblivion' does seem to connect himself with the reflection; but how thoroughly is the thing intended by such a phrase alien from the character of Hamlet!] [Footnote 9: --the mental faculty of running hither and thither: 'We look before and after.' _Shelley: To a Skylark_.] [Footnote 10: --the forgetfulness of such a beast as he has just mentioned.] [Footnote 11: --the _consequences_. The scruples that come of thinking of the event, Hamlet certainly had: that they were _craven_ scruples, that his thinking was too precise, I deny to the face of the noble self-accuser. Is that a craven scruple which, seeing no good to result from the horrid deed, shrinks from its irretrievableness, and demands at least absolute assurance of guilt? or that 'a thinking too precisely on the event,' to desire, as the prince of his people, to leave an un wounded name behind him?] [Footnote 12: This passage is the strongest there is on the side of the ordinary misconception of the character of Hamlet. It comes from himself; and it is as ungenerous as it is common and unfair to use such a weapon against a man. Does any but St. Paul himself say he was the chief of sinners? Consider Hamlet's condition, tormented on all sides, within and without, and think whether this outbreak against himself be not as unfair as it is natural. Lest it should be accepted against him, Shakspere did well to leave it out. In bitter disappointment, both because of what is and what is not, both because of what he has done and what he has failed to do, having for the time lost all chance, with the last vision of the Ghost still haunting his eyes, his last reproachful words yet ringing in his ears, are we bound to take his judgment of himself because it is against himself? Are we _bound_ to take any man's judgment because it is against himself? I answer, 'No more than if it were for himself.' A good man's judgment, where he is at all perplexed, especially if his motive comes within his own question, is ready to be against himself, as a bad man's is sure to be for himself. Or because he is a philosopher, does it follow that throughout he understands himself? Were such a man in cool, untroubled conditions, we might feel compelled to take his judgment, but surely not here! A philosopher in such state as Hamlet's would understand the quality of his spiritual operations with no more certainty than another man. In his present mood, Hamlet forgets the cogency of the reasons that swayed him in the other; forgets that his uppermost feeling then was doubt, as horror, indignation, and conviction are uppermost now. Things were never so clear to Hamlet as to us. But how can he say he has strength and means--in the position in which he now finds himself? I am glad to be able to believe, let my defence of Hamlet against himself be right or wrong, that Shakspere intended the omission of the passage. I lay nothing on the great lack of logic throughout the speech, for that would not make it unfit for Hamlet in such mood, while it makes its omission from the play of less consequence to my general argument.] [Footnote 13: _threaten_. This supports my argument as to the great soliloquy--that it was death as the result of his slaying the king, or attempting to do so, not death by suicide, he was thinking of: he expected to die himself in the punishing of his uncle.] [Footnote 14: He had had no chance but that when the king was on his knees.] [Footnote 15: 'a fancy and illusion.'] [Footnote 16: 'which is too small for those engaged to find room to fight on it.'] [Footnote 17: 'continent,' _containing space_.] [Footnote 18: This soliloquy is antithetic to the other. Here is no thought of the 'something after death.'] [Footnote 19: If, with this speech in his mouth, Hamlet goes coolly on board the vessel, _not being compelled thereto_ (190, 192, 216), and possessing means to his vengeance, as here he says, and goes merely in order to hoist Rosincrance and Guildensterne with their own petard--that is, if we must keep the omitted passages, then the author exposes his hero to a more depreciatory judgment than any from which I would justify him, and a conception of his character entirely inconsistent with the rest of the play. He did not observe the risk at the time he wrote the passage, but discovering it afterwards, rectified the oversight--to the dissatisfaction of his critics, who have agreed in restoring what he cancelled.] [Page 196] Which as her winkes, and nods, and gestures yeeld[1] them, Indeed would make one thinke there would[2] be thought, [Sidenote: there might[2] be] Though nothing sure, yet much vnhappily. _Qu_. 'Twere good she were spoken with,[3] [Sidenote: _Hora_.] For she may strew dangerous coniectures In ill breeding minds.[4] Let her come in. [Sidenote: _Enter Ophelia_.] To my sicke soule (as sinnes true Nature is) [Sidenote: _Quee_. 'To my[5]] Each toy seemes Prologue, to some great amisse, [Sidenote: 'Each] So full of Artlesse iealousie is guilt, [Sidenote: 'So] It spill's it selfe, in fearing to be spilt.[6] [Sidenote: 'It] _Enter Ophelia distracted_.[7] _Ophe_. Where is the beauteous Maiesty of Denmark. _Qu_. How now _Ophelia_? [Sidenote: _shee sings_.] _Ophe. How should I your true loue know from another one? By his Cockle hat and staffe, and his Sandal shoone._ _Qu_. Alas sweet Lady: what imports this Song? _Ophe_. Say you? Nay pray you marke. _He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone, At his head a grasse-greene Turfe, at his heeles a stone._ [Sidenote: O ho.] _Enter King_. _Qu_. Nay but _Ophelia_. _Ophe_. Pray you marke. _White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow._ [Sidenote: _Enter King_.] _Qu_. Alas looke heere my Lord, [Sidenote: 246] _Ophe. Larded[8] with sweet flowers_: [Sidenote: Larded all with] _Which bewept to the graue did not go_, [Sidenote: ground | _Song_.] _With true-loue showres_, [Footnote 1: 'present them,'--her words, that is--giving significance or interpretation to them.] [Footnote 2: If this _would_, and not the _might_ of the _Quarto_, be the correct reading, it means that Ophelia would have something thought so and so.] [Footnote 3: --changing her mind on Horatio's representation. At first she would not speak with her.] [Footnote 4: 'minds that breed evil.'] [Footnote 5: --as a quotation.] [Footnote 6: Instance, the history of Macbeth.] [Footnote 7: _1st Q. Enter Ofelia playing on a Lute, and her haire downe singing._ Hamlet's apparent madness would seem to pass into real madness in Ophelia. King Lear's growing perturbation becomes insanity the moment he sees the pretended madman Edgar. The forms of Ophelia's madness show it was not her father's death that drove her mad, but his death by the hand of Hamlet, which, with Hamlet's banishment, destroyed all the hope the queen had been fostering in her of marrying him some day.] [Footnote 8: This expression is, as Dr. Johnson says, taken from cookery; but it is so used elsewhere by Shakspere that we cannot regard it here as a scintillation of Ophelia's insanity.] [Page 198] _King_. How do ye, pretty Lady? [Sidenote: you] _Ophe_. Well, God dil'd you.[1] They say the [Sidenote: good dild you,[1]] Owle was a Bakers daughter.[2] Lord, wee know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your Table. [Sidenote: 174] _King_. Conceit[3] vpon her Father. _Ophe_. Pray you let's haue no words of this: [Sidenote: Pray lets] but when they aske you what it meanes, say you this: [4] _To morrow is S. Valentines day, all in the morning betime, And I a Maid at your Window to be your Valentine. Then vp he rose, and don'd[5] his clothes, and dupt[5] the chamber dore, Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, neuer departed more._ _King_. Pretty _Ophelia._ _Ophe_. Indeed la? without an oath Ile make an [Sidenote: Indeede without] end ont.[6] _By gis, and by S. Charity, Alacke, and fie for shame: Yong men wil doo't, if they come too't, By Cocke they are too blame. Quoth she before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to Wed: So would I ha done by yonder Sunne_, [Sidenote: (He answers,) So would] _And thou hadst not come to my bed._ _King_. How long hath she bin this? [Sidenote: beene thus?] _Ophe_. I hope all will be well. We must bee patient, but I cannot choose but weepe, to thinke they should lay him i'th'cold ground: My brother [Sidenote: they wouid lay] shall knowe of it, and so I thanke you for your good counsell. Come, my Coach: Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight. _Exit_[7] [Footnote 1: _1st Q_. 'God yeeld you,' that is, _reward you_. Here we have a blunder for the contraction, 'God 'ild you'--perhaps a common blunder.] [Footnote 2: For the silly legend, see Douce's note in _Johnson and Steevens_.] [Footnote 3: imaginative brooding.] [Footnote 4: We dare no judgment on madness in life: we need not in art.] [Footnote 5: Preterites of _don_ and _dup_, contracted from _do on_ and _do up_.] [Footnote 6: --disclaiming false modesty.] [Footnote 7: _Not in Q_.] [Page 200] _King_. Follow her close, Giue her good watch I pray you: Oh this is the poyson of deepe greefe, it springs All from her Fathers death. Oh _Gertrude, Gertrude_, [Sidenote: death, and now behold, ô _Gertrard, Gertrard_,] When sorrowes comes, they come not single spies,[1] [Sidenote: sorrowes come] But in Battaliaes. First, her Father slaine, [Sidenote: battalians:] Next your Sonne gone, and he most violent Author Of his owne iust remoue: the people muddied,[2] Thicke and vnwholsome in their thoughts, and whispers [Sidenote: in thoughts] For[3] good _Polonius_ death; and we haue done but greenly [Sidenote: 182] In hugger mugger[4] to interre him. Poore _Ophelia_ Diuided from her selfe,[5] and her faire Iudgement, Without the which we are Pictures, or meere Beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her Brother is in secret come from France, Keepes on his wonder,[6] keepes himselfe in clouds, [Sidenote: Feeds on this[6]] And wants not Buzzers to infect his eare [Sidenote: care] With pestilent Speeches of his Fathers death, Where in necessitie of matter Beggard, [Sidenote: Wherein necessity] Will nothing sticke our persons to Arraigne [Sidenote: person] In eare and eare.[7] O my deere _Gertrude_, this, Like to a murdering Peece[8] in many places, Giues me superfluous death. _A Noise within_. _Enter a Messenger_. _Qu_. Alacke, what noyse is this?[9] _King_. Where are my _Switzers_?[10] [Sidenote: _King_. Attend, where is my Swissers,] Let them guard the doore. What is the matter? _Mes_. Saue your selfe, my Lord. [Sidenote: 120] The Ocean (ouer-peering of his List[11]) Eates not the Flats with more impittious[12] haste [Footnote 1: --each alone, like scouts.] [Footnote 2: stirred up like pools--with similar result.] [Footnote 3: because of.] [Footnote 4: The king wished to avoid giving the people any pretext or cause for interfering: he dreaded whatever might lead to enquiry--to the queen of course pretending it was to avoid exposing Hamlet to the popular indignation. _Hugger mugger--secretly: Steevens and Malone._] [Footnote 5: The phrase has the same _visual_ root as _beside herself_--both signifying '_not at one_ with herself.'] [Footnote 6: If the _Quarto_ reading is right, 'this wonder' means the hurried and suspicious funeral of his father. But the _Folio_ reading is quite Shaksperean: 'He keeps on (as a garment) the wonder of the people at him'; _keeps his behaviour such that the people go on wondering about him_: the phrase is explained by the next clause. Compare: By being seldom seen, I could not stir But, like a comet, I was wondered at. _K. Henry IV. P. I_. act iii. sc. 1.] [Footnote 7: 'wherein Necessity, beggared of material, will not scruple to whisper invented accusations against us.'] [Footnote 8: --the name given to a certain small cannon--perhaps charged with various missiles, hence the better figuring the number and variety of 'sorrows' he has just recounted.] [Footnote 9: _This line not in Q._] [Footnote 10: Note that the king is well guarded, and Hamlet had to lay his account with great risk in the act of killing him.] [Footnote 11: _border, as of cloth_: the mounds thrown up to keep the sea out. The figure here specially fits a Dane.] [Footnote 12: I do not know whether this word means _pitiless_, or stands for _impetuous_. The _Quarto_ has one _t_.] [Page 202] Then young _Laertes_, in a Riotous head,[1] Ore-beares your Officers, the rabble call him Lord, And as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, Custome not knowne, The Ratifiers and props of euery word,[2] [Sidenote: 62] They cry choose we? _Laertes_ shall be King,[3] [Sidenote: The cry] Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds, _Laertes_ shall be King, _Laertes_ King. _Qu_. How cheerefully on the false Traile they cry, [Sidenote: _A noise within_.] Oh this is Counter you false Danish Dogges.[4] _Noise within. Enter Laertes_[5]. [Sidenote: _Laertes with others_.] _King_. The doores are broke. _Laer_. Where is the King, sirs? Stand you all without. [Sidenote: this King? sirs stand] _All_. No, let's come in. _Laer_. I pray you giue me leaue.[6] _All_. We will, we will. _Laer_. I thanke you: Keepe the doore. Oh thou vilde King, giue me my Father. _Qu_. Calmely good _Laertes_. _Laer_. That drop of blood, that calmes[7] [Sidenote: thats calme] Proclaimes me Bastard: Cries Cuckold to my Father, brands the Harlot Euen heere betweene the chaste vnsmirched brow Of my true Mother.[8] _Kin_. What is the cause _Laertes_, That thy Rebellion lookes so Gyant-like? Let him go _Gertrude_: Do not feare[9] our person: There's such Diuinity doth hedge a King,[10] That Treason can but peepe to what it would, Acts little of his will.[11] Tell me _Laertes_, [Footnote 1: _Head_ is a rising or gathering of people--generally rebellious, I think.] [Footnote 2: Antiquity and Custom.] [Footnote 3: This refers to the election of Claudius--evidently not a popular election, but effected by intrigue with the aristocracy and the army: 'They cry, Let us choose: Laertes shall be king!' We may suppose the attempt of Claudius to have been favoured by the lingering influence of the old Norse custom of succession, by which not the son but the brother inherited. 16, _bis._] [Footnote 4: To hunt counter is to 'hunt the game by the heel or track.' The queen therefore accuses them of not using their scent or judgment, but following appearances.] [Footnote 5: Now at length re-appears Laertes, who has during the interim been ripening in Paris for villainy. He is wanted for the catastrophe, and requires but the last process of a few hours in the hell-oven of a king's instigation.] [Footnote 6: The customary and polite way of saying _leave me_: 'grant me your absence.' 85, 89.] [Footnote 7: grows calm.] [Footnote 8: In taking vengeance Hamlet must acknowledge his mother such as Laertes says inaction on his part would proclaim his mother. The actress should here let a shadow cross the queen's face: though too weak to break with the king, she has begun to repent.] [Footnote 9: fear _for_.] [Footnote 10: The consummate hypocrite claims the protection of the sacred hedge through which he had himself broken--or crept rather, like a snake, to kill. He can act innocence the better that his conscience is clear as to Polonius.] [Footnote 11: 'can only peep through the hedge to its desire--acts little of its will.'] [Page 204] Why thou art thus Incenst? Let him go _Gertrude_. Speake man. _Laer_. Where's my Father? [Sidenote: is my] _King_. Dead. _Qu_. But not by him. _King_. Let him demand his fill. _Laer_. How came he dead? Ile not be Iuggel'd with. To hell Allegeance: Vowes, to the blackest diuell. Conscience and Grace, to the profoundest Pit I dare Damnation: to this point I stand, That both the worlds I giue to negligence, Let come what comes: onely Ile be reueng'd Most throughly for my Father. _King_. Who shall stay you?[1] _Laer_. My Will, not all the world,[1] [Sidenote: worlds:] And for my meanes, Ile husband them so well, They shall go farre with little. _King_. Good _Laertes_: If you desire to know the certaintie Of your deere Fathers death, if writ in your reuenge, [Sidenote: Father, i'st writ] That Soop-stake[2] you will draw both Friend and Foe, Winner and Looser.[3] _Laer_. None but his Enemies. _King_. Will you know them then. _La_. To his good Friends, thus wide Ile ope my Armes: And like the kinde Life-rend'ring Politician,[4] [Sidenote: life-rendring Pelican,] Repast them with my blood.[5] _King_. Why now you speake Like a good Childe,[6] and a true Gentleman. That I am guiltlesse of your Fathers death, And am most sensible in greefe for it,[7] [Sidenote: sencibly] [Footnote 1: 'Who shall _prevent_ you?' 'My own will only--not all the world,' or, 'Who will _support_ you?' 'My will. Not all the world shall prevent me,'-- so playing on the two meanings of the word _stay._ Or it _might_ mean: 'Not all the world shall stay my will.'] [Footnote 2: swoop-stake--_sweepstakes_.] [Footnote 3: 'and be loser as well as winner--' If the _Folio's_ is the right reading, then the sentence is unfinished, and should have a dash, not a period.] [Footnote 4: A curious misprint: may we not suspect a somewhat dull joker among the compositors?] [Footnote 6: 'a true son to your father.'] [Footnote 7: 'feel much grief for it.'] [Footnote 5: Laertes is a ranter--false everywhere. Plainly he is introduced as the foil from which Hamlet 'shall stick fiery off.' In this speech he shows his moral condition directly the opposite of Hamlet's: he has no principle but revenge. His conduct ought to be quite satisfactory to Hamlet's critics; there is action enough in it of the very kind they would have of Hamlet; and doubtless it would be satisfactory to them but for the treachery that follows. The one, dearly loving a father who deserves immeasurably better of him than Polonius of Laertes, will not for the sake of revenge disregard either conscience, justice, or grace; the other will not delay even to inquire into the facts of his father's fate, but will act at once on hearsay, rushing to a blind satisfaction that cannot even be called retaliation, caring for neither right nor wrong, cursing conscience and the will of God, and daring damnation. He slights assurance as to the hand by which his father fell, dismisses all reflection that might interfere with a stupid revenge. To make up one's mind at once, and act without ground, is weakness, not strength: this Laertes does--and is therefore just the man to be the villainous, not the innocent, tool of villainy. He who has sufficing ground and refuses to act is weak; but the ground that will satisfy the populace, of which the commonplace critic is the fair type, will not satisfy either the man of conscience or of wisdom. The mass of world-bepraised action owes its existence to the pressure of circumstance, not to the will and conscience of the man. Hamlet waits for light, even with his heart accusing him; Laertes rushes into the dark, dagger in hand, like a mad Malay: so he kill, he cares not whom. Such a man is easily tempted to the vilest treachery, for the light that is in him is darkness; he is not a true man; he is false in himself. This is what comes of his father's maxim: To thine own self be true; And it must follow, _as the night the day_ (!) Thou canst not then be false to any man. Like the aphorism 'Honesty is the best policy,' it reveals the difference between a fact and a truth. Both sayings are correct as facts, but as guides of conduct devilishly false, leading to dishonesty and treachery. To be true to the divine self in us, is indeed to be true to all; but it is only by being true to all, against the ever present and urging false self, that at length we shall see the divine self rise above the chaotic waters of our selfishness, and know it so as to be true to it. Of Laertes we must note also that it is not all for love of his father that he is ready to cast allegiance to hell, and kill the king: he has the voice of the people to succeed him.] [Page 206] [Sidenote: 184] It shall as leuell to your Iudgement pierce [Sidenote: peare'] As day do's to your eye.[1] _A noise within. [2]Let her come in._ _Enter Ophelia[3]_ _Laer_. How now? what noise is that?[4] [Sidenote: _Laer_. Let her come in. How now,] Oh heate drie vp my Braines, teares seuen times salt, Burne out the Sence and Vertue of mine eye. By Heauen, thy madnesse shall be payed by waight, [Sidenote: with weight] Till our Scale turnes the beame. Oh Rose of May, [Sidenote: turne] Deere Maid, kinde Sister, sweet _Ophelia_: Oh Heauens, is't possible, a yong Maids wits, Should be as mortall as an old mans life?[5] [Sidenote: a poore mans] Nature is fine[6] in Loue, and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of it selfe After the thing it loues.[7] _Ophe. They bore him bare fac'd on the Beer._ [Sidenote: _Song_.] [Sidenote: bare-faste] _Hey non nony, nony, hey nony:[8] And on his graue raines many a teare_, [Sidenote: And in his graue rain'd] _Fare you well my Doue._ _Laer_. Had'st thou thy wits, and did'st perswade Reuenge, it could not moue thus. _Ophe_. You must sing downe a-downe, and [Sidenote: sing a downe a downe, And] you call him[9] a-downe-a. Oh, how the wheele[10] becomes it? It is the false Steward that stole his masters daughter.[11] _Laer_. This nothings more then matter.[12] _Ophe_. There's Rosemary,[13] that's for Remembraunce. Pray loue remember: and there is [Sidenote: , pray you loue] Paconcies, that's for Thoughts. [Sidenote: Pancies[14]] _Laer_. A document[15] in madnesse, thoughts and remembrance fitted. _Ophe_. There's Fennell[16] for you, and Columbines[16]: ther's Rew[17] for you, and heere's some for [Footnote 1: 'pierce as _directly_ to your judgment.' But the simile of the _day_ seems to favour the reading of the _Q._--'peare,' for _appear_. In the word _level_ would then be indicated the _rising_ sun.] [Footnote 2: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 3: _1st Q. 'Enter Ofelia as before_.'] [Footnote 4: To render it credible that Laertes could entertain the vile proposal the king is about to make, it is needful that all possible influences should be represented as combining to swell the commotion of his spirit, and overwhelm what poor judgment and yet poorer conscience he had. Altogether unprepared, he learns Ophelia's pitiful condition by the sudden sight of the harrowing change in her--and not till after that hears who killed his father and brought madness on his sister.] [Footnote 5: _1st Q._ I'st possible a yong maides life, Should be as mortall as an olde mans sawe?] [Footnote 6: delicate, exquisite.] [Footnote 7: 'where 'tis fine': I suggest that the _it_ here may be impersonal: 'where _things_, where _all_ is fine,' that is, 'in a fine soul'; then the meaning would be, 'Nature is fine always in love, and where the soul also is fine, she sends from it' &c. But the _where_ may be equal, perhaps, to _whereas_. I can hardly think the phrase means merely '_and where it is in love_.' It might intend--'and where Love is fine, it sends' &c. The 'precious instance of itself,' that is, 'something that is a part and specimen of itself,' is here the 'young maid's wits': they are sent after the 'old man's life.'--These three lines are not in the Quarto. It is not disputed that they are from Shakspere's hand: if the insertion of these be his, why should the omission of others not be his also?] [Footnote 8: _This line is not in Q._] [Footnote 9: '_if_ you call him': I think this is not a part of the song, but is spoken of her father.] [Footnote 10: _the burden of the song_: Steevens.] [Footnote 11: The subject of the ballad.] [Footnote 12: 'more than sense'--in incitation to revenge.] [Footnote 13: --an evergreen, and carried at funerals: _Johnson_. For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour ail the winter long: Grace and remembrance be to you both. _The Winter's Tale_, act iv. sc. 3.] [Footnote 14: _penseés_.] [Footnote 15: _a teaching, a lesson_--the fitting of thoughts and remembrance, namely--which he applies to his intent of revenge. Or may it not rather be meant that the putting of these two flowers together was a happy hit of her madness, presenting the fantastic emblem of a document or writing--the very idea of which is the keeping of thoughts in remembrance?] [Footnote 16: --said to mean _flattery_ and _thanklessness_--perhaps given to the king.] [Footnote 17: _Repentance_--given to the queen. Another name of the plant was _Herb-Grace_, as below, in allusion, doubtless, to its common name--_rue_ or _repentance_ being both the gift of God, and an act of grace.] [Page 208] me. Wee may call it Herbe-Grace a Sundaies: [Sidenote: herbe of Grace a Sondaies, you may weare] Oh you must weare your Rew with a difference.[1] There's a Daysie,[2] I would giue you some Violets,[3] but they wither'd all when my Father dyed: They say, he made a good end; [Sidenote: say a made] _For bonny sweet Robin is all my ioy._ _Laer_. Thought, and Affliction, Passion, Hell it selfe: [Sidenote: afflictions,] She turnes to Fauour, and to prettinesse. [Sidenote:_Song._] _Ophe. And will he not come againe_, [Sidenote: will a not] _And will he not come againe_: [Sidenote: will a not] _No, no, he is dead, go to thy Death-bed, He neuer wil come againe. His Beard as white as Snow_, [Sidenote: beard was as] _All[4] Flaxen was his Pole: He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone, Gramercy[5] on his Soule._ [Sidenote: God a mercy on] And of all Christian Soules, I pray God.[6] [Sidenote: Christians soules,] God buy ye.[7] _Exeunt Ophelia_[8] [Sidenote: you.] _Laer_. Do you see this, you Gods? [Sidenote: Doe you this ô God.] _King. Laertes_, I must common[9] with your greefe, [Sidenote: commune] Or you deny me right: go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest Friends you will, And they shall heare and iudge 'twixt you and me; If by direct or by Colaterall hand They finde vs touch'd,[10] we will our Kingdome giue, Our Crowne, our Life, and all that we call Ours To you in satisfaction. But if not, Be you content to lend your patience to vs,[11] And we shall ioyntly labour with your soule To giue it due content. _Laer_. Let this be so:[12] His meanes of death,[13] his obscure buriall; [Sidenote: funerall,] No Trophee, Sword, nor Hatchment o're his bones,[14] [Footnote 1: --perhaps the heraldic term. The Poet, not Ophelia, intends the special fitness of the speech. Ophelia means only that the rue of the matron must differ from the rue of the girl.] [Footnote 2: 'the dissembling daisy': _Greene_--quoted by _Henley_.] [Footnote 3: --standing for _faithfulness: Malone_, from an old song.] [Footnote 4: '_All' not in Q._] [Footnote 5: Wherever else Shakspere uses the word, it is in the sense of _grand merci--great thanks (Skeat's Etym. Dict.)_; here it is surely a corruption, whether Ophelia's or the printer's, of the _Quarto_ reading, '_God a mercy_' which, spoken quickly, sounds very near _gramercy_. The _1st Quarto_ also has 'God a mercy.'] [Footnote 6: 'I pray God.' _not in Q._] [Footnote 7: 'God b' wi' ye': _good bye._] [Footnote 8: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 9: 'I must have a share in your grief.' The word does mean _commune_, but here is more pregnant, as evidenced in the next phrase, 'Or you deny me right:'--'do not give me justice.'] [Footnote 10: 'touched with the guilt of the deed, either as having done it with our own hand, or caused it to be done by the hand of one at our side.'] [Footnote 11: We may paraphrase thus: 'Be pleased to grant us a loan of your patience,' that is, _be patient for a while at our request_, 'and we will work along with your soul to gain for it (your soul) just satisfaction.'] [Footnote 12: He consents--but immediately _re-sums_ the grounds of his wrathful suspicion.] [Footnote 13: --the way in which he met his death.] [Footnote 14: --customary honours to the noble dead. _A trophy_ was an arrangement of the armour and arms of the dead in a set decoration. The origin of the word _hatchment_ shows its intent: it is a corruption of _achievement_.] [Page 210] No Noble rite, nor formall ostentation,[1] Cry to be heard, as 'twere from Heauen to Earth, That I must call in question.[2] [Sidenote: call't in] _King_. So you shall: And where th'offence is, let the great Axe fall. I pray you go with me.[3] _Exeunt_ _Enter Horatio, with an Attendant_. [Sidenote: _Horatio and others_.] _Hora_. What are they that would speake with me? _Ser_. Saylors sir, they say they haue Letters [_Gent_. Sea-faring men sir,] for you. _Hor_. Let them come in,[4] I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord _Hamlet_. _Enter Saylor_. [Sidenote: _Saylers_.] _Say_. God blesse you Sir. _Hor_. Let him blesse thee too. _Say_. Hee shall Sir, and't[5] please him. There's [Sidenote: A shall sir and please] a Letter for you Sir: It comes from th'Ambassadours [Sidenote: it came frõ th' Embassador] that was bound for England, if your name be _Horatio_, as I am let to know[6] it is. _Reads the Letter_[7] Horatio, _When thou shalt haue ouerlook'd this_, [Sidenote: _Hor. Horatio_ when] _giue these Fellowes some meanes to the King: They haue Letters for him. Ere we were two dayes[8] old at Sea, a Pyrate of very Warlicke appointment gaue vs Chace. Finding our selues too slow of Saile, we put on a compelled Valour. In the Grapple, I boarded_ [Sidenote: valour, and in the] _them: On the instant they got cleare of our Shippe, so I alone became their Prisoner.[9] They haue dealt with mee, like Theeues of Mercy, but they knew what they did. I am to doe a good turne for them. Let_ [Sidenote: a turne] _the King have the Letters I haue sent, and repaire thou to me with as much hast as thou wouldest flye_ [Sidenote: much speede as] _death[10] I haue words to speake in your eare, will_ [Sidenote: in thine eare] [Footnote 1: 'formal ostentation'--show or publication of honour according to form or rule.] [Footnote 2: 'so that I must call in question'--institute inquiry; or '--_that_ (these things) I must call in question.'] [Footnote 3: Note such a half line frequently after the not uncommon closing couplet--as if to take off the formality of the couplet, and lead back, through the more speech-like, to greater verisimilitude.] [Footnote 4: Here the servant goes, and the rest of the speech Horatio speaks _solus_. He had expected to hear from Hamlet.] [Footnote 5: 'and it please'--_if it please_. _An_ for _if_ is merely _and_.] [Footnote 6: 'I am told.'] [Footnote 7: _Not in Q_.] [Footnote 8: This gives an approximate clue to the time between the second and third acts: it needs not have been a week.] [Footnote 9: Note once more the unfailing readiness of Hamlet where there was no question as to the fitness of the action seemingly required. This is the man who by too much thinking, forsooth, has rendered himself incapable of action!--so far ahead of the foremost behind him, that, when the pirate, not liking such close quarters, 'on the instant got clear,' he is the only one on her deck! There was no question here as to what ought to be done: the pirate grappled them; he boarded her. Thereafter, with his prompt faculty for dealing with men, he soon comes to an understanding with his captors, and they agree, upon some certain condition, to put him on shore. He writes in unusual spirits; for he has now gained full, presentable, and indisputable proof of the treachery which before he scarcely doubted, but could not demonstrate. The present instance of it has to do with himself, not his father, but in itself would justify the slaying of his uncle, whose plausible way had possibly perplexed him so that he could not thoroughly believe him the villain he was: bad as he must be, could he actually have killed his own brother, and _such_ a brother? A better man than Laertes might have acted more promptly than Hamlet, and so happened to _do_ right; but he would not have _been_ right, for the proof was _not_ sufficient.] [Footnote 10: The value Hamlet sets on his discovery, evident in his joyous urgency to share it with his friend, is explicable only on the ground of the relief it is to his mind to be now at length quite certain of his duty.] [Page 212] _make thee dumbe, yet are they much too light for the bore of the Matter.[1] These good Fellowes will bring_ [Sidenote: the bord of] _thee where I am. Rosincrance and Guildensterne, hold their course for England. Of them I haue much to tell thee, Farewell. He that thou knowest thine._ [Sidenote: _So that thou knowest thine Hamlet._] Hamlet. Come, I will giue you way for these your Letters, [Sidenote: _Hor_. Come I will you way] And do't the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. _Exit_. [Sidenote: _Exeunt._] _Enter King and Laertes._[2] _King_. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for Friend, Sith you haue heard, and with a knowing eare,[3] That he which hath your Noble Father slaine, Pursued my life.[4] _Laer_. It well appeares. But tell me, Why you proceeded not against these feates,[5] [Sidenote: proceede] So crimefull, and so Capitall in Nature,[6] [Sidenote: criminall] As by your Safety, Wisedome, all things else, [Sidenote: safetie, greatnes, wisdome,] You mainly[7] were stirr'd vp? _King_. O for two speciall Reasons, Which may to you (perhaps) seeme much vnsinnowed,[8] And yet to me they are strong. The Queen his Mother, [Sidenote: But yet | tha'r strong] Liues almost by his lookes: and for my selfe, My Vertue or my Plague, be it either which,[9] She's so coniunctiue to my life and soule; [Sidenote: she is so concliue] That as the Starre moues not but in his Sphere,[10] I could not but by her. The other Motiue, Why to a publike count I might not go, [Sidenote: 186] Is the great loue the generall gender[11] beare him, Who dipping all his Faults in their affection, [Footnote 1: Note here also Hamlet's feeling of the importance of what has passed since he parted with his friend. 'The bullet of my words, though it will strike thee dumb, is much too small for the bore of the reality (the facts) whence it will issue.'] [Footnote 2: While we have been present at the interview between Horatio and the sailors, the king has been persuading Laertes.] [Footnote 3: an ear of judgment.] [Footnote 4: 'thought then to have killed me.'] [Footnote 5: _faits_, deeds.] [Footnote 6: 'deeds so deserving of death, not merely in the eye of the law, but in their own nature.'] [Footnote 7: powerfully.] [Footnote 8: 'unsinewed.'] [Footnote 9: 'either-which.'] [Footnote 10: 'moves not but in the moving of his sphere,'--The stars were popularly supposed to be fixed in a solid crystalline sphere, and moved in its motion only. The queen, Claudius implies, is his sphere; he could not move but by her.] [Footnote 11: Here used in the sense of the Fr. _'genre'--sort_. It is not the only instance of the word so used by Shakspere. The king would rouse in Laertes jealousy of Hamlet.] [Page 214] Would like the Spring that turneth Wood to Stone, [Sidenote: Worke like] Conuert his Gyues to Graces.[1] So that my Arrowes Too slightly timbred for so loud a Winde, [Sidenote: for so loued Arm'd[2]] Would haue reuerted to my Bow againe, And not where I had arm'd them.[2] [Sidenote: But not | have aym'd them.] _Laer_. And so haue I a Noble Father lost, A Sister driuen into desperate tearmes,[3] Who was (if praises may go backe againe) [Sidenote: whose worth, if] Stood Challenger on mount of all the Age For her perfections. But my reuenge will come. _King_. Breake not your sleepes for that, You must not thinke That we are made of stuffe, so flat, and dull, That we can let our Beard be shooke with danger,[4] And thinke it pastime. You shortly shall heare more,[5] I lou'd your Father, and we loue our Selfe, And that I hope will teach you to imagine----[6] _Enter a Messenger_. [Sidenote: _with letters._] How now? What Newes? _Mes._ Letters my Lord from _Hamlet_.[7] This to [Sidenote: _Messen_. These to] your Maiesty: this to the Queene. _King_. From _Hamlet_? Who brought them? _Mes_. Saylors my Lord they say, I saw them not: They were giuen me by _Claudio_, he recciu'd them.[8] [Sidenote: them Of him that brought them.] _King. Laertes_ you shall heare them:[9] Leaue vs. _Exit Messenger_[10] _High and Mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your Kingdome. To morrow shall I begge leaue to see your Kingly Eyes[11] When I shall (first asking your Pardon thereunto) recount th'Occasions_ [Sidenote: the occasion of my suddaine returne.] _of my sodaine, and more strange returne._[12] Hamlet.[13] What should this meane? Are all the rest come backe? [Sidenote: _King_. What] [Footnote 1: 'would convert his fetters--if I imprisoned him--to graces, commending him yet more to their regard.'] [Footnote 2: _arm'd_ is certainly the right, and a true Shaksperean word:--it was no fault in the aim, but in the force of the flight--no matter of the eye, but of the arm, which could not give momentum enough to such slightly timbered arrows. The fault in the construction of the last line, I need not remark upon. I think there is a hint of this the genuine meaning even in the blundered and partly unintelligible reading of the _Quarto_. If we leave out 'for so loued,' we have this: 'So that my arrows, too slightly timbered, would have reverted armed to my bow again, but not (_would not have gone_) where I have aimed them,'--implying that his arrows would have turned their armed heads against himself. What the king says here is true, but far from _the_ truth: he feared driving Hamlet, and giving him at the same time opportunity, to speak in his own defence and render his reasons.] [Footnote 3: _extremes_? or _conditions_?] [Footnote 4: 'With many a tempest hadde his berd ben schake.'--_Chaucer_, of the Schipman, in _The Prologue_ to _The Canterbury Tales_.] [Footnote 5: --hear of Hamlet's death in England, he means. At this point in the _1st Q._ comes a scene between Horatio and the queen, in which he informs her of a letter he had just received from Hamlet, Whereas he writes how he escap't the danger, And subtle treason that the king had plotted, Being crossed by the contention of the windes, He found the Packet &c. Horatio does not mention the pirates, but speaks of Hamlet 'being set ashore,' and of _Gilderstone_ and _Rossencraft_ going on to their fate. The queen assures Horatio that she is but temporizing with the king, and shows herself anxious for the success of her son's design against his life. The Poet's intent was not yet clear to himself.] [Footnote 6: Here his crow cracks.] [Footnote 7: _From_ 'How now' _to_ 'Hamlet' is _not in Q._] [Footnote 8: Horatio has given the sailors' letters to Claudio, he to another.] [Footnote 9: He wants to show him that he has nothing behind--that he is open with him: he will read without having pre-read.] [Footnote 10: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 11: He makes this request for an interview with the intent of killing him. The king takes care he does not have it.] [Footnote 12: '_more strange than sudden_.'] [Footnote 13: _Not in Q._] [Page 216] Or is it some abuse?[1] Or no such thing?[2] [Sidenote: abuse, and no[2]] _Laer_. Know you the hand?[3] _Kin_. 'Tis _Hamlets_ Character, naked and in a Postscript here he sayes alone:[4] Can you aduise [Sidenote: deuise me?] me?[5] _Laer_. I'm lost in it my Lord; but let him come, [Sidenote: I am] It warmes the very sicknesse in my heart, That I shall liue and tell him to his teeth; [Sidenote: That I liue and] Thus diddest thou. [Sidenote: didst] _Kin_. If it be so _Laertes_, as how should it be so:[6] How otherwise will you be rul'd by me? _Laer_. If so[7] you'l not o'rerule me to a peace. [Sidenote: I my Lord, so you will not] _Kin_. To thine owne peace: if he be now return'd, [Sidenote: 195] As checking[8] at his Voyage, and that he meanes [Sidenote: As the King[8] at his] No more to vndertake it; I will worke him To an exployt now ripe in my Deuice, [Sidenote: deuise,] Vnder the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no winde of blame shall breath, [Sidenote: 221] But euen his Mother shall vncharge the practice,[9] And call it accident: [A] Some two Monthes hence[10] [Sidenote: two months since] Here was a Gentleman of _Normandy_, I'ue seene my selfe, and seru'd against the French, [Sidenote: I haue] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- _Laer_. My Lord I will be rul'd, The rather if you could deuise it so That I might be the organ. _King_. It falls right, You haue beene talkt of since your trauaile[11] much, And that in _Hamlets_ hearing, for a qualitie Wherein they say you shine, your summe of parts[12] Did not together plucke such enuie from him As did that one, and that in my regard Of the vnworthiest siedge.[13] _Laer_. What part is that my Lord? _King_. A very ribaud[14] in the cap of youth, Yet needfull to, for youth no lesse becomes[15] The light and carelesse liuery that it weares Then setled age, his sables, and his weedes[16] Importing health[17] and grauenes;] [Footnote 1: 'some trick played on me?' Compare _K. Lear_, act v. sc. 7: 'I am mightily abused.'] [Footnote 2: I incline to the _Q._ reading here: 'or is it some trick, and no reality in it?'] [Footnote 3: --following the king's suggestion.] [Footnote 4: _Point thus_: 'Tis _Hamlets_ Character. 'Naked'!--And, in a Postscript here, he sayes 'alone'! Can &c. '_Alone_'--to allay suspicion of his having brought assistance with him.] [Footnote 5: Fine flattery--preparing the way for the instigation he is about to commence.] [Footnote 6: _Point thus_: '--as how should it be so? how otherwise?--will' &c. The king cannot tell what to think--either how it can be, or how it might be otherwise--for here is Hamlet's own hand!] [Footnote 7: provided.] [Footnote 8: A hawk was said _to check_ when it forsook its proper game for some other bird that crossed its flight. The blunder in the _Quarto_ is odd, plainly from manuscript copy, and is not likely to have been set right by any but the author.] [Footnote 9: 'shall not give the _practice'--artifice, cunning attempt, chicane_, or _trick_--but a word not necessarily offensive--'the name it deserves, but call it _accident_:' 221.] [Footnote 10: 'Some' _not in Q.--Hence_ may be either _backwards_ or _forwards_; now it is used only _forwards_.] [Footnote 11: travels.] [Footnote 12: 'all your excellencies together.'] [Footnote 13: seat, place, grade, position, merit.] [Footnote 14: 'A very riband'--a mere trifling accomplishment: the _u_ of the text can but be a misprint for _n_.] [Footnote 15: _youth_ obj., _livery_ nom. to _becomes_.] [Footnote 16: 'than his furs and his robes become settled age.'] [Footnote 17: Warburton thinks the word ought to be _wealth_, but I doubt it; _health_, in its sense of wholeness, general soundness, in affairs as well as person, I should prefer.] [Page 218] And they ran[1] well on Horsebacke; but this Gallant [Sidenote: they can well[1]] Had witchcraft in't[2]; he grew into his Seat, [Sidenote: vnto his] And to such wondrous doing brought his Horse, As had he beene encorps't and demy-Natur'd With the braue Beast,[3] so farre he past my thought, [Sidenote: he topt me thought,[4]] That I in forgery[5] of shapes and trickes, Come short of what he did.[6] _Laer_. A Norman was't? _Kin_. A Norman. _Laer_. Vpon my life _Lamound_. [Sidenote: _Lamord_.] _Kin_. The very same. _Laer_. I know him well, he is the Brooch indeed, And Iemme of all our Nation, [Sidenote: all the Nation.] _Kin_. Hee mad confession of you, And gaue you such a Masterly report, For Art and exercise in your defence; And for your Rapier most especially, [Sidenote: especiall,] That he cryed out, t'would be a sight indeed,[7] If one could match you [A] Sir. This report of his [Sidenote: ; sir this] [Sidenote: 120, 264] Did _Hamlet_ so envenom with his Enuy,[8] That he could nothing doe but wish and begge, Your sodaine comming ore to play with him;[9] [Sidenote: with you] Now out of this.[10] _Laer_. Why out of this, my Lord? [Sidenote: What out] _Kin. Laertes_ was your Father deare to you? Or are you like the painting[11] of a sorrow, A face without a heart? _Laer_. Why aske you this? _Kin_. Not that I thinke you did not loue your Father, But that I know Loue is begun by Time[12]: [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:--_ ; the Scrimures[13] of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard nor eye, If you opposd them;] [Footnote 1: I think the _can_ of the _Quarto_ is the true word.] [Footnote 2: --in his horsemanship.] [Footnote 3: There is no mistake in the order 'had he beene'; the transposition is equivalent to _if_: 'as if he had been unbodied with, and shared half the nature of the brave beast.' These two lines, from _As_ to _thought_, must be taken parenthetically; or else there must be supposed a dash after _Beast_, and a fresh start made. 'But he (as if Centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse) was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs:' 'it seemed, as he borrowed the horse's body, so he lent the horse his mind:'--Sir Philip Sidney. _Arcadia_, B. ii. p. 115.] [Footnote 4: '--surpassed, I thought.'] [Footnote 5: 'in invention of.'] [Footnote 6: Emphasis on _did_, as antithetic to _forgery_: 'my inventing came short of his doing.'] [Footnote 7: 'it would be a sight indeed to see you matched with an equal.' The king would strengthen Laertes' confidence in his proficiency.] [Footnote 8: 'made him so spiteful by stirring up his habitual envy.'] [Footnote 9: All invention.] [Footnote 10: Here should be a dash: the king pauses. He is approaching dangerous ground--is about to propose a thing abominable, and therefore to the influence of flattered vanity and roused emulation, would add the fiercest heat of stimulated love and hatred--to which end he proceeds to cast doubt on the quality of Laertes' love for his father.] [Footnote 11: the picture.] [Footnote 12: 'through habit.'] [Footnote 13: French _escrimeurs_: fencers.] [Page 220] And that I see in passages of proofe,[1] Time qualifies the sparke and fire of it:[2] [A] _Hamlet_ comes backe: what would you vndertake, To show your selfe your Fathers sonne indeed, [Sidenote: selfe indeede your fathers sonne] More then in words? _Laer_. To cut his throat i'th'Church.[3] _Kin_. No place indeed should murder Sancturize; Reuenge should haue no bounds: but good _Laertes_ Will you doe this, keepe close within your Chamber, _Hamlet_ return'd, shall know you are come home: Wee'l put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gaue you, bring you in fine together, And wager on your heads, he being remisse,[4] [Sidenote: ore your] [Sidenote: 218] Most generous, and free from all contriuing, Will not peruse[5] the Foiles? So that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A Sword vnbaited,[6] and in a passe of practice,[7] [Sidenote: pace of] Requit him for your Father. _Laer_. I will doo't, And for that purpose Ile annoint my Sword:[8] [Sidenote: for purpose,] I bought an Vnction of a Mountebanke So mortall, I but dipt a knife in it,[9] [Sidenote: mortall, that but dippe a] Where it drawes blood, no Cataplasme so rare, Collected from all Simples that haue Vertue [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- There liues within the very flame of loue A kind of weeke or snufe that will abate it,[10] And nothing is at a like goodnes still,[11] For goodnes growing to a plurisie,[12] Dies in his owne too much, that we would doe We should doe when we would: for this would change,[13] And hath abatements and delayes as many, As there are tongues, are hands, are accedents, And then this should is like a spend thrifts sigh, That hurts by easing;[14] but to the quick of th'vlcer,] [Footnote 1: 'passages of proofe,'--_trials_. 'I see when it is put to the test.'] [Footnote 2: 'time modifies it.'] [Footnote 3: Contrast him here with Hamlet.] [Footnote 4: careless.] [Footnote 5: _examine_--the word being of general application then.] [Footnote 6: _unblunted_. Some foils seem to have been made with a button that could be taken--probably _screwed_ off.] [Footnote 7: Whether _practice_ here means exercise or cunning, I cannot determine. Possibly the king uses the word as once before 216--to be taken as Laertes may please.] [Footnote 8: In the _1st Q._ this proposal also is made by the king.] [Footnote 9: 'So mortal, yes, a knife being but dipt in it,' or, 'So mortal, did I but dip a knife in it.'] [Footnote 10: To understand this figure, one must be familiar with the behaviour of the wick of a common lamp or tallow candle.] [Footnote 11: 'nothing keeps always at the same degree of goodness.'] [Footnote 12: A _plurisie_ is just a _too-muchness_, from _plus, pluris--a plethora_, not our word _pleurisy_, from [Greek: pleura]. See notes in _Johnson and Steevens_.] [Footnote 13: The sense here requires an _s_, and the space in the _Quarto_ between the _e_ and the comma gives the probability that a letter has dropt out.] [Footnote 14: Modern editors seem agreed to substitute the adjective _spendthrift_: our sole authority has _spendthrifts_, and by it I hold. The meaning seems this: 'the _would_ changes, the thing is not done, and then the _should_, the mere acknowledgment of duty, is like the sigh of a spendthrift, who regrets consequences but does not change his way: it eases his conscience for a moment, and so injures him.' There would at the same time be allusion to what was believed concerning sighs: Dr. Johnson says, 'It is a notion very prevalent, that _sighs_ impair the strength, and wear out the animal powers.'] [Page 222] Vnder the Moone, can saue the thing from death, That is but scratcht withall: Ile touch my point, With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,[1] It may be death. _Kin_. Let's further thinke of this, Weigh what conuenience[2] both of time and meanes May fit vs to our shape,[3] if this should faile; And that our drift looke through our bad performance, 'Twere better not assaid; therefore this Proiect Should haue a backe or second, that might hold, If this should blast in proofe:[4] Soft, let me see[5] [Sidenote: did blast] Wee'l make a solemne wager on your commings,[6] [Sidenote: cunnings[6]] I ha't: when in your motion you are hot and dry, [Sidenote: hate, when] As[7] make your bowts more violent to the end,[8] [Sidenote: to that end,] And that he cals for drinke; Ile haue prepar'd him [Sidenote: prefard him] [Sidenote: 268] A Challice for the nonce[9]; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,[10] Our purpose may[11] hold there: how sweet Queene. [Sidenote: there: but stay, what noyse?] _Enter Queene_. _Queen_. One woe doth tread vpon anothers heele, So fast they'l follow[12]: your Sister's drown'd _Laertes_. [Sidenote: they follow;] _Laer_. Drown'd! O where?[13] _Queen_. There is a Willow[14] growes aslant a Brooke, [Sidenote: ascaunt the Brooke] That shewes his hore leaues in the glassie streame: [Sidenote: horry leaues] There with fantasticke Garlands did she come,[15] [Sidenote: Therewith | she make] Of Crow-flowers,[16] Nettles, Daysies, and long Purples, That liberall Shepheards giue a grosser name; But our cold Maids doe Dead Mens Fingers call them: [Sidenote: our cull-cold] There on the pendant[17] boughes, her Coronet weeds[18] Clambring to hang;[19] an enuious sliuer broke,[20] When downe the weedy Trophies,[19] and her selfe, [Sidenote: her weedy] [Footnote 1: 'that though I should gall him but slightly,' or, 'that if I gall him ever so slightly.'] [Footnote 2: proper arrangement.] [Footnote 3: 'fit us exactly, like a garment cut to our shape,' or perhaps 'shape' is used for _intent, purpose. Point thus_: 'shape. If this should faile, And' &c.] [Footnote 4: This seems to allude to the assay of a firearm, and to mean '_burst on the trial_.' Note 'assaid' two lines back.] [Footnote 5: There should be a pause here, and a longer pause after _commings_: the king is contriving. 'I ha't' should have a line to itself, with again a pause, but a shorter one.] [Footnote 6: _Veney, venue_, is a term of fencing: a bout, a thrust--from _venir, to come_--whence 'commings.' (259) But _cunnings_, meaning _skills_, may be the word.] [Footnote 7: 'As' is here equivalent to 'and so.'] [Footnote 8: --to the end of making Hamlet hot and dry.] [Footnote 9: for the special occasion.] [Footnote 10: thrust. _Twelfth Night_, act iii. sc. 4. 'he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion.' _Stocco_ in Italian is a long rapier; and _stoccata_ a thrust. _Rom. and Jul_., act iii. sc. 1. See _Shakespeare-Lexicon_.] [Footnote 11: 'may' does not here express _doubt_, but _intention_.] [Footnote 12: If this be the right reading, it means, 'so fast they insist on following.'] [Footnote 13: He speaks it as about to rush to her.] [Footnote 14: --the choice of Ophelia's fantastic madness, as being the tree of lamenting lovers.] [Footnote 15: --always busy with flowers.] [Footnote 16: Ranunculus: _Sh. Lex._] [Footnote 17: --specially descriptive of the willow.] [Footnote 18: her wild flowers made into a garland.] [Footnote 19: The intention would seem, that she imagined herself decorating a monument to her father. Hence her _Coronet weeds_ and the Poet's _weedy Trophies_.] [Footnote 20: _Sliver_, I suspect, called so after the fact, because _slivered_ or torn off. In _Macbeth_ we have: slips of yew Slivered in the moon's eclipse. But it may be that _sliver_ was used for a _twig_, such as could be torn off. _Slip_ and _sliver_ must be of the same root.] [Page 224] Fell in the weeping Brooke, her cloathes spred wide, And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her vp, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,[1] [Sidenote: old laudes,[1]] As one incapable of[2] her owne distresse, Or like a creature Natiue, and indued[3] Vnto that Element: but long it could not be, Till that her garments, heauy with her drinke, [Sidenote: theyr drinke] Pul'd the poore wretch from her melodious buy,[4] [Sidenote: melodious lay] To muddy death.[5] _Laer_. Alas then, is she drown'd? [Sidenote: she is] _Queen_. Drown'd, drown'd. _Laer_. Too much of water hast thou poore _Ophelia_, And therefore I forbid my teares: but yet It is our tricke,[6] Nature her custome holds, Let shame say what it will; when these are gone The woman will be out:[7] Adue my Lord, I haue a speech of fire, that faine would blaze, [Sidenote: speech a fire] But that this folly doubts[8] it. _Exit._ [Sidenote: drownes it.[8]] _Kin_. Let's follow, _Gertrude_: How much I had to doe to calme his rage? Now feare I this will giue it start againe; Therefore let's follow. _Exeunt_.[9] [10]_Enter two Clownes._ _Clown_. Is she to bee buried in Christian buriall, [Sidenote: buriall, when she wilfully] that wilfully seekes her owne saluation?[11] _Other_. I tell thee she is, and therefore make her [Sidenote: is, therefore] Graue straight,[12] the Crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian buriall. _Clo_. How can that be, vnlesse she drowned her selfe in her owne defence? _Other_. Why 'tis found so.[13] _Clo_. It must be _Se offendendo_,[14] it cannot bee else: [Sidenote: be so offended, it] [Footnote 1: They were not lauds she was in the habit of singing, to judge by the snatches given.] [Footnote 2: not able to take in, not understanding, not conscious of.] [Footnote 3: clothed, endowed, fitted for. See _Sh. Lex._] [Footnote 4: _Could_ the word be for _buoy_--'her clothes spread wide,' on which she floated singing--therefore her melodious buoy or float?] [Footnote 5: How could the queen know all this, when there was no one near enough to rescue her? Does not the Poet intend the mode of her death given here for an invention of the queen, to hide the girl's suicide, and by circumstance beguile the sorrow-rage of Laertes?] [Footnote 6: 'I cannot help it.'] [Footnote 7: 'when these few tears are spent, all the woman will be out of me: I shall be a man again.'] [Footnote 8: _douts_: 'this foolish water of tears puts it out.' _See Q. reading._] [Footnote 9: Here ends the Fourth Act, between which and the Fifth may intervene a day or two.] [Footnote 10: Act V. This act _requires_ only part of a day; the funeral and the catastrophe might be on the same.] [Footnote 11: Has this a confused connection with the fancy that salvation is getting to heaven?] [Footnote 12: Whether this means _straightway_, or _not crooked_, I cannot tell.] [Footnote 13: 'the coroner has settled it.'] [Footnote 14: The Clown's blunder for _defendendo_.] [Page 226] for heere lies the point; If I drowne my selfe wittingly, it argues an Act: and an Act hath three branches. It is an Act to doe and to performe; [Sidenote: it is to act, to doe, to performe, or all: she] argall[1] she drown'd her selfe wittingly. _Other_. Nay but heare you Goodman Deluer. [Sidenote: good man deluer.] _Clown_. Giue me leaue; heere lies the water; good: heere stands the man; good: If the man goe to this water and drowne himsele; it is will he nill he, he goes; marke you that? But if the water come to him and drowne him; hee drownes not himselfe. Argall, hee that is not guilty of his owne death, shortens not his owne life. _Other_. But is this law? _Clo_. I marry is't, Crowners Quest Law. _Other_. Will you ha the truth on't: if this had [Sidenote: truth an't] not beene a Gentlewoman, shee should haue beene buried out of[2] Christian Buriall. [Sidenote: out a] _Clo_. Why there thou say'st. And the more pitty that great folke should haue countenance in this world to drowne or hang themselues, more then their euen[3] Christian. Come, my Spade; there is no ancient Gentlemen, but Gardiners, Ditchers and Graue-makers; they hold vp _Adams_ Profession. _Other_. Was he a Gentleman? _Clo_. He was the first that euer bore Armes. [Sidenote: A was] [4]_Other_. Why he had none. _Clo_. What, ar't a Heathen? how dost thou vnderstand the Scripture? the Scripture sayes _Adam_ dig'd; could hee digge without Armes?[4] Ile put another question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confesse thy selfe---- _Other_. Go too. _Clo_. What is he that builds stronger then either the Mason, the Shipwright, or the Carpenter? _Other_. The Gallowes-maker; for that Frame outliues a thousand Tenants. [Sidenote: that outliues] [Footnote 1: _ergo_, therefore.] [Footnote 2: _without_. The pleasure the speeches of the Clown give us, lies partly in the undercurrent of sense, so disguised by stupidity in the utterance; and partly in the wit which mainly succeeds in its end by the failure of its means.] [Footnote 3: _equal_, that is _fellow_ Christian.] [Footnote 4: _From 'Other' to_ 'Armes' _not in Quarto._] [Page 228] _Clo_. I like thy wit well in good faith, the Gallowes does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that doe ill: now, thou dost ill to say the Gallowes is built stronger then the Church: Argall, the Gallowes may doe well to thee. Too't againe, Come. _Other_. Who builds stronger then a Mason, a Shipwright, or a Carpenter? _Clo_. I, tell me that, and vnyoake.[1] _Other_. Marry, now I can tell. _Clo_. Too't. _Other_. Masse, I cannot tell. _Enter Hamlet and Horatio a farre off._[2] _Clo_. Cudgell thy braines no more about it; for your dull Asse will not mend his pace with beating, and when you are ask't this question next, say a Graue-maker: the Houses that he makes, lasts [Sidenote: houses hee makes] till Doomesday: go, get thee to _Yaughan_,[3] fetch [Sidenote: thee in, and fetch mee a soope of] me a stoupe of Liquor. _Sings._[4] _In youth when I did loue, did loue_, [Sidenote: _Song._] _me thought it was very sweete: To contract O the time for a my behoue, O me thought there was nothing meete[5]_ [Sidenote: there a was nothing a meet.] [Sidenote: _Enter Hamlet & Horatio_] _Ham_. Ha's this fellow no feeling of his businesse, [Sidenote: busines? a sings in graue-making.] that he sings at Graue-making?[6] _Hor_. Custome hath made it in him a property[7] of easinesse. _Ham_. 'Tis ee'n so; the hand of little Imployment hath the daintier sense. _Clowne sings._[8] _But Age with his stealing steps_ [Sidenote _Clow. Song._] _hath caught me in his clutch_: [Sidenote: hath clawed me] [Footnote 1: 'unyoke your team'--as having earned his rest.] [Footnote 2: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 3: Whether this is the name of a place, or the name of an innkeeper, or is merely an inexplicable corruption--some take it for a stage-direction to yawn--I cannot tell. See _Q._ reading. It is said to have been discovered that a foreigner named Johan sold ale next door to the Globe.] [Footnote 4: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 5: A song ascribed to Lord Vaux is in this and the following stanzas made nonsense of.] [Footnote 6: Note Hamlet's mood throughout what follows. He has entered the shadow of death.] [Footnote 7: _Property_ is what specially belongs to the individual; here it is his _peculiar work_, or _personal calling_: 'custom has made it with him an easy duty.'] [Footnote 8: _Not in Quarto._] [Page 230] _And hath shipped me intill the Land_, [Sidenote: into] _as if I had neuer beene such_. _Ham_. That Scull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knaue iowles it to th' grownd, [Sidenote: the] as if it were _Caines_ Iaw-bone, that did the first [Sidenote: twere] murther: It might be the Pate of a Polititian which [Sidenote: murder, this might] this Asse o're Offices: one that could circumuent [Sidenote: asse now ore-reaches; one that would] God, might it not? _Hor_. It might, my Lord. _Ham_. Or of a Courtier, which could say, Good Morrow sweet Lord: how dost thou, good Lord? [Sidenote: thou sweet lord?] this might be my Lord such a one, that prais'd my Lord such a ones Horse, when he meant to begge [Sidenote: when a went to] it; might it not?[1] _Hor_. I, my Lord. _Ham_. Why ee'n so: and now my Lady Wormes,[2] Chaplesse,[3] and knockt about the Mazard[4] [Sidenote: Choples | the massene with] with a Sextons Spade; heere's fine Reuolution, if [Sidenote: and we had] wee had the tricke to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at Loggets[5] with 'em? mine ake to thinke on't. [Sidenote: them] _Clowne sings._[6] _A Pickhaxe and a Spade, a Spade_, [Sidenote: _Clow. Song._] _for and a shrowding-Sheete: O a Pit of Clay for to be made, for such a Guest is meete_. _Ham_. There's another: why might not that bee the Scull of of a Lawyer? where be his [Sidenote: skull of a] Quiddits[7] now? his Quillets[7]? his Cases? his [Sidenote: quiddities] Tenures, and his Tricks? why doe's he suffer this rude knaue now to knocke him about the Sconce[8] [Sidenote: this madde knaue] with a dirty Shouell, and will not tell him of his Action of Battery? hum. This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of Land, with his Statutes, his Recognizances, his Fines, his double [Footnote 1: To feel the full force of this, we must call up the expression on the face of 'such a one' as he begged the horse--probably imitated by Hamlet--and contrast it with the look on the face of the skull.] [Footnote 2: 'now the property of my Lady Worm.'] [Footnote 3: the lower jaw gone.] [Footnote 4: _the upper jaw_, I think--not _the head_.] [Footnote 5: a game in which pins of wood, called loggats, nearly two feet long, were half thrown, half slid, towards a bowl. _Blount_: Johnson and Steevens.] [Footnote 6: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 7: a lawyer's quirks and quibbles. See _Johnson and Steevens_. _1st Q._ now where is your Quirkes and quillets now,] [Footnote 8: Humorous, or slang word for _the head_. 'A fort--a head-piece--the head': _Webster's Dict_.] [Page 232] Vouchers, his Recoueries: [1] Is this the fine[2] of his Fines, and the recouery[3] of his Recoueries,[1] to haue his fine[4] Pate full of fine[4] Dirt? will his Vouchers [Sidenote: will vouchers] vouch him no more of his Purchases, and double [Sidenote: purchases & doubles then] ones too, then the length and breadth of a paire of Indentures? the very Conueyances of his Lands will hardly lye in this Boxe[5]; and must the Inheritor [Sidenote: scarcely iye; | th'] himselfe haue no more?[6] ha? _Hor_. Not a iot more, my Lord. _Ham_. Is not Parchment made of Sheep-skinnes? _Hor_. I my Lord, and of Calue-skinnes too. [Sidenote: Calues-skinnes to] _Ham_. They are Sheepe and Calues that seek [Sidenote: which seek] out assurance in that. I will speake to this fellow: whose Graue's this Sir? [Sidenote: this sirra?] _Clo_. Mine Sir: [Sidenote: _Clow_. Mine sir, or a pit] _O a Pit of Clay for to be made, for such a Guest is meete._[7] _Ham_. I thinke it be thine indeed: for thou liest in't. _Clo_. You lye out on't Sir, and therefore it is not [Sidenote: tis] yours: for my part, I doe not lye in't; and yet it [Sidenote: in't, yet] is mine. _Ham_. Thou dost lye in't, to be in't and say 'tis [Sidenote: it is] thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quicke, therefore thou lyest. _Clo_. Tis a quicke lye Sir, 'twill away againe from me to you.[8] _Ham_. What man dost thou digge it for? _Clo_. For no man Sir. _Ham_. What woman then? _Clo_. For none neither. _Ham_. Who is to be buried in't? _Clo_. One that was a woman Sir; but rest her Soule, shee's dead. [Footnote 1: _From_ 'Is' _to_ 'Recoueries' _not in Q._] [Footnote 2: the end.] [Footnote 3: the property regained by his Recoveries.] [Footnote 4: third and fourth meanings of the word _fine_.] [Footnote 5: the skull.] [Footnote 6: 'must the heir have no more either?' _1st Q_. and must The honor (_owner?_) lie there?] [Footnote 7: _This line not in Q._] [Footnote 8: He _gives_ the lie.] [Page 234] _Ham_. How absolute[1] the knaue is? wee must [Sidenote: 256] speake by the Carde,[2] or equiuocation will vndoe vs: by the Lord _Horatio_, these three yeares[3] I haue [Sidenote: this three] taken note of it, the Age is growne so picked,[4] [Sidenote: tooke] that the toe of the Pesant comes so neere the heeles of our Courtier, hee galls his Kibe.[5] How [Sidenote: the heele of the] long hast thou been a Graue-maker? [Sidenote: been Graue-maker?] _Clo_. Of all the dayes i'th'yeare, I came too't [Sidenote: Of the dayes] that day[6] that our last King _Hamlet_ o'recame [Sidenote: ouercame] _Fortinbras_. _Ham_. How long is that since? _Clo_. Cannot you tell that? euery foole can tell [Sidenote: 143] that: It was the very day,[6] that young _Hamlet_ was [Sidenote: was that very] borne,[8] hee that was mad, and sent into England, [Sidenote: that is mad] _Ham_. I marry, why was he sent into England? _Clo_. Why, because he was mad; hee shall recouer [Sidenote: a was mad: a shall] his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great [Sidenote: if a do | tis] matter there. _Ham_. Why? _Clo_. 'Twill not be scene in him, there the men [Sidenote: him there, there] are as mad as he. _Ham_. How came he mad? _Clo_. Very strangely they say. _Ham_. How strangely?[7] _Clo_. Faith e'ene with loosing his wits. _Ham_. Vpon what ground? _Clo_. Why heere in Denmarke[8]: I haue bin sixeteene [Sidenote: Sexten] [Sidenote: 142-3] heere, man and Boy thirty yeares.[9] _Ham_. How long will a man lie 'ith' earth ere he rot? _Clo_. Ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as [Sidenote: Fayth if a be not | a die] we haue many pocky Coarses now adaies, that will [Sidenote: corses, that will] scarce hold the laying in) he will last you some [Sidenote: a will] eight yeare, or nine yeare. A Tanner will last you nine yeare. [Footnote 1: 'How the knave insists on precision!'] [Footnote 2: chart: _Skeat's Etym. Dict._] [Footnote 3: Can this indicate any point in the history of English society?] [Footnote 4: so fastidious; so given to _picking_ and choosing; so choice.] [Footnote 5: The word is to be found in any dictionary, but is not generally understood. Lord Byron, a very inaccurate writer, takes it to mean _heel_: Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each others' kibes: _Childe Harold, Canto 1. St. 67._ It means a _chilblain_.] [Footnote 6: Then Fortinbras _could_ have been but a few months younger than Hamlet, and may have been older. Hamlet then, in the Quarto passage, could not by _tender_ mean _young_.] [Footnote 7: 'In what way strangely?'--_in what strange way_? Or the _How_ may be _how much_, in retort to the _very_; but the intent would be the same--a request for further information.] [Footnote 8: Hamlet has asked on what ground or provocation, that is, from what cause, Hamlet lost his wits; the sexton chooses to take the word _ground_ materially.] [Footnote 9: The Poet makes him say how long he had been sexton--but how naturally and informally--by a stupid joke!--in order a second time, and more certainly, to tell us Hamlet's age: he must have held it a point necessary to the understanding of Hamlet. Note Hamlet's question immediately following. It looks as if he had first said to himself: 'Yes--I have been thirty years above ground!' and _then_ said to the sexton, 'How long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot?' We might enquire even too curiously as to the connecting links.] [Page 236] _Ham_. Why he, more then another? _Clo_. Why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his Trade, that he will keepe out water a great while. And [Sidenote: a will] your water, is a sore Decayer of your horson dead body. Heres a Scull now: this Scul, has laine in [Sidenote: now hath iyen you i'th earth 23. yeeres.] the earth three and twenty years. _Ham_. Whose was it? _Clo_. A whoreson mad Fellowes it was; Whose doe you thinke it was? _Ham_. Nay, I know not. _Clo_. A pestlence on him for a mad Rogue, a pou'rd a Flaggon of Renish on my head once. This same Scull Sir, this same Scull sir, was _Yoricks_ [Sidenote: once; this same skull sir, was sir _Yoricks_] Scull, the Kings Iester. _Ham_. This? _Clo_. E'ene that. _Ham_. Let me see. Alas poore _Yorick_, I knew [Sidenote: _Ham_. Alas poore] him _Horatio_, a fellow of infinite Iest; of most excellent fancy, he hath borne me on his backe a [Sidenote: bore] thousand times: And how abhorred[1] my Imagination [Sidenote: and now how | in my] is, my gorge rises at it. Heere hung those [Sidenote: it is:] lipps, that I haue kist I know not how oft. Where be your Iibes now? Your Gambals? Your Songs? Your flashes of Merriment that were wont to set the Table on a Rore? No one[2] now to mock your [Sidenote: not one] own Ieering? Quite chopfalne[3]? Now get you to [Sidenote: owne grinning,] my Ladies Chamber, and tell her, let her paint an [Sidenote: Ladies table,] inch thicke, to this fauour[4] she must come. Make her laugh at that: prythee _Horatio_ tell me one thing. _Hor_. What's that my Lord? _Ham_. Dost thou thinke _Alexander_ lookt o'this [Sidenote: a this] fashion i'th' earth? _Hor_. E'ene so. _Ham_. And smelt so? Puh. [Footnote 1: If this be the true reading, _abhorred_ must mean _horrified_; but I incline to the _Quarto_.] [Footnote 2: 'Not one jibe, not one flash of merriment now?'] [Footnote 3: --chop indeed quite fallen off!] [Footnote 4: _to this look_--that of the skull.] [Page 238] _Hor_. E'ene so, my Lord. _Ham_. To what base vses we may returne _Horatio_. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of _Alexander_, till he[1] find it stopping a [Sidenote: a find] bunghole. _Hor_. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider [Sidenote: consider too curiously] so. _Ham_. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether with modestie[2] enough, and likeliehood to lead it; as thus. _Alexander_ died: _Alexander_ was [Sidenote: lead it. _Alexander_] buried: _Alexander_ returneth into dust; the dust is [Sidenote: to] earth; of earth we make Lome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted) might they not stopp a Beere-barrell?[3] Imperiall _Caesar_, dead and turn'd to clay, [Sidenote: Imperious] Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a Wall, t'expell the winters flaw.[4] [Sidenote: waters flaw.] But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King. [Sidenote: , but soft awhile, here] _Enter King, Queene, Laertes, and a Coffin_, [Sidenote: _Enter K. Q. Laertes and the corse._] _with Lords attendant._ The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow, [Sidenote: this they] And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken, The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand, Fore do it owne life; 'twas some Estate.[5] [Sidenote: twas of some[5]] Couch[6] we a while, and mark. _Laer_. What Cerimony else? _Ham_. That is _Laertes_, a very Noble youth:[7] Marke. _Laer_. What Cerimony else?[8] _Priest_. Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd, [Sidenote: _Doct_.] As we haue warrantis,[9] her death was doubtfull,[10] [Sidenote: warrantie,] And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order,[11] [Footnote 1: Imagination personified.] [Footnote 2: moderation.] [Footnote 3: 'Loam, Lome--grafting clay. Mortar made of Clay and Straw; also a sort of Plaister used by Chymists to stop up their Vessels.'--_Bailey's Dict._] [Footnote 4: a sudden puff or blast of wind. Hamlet here makes a solemn epigram. For the right understanding of the whole scene, the student must remember that Hamlet is philosophizing--following things out, curiously or otherwise--on the brink of a grave, concerning the tenant for which he has enquired--'what woman then?'--but received no answer.] [Footnote 5: 'the corpse was of some position.'] [Footnote 6: 'let us lie down'--behind a grave or stone.] [Footnote 7: Hamlet was quite in the dark as to Laertes' character; he had seen next to nothing of him.] [Footnote 8: The priest making no answer, Laertes repeats the question.] [Footnote 9: _warrantise_.] [Footnote 10: This casts discredit on the queen's story, 222. The priest believes she died by suicide, only calls her death doubtful to excuse their granting her so many of the rites of burial.] [Footnote 11: 'settled mode of proceeding.'--_Schmidt's Sh. Lex._--But is it not rather _the order_ of the church?] [Page 240] She should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd, [Sidenote: vnsanctified been lodged] Till the last Trumpet. For charitable praier, [Sidenote: prayers,] Shardes,[1] Flints, and Peebles, should be throwne on her: Yet heere she is allowed her Virgin Rites, [Sidenote: virgin Crants,[2]] Her Maiden strewments,[3] and the bringing home Of Bell and Buriall.[4] _Laer_. Must there no more be done? _Priest_. No more be done:[5] [Sidenote: _Doct._] We should prophane the seruice of the dead, To sing sage[6] _Requiem_, and such rest to her [Sidenote: sing a Requiem] As to peace-parted Soules. _Laer_. Lay her i'th' earth, And from her faire and vnpolluted flesh, May Violets spring. I tell thee (churlish Priest) A Ministring Angell shall my Sister be, When thou liest howling? _Ham_. What, the faire _Ophelia_?[7] _Queene_. Sweets, to the sweet farewell.[8] [Sidenote: 118] I hop'd thou should'st haue bin my _Hamlets_ wife: I thought thy Bride-bed to haue deckt (sweet Maid) And not t'haue strew'd thy Graue. [Sidenote: not haue] _Laer_. Oh terrible woer,[9] [Sidenote: O treble woe] Fall ten times trebble, on that cursed head [Sidenote: times double on] Whose wicked deed, thy most Ingenioussence Depriu'd thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes: _Leaps in the graue._[10] Now pile your dust, vpon the quicke, and dead, Till of this flat a Mountaine you haue made, To o're top old _Pelion_, or the skyish head [Sidenote: To'retop] Of blew _Olympus_.[11] _Ham_.[12] What is he, whose griefes [Sidenote: griefe] Beares such an Emphasis? whose phrase of Sorrow [Footnote 1: 'Shardes' _not in Quarto._ It means _potsherds_.] [Footnote 2: chaplet--_German_ krantz, used even for virginity itself.] [Footnote 3: strewments with _white_ flowers. (?)] [Footnote 4: the burial service.] [Footnote 5: as an exclamation, I think.] [Footnote 6: Is the word _sage_ used as representing the unfitness of a requiem to her state of mind? or is it only from its kindred with _solemn_? It was because she was not 'peace-parted' that they could not sing _rest_ to her.] [Footnote 7: _Everything_ here depends on the actor.] [Footnote 8: I am not sure the queen is not _apostrophizing_ the flowers she is throwing into or upon the coffin: 'Sweets, be my farewell to the sweet.'] [Footnote 9: The Folio _may_ be right here:--'Oh terrible wooer!--May ten times treble thy misfortunes fall' &c.] [Footnote 10: This stage-direction is not in the _Quarto_. Here the _1st Quarto_ has:-- _Lear_. Forbeare the earth a while: sister farewell: _Leartes leapes into the graue._ Now powre your earth on _Olympus_ hie, And make a hill to o're top olde _Pellon_: _Hamlet leapes in after Leartes_ Whats he that coniures so? _Ham_. Beholde tis I, _Hamlet_ the Dane.] [Footnote 11: The whole speech is bravado--the frothy grief of a weak, excitable effusive nature.] [Footnote 12: He can remain apart no longer, and approaches the company.] [Page 242] Coniure the wandring Starres, and makes them stand [Sidenote: Coniues] Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, _Hamlet_ the Dane.[1] _Laer_. The deuill take thy soule.[2] _Ham_. Thou prai'st not well, I prythee take thy fingers from my throat;[3] Sir though I am not Spleenatiue, and rash, [Sidenote: For though | spleenatiue rash,] Yet haue I something in me dangerous, [Sidenote: in me something] Which let thy wisenesse feare. Away thy hand. [Sidenote: wisedome feare; hold off they] _King_. Pluck them asunder. _Qu. Hamlet, Hamlet_. [Sidenote: _All_. Gentlemen.] _Gen_. Good my Lord be quiet. [Sidenote: _Hora_. Good] _Ham_. Why I will fight with him vppon this Theme, Vntill my eielids will no longer wag.[4] _Qu_. Oh my Sonne, what Theame? _Ham_. I lou'd _Ophelia_[5]; fortie thousand Brothers Could not (with all there quantitie of Loue) Make vp my summe. What wilt thou do for her?[6] _King_. Oh he is mad _Laertes_.[7] _Qu_. For loue of God forbeare him. _Ham_. Come show me what thou'lt doe. [Sidenote: _Ham_ S'wounds shew | th'owt fight, woo't fast, woo't teare] Woo't weepe? Woo't fight? Woo't teare thy selfe? Woo't drinke vp _Esile_, eate a Crocodile?[6] Ile doo't. Dost thou come heere to whine; [Sidenote: doost come] To outface me with leaping in her Graue? Be[8] buried quicke with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of Mountaines; let them throw Millions of Akers on vs; till our ground Sindging his pate against the burning Zone, [Sidenote: 262] Make _Ossa_ like a wart. Nay, and thoul't mouth, Ile rant as well as thou.[9] [Footnote 1: This fine speech is yet spoken in the character of madman, which Hamlet puts on once more the moment he has to appear before the king. Its poetry and dignity belong to Hamlet's feeling; its extravagance to his assumed insanity. It must be remembered that death is a small affair to Hamlet beside his mother's life, and that the death of Ophelia may even be some consolation to him. In the _Folio_, a few lines back, Laertes leaps into the grave. There is no such direction in the _Q_. In neither is Hamlet said to leap into the grave; only the _1st Q._ so directs. It is a stage-business that must please the _common_ actor of Hamlet; but there is nothing in the text any more than in the margin of _Folio_ or _Quarto_ to justify it, and it would but for the horror of it be ludicrous. The coffin is supposed to be in the grave: must Laertes jump down upon it, followed by Hamlet, and the two fight and trample over the body? Yet I take the '_Leaps in the grave_' to be an action intended for Laertes by the Poet. His 'Hold off the earth a while,' does not necessarily imply that the body is already in the grave. He has before said, 'Lay her i'th' earth': then it was not in the grave. It is just about to be lowered, when, with that cry of 'Hold off the earth a while,' he jumps into the grave, and taking the corpse, on a bier at the side of it, in his arms, calls to the spectators to pile a mountain on them--in the wild speech that brings out Hamlet. The quiet dignity of Hamlet's speech does not comport with his jumping into the grave: Laertes comes out of the grave, and flies at Hamlet's throat. So, at least, I would have the thing acted. There is, however, nothing in the text to show that Laertes comes out of the grave, and if the manager insist on the traditional mode, I would suggest that the grave be represented much larger. In Mr. Jewitt's book on Grave-Mounds, I read of a 'female skeleton in a grave six feet deep, ten feet long, and eight feet wide.' Such a grave would give room for both beside the body, and dismiss the hideousness of the common representation.] [Footnote 2: --_springing out of the grave and flying at Hamlet_.] [Footnote 3: Note the temper, self-knowledge, self-government, and self-distrust of Hamlet.] [Footnote 4: The eyelids last of all become incapable of motion.] [Footnote 5: That he loved her is the only thing to explain the harshness of his behaviour to her. Had he not loved her and not been miserable about her, he would have been as polite to her as well bred people would have him.] [Footnote 6: The gallants of Shakspere's day would challenge each other to do more disagreeable things than any of these in honour of their mistresses. '_�sil._ s.m. Ancien nom du Vinaigre.' _Supplement to Academy Dict._, 1847.--'Eisile, _vinegar_': Bosworth's _Anglo-Saxon Dict_., from Somner's _Saxon Dict._, 1659.--'Eisel (_Saxon), vinegar; verjuice; any acid_': Johnson's _Dict_. _1st Q_. 'Wilt drinke vp vessels.' The word _up_ very likely implies the steady emptying of a vessel specified--at a draught, and not by degrees.] [Footnote 7: --pretending care over Hamlet.] [Footnote 8: Emphasis on _Be_, which I take for the _imperative mood_.] [Footnote 9: The moment it is uttered, he recognizes and confesses to the rant, ashamed of it even under the cover of his madness. It did not belong _altogether_ to the madness. Later he expresses to Horatio his regret in regard to this passage between him and Laertes, and afterwards apologizes to Laertes. 252, 262. Perhaps this is the speech in all the play of which it is most difficult to get into a sympathetic comprehension. The student must call to mind the elements at war in Hamlet's soul, and generating discords in his behaviour: to those comes now the shock of Ophelia's death; the last tie that bound him to life is gone--the one glimmer of hope left him for this world! The grave upon whose brink he has been bandying words with the sexton, is for _her_! Into such a consciousness comes the rant of Laertes. Only the forms of madness are free to him, while no form is too strong in which to repudiate indifference to Ophelia: for her sake, as well as to relieve his own heart, he casts the clear confession of his love into her grave. He is even jealous, over her dead body, of her brother's profession of love to her--as if any brother could love as he loved! This is foolish, no doubt, but human, and natural to a certain childishness in grief. 252. Add to this, that Hamlet--see later in his speeches to Osricke--had a lively inclination to answer a fool according to his folly (256), to outherod Herod if Herod would rave, out-euphuize Euphues himself if he would be ridiculous:--the digestion of all these things in the retort of meditation will result, I would fain think, in an understanding and artistic justification of even this speech of Hamlet: the more I consider it the truer it seems. If proof be necessary that real feeling is mingled in the madness of the utterance, it may be found in the fact that he is immediately ashamed of its extravagance.] [Page 244] _Kin_.[1] This is meere Madnesse: [Sidenote: _Quee_.[1]] And thus awhile the fit will worke on him: [Sidenote: And this] Anon as patient as the female Doue, When that her golden[2] Cuplet[3] are disclos'd[4]; [Sidenote: cuplets[3]] His silence will sit drooping.[5] _Ham_. Heare you Sir:[6] What is the reason that you vse me thus? I loud' you euer;[7] but it is no matter:[8] Let _Hercules_ himselfe doe what he may, The Cat will Mew, and Dogge will haue his day.[9] _Exit._ [Sidenote: _Exit Hamlet and Horatio._] _Kin_. I pray you good Horatio wait vpon him, [Sidenote: pray thee good] Strengthen you patience in our last nights speech, [Sidenote: your] [Sidenote: 254] Wee'l put the matter to the present push:[10] Good _Gertrude_ set some watch ouer your Sonne, This Graue shall haue a liuing[11] Monument:[12] An houre of quiet shortly shall we see;[13] [Sidenote: quiet thirtie shall] Till then, in patience our proceeding be. _Exeunt._ [Footnote 1: I hardly know which to choose as the speaker of this speech. It would be a fine specimen of the king's hypocrisy; and perhaps indeed its poetry, lovely in itself, but at such a time sentimental, is fitter for him than the less guilty queen.] [Footnote 2: 'covered with a yellow down' _Heath_.] [Footnote 3: The singular is better: 'the pigeon lays no more than _two_ eggs.' _Steevens_. Only, _couplets_ might be used like _twins_.] [Footnote 4: --_hatched_, the sporting term of the time.] [Footnote 5: 'The pigeon never quits her nest for three days after her two young ones are hatched, except for a few moments to get food.' _Steevens_.] [Footnote 6: Laertes stands eyeing him with evil looks.] [Footnote 7: I suppose here a pause: he waits in vain some response from Laertes.] [Footnote 8: Here he retreats into his madness.] [Footnote 9: '--but I cannot compel you to hear reason. Do what he will, Hercules himself cannot keep the cat from mewing, or the dog from following his inclination!'--said in a half humorous, half contemptuous despair.] [Footnote 10: 'into immediate train'--_to Laertes_.] [Footnote 11: _life-like_, or _lasting_?] [Footnote 12: --_again to Laertes_.] [Footnote 13: --when Hamlet is dead.] [Page 246] _Enter Hamlet and Horatio._ _Ham._ So much for this Sir; now let me see the other,[1] [Sidenote: now shall you see] You doe remember all the Circumstance.[2] _Hor._ Remember it my Lord?[3] _Ham._ Sir, in my heart there was a kinde of fighting, That would not let me sleepe;[4] me thought I lay [Sidenote: my thought] Worse then the mutines in the Bilboes,[5] rashly, [Sidenote: bilbo] (And praise be rashnesse for it)[6] let vs know, [Sidenote: prayed] Our indiscretion sometimes serues vs well, [Sidenote: sometime] When our deare plots do paule,[7] and that should teach vs, [Sidenote: deepe | should learne us] [Sidenote: 146, 181] There's a Diuinity that shapes our ends,[8] Rough-hew them how we will.[9] _Hor._ That is most certaine. _Ham._ Vp from my Cabin My sea-gowne scarft about me in the darke, Grop'd I to finde out them;[10] had my desire, Finger'd their Packet[11], and in fine, withdrew To mine owne roome againe, making so bold, (My feares forgetting manners) to vnseale [Sidenote: to vnfold] Their grand Commission, where I found _Horatio_, Oh royall[12] knauery: An exact command, [Sidenote: A royall] [Sidenote: 196] Larded with many seuerall sorts of reason; [Sidenote: reasons,] Importing Denmarks health, and Englands too, With hoo, such Bugges[13] and Goblins in my life, [Sidenote: hoe] That on the superuize[14] no leasure bated,[15] No not to stay the grinding of the Axe, My head shoud be struck off. _Hor._ Ist possible? _Ham._ Here's the Commission, read it at more leysure: [Footnote 1: I would suggest that the one paper, which he has just shown, is a commission the king gave to himself; the other, which he is about to show, that given to Rosincrance and Guildensterne. He is setting forth his proof of the king's treachery.] [Footnote 2: --of the king's words and behaviour, possibly, in giving him his papers, Horatio having been present; or it might mean, 'Have you got the things I have just told you clear in your mind?'] [Footnote 3: '--as if I could forget a single particular of it!'] [Footnote 4: The _Shaping Divinity_ was moving him.] [Footnote 5: The fetters called _bilboes_ fasten a couple of mutinous sailors together by the legs.] [Footnote 6: Does he not here check himself and begin afresh--remembering that the praise belongs to the Divinity?] [Footnote 7: _pall_--from the root of _pale_--'come to nothing.' He had had his plots from which he hoped much; the king's commission had rendered them futile. But he seems to have grown doubtful of his plans before, probably through the doubt of his companions which led him to seek acquaintance with their commission, and he may mean that his 'dear plots' had begun to pall _upon him_. Anyhow the sudden 'indiscretion' of searching for and unsealing the ambassadors' commission served him as nothing else could have served him.] [Footnote 8: --even by our indiscretion. Emphasis on _shapes_.] [Footnote 9: Here is another sign of Hamlet's religion. 24, 125, 260. We start to work out an idea, but the result does not correspond with the idea: another has been at work along with us. We rough-hew--block out our marble, say for a Mercury; the result is an Apollo. Hamlet had rough-hewn his ends--he had begun plans to certain ends, but had he been allowed to go on shaping them alone, the result, even had he carried out his plans and shaped his ends to his mind, would have been failure. Another mallet and chisel were busy shaping them otherwise from the first, and carrying them out to a true success. For _success_ is not the success of plans, but the success of ends.] [Footnote 10: Emphasize _I_ and _them_, as the rhythm requires, and the phrase becomes picturesque.] [Footnote 11: 'got my fingers on their papers.'] [Footnote 12: Emphasize _royal_.] [Footnote 13: A _bug_ is any object causing terror.] [Footnote 14: immediately on the reading.] [Footnote 15: --no interval abated, taken off the immediacy of the order respite granted.] [Page 248] But wilt thou heare me how I did proceed? [Sidenote: heare now how] _Hor_. I beseech you. _Ham_. Being thus benetted round with Villaines,[1] Ere I could make a Prologue to my braines, [Sidenote: Or I could] They had begun the Play.[2] I sate me downe, Deuis'd a new Commission,[3] wrote it faire, I once did hold it as our Statists[4] doe, A basenesse to write faire; and laboured much How to forget that learning: but Sir now, It did me Yeomans[5] seruice: wilt thou know [Sidenote: yemans] The effects[6] of what I wrote? [Sidenote: Th'effect[6]] _Hor_. I, good my Lord. _Ham_. An earnest Coniuration from the King, As England was his faithfull Tributary, As loue betweene them, as the Palme should flourish, [Sidenote: them like the | might florish,] As Peace should still her wheaten Garland weare, And stand a Comma 'tweene their amities,[7] And many such like Assis[8] of great charge, [Sidenote: like, as sir of] That on the view and know of these Contents, [Sidenote: knowing] Without debatement further, more or lesse, He should the bearers put to sodaine death, [Sidenote: those bearers] Not shriuing time allowed. _Hor_. How was this seal'd? _Ham_. Why, euen in that was Heauen ordinate; [Sidenote: ordinant,] I had my fathers Signet in my Purse, Which was the Modell of that Danish Seale: Folded the Writ vp in forme of the other, [Sidenote: in the forme of th'] Subscrib'd it, gau't th'impression, plac't it safely, [Sidenote: Subscribe it,] The changeling neuer knowne: Now, the next day Was our Sea Fight, and what to this was sement, [Sidenote: was sequent] Thou know'st already.[9] _Hor_. So _Guildensterne_ and _Rosincrance_, go too't. [Footnote 1: --the nearest, Rosincrance and Guildensterne: Hamlet was quite satisfied of their villainy.] [Footnote 2: 'I had no need to think: the thing came to me at once.'] [Footnote 3: Note Hamlet's rapid practicality--not merely in devising, but in carrying out.] [Footnote 4: statesmen.] [Footnote 5: '_Yeomen of the guard of the king's body_ were anciently two hundred and fifty men, of the best rank under gentry, and of larger stature than ordinary; every one being required to be six feet high.'--_E. Chambers' Cyclopaedia_. Hence '_yeoman's_ service' must mean the very best of service.] [Footnote 6: Note our common phrase: 'I wrote to this effect.'] [Footnote 7: 'as he would have Peace stand between their friendships like a comma between two words.' Every point has in it a conjunctive, as well as a disjunctive element: the former seems the one regarded here--only that some amities require more than a comma to separate them. The _comma_ does not make much of a figure--is good enough for its position, however; if indeed the fact be not, that, instead of standing for _Peace_, it does not even stand for itself, but for some other word. I do not for my part think so.] [Footnote 8: Dr. Johnson says there is a quibble here with _asses_ as beasts of _charge_ or burden. It is probable enough, seeing, as Malone tells us, that in Warwickshire, as did Dr. Johnson himself, they pronounce _as_ hard. In Aberdeenshire the sound of the _s_ varies with the intent of the word: '_az_ he said'; '_ass_ strong _az_ a horse.'] [Footnote 9: To what purpose is this half-voyage to England made part of the play? The action--except, as not a few would have it, the very action be delay--is nowise furthered by it; Hamlet merely goes and returns. To answer this question, let us find the real ground for Hamlet's reflection, 'There's a Divinity that shapes our ends.' Observe, he is set at liberty without being in the least indebted to the finding of the commission--by the attack, namely, of the pirate; and this was not the shaping of his ends of which he was thinking when he made the reflection, for it had reference to the finding of the commission. What then was the ground of the reflection? And what justifies the whole passage in relation to the Poet's object, the character of Hamlet? This, it seems to me:-- Although Hamlet could not have had much doubt left with regard to his uncle's guilt, yet a man with a fine, delicate--what most men would think, because so much more exacting than theirs--fastidious conscience, might well desire some proof more positive yet, before he did a deed so repugnant to his nature, and carrying in it such a loud condemnation of his mother. And more: he might well wish to have something to _show_: a man's conviction is no proof, though it may work in others inclination to receive proof. Hamlet is sent to sea just to get such proof as will not only thoroughly satisfy himself, but be capable of being shown to others. He holds now in his hand--to lay before the people--the two contradictory commissions. By his voyage then he has gained both assurance of his duty, and provision against the consequence he mainly dreaded, that of leaving a wounded name behind him. 272. This is the shaping of his ends--so exactly to his needs, so different from his rough-hewn plans--which is the work of the Divinity. The man who desires to know his duty that he may _do_ it, who will not shirk it when he does know it, will have time allowed him and the thing made plain to him; his perplexity will even strengthen and purify his will. The weak man is he who, certain of what is required of him, fails to meet it: so never once fails Hamlet. Note, in all that follows, that a load seems taken off him: after a gracious tardiness to believe up to the point of action, he is at length satisfied. Hesitation belongs to the noble nature, to Hamlet; precipitation to the poor nature, to Laertes, the son of Polonius. Compare Brutus in _Julius Caesar_--a Hamlet in favourable circumstances, with Hamlet--a Brutus in the most unfavourable circumstances conceivable.] [Page 250] _Ham_. Why man, they did make loue to this imployment[1] They are not neere my Conscience; their debate [Sidenote: their defeat[2]] Doth by their owne insinuation[3] grow:[4] [Sidenote: Dooes] 'Tis dangerous, when the baser nature comes Betweene the passe, and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites.[5] _Hor_. Why, what a King is this?[6] _Ham_. Does it not, thinkst thee,[7] stand me now vpon[8] [Sidenote: not thinke thee[7] stand] [Sidenote: 120] He that hath kil'd my King,[9] and whor'd my Mother, [Sidenote: 62] Popt in betweene th'election and my hopes, [Footnote 1: _This verse not in Q._] [Footnote 2: destruction.] [Footnote 3: 'Their destruction they have enticed on themselves by their own behaviour;' or, 'they have _crept into_ their fate by their underhand dealings.' The _Sh. Lex._ explains _insinuation_ as _meddling_.] [Footnote 4: With the concern of Horatio for the fate of Rosincrance and Guildensterne, Hamlet shows no sympathy. It has been objected to his character that there is nothing in the play to show them privy to the contents of their commission; to this it would be answer enough, that Hamlet is satisfied of their worthlessness, and that their whole behaviour in the play shows them merest parasites; but, at the same time, we must note that, in changing the commission, he had no intention, could have had no thought, of letting them go to England without him: that was a pure shaping of their ends by the Divinity. Possibly his own 'dear plots' had in them the notion of getting help against his uncle from the king of England, in which case he would willingly of course have continued his journey; but whatever they may be supposed to have been, they were laid in connection with the voyage, not founded on the chance of its interruption. It is easy to imagine a man like him, averse to the shedding of blood, intending interference for their lives: as heir apparent, he would certainly have been listened to. The tone of his reply to Horatio is that of one who has been made the unintending cause of a deserved fate: the thing having fallen out so, the Divinity having so shaped their ends, there was nothing in their character, any more than in that of Polonius, to make him regret their death, or the part he had had in it.] [Footnote 5: The 'mighty opposites' here are the king and Hamlet.] [Footnote 6: Perhaps, as Hamlet talked, he has been parenthetically glancing at the real commission. Anyhow conviction is growing stronger in Horatio, whom, for the occasion, we may regard as a type of the public.] [Footnote 7: 'thinkst thee,' in the fashion of the Friends, or 'thinke thee' in the sense of 'bethink thee.'] [Footnote 8: 'Does it not rest now on me?--is it not now my duty?--is it not _incumbent on me_ (with _lie_ for _stand_)--"is't not perfect conscience"?'] [Footnote 9: Note '_my king_' not _my father_: he had to avenge a crime against the state, the country, himself as a subject--not merely a private wrong.] [Page 252] Throwne out his Angle for my proper life,[1] And with such coozenage;[2] is't not perfect conscience,[3] [Sidenote: conscience?] [Sidenote: 120] To quit him with this arme?[4] And is't not to be damn'd[5] To let this Canker of our nature come In further euill.[6] _Hor._ It must be shortly knowne to him from England What is the issue of the businesse there.[7] _Ham._ It will be short, [Sidenote: 262] The _interim's_ mine,[8] and a mans life's no more[9] Then to say one:[10] but I am very sorry good _Horatio_, [Sidenote: 245] That to _Laertes_ I forgot my selfe; For by the image of my Cause, I see [Sidenote: 262] The Portraiture of his;[11] Ile count his fauours:[12] [Footnote 1: Here is the charge at length in full against the king--of quality and proof sufficient now, not merely to justify, but to compel action against him.] [Footnote 2: He was such a _fine_ hypocrite that Hamlet, although he hated and distrusted him, was perplexed as to the possibility of his guilt. His good acting was almost too much for Hamlet himself. This is his 'coozenage.' After 'coozenage' should come a dash, bringing '--is't not perfect conscience' (_is it not absolutely righteous_) into closest sequence, almost apposition, with 'Does it not stand me now upon--'.] [Footnote 3: Here comes in the _Quarto, 'Enter a Courtier_.' All from this point to 'Peace, who comes heere?' included, is in addition to the _Quarto_ text--not in the _Q._, that is.] [Footnote 4: I would here refer my student to the soliloquy--with its _sea of troubles_, and _the taking of arms against it_. 123, n. 4.] [Footnote 5: These three questions: 'Does it not stand me now upon?'--'Is't not perfect conscience?'--'Is't not to be damned?' reveal the whole relation between the inner and outer, the unseen and the seen, the thinking and the acting Hamlet. 'Is not the thing right?--Is it not my duty?--Would not the neglect of it deserve damnation?' He is satisfied.] [Footnote 6: 'is it not a thing to be damned--to let &c.?' or, 'would it not be to be damned, (to be in a state of damnation, or, to bring damnation on oneself) to let this human cancer, the king, go on to further evil?'] [Footnote 7: '--so you have not much time.'] [Footnote 8: 'True, it will be short, but till then is mine, and will be long enough for me.' He is resolved.] [Footnote 9: Now that he is assured of what is right, the Shadow that waits him on the path to it, has no terror for him. He ceases to be anxious as to 'what dreams may come,' as to the 'something after death,' as to 'the undiscovered country,' the moment his conscience is satisfied. 120. It cannot now make a coward of him. It was never in regard to the past that Hamlet dreaded death, but in regard to the righteousness of the action which was about to occasion his death. Note that he expects death; at least he has long made up his mind to the great risk of it--the death referred to in the soliloquy--which, after all, was not that which did overtake him. There is nothing about suicide here, nor was there there.] [Footnote 10: 'a man's life must soon be over anyhow.'] [Footnote 11: The approach of death causes him to think of and regret even the small wrongs he has done; he laments his late behaviour to Laertes, and makes excuse for him: the similarity of their condition, each having lost a father by violence, ought, he says, to have taught him gentleness with him. The _1st Quarto_ is worth comparing here:-- _Enter Hamlet and Horatio_ _Ham_. Beleeue mee, it greeues mee much _Horatio_, That to _Leartes_ I forgot my selfe: For by my selfe me thinkes I feele his griefe, Though there's a difference in each others wrong.] [Footnote 12: 'I will not forget,' or, 'I will call to mind, what merits he has,' or 'what favours he has shown me.' But I suspect the word '_count_' ought to be _court_.--He does court his favour when next they meet--in lovely fashion. He has no suspicion of his enmity.] [Page 254] [Sidenote: 242, 262] But sure the brauery[1] of his griefe did put me Into a Towring passion.[2] _Hor._ Peace, who comes heere? _Enter young Osricke._[3] [Sidenote: _Enter a Courtier._] _Osr._ Your Lordship is right welcome back to [Sidenote: _Cour._] Denmarke. _Ham._ I humbly thank you Sir, dost know this [Sidenote: humble thank] waterflie?[4] _Hor._ No my good Lord. _Ham._ Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him[5]: he hath much Land, and fertile; let a Beast be Lord of Beasts, and his Crib shall stand at the Kings Messe;[6] 'tis a Chowgh[7]; but as I saw spacious in the possession of dirt.[8] [Sidenote: as I say,] _Osr._ Sweet Lord, if your friendship[9] were at [Sidenote: _Cour._ | Lordshippe[?]] leysure, I should impart a thing to you from his Maiesty. _Ham._ I will receiue it with all diligence of [Sidenote: it sir with] spirit; put your Bonet to his right vse, 'tis for the [Sidenote: spirit, your] head. Osr. I thanke your Lordship, 'tis very hot[10] [Sidenote: Cour. | it is] _Ham._ No, beleeue mee 'tis very cold, the winde is Northerly. _Osr._ It is indifferent cold[11] my Lord indeed. [Sidenote: _Cour._] _Ham._ Mee thinkes it is very soultry, and hot [Sidenote: But yet me | sully and hot, or my] for my Complexion.[12] _Osr._ Exceedingly, my Lord, it is very soultry, [Sidenote: _Cour._] as 'twere I cannot tell how: but my Lord,[13] his [Sidenote: how: my Lord] Maiesty bad me signifie to you, that he ha's laid a [Sidenote: that a had] [Sidenote: 244] great wager on your head: Sir, this is the matter.[14] _Ham._ I beseech you remember.[15] _Osr._ Nay, in good faith, for mine ease in good [Sidenote: Cour. Nay good my Lord for my ease] [Footnote 1: the great show; bravado.] [Footnote 2: --with which fell in well the forms of his pretended madness. But that the passion was real, this reaction of repentance shows. It was not the first time his pretence had given him liberty to ease his heart with wild words. Jealous of the boastfulness of Laertes' affection, he began at once--in keeping with his assumed character of madman, but not the less in harmony with his feelings--to outrave him.] [Footnote 3: One of the sort that would gather to such a king--of the same kind as Rosincrance and Guildensterne. In the _1st Q. 'Enter a Bragart Gentleman_.'] [Footnote 4: --_to Horatio_.] [Footnote 5: 'Thou art the more in a state of grace, for it is a vice to know him.'] [Footnote 6: 'his manger shall stand where the king is served.' Wealth is always received by Rank--Mammon nowhere better worshipped than in kings' courts.] [Footnote 7: '_a bird of the crow-family_'--as a figure, '_always applied to rich and avaricious people_.' A _chuff_ is a surly _clown_. In Scotch a _coof_ is 'a silly, dastardly fellow.'] [Footnote 8: land.] [Footnote 9: 'friendship' is better than 'Lordshippe,' as euphuistic.] [Footnote 10: 'I thanke your Lordship; (_puts on his hat_) 'tis very hot.'] [Footnote 11: 'rather cold.'] [Footnote 12: 'and hot--for _my_ temperament.'] [Footnote 13: Not able to go on, he plunges into his message.] [Footnote 14: --_takes off his hat_.] [Footnote 15: --making a sign to him again to put on his hat.] [Page 256] faith[1]: Sir, [A] you are not ignorant of what excellence _Laertes_ [B] is at his weapon.[2] [Sidenote: _Laertes_ is.[2]] _Ham_. What's his weapon?[3] _Osr_. Rapier and dagger. [Sidenote: _Cour._] _Ham_. That's two of his weapons: but well. _Osr_. The sir King ha's wag'd with him six [Sidenote: _Cour_. The King sir hath wagerd] Barbary Horses, against the which he impon'd[4] as I [Sidenote: hee has impaund] take it, sixe French Rapiers and Poniards, with [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- [5] here is newly com to Court _Laertes_, belieue me an absolute gentlemen, ful of most excellent differences,[6] of very soft society,[7] and great [Sidenote: 234] showing[8]: indeede to speake sellingly[9] of him, hee is the card or kalender[10] of gentry: for you shall find in him the continent of what part a Gentleman would see.[11] [Sidenote: 245] _Ham_.[12] Sir, his definement suffers no perdition[13] in you, though I know to deuide him inuentorially,[14] would dosie[15] th'arithmaticke of memory, and yet but yaw[16] neither in respect of his quick saile, but in the veritie of extolment, I take him to be a soule of great article,[17] & his infusion[18] of such dearth[19] and rarenesse, as to make true dixion of him, his semblable is his mirrour,[20] & who els would trace him, his vmbrage, nothing more.[21] _Cour_. Your Lordship speakes most infallibly of him.[22] _Ham_. The concernancy[23] sir, why doe we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?[24] _Cour_. Sir.[25] _Hora_. Ist not possible to vnderstand in another tongue,[26] you will too't sir really.[27] _Ham_. What imports the nomination of this gentleman. _Cour_. Of _Laertes_.[28] _Hora_. His purse is empty already, all's golden words are spent. _Ham_. Of him sir.[29] _Cour_. I know you are not ignorant.[30] _Ham_. I would you did sir, yet in faith if you did, it would not much approoue me,[31] well sir. _Cour_.] [Footnote B: _Here in the Quarto_:-- _Ham_. I dare not confesse that, least I should compare with him in excellence, but to know a man wel, were to knowe himselfe.[32] _Cour_. I meane sir for this weapon, but in the imputation laide on him,[33] by them in his meed, hee's vnfellowed.[34]] [Footnote 1: 'in good faith, it is not for manners, but for my comfort I take it off.' Perhaps the hat was intended only to be carried, and would not really go on his head.] [Footnote 2: The _Quarto_ has not 'at his weapon,' which is inserted to take the place of the passage omitted, and connect the edges of the gap.] [Footnote 3: So far from having envied Laertes' reputation for fencing, as the king asserts, Hamlet seems not even to have known which was Laertes' weapon.] [Footnote 4: laid down--staked.] [Footnote 5: This and the following passages seem omitted for curtailment, and perhaps in part because they were less amusing when the fashion of euphuism had passed. The good of holding up the mirror to folly was gone when it was no more the 'form and pressure' of 'the very age and body of the time.'] [Footnote 6: of great variety of excellence.] [Footnote 7: gentle manners.] [Footnote 8: fine presence.] [Footnote 9: Is this a stupid attempt at wit on the part of Osricke--'to praise him as if you wanted to sell him'--stupid because it acknowledges exaggeration?] [Footnote 10: 'the chart or book of reference.' 234.] [Footnote 11: I think _part_ here should be plural; then the passage would paraphrase thus:--'you shall find in him the sum of what parts (_endowments_) a gentleman would wish to see.'] [Footnote 12: Hamlet answers the fool according to his folly, but outdoes him, to his discomfiture.] [Footnote 13: 'his description suffers no loss in your mouth.'] [Footnote 14: 'to analyze him into all and each of his qualities.'] [Footnote 15: dizzy.] [Footnote 16: 'and yet _would_ but yaw neither' _Yaw_, 'the movement by which a ship deviates from the line of her course towards the right or left in steering.' Falconer's _Marine Dictionary_. The meaning seems to be that the inventorial description could not overtake his merits, because it would _yaw_--keep turning out of the direct line of their quick sail. But Hamlet is set on using far-fetched and absurd forms and phrases to the non-plussing of Osricke, nor cares much to be _correct_.] [Footnote 17: I take this use of the word _article_ to be merely for the occasion; it uas never surely in _use_ for _substance_.] [Footnote 18: '--the infusion of his soul into his body,' 'his soul's embodiment.' The _Sh. Lex._ explains _infusion_ as 'endowments, qualities,' and it may be right.] [Footnote 19: scarcity.] [Footnote 20: '--it alone can show his likeness.'] [Footnote 21: 'whoever would follow in his footsteps--copy him--is only his shadow.'] [Footnote 22: Here a pause, I think.] [Footnote 23: 'To the matter in hand!'--recalling the attention of Osricke to the purport of his visit.] [Footnote 24: 'why do we presume to talk about him with our less refined breath?'] [Footnote 25: The Courtier is now thoroughly bewildered.] [Footnote 26: 'Can you only _speak_ in another tongue? Is it not possible to _understand_ in it as well?'] [Footnote 27: 'It is your own fault; you _will_ court your fate! you _will_ go and be made a fool of!'] [Footnote 28: He catches at the word he understands. The actor must here supply the meaning, with the baffled, disconcerted look of a fool who has failed in the attempt to seem knowing.] [Footnote 29:--answering the Courtier.] [Footnote 30: He pauses, looking for some out-of-the-way mode wherein to continue. Hamlet takes him up.] [Footnote 31: 'your witness to my knowledge would not be of much avail.'] [Footnote 32: Paraphrase: 'for merely to know a man well, implies that you yourself _know_.' To know a man well, you must know his knowledge: a man, to judge his neighbour, must be at least his equal.] [Footnote 33: faculty attributed to him.] [Footnote 34: _Point thus_: 'laide on him by them, in his meed hee's unfellowed.' 'in his merit he is peerless.'] [Page 258] their assignes,[1] as Girdle, Hangers or so[2]: three of [Sidenote: hanger and so.] the Carriages infaith are very deare to fancy,[3] very responsiue[4] to the hilts, most delicate carriages and of very liberall conceit.[5] _Ham_. What call you the Carriages?[6] [A] _Osr_. The Carriages Sir, are the hangers. [Sidenote: _Cour_. The carriage] _Ham_. The phrase would bee more Germaine[7] to the matter: If we could carry Cannon by our sides; [Sidenote: carry a cannon] I would it might be Hangers till then; but on sixe [Sidenote: it be | then, but on, six] Barbary Horses against sixe French Swords: their Assignes, and three liberall conceited Carriages,[8] that's the French but against the Danish; why is [Sidenote: French bet] this impon'd as you call it[9]? [Sidenote: this all you[9]] _Osr_. The King Sir, hath laid that in a dozen [Sidenote: _Cour_. | layd sir, that] passes betweene you and him, hee shall not exceed [Sidenote: your selfe and him,] you three hits;[10] He hath one twelue for mine,[11] [Sidenote: hath layd on twelue for nine,] and that would come to imediate tryall, if your [Sidenote: and it would] Lordship would vouchsafe the Answere.[12] _Ham_. How if I answere no?[13] _Osr_. I meane my Lord,[14] the opposition of your [Sidenote: _Cour_.] person in tryall. _Ham_. Sir, I will walke heere in the Hall; if it please his Maiestie, 'tis the breathing time of day [Sidenote: it is] with me[15]; let the Foyles bee brought, the Gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose; I will win for him if I can: if not, Ile gaine nothing but [Sidenote: him and I | I will] my shame, and the odde hits.[16] _Osr_. Shall I redeliuer you ee'n so?[17] [Sidenote: _Cour_. Shall I deliuer you so?] _Ham_. To this effect Sir, after what flourish your nature will. _Osr_. I commend my duty to your Lordship. [Sidenote: _Cour_.] _Ham_. Yours, yours [18]: hee does well to commend [Sidenote: _Ham_. Yours doo's well[18]] it himselfe, there are no tongues else for's tongue, [Sidenote: turne.] [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto_:-- _Hora_. I knew you must be edified by the margent[19] ere you had done.] [Footnote 1: accompaniments or belongings; things _assigned_ to them.] [Footnote 2: the thongs or chains attaching the sheath of a weapon to the girdle; what the weapon _hangs_ by. The '_or so_' seems to indicate that Osricke regrets having used the old-fashioned word, which he immediately changes for _carriages_.] [Footnote 3: imagination, taste, the artistic faculty.] [Footnote 4: 'corresponding to--going well with the hilts,'--in shape, ornament, and colour.] [Footnote 5: bold invention.] [Footnote 6: a new word, unknown to Hamlet;--court-slang, to which he prefers the old-fashioned, homely word.] [Footnote 7: related; 'akin to the matter.'] [Footnote 8: He uses Osricke's words--with a touch of derision, I should say.] [Footnote 9: I do not take the _Quarto_ reading for incorrect. Hamlet says: 'why is this all----you call it --? --?' as if he wanted to use the word (_imponed_) which Osricke had used, but did not remember it: he asks for it, saying '_you call it_' interrogatively.] [Footnote 10: _1st Q_ that yong Leartes in twelue venies 223 At Rapier and Dagger do not get three oddes of you,] [Footnote 11: In all printer's work errors are apt to come in clusters.] [Footnote 12: the response, or acceptance of the challenge.] [Footnote 13: Hamlet plays with the word, pretending to take it in its common meaning.] [Footnote 14: 'By _answer_, I mean, my lord, the opposition &c.'] [Footnote 15: 'my time for exercise:' he treats the proposal as the trifle it seems--a casual affair to be settled at once--hoping perhaps that the king will come with like carelessness.] [Footnote 16: the _three_.] [Footnote 17: To Osricke the answer seems too direct and unadorned for ears royal.] [Footnote 18: I cannot help here preferring the _Q_. If we take the _Folio_ reading, we must take it thus: 'Yours! yours!' spoken with contempt;--'as if _you_ knew anything of duty!'--for we see from what follows that he is playing with the word _duty_. Or we might read it, 'Yours commends yours,' with the same sense as the reading of the _Q._, which is, 'Yours,' that is, '_Your_ lordship--does well to commend his duty himself--there is no one else to do it.' This former shape is simpler; that of the _Folio_ is burdened with ellipsis--loaded with lack. And surely _turne_ is the true reading!--though we may take the other to mean, 'there are no tongues else on the side of his tongue.'] [Footnote 19: --as of the Bible, for a second interpretative word or phrase.] [Page 260] _Hor_. This Lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.[1] [Sidenote: 98] _Ham_. He did Compile[2] with his Dugge before [Sidenote: _Ham_. A did sir[2] with] hee suck't it: thus had he and mine more of the [Sidenote: a suckt has he | many more] same Beauy[3] that I know the drossie age dotes [Sidenote: same breede] on; only got the tune[4] of the time, and outward [Sidenote: and out of an habit of[5]] habite of encounter,[5] a kinde of yesty collection, [Sidenote: histy] which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and doe but blow [Sidenote: prophane and trennowed opinions] them to their tryalls: the Bubbles are out.[6] [Sidenote: their triall, the] [A] _Hor_. You will lose this wager, my Lord. [Sidenote: loose my Lord.] _Ham_. I doe not thinke so, since he went into France, I haue beene in continuall practice; I shall [Sidenote: 265] winne at the oddes:[7] but thou wouldest not thinke [Sidenote: ods; thou] how all heere about my heart:[8] but it is no matter[9] [Sidenote: how ill all's heere] _Hor_. Nay, good my Lord. _Ham_. It is but foolery; but it is such a kinde of gain-giuing[10] as would perhaps trouble a woman, [Sidenote: gamgiuing.] _Hor_. If your minde dislike any thing, obey.[11] [Sidenote: obay it.] I will forestall[12] their repaire hither, and say you are not fit. _Ham_. Not a whit, we defie Augury[13]; there's a [Sidenote: there is speciall] [Sidenote: 24, 125, 247] speciall Prouidence in the fall of a sparrow.[14] If [Footnote A: _Here in the Quarto:--_ _Enter a Lord_.[15] _Lord_. My Lord, his Maiestie commended him to you by young Ostricke,[16] who brings backe to him that you attend him in the hall, he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with _Laertes_, or that you will take longer time?[17] _Ham_. I am constant to my purposes, they followe the Kings pleasure, if his fitnes speakes, mine is ready[18]: now or whensoeuer, prouided I be so able as now. _Lord_. The King, and Queene, and all are comming downe. _Ham_. In happy time.[19] _Lord_. The Queene desires you to vse some gentle entertainment[20] _Laertes_, before you fall to play. _Ham_. Shee well instructs me.] [Footnote 1: 'Well, he _is_ a young one!'] [Footnote 2: '_Com'ply_,' with accent on first syllable: _comply with_ means _pay compliments to, compliment_. See _Q._ reading: 'A did sir with':--_sir_ here is a verb--_sir with_ means _say sir to_: 'he _sirred, complied_ with his nurse's breast before &c.' Hamlet speaks in mockery of the affected court-modes of speech and address, the fashion of euphuism--a mechanical attempt at the poetic.] [Footnote 3: _a flock of birds_--suggested by '_This Lapwing_.'] [Footnote 4: 'the mere mode.'] [Footnote 5: 'and external custom of intercourse.' But here too I rather take the _Q._ to be right: 'They have only got the fashion of the time; and, out of a habit of wordy conflict, (they have got) a collection of tricks of speech,--a yesty, frothy mass, with nothing in it, which carries them in triumph through the most foolish and fastidious (nice, choice, punctilious, whimsical) judgments.' _Yesty_ I take to be right, and _prophane_ (vulgar) to have been altered by the Poet to _fond_ (foolish); of _trennowed_ I can make nothing beyond a misprint.] [Footnote 6: Hamlet had just blown Osricke to his trial in his chosen kind, and the bubble had burst. The braggart gentleman had no faculty to generate after the dominant fashion, no invention to support his ambition--had but a yesty collection, which failing him the moment something unconventional was wanted, the fool had to look a discovered fool.] [Footnote 7: 'I shall win by the odds allowed me; he will not exceed me three hits.'] [Footnote 8: He has a presentiment of what is coming.] [Footnote 9: Nothing in this world is of much consequence to him now. Also, he believes in 'a special Providence.'] [Footnote 10: 'a yielding, a sinking' at the heart? The _Sh. Lex._ says _misgiving_.] [Footnote 11: 'obey the warning.'] [Footnote 12: 'go to them before they come here'--'_prevent_ their coming.'] [Footnote 13: The knowledge, even, of what is to come could never, any more than ordinary expediency, be the _law_ of a man's conduct. St. Paul, informed by the prophet Agabus of the troubles that awaited him at Jerusalem, and entreated by his friends not to go thither, believed the prophet, and went on to Jerusalem to be delivered into the hands of the Gentiles.] [Footnote 14: One of Shakspere's many allusions to sayings of the Lord.] [Footnote 15: Osricke does not come back: he has begged off but ventures later, under the wing of the king.] [Footnote 16: May not this form of the name suggest that in it is intended the 'foolish' ostrich?] [Footnote 17: The king is making delay: he has to have his 'union' ready.] [Footnote 18: 'if he feels ready, I am.'] [Footnote 19: 'They are _well-come_.'] [Footnote 20: 'to be polite to Laertes.' The print shows where _to_ has slipped out. The queen is anxious; she distrusts Laertes, and the king's influence over him.] [Page 262] it[1] be now, 'tis not to come: if it bee not to come, [Sidenote: be, tis] it will bee now: if it be not now; yet it will come; [Sidenote: it well come,] [Sidenote: 54, 164] the readinesse is all,[2] since no man ha's ought of [Sidenote: man of ought he leaues, knowes what ist to leaue betimes, let be.] [Sidenote: 252] what he leaues. What is't to leaue betimes?[3] _Enter King, Queene, Laertes and Lords, with other Attendants with Foyles, and Gauntlets, a Table and Flagons of Wine on it._ [Sidenote: _A table prepard, Trumpets, Drums and officers with cushion, King, Queene, and all the state, Foiles, Daggers, and Laertes._] _Kin_. Come _Hamlet_ come, and take this hand from me. [Sidenote: 245] _Ham_.[4] Giue me your pardon Sir, I'ue done you wrong,[5] [Sidenote: I haue] But pardon't as you are a Gentleman. This presence[6] knowes, And you must needs haue heard how I am punisht With sore distraction?[7] What I haue done [Sidenote: With a sore] That might your nature honour, and exception [Sidenote: 242, 252] Roughly awake,[8] heere proclaime was madnesse:[9] Was't _Hamlet_ wrong'd _Laertes_? Neuer _Hamlet_. If _Hamlet_ from himselfe be tane away: [Sidenote: fane away,] And when he's not himselfe, do's wrong _Laertes_, Then _Hamlet_ does it not, _Hamlet_ denies it:[10] Who does it then? His Madnesse? If't be so, _Hamlet_ is of the Faction that is wrong'd, His madnesse is poore _Hamlets_ Enemy.[11] Sir, in this Audience,[12] Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd euill,[13] Free me so farre[14] in your most generous thoughts, That I haue shot mine Arrow o're the house, [Sidenote: my] And hurt my Mother.[15] [Sidenote: brother.[15]] [Footnote 1: 'it'--death, the end.] [Footnote 2: His father had been taken unready. 54.] [Footnote 3: _Point_: 'all. Since'; 'leaves, what'--'Since no man has anything of what he has left, those who left it late are in the same position as those who left it early.' Compare the common saying, 'It will be all the same in a hundred years.' The _Q._ reading comes much to the same thing--'knows of ought he leaves'--'has any knowledge of it, anything to do with it, in any sense possesses it.' We may find a deeper meaning in the passage, however--surely not too deep for Shakspere:--'Since nothing can be truly said to be possessed as his own which a man must at one time or another yield; since that which is _own_ can never be taken from the owner, but solely that which is lent him; since the nature of a thing that has to be left is not such that it _could_ be possessed, why should a man mind parting with it early?'--There is far more in this than merely that at the end of the day it will be all the same. The thing that ever was really a man's own, God has given, and God will not, and man cannot, take away. Note the unity of religion and philosophy in Hamlet: he takes the one true position. Note also his courage: he has a strong presentiment of death, but will not turn a step from his way. If Death be coming, he will confront him. He does not believe in chance. He is ready--that is willing. All that is needful is, that he should not go as one who cannot help it, but as one who is for God's will, who chooses that will as his own. There is so much behind in Shakspere's characters--so much that can only be hinted at! The dramatist has not the _word_-scope of the novelist; his art gives him little _room_; he must effect in a phrase what the other may take pages to. He needs good seconding by his actors as sorely as the composer needs good rendering of his music by the orchestra. It is a lesson in unity that the greatest art can least work alone; that the greatest _finder_ most needs the help of others to show his _findings_. The dramatist has live men and women for the very instruments of his art--who must not be mere instruments, but fellow-workers; and upon them he is greatly dependent for final outcome. Here the actor should show a marked calmness and elevation in Hamlet. He should have around him as it were a luminous cloud, the cloud of his coming end. A smile not all of this world should close the speech. He has given himself up, and is at peace.] [Footnote 4: Note in this apology the sweetness of Hamlet's nature. How few are alive enough, that is unselfish and true enough, to be capable of genuine apology! The low nature always feels, not the wrong, but the confession of it, degrading.] [Footnote 5: --the wrong of his rudeness at the funeral.] [Footnote 6: all present.] [Footnote 7: --true in a deeper sense than they would understand.] [Footnote 8: 'that might roughly awake your nature, honour, and exception,':--consider the phrase--_to take exception at a thing_.] [Footnote 9: It was by cause of madness, not by cause of evil intent. For all purpose of excuse it was madness, if only pretended madness; it was there of another necessity, and excused offence like real madness. What he said was true, not merely expedient, to the end he meant it to serve. But all passion may be called madness, because therein the mind is absorbed with one idea; 'anger is a brief madness,' and he was in a 'towering passion': he proclaims it madness and so abjures it.] [Footnote 10: 'refuses the wrong altogether--will in his true self have nothing to do with it.' No evil thing comes of our true selves, and confession is the casting of it from us, the only true denial. He who will not confess a wrong, holds to the wrong.] [Footnote 11: All here depends on the expression in the utterance.] [Footnote 12: _This line not in Q._] [Footnote 13: This is Hamlet's summing up of the whole--his explanation of the speech.] [Footnote 14: 'so far as this in your generous judgment--that you regard me as having shot &c.'] [Footnote 15: _Brother_ is much easier to accept, though _Mother_ might be in the simile. To do justice to the speech we must remember that Hamlet has no quarrel whatever with Laertes, that he has expressed admiration of him, and that he is inclined to love him for Ophelia's sake. His apology has no reference to the fate of his father or his sister; Hamlet is not aware that Laertes associates him with either, and plainly the public did not know Hamlet killed Polonius; while Laertes could have no intention of alluding to the fact, seeing it would frustrate his scheme of treachery.] [Page 264] _Laer_. I am satisfied in Nature,[1] Whose motiue in this case should stirre me most To my Reuenge. But in my termes of Honor I stand aloofe, and will no reconcilement, Till by some elder Masters of knowne Honor, I haue a voyce, and president of peace To keepe my name vngorg'd.[2] But till that time, [Sidenote: To my name vngord: but all that] I do receiue your offer'd loue like loue, And wil not wrong it. _Ham_. I do embrace it freely, [Sidenote: I embrace] And will this Brothers wager frankely play. Giue vs the Foyles: Come on.[3] _Laer_. Come one for me.[4] _Ham_. Ile be your foile[5] _Laertes_, in mine ignorance, [Sidenote: 218] Your Skill shall like a Starre i'th'darkest night,[6] Sticke fiery off indeede. _Laer_. You mocke me Sir. _Ham_. No by this hand.[7] _King_. Giue them the Foyles yong _Osricke_,[8] [Sidenote: _Ostricke_,[8]] Cousen _Hamlet_, you know the wager. _Ham_. Verie well my Lord, Your Grace hath laide the oddes a'th'weaker side, [Sidenote: has] _King._ I do not feare it, I haue seene you both:[9] But since he is better'd, we haue therefore oddes.[10] [Sidenote: better, we] [Footnote 1: 'in my own feelings and person.' Laertes does not refer to his father or sister. He professes to be satisfied in his heart with Hamlet's apology for his behaviour at the funeral, but not to be sure whether in the opinion of others, and by the laws of honour, he can accept it as amends, and forbear to challenge him. But the words 'Whose motiue in this case should stirre me most to my Reuenge' may refer to his father and sister, and, if so taken, should be spoken aside. To accept apology for them and not for his honour would surely be too barefaced! The point concerning them has not been started. But why not receive the apology as quite satisfactory? That he would not seems to show a lingering regard to _real_ honour. A downright villain, like the king, would have pretended its _thorough_ acceptance--especially as they were just going to fence like friends; but he, as regards his honour, will not accept it until justified in doing so by the opinion of 'some elder masters,' receiving from them 'a voice and precedent of peace'--counsel to, and justification, or example of peace. He keeps the door of quarrel open--will not profess to be _altogether_ friends with him, though he does not hint at his real ground of offence: that mooted, the match of skill, with its immense advantages for villainy, would have been impossible. He means treachery all the time; careful of his honour, he can, like most apes of fashion, let his honesty go; still, so complex is human nature, he holds his speech declining thorough reconciliation as a shield to shelter his treachery from his own contempt: he has taken care not to profess absolute friendship, and so left room for absolute villainy! He has had regard to his word! Relieved perhaps by the demoniacal quibble, he follows it immediately with an utterance of full-blown perfidy.] [Footnote 2: Perhaps _ungorg'd_ might mean _unthrottled_.] [Footnote 3: 'Come on' _is not in the Q._--I suspect this _Come on_ but a misplaced shadow from the '_Come one_' immediately below, and better omitted. Hamlet could not say '_Come on_' before Laertes was ready, and '_Come one_' after 'Give us the foils,' would be very awkward. But it may be said to the attendant courtiers.] [Footnote 4: He says this while Hamlet is still choosing, in order that a second bundle of foils, in which is the unbated and poisoned one, may be brought him. So 'generous and free from all contriving' is Hamlet, (220) that, even with the presentiment in his heart, he has no fear of treachery.] [Footnote 5: As persons of the drama, the Poet means Laertes to be foil to Hamlet.--With the play upon the word before us, we can hardly help thinking of the _third_ signification of the word _foil_.] [Footnote 6: 'My ignorance will be the foil of darkest night to the burning star of your skill.' This is no flattery; Hamlet believes Laertes, to whose praises he has listened (218)--though not with the envy his uncle attributes to him--the better fencer: he expects to win only 'at the odds.' 260.] [Footnote 7: --not '_by these pickers and stealers_,' his oath to his false friends. 154.] [Footnote 8: Plainly a favourite with the king.--He is _Ostricke_ always in the _Q_.] [Footnote 9: 'seen you both play'--though not together.] [Footnote 10: _Point thus_: I do not fear it--I have seen you both! But since, he is bettered: we have therefore odds. 'Since'--'_since the time I saw him_.'] [Page 266] _Laer_. This is too heauy, Let me see another.[1] _Ham_. This likes me well, These Foyles haue all a length.[2] _Prepare to play._[3] _Osricke_. I my good Lord. [Sidenote: _Ostr._] _King_. Set me the Stopes of wine vpon that Table: If _Hamlet_ giue the first, or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange,[4] Let all the Battlements their Ordinance fire, [Sidenote: 268] The King shal drinke to _Hamlets_ better breath, And in the Cup an vnion[5] shal he throw [Sidenote: an Vince] Richer then that,[6] which foure successiue Kings In Denmarkes Crowne haue worne. Giue me the Cups, And let the Kettle to the Trumpets speake, [Sidenote: trumpet] The Trumpet to the Cannoneer without, The Cannons to the Heauens, the Heauen to Earth, Now the King drinkes to _Hamlet_. Come, begin, [Sidenote: _Trumpets the while._] And you the Iudges[7] beare a wary eye. _Ham_. Come on sir. _Laer_. Come on sir. _They play._[8] [Sidenote: Come my Lord.] _Ham_. One. _Laer_. No. _Ham_. Iudgement.[9] _Osr_. A hit, a very palpable hit. [Sidenote: _Ostrick._] _Laer_. Well: againe. [Sidenote: _Drum, trumpets and a shot. Florish, a peece goes off._] _King_. Stay, giue me drinke. _Hamlet_, this Pearle is thine, Here's to thy health. Giue him the cup,[10] _Trumpets sound, and shot goes off._[11] _Ham_. Ile play this bout first, set by a-while.[12] [Sidenote: set it by] Come: Another hit; what say you? _Laer_. A touch, a touch, I do confesse.[13] [Sidenote: _Laer_. | doe confest.] _King_. Our Sonne shall win. [Footnote 1: --to make it look as if he were choosing.] [Footnote 2: --asked in an offhand way. The fencers must not measure weapons, because how then could the unbated point escape discovery? It is quite like Hamlet to take even Osricke's word for their equal length.] [Footnote 3: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 4: 'or be quits with Laertes the third bout':--in any case, whatever the probabilities, even if Hamlet be wounded, the king, who has not perfect confidence in the 'unction,' will fall back on his second line of ambush--in which he has more trust: he will drink to Hamlet, when Hamlet will be bound to drink also.] [Footnote 5: The Latin _unio_ was a large pearl. The king's _union_ I take to be poison made up like a pearl.] [Footnote 6: --a well-known one in the crown.] [Footnote 7: --of whom Osricke was one.] [Footnote 8: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 9: --appealing to the judges.] [Footnote 10: He throws in the _pearl_, and drinks--for it will take some moments to dissolve and make the wine poisonous--then sends the cup to Hamlet.] [Footnote 11: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 12: He does not refuse to drink, but puts it by, neither showing nor entertaining suspicion, fearing only the effect of the draught on his play. He is bent on winning the wager--perhaps with further intent.] [Footnote 13: Laertes has little interest in the match, but much in his own play.] [Page 268] [Sidenote: 266] _Qu_. He's fat, and scant of breath.[1] Heere's a Napkin, rub thy browes, [Sidenote: Heere _Hamlet_ take my napkin] The Queene Carowses to thy fortune, _Hamlet_. _Ham_. Good Madam.[2] _King_. _Gertrude_, do not drinke. _Qu_. I will my Lord; I pray you pardon me.[3] [Sidenote: 222]_King_. It is the poyson'd Cup, it is too late.[4] _Ham_. I dare not drinke yet Madam, By and by.[5] _Qu_. Come, let me wipe thy face.[6] _Laer_. My Lord, Ile hit him now. _King_. I do not thinke't. _Laer_. And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience.[7] [Sidenote: it is | against] _Ham_. Come for the third. _Laertes_, you but dally, [Sidenote: you doe but] I pray you passe with your best violence, I am affear'd you make a wanton of me.[8] [Sidenote: I am sure you] _Laer_. Say you so? Come on. _Play._ _Osr_. Nothing neither way. [Sidenote: _Ostr._] _Laer_. Haue at you now.[9] _In scuffling they change Rapiers._[10] _King_. Part them, they are incens'd.[11] _Ham_. Nay come, againe.[12] _Osr_. Looke to the Queene there hoa. [Sidenote: _Ostr._ | there howe.] _Hor_. They bleed on both sides. How is't my [Sidenote: is it] Lord? _Osr_. How is't _Laertes_? [Sidenote: _Ostr._] _Laer_. Why as a Woodcocke[13] To mine Sprindge, _Osricke_, [Sidenote: mine owne sprindge _Ostrick_,] I am iustly kill'd with mine owne Treacherie.[14] _Ham_. How does the Queene? _King_. She sounds[15] to see them bleede. _Qu_. No, no, the drinke, the drinke[16] [Footnote 1: She is anxious about him. It may be that this speech, and that of the king before (266), were fitted to the person of the actor who first represented Hamlet.] [Footnote 2: --a simple acknowledgment of her politeness: he can no more be familiarly loving with his mother.] [Footnote 3: She drinks, and offers the cup to Hamlet.] [Footnote 4: He is too much afraid of exposing his villainy to be prompt enough to prevent her.] [Footnote 5: This is not meant by the Poet to show suspicion: he does not mean Hamlet to die so.] [Footnote 6: The actor should not allow her: she approaches Hamlet; he recoils a little.] [Footnote 7: He has compunctions, but it needs failure to make them potent.] [Footnote 8: 'treat me as an effeminate creature.'] [Footnote 9: He makes a sudden attack, without warning of the fourth bout.] [Footnote 10: _Not in Q._ The 1st Q. directs:--_They catch one anothers Rapiers, find both are wounded_, &c. The thing, as I understand it, goes thus: With the words 'Have at you now!' Laertes stabs Hamlet; Hamlet, apprised thus of his treachery, lays hold of his rapier, wrenches it from him, and stabs him with it in return.] [Footnote 11: 'they have lost their temper.'] [Footnote 12: --said with indignation and scorn, but without suspicion of the worst.] [Footnote 13: --the proverbially foolish bird. The speech must be spoken with breaks. Its construction is broken.] [Footnote 14: His conscience starts up, awake and strong, at the approach of Death. As the show of the world withdraws, the realities assert themselves. He repents, and makes confession of his sin, seeing it now in its true nature, and calling it by its own name. It is a compensation of the weakness of some that they cannot be strong in wickedness. The king did not so repent, and with his strength was the more to blame.] [Footnote 15: _swounds, swoons_.] [Footnote 16: She is true to her son. The maternal outlasts the adulterous.] [Page 270] Oh my deere _Hamlet_, the drinke, the drinke, I am poyson'd. _Ham_. Oh Villany! How? Let the doore be lock'd. Treacherie, seeke it out.[1] _Laer_. It is heere _Hamlet_.[2] _Hamlet_,[3] thou art slaine, No Medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee, there is not halfe an houre of life; [Sidenote: houres life,] The Treacherous Instrument is in thy hand, [Sidenote: in my] Vnbated and envenom'd: the foule practise[4] Hath turn'd it selfe on me. Loe, heere I lye, Neuer to rise againe: Thy Mothers poyson'd: I can no more, the King, the King's too blame.[5] _Ham_. The point envenom'd too, Then venome to thy worke.[6] _Hurts the King._[7] _All_. Treason, Treason. _King_. O yet defend me Friends, I am but hurt. _Ham_. Heere thou incestuous, murdrous, [Sidenote: Heare thou incestious damned Dane,] Damned Dane, Drinke off this Potion: Is thy Vnion heere? [Sidenote: of this | is the Onixe heere?] Follow my Mother.[8] _King Dyes._[9] _Laer_. He is iustly seru'd. It is a poyson temp'red by himselfe: Exchange forgiuenesse with me, Noble _Hamlet_; Mine and my Fathers death come not vpon thee, Nor thine on me.[10] _Dyes._[11] _Ham_. Heauen make thee free of it,[12] I follow thee. I am dead _Horatio_, wretched Queene adiew. You that looke pale, and tremble at this chance, That are but Mutes[13] or audience to this acte: Had I but time (as this fell Sergeant death Is strick'd in his Arrest) oh I could tell you. [Sidenote: strict] [Footnote 1: The thing must be ended now. The door must be locked, to keep all in that are in, and all out that are out. Then he can do as he will.] [Footnote 2: --laying his hand on his heart, I think.] [Footnote 3: In Q. _Hamlet_ only once.] [Footnote 4: _scheme, artifice, deceitful contrivance_; in modern slang, _dodge_.] [Footnote 5: He turns on the prompter of his sin--crowning the justice of the king's capital punishment.] [Footnote 6: _Point_: 'too!' _1st Q._ Then venome to thy venome, die damn'd villaine.] [Footnote 7: _Not in Quarto._ The true moment, now only, has at last come. Hamlet has lived to do his duty with a clear conscience, and is thereupon permitted to go. The man who asks whether this be poetic justice or no, is unworthy of an answer. 'The Tragedie of Hamlet' is _The Drama of Moral Perplexity_.] [Footnote 8: A grim play on the word _Union: 'follow my mother_'. It suggests a terrible meeting below.] [Footnote 9: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 10: His better nature triumphs. The moment he was wounded, knowing he must die, he began to change. Defeat is a mighty aid to repentance; and processes grow rapid in the presence of Death: he forgives and desires forgiveness.] [Footnote 11: _Not in Quarto._] [Footnote 12: Note how heartily Hamlet pardons the wrong done to himself--the only wrong of course which a man has to pardon.] [Footnote 13: _supernumeraries_. Note the other figures too--_audience, act_--all of the theatre.] [Page 272] But let it be: _Horatio_, I am dead, Thou liu'st, report me and my causes right [Sidenote: cause a right] To the vnsatisfied.[1] _Hor_. Neuer beleeue it. [Sidenote: 134] I am more an Antike Roman then a Dane: [Sidenote: 135] Heere's yet some Liquor left.[2] _Ham_. As th'art a man, giue me the Cup. Let go, by Heauen Ile haue't. [Sidenote: hate,] [Sidenote: 114, 251] Oh good _Horatio_, what a wounded name,[3] [Sidenote: O god _Horatio_,] (Things standing thus vnknowne) shall liue behind me. [Sidenote: shall I leaue behind me?] If thou did'st euer hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicitie awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in paine,[1] [Sidenote: _A march a farre off._] To tell my Storie.[4] _March afarre off, and shout within._[5] What warlike noyse is this? _Enter Osricke._ _Osr_. Yong _Fortinbras_, with conquest come from Poland To th'Ambassadors of England giues this warlike volly.[6] _Ham_. O I dye _Horatio_: The potent poyson quite ore-crowes my spirit, I cannot liue to heare the Newes from England, [Sidenote: 62] But I do prophesie[7] th'election lights [Sidenote: 276] On _Fortinbras_, he ha's my dying voyce,[8] So tell him with the occurrents more and lesse,[9] [Sidenote: th'] Which haue solicited.[10] The rest is silence. O, o, o, o.[11] _Dyes_[12] _Hora_. Now cracke a Noble heart: [Sidenote: cracks a] Goodnight sweet Prince, And flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest, Why do's the Drumme come hither? [Footnote 1: His care over his reputation with the people is princely, and casts a true light on his delay. No good man can be willing to seem bad, except the _being good_ necessitates it. A man must be willing to appear a villain if that is the consequence of being a true man, but he cannot be indifferent to that appearance. He cannot be indifferent to wearing the look of the thing he hates. Hamlet, that he may be understood by the nation, makes, with noble confidence in his friendship, the large demand on Horatio, to live and suffer for his sake.] [Footnote 2: Here first we see plainly the love of Horatio for Hamlet: here first is Hamlet's judgment of Horatio (134) justified.] [Footnote 3: --for having killed his uncle:--what, then, if he had slain him at once?] [Footnote 4: Horatio must be represented as here giving sign of assent. _1st Q._ _Ham_. Vpon my loue I charge thee let it goe, O fie _Horatio_, and if thou shouldst die, What a scandale wouldst thou leaue behinde? What tongue should tell the story of our deaths, If not from thee?] [Footnote 5: _Not in Q._] [Footnote 6: The frame is closing round the picture. 9.] [Footnote 7: Shakspere more than once or twice makes the dying prophesy.] [Footnote 8: His last thought is for his country; his last effort at utterance goes to prevent a disputed succession.] [Footnote 9: 'greater and less'--as in the psalm, 'The Lord preserves all, more and less, That bear to him a loving heart.'] [Footnote 10: led to the necessity.] [Footnote 11: _These interjections are not in the Quarto._] [Footnote 12: _Not in Q._ All Shakspere's tragedies suggest that no action ever ends, only goes off the stage of the world on to another.] [Page 274] [Sidenote: 190] _Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassador, with_ [Sidenote: _Enter Fortenbrasse, with the Embassadors._] _Drumme, Colours, and Attendants._ _Fortin_. Where is this sight? _Hor_. What is it ye would see; [Sidenote: you] If ought of woe, or wonder, cease your search.[1] _For_. His quarry[2] cries on hauocke.[3] Oh proud death, [Sidenote: This quarry] What feast is toward[4] in thine eternall Cell. That thou so many Princes, at a shoote, [Sidenote: shot] So bloodily hast strooke.[5] _Amb_. The sight is dismall, And our affaires from England come too late, The eares are senselesse that should giue vs hearing,[6] To tell him his command'ment is fulfill'd, That _Rosincrance_ and _Guildensterne_ are dead: Where should we haue our thankes?[7] _Hor_. Not from his mouth,[8] Had it[9] th'abilitie of life to thanke you: He neuer gaue command'ment for their death. [Sidenote: 6] But since so iumpe[10] vpon this bloodie question,[11] You from the Polake warres, and you from England Are heere arriued. Giue order[12] that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view, And let me speake to th'yet vnknowing world, [Sidenote: , to yet] How these things came about. So shall you heare Of carnall, bloudie, and vnnaturall acts,[13] Of accidentall Judgements,[14] casuall slaughters[15] Of death's put on by cunning[16] and forc'd cause,[17] [Sidenote: deaths | and for no cause] And in this vpshot, purposes mistooke,[18] Falne on the Inuentors heads. All this can I [Sidenote: th'] Truly deliuer. _For_. Let vs hast to heare it, And call the Noblest to the Audience. For me, with sorrow, I embrace my Fortune, I haue some Rites of memory[19] in this Kingdome, [Sidenote: rights of[19]] [Footnote 1: --for here it is.] [Footnote 2: the heap of game after a hunt.] [Footnote 3: 'Havoc's victims cry out against him.'] [Footnote 4: in preparation.] [Footnote 5: All the real actors in the tragedy, except Horatio, are dead.] [Footnote 6: This line may be taken as a parenthesis; then--'come too late' joins itself with 'to tell him.' Or we may connect 'hearing' with 'to tell him':--'the ears that should give us hearing in order that we might tell him' etc.] [Footnote 7: They thus inquire after the successor of Claudius.] [Footnote 8: --the mouth of Claudius.] [Footnote 9: --even if it had.] [Footnote 10: 'so exactly,' or 'immediately'--perhaps _opportunely--fittingly_.] [Footnote 11: dispute, strife.] [Footnote 12: --addressed to Fortinbras, I should say. The state is disrupt, the household in disorder; there is no head; Horatio turns therefore to Fortinbras, who, besides having a claim to the crown, and being favoured by Hamlet, alone has power at the moment--for his army is with him.] [Footnote 13: --those of Claudius.] [Footnote 14: 'just judgments brought about by accident'--as in the case of all slain except the king, whose judgment was not accidental, and Hamlet, whose death was not a judgment.] [Footnote 15: --those of the queen, Polonius, and Ophelia.] [Footnote 16: 'put on,' _indued_, 'brought on themselves'--those of Rosincrance, Guildensterne, and Laertes.] [Footnote 17: --those of the king and Polonius.] [Footnote 18: 'and in this result'--_pointing to the bodies_--'purposes which have mistaken their way, and fallen on the inventors' heads.' _I am mistaken_ or _mistook_, means _I have mistaken_; 'purposes mistooke'--_purposes in themselves mistaken_:--that of Laertes, which came back on himself; and that of the king in the matter of the poison, which, by falling on the queen, also came back on the inventor.] [Footnote 19: The _Quarto_ is correct here, I think: '_rights of the past_'--'claims of descent.' Or 'rights of memory' might mean--'_rights yet remembered_.' Fortinbras is not one to miss a chance: even in this shadowy 'person,' character is recognizably maintained.] [Page 276] Which are to claime,[1] my vantage doth [Sidenote: Which now to clame] Inuite me, _Hor_. Of that I shall haue alwayes[2] cause to speake, [Sidenote: haue also cause[3]] And from his mouth [Sidenote: 272] Whose voyce will draw on more:[3] [Sidenote: drawe no more,] But let this same be presently perform'd, Euen whiles mens mindes are wilde, [Sidenote: while] Lest more mischance On plots, and errors happen.[4] _For_. Let foure Captaines Beare _Hamlet_ like a Soldier to the Stage, For he was likely, had he beene put on[5] To haue prou'd most royally:[6] [Sidenote: royall;] And for his passage,[7] The Souldiours Musicke, and the rites of Warre[8] [Sidenote: right of] Speake[9] lowdly for him. Take vp the body; Such a sight as this [Sidenote: bodies,] Becomes the Field, but heere shewes much amis. Go, bid the Souldiers shoote.[10] _Exeunt Marching: after the which, a Peale_ [Sidenote: _Exeunt._] _of Ordenance are shot off._ FINIS. [Footnote 1: 'which must now be claimed'--except the _Quarto_ be right here also.] [Footnote 2: The _Quarto_ surely is right here.] [Footnote 3: --Hamlet's mouth. The message he entrusted to Horatio for Fortinbras, giving his voice, or vote, for him, was sure to 'draw on more' voices.] [Footnote 4: 'lest more mischance happen in like manner, through plots and mistakes.'] [Footnote 5: 'had he been put forward'--_had occasion sent him out_.] [Footnote 6: 'to have proved a most royal soldier:'--A soldier gives here his testimony to Hamlet's likelihood in the soldier's calling. Note the kind of regard in which the Poet would show him held.] [Footnote 7: --the passage of his spirit to its place.] [Footnote 8: --military mourning or funeral rites.] [Footnote 9: _imperative mood_: 'let the soldier's music and the rites of war speak loudly for him.' 'Go, bid the souldiers shoote,' with which the drama closes, is a more definite initiatory order to the same effect.] [Footnote 10: The end is a half-line after a riming couplet--as if there were more to come--as there must be after every tragedy. Mere poetic justice will not satisfy Shakspere in a tragedy, for tragedy is _life_; in a comedy it may do well enough, for that deals but with life-surfaces--and who then more careful of it! but in tragedy something far higher ought to be aimed at. The end of this drama is reached when Hamlet, having attained the possibility of doing so, performs his work _in righteousness_. The common critical mind would have him left the fatherless, motherless, loverless, almost friendless king of a justifiably distrusting nation--with an eternal grief for his father weighing him down to the abyss; with his mother's sin blackening for him all womankind, and blasting the face of both heaven and earth; and with the knowledge in his heart that he had sent the woman he loved, with her father and her brother, out of the world--maniac, spy, and traitor. Instead of according him such 'poetic justice,' the Poet gives Hamlet the only true success of doing his duty to the end--for it was as much his duty not to act before, as it was his duty to act at last--then sends him after his Ophelia--into a world where true heart will find true way of setting right what is wrong, and of atoning for every ill, wittingly or unwittingly done or occasioned in this. It seems to me most admirable that Hamlet, being so great, is yet outwardly so like other people: the Poet never obtrudes his greatness. And just because he is modest, confessing weakness and perplexity, small people take him for yet smaller than themselves who never confess anything, and seldom feel anything amiss with them. Such will adduce even Hamlet's disparagement of himself to Ophelia when overwhelmed with a sense of human worthlessness (126), as proof that he was no hero! They call it weakness that he would not, foolishly and selfishly, make good his succession against the king, regardless of the law of election, and careless of the weal of the kingdom for which he shows himself so anxious even in the throes of death! To my mind he is the grandest hero in fiction--absolutely human--so troubled, yet so true!] 
45975	----	[Illustration] The Little Lame Prince By Miss Mulock Pictures By Hope Dunlap [Illustration] The Little Lame Prince and His Travelling Cloak by Miss Mulock With Pictures by Hope Dunlap Rand McNally Co Chicago New York London Copyright, 1909, by Rand-McNally & Company All rights reserved Entered at Stationers' Hall Edition of 1937 Made in U. S. A. [Illustration : Contents] Contents PAGE Chapter I 9 Chapter II 19 Chapter III 31 Chapter IV 43 Chapter V 53 Chapter VI 65 Chapter VII 81 Chapter VIII 91 Chapter IX 99 Chapter X 113 [Illustration: "_Take care, don't let the baby fall again._" _Page 15._] [Illustration: The Little Lame Prince] CHAPTER I. Yes, he was the most beautiful Prince that ever was born. Of course, being a prince, people said this: but it was true besides. When he looked at the candle, his eyes had an expression of earnest inquiry quite startling in a new-born baby. His nose--there was not much of it certainly, but what there was seemed an aquiline shape; his complexion was a charming, healthy purple; he was round and fat, straight-limbed and long--in fact, a splendid baby, and everybody was exceedingly proud of him. Especially his father and mother, the King and Queen of Nomansland, who had waited for him during their happy reign of ten years--now made happier than ever, to themselves and their subjects, by the appearance of a son and heir. The only person who was not quite happy was the king's brother, the heir-presumptive, who would have been king one day, had the baby not been born. But as his Majesty was very kind to him, and even rather sorry for him--insomuch that at the Queen's request he gave him a dukedom almost as big as a county,--the Crown Prince, as he was called, tried to seem pleased also; and let us hope he succeeded. The Prince's christening was to be a grand affair. According to the custom of the country, there were chosen for him four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who each had to give him a name, and promise to do their utmost for him. When he came of age, he himself had to choose the name--and the god-father or godmother--that he liked best, for the rest of his days. Meantime, all was rejoicing. Subscriptions were made among the rich to give pleasure to the poor: dinners in town-halls for the working men; tea-parties in the streets for their wives; and milk and bun feasts for the children in the schoolrooms. For Nomansland, though I cannot point it out in any map, or read of it in any history, was, I believe, much like our own or many another country. As for the Palace--which was no different from other palaces--it was clean "turned out of the windows," as people say, with the preparations going on. The only quiet place in it was the room which, though the Prince was six weeks old, his mother the Queen had never quitted. Nobody said she was ill, however; it would have been so inconvenient; and as she said nothing about it herself, but lay pale and placid, giving no trouble to anybody, nobody thought much about her. All the world was absorbed in admiring the baby. [Illustration: "_All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, ...from the ladies-in-waiting down ..._"] [Illustration: "_The poor little kitchenmaid ... in her pink cotton gown ... thought doubtless, there never was such a pretty girl._"] The christening-day came at last, and it was as lovely as the Prince himself. All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, in the elegant new clothes which the queen, who thought of everybody, had taken care to give them, from the ladies-in-waiting down to the poor little kitchenmaid, who looked at herself in her pink cotton gown, and thought, doubtless, that there never was such a pretty girl as she. By six in the morning all the royal household had dressed itself in its very best; and then the little Prince was dressed in his best--his magnificent christening-robe; which proceeding his Royal Highness did not like at all, but kicked and screamed like any common baby. When he had a little calmed down, they carried him to be looked at by the Queen his mother, who, though her royal robes had been brought and laid upon the bed, was, as everybody well knew, quite unable to rise and put them on. She admired her baby very much; kissed and blessed him, and lay looking at him, as she did for hours sometimes, when he was placed beside her fast asleep; then she gave him up with a gentle smile, and saying "she hoped he would be very good, that it would be a very nice christening, and all the guests would enjoy themselves," turned peacefully over on her bed, saying nothing more to anybody. She was a very uncomplaining person--the Queen, and her name was Dolorez. Everything went on exactly as if she had been present. All, even the King himself, had grown used to her absence, for she was not strong, and for years had not joined in any gaieties. She always did her royal duties, but as to pleasures, they could go on quite well without her, or it seemed so. The company arrived: great and notable persons in this and neighboring countries; also the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who had been chosen with care, as the people who would be most useful to his Royal Highness, should he ever want friends, which did not seem likely. What such want could possibly happen to the heir of the powerful monarch of Nomansland? They came, walking two and two, with their coronets on their heads--being dukes and duchesses, prince and princesses, or the like; they all kissed the child, and pronounced the name which each had given him. Then the four-and-twenty names were shouted out with great energy by six heralds, one after the other, and afterwards written down, to be preserved in the state records, in readiness for the next time they were wanted which would be either on his Royal Highness's coronation or his funeral. Soon the ceremony was over, and everybody satisfied; except, perhaps, the little Prince himself, who moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly smothered him. In truth, though very few knew, the Prince in coming to the chapel had met with a slight disaster. His nurse--not his ordinary one, but the state nursemaid, an elegant and fashionable young lady of rank, whose duty it was to carry him to and from the chapel, had been so occupied in arranging her train with one hand, while she held the baby with the other, that she stumbled and let him fall, just at the foot of the marble staircase. To be sure, she contrived to pick him up again the next minute, and the accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking of. Consequently, nobody did speak of it. The baby had turned deadly pale but did not cry, so no person a step or two behind could discover anything wrong; afterwards, even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were loud enough to drown his voice. It would have been a pity to let anything trouble such a day of felicity. So, after a minute's pause, the procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold; and a troop of little girls in dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed all the way before the nurse and child,--finally the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, as proud as possible, and so splendid to look at that they would have quite extinguished their small godson--merely a heap of lace and muslin with a baby-face inside--had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich feathers, which was held over him wherever he was carried. [Illustration: "_The procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold._"] Thus, with the sun shining on them through the painted windows, they stood; the King and his train on one side, the Prince and his attendants on the other, as pretty a sight as ever was seen out of fairyland. "It's just like fairyland," whispered the eldest little girl to the next eldest, as she shook the last rose out of her basket; "and I think the only thing the Prince wants now is a fairy godmother." "Does he?" said a shrill but soft and not unpleasant voice behind; and there was seen among the group of children somebody--not a child--yet no bigger than a child: somebody whom nobody had seen before, and who certainly had not been invited, for she had no christening clothes on. She was a little old woman dressed all in grey: grey gown, grey hooded cloak, of a material excessively fine, and a tint that seemed perpetually changing, like the grey of an evening sky. Her hair was grey and her eyes also; even her complexion had a soft grey shadow over it. But there was nothing unpleasantly old about her, and her smile was as sweet and childlike as the Prince's own, which stole over his pale little face the instant she came near enough to touch him. "Take care. Don't let the baby fall again." The grand young lady nurse started, flushing angrily. "Who spoke to me? How did anybody know?--I mean, what business has anybody--?" Then, frightened, but still speaking in a much sharper tone than I hope young ladies of rank are in the habit of speaking--"Old woman, you will be kind enough not to say 'the baby,' but 'the Prince.' Keep away; his Royal Highness is just going to sleep." "Nevertheless, I must kiss him. I am his godmother." "You!" cried the elegant lady nurse. "You!!" repeated all the gentlemen and ladies in waiting. "You!!!" echoed the heralds and pages--and they began to blow the silver trumpets, in order to stop all further conversation. The Prince's procession formed itself for returning--the King and his train having already moved off towards the palace--but, on the topmost step of the marble stairs, stood, right in front of all, the little old woman clothed in grey. She stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, and gave the little Prince three kisses. "This is intolerable," cried the young lady nurse, wiping the kisses off rapidly with her lace handkerchief. "Such an insult to his Royal Highness. Take yourself out of the way, old woman, or the King shall be informed immediately." "The King knows nothing of me, more's the pity," replied the old woman with an indifferent air, as if she thought the loss was more on his Majesty's side than hers. "My friend in the palace is the King's wife." "Kings' wives are called queens," said the lady nurse, with a contemptuous air. "You are right," replied the old woman. "Nevertheless, I know her Majesty well, and I love her and her child. And--since you dropped him on the marble stairs (this she said in a mysterious whisper, which made the young lady tremble in spite of her anger)--I choose to take him for my own. I am his godmother, ready to help him whenever he wants me." "You help him!" cried all the group, breaking into shouts of laughter, to which the little old woman paid not the slightest attention. Her soft grey eyes were fixed on the Prince, who seemed to answer to the look, smiling again and again in causeless, aimless fashion, as babies do smile. "His Majesty must hear of this," said a gentleman-in-waiting. "His Majesty will hear quite enough news in a minute or two," said the old woman sadly. And again stretching up to the little Prince, she kissed him on the forehead solemnly. "Be called by a new name which nobody has ever thought of. Be Prince Dolor, in memory of your mother Dolorez." "In memory of!" Everybody started at the ominous phrase, and also at a most terrible breach of etiquette which the old woman had committed. In Nomansland, neither the king nor the queen were supposed to have any Christian name at all. They dropped it on their coronation-day, and it was never mentioned again till it was engraved on their coffins when they died. "Old woman, you are exceedingly ill-bred," cried the eldest lady-in-waiting, much horrified. "How you could know the fact passes my comprehension. But even if you did not know it, how dared you presume to hint that her most gracious Majesty is called Dolorez?" "_Was_ called Dolorez," said the old woman with a tender solemnity. The first gentleman, called the Gold-stick-in-waiting, raised it to strike her, and all the rest stretched out their hands to seize her; but the grey mantle melted from between their fingers like air; and, before anybody had time to do anything more, there came a heavy, muffled, startling sound. The great bell of the palace--the bell which was only heard on the death of some of the Royal family, and for as many times as he or she was years old--began to toll. They listened, mute and horror-stricken. Some one counted: One--two--three--four--up to nine and twenty--just the queen's age. It was, indeed, the Queen. Her Majesty was dead! In the midst of the festivities she had slipped away, out of her new happiness and her old sufferings, neither few nor small. Sending away her women to see the sight--at least, they said afterwards, in excuse, that she had done so, and it was very like her to do it--she had turned with her face to the window, whence one could just see the tops of the distant mountains--the Beautiful Mountains, as they were called--where she was born. So gazing, she had quietly died. When the little Prince was carried back to his mother's room, there was no mother to kiss him. And, though he did not know it, there would be for him no mother's kiss any more. As for his Godmother--the little old woman in grey who called herself so--whether she melted into air, like her gown when they touched it, or whether she flew out of the chapel window, or slipped through the doorway among the bewildered crowd, nobody knew--nobody ever thought about her. Only the nurse, the ordinary homely one, coming out of the Prince's nursery in the middle of the night in search of a cordial to quiet his continual moans, saw, sitting in the doorway, something which she would have thought a mere shadow, had she not seen shining out of it two eyes, grey and soft and sweet. She put her hand before her own, screaming loudly. When she took them away, the old woman was gone. CHAPTER II. Everybody was very kind to the poor little Prince. I think people generally are kind to motherless children, whether princes or peasants. He had a magnificent nursery, and a regular suite of attendants, and was treated with the greatest respect and state. Nobody was allowed to talk to him in silly baby language, or dandle him, or above all to kiss him, though, perhaps, some people did it surreptitiously, for he was such a sweet baby that it was difficult to help it. It could not be said that the Prince missed his mother; children of his age cannot do that; but somehow after she died everything seemed to go wrong with him. From a beautiful baby he became sickly and pale, seeming to have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which had been so fat and strong. But after the day of his christening they withered and shrank; he no longer kicked them out either in passion or play, and when, as he got to be nearly a year old, his nurse tried to make him stand upon them, he only tumbled down. This happened so many times that at last people began to talk about it. A prince, and not able to stand on his own legs! What a dreadful thing! what a misfortune for the country! Rather a misfortune to him also, poor little boy! but nobody seemed to think of that. And when, after a while, his health revived, and the old bright look came back to his sweet little face, and his body grew larger and stronger, though still his legs remained the same, people continued to speak of him in whispers, and with grave shakes of the head. Everybody knew, though nobody said it, that something, impossible to guess what, was not quite right with the poor little Prince. Of course, nobody hinted this to the King his father: it does not do to tell great people anything unpleasant. And besides, his Majesty took very little notice of his son, or of his other affairs, beyond the necessary duties of his kingdom. People had said he would not miss the Queen at all, she having been so long an invalid: but he did. After her death he never was quite the same. He established himself in her empty rooms, the only rooms in the palace whence one could see the Beautiful Mountains, and was often observed looking at them as if he thought she had flown away thither, and that his longing could bring her back again. And by a curious coincidence, which nobody dared to inquire into, he desired that the Prince might be called, not by any of the four-and-twenty grand names given him by his godfathers and godmothers, but by the identical name mentioned by the little old woman in grey,--Dolor, after his mother Dolorez. Once a week, according to established state custom, the Prince, dressed in his very best, was brought to the King his father for half-an-hour, but his Majesty was generally too ill and too melancholy to pay much heed to the child. Only once, when he and the Crown Prince, who was exceedingly attentive to his royal brother, were sitting together, with Prince Dolor playing in a corner of the room, dragging himself about with his arms rather than his legs, and sometimes trying feebly to crawl from one chair to another, it seemed to strike the father that all was not right with his son. "How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse. "Two years, three months, and five days, please your Majesty." [Illustration: _"How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse._] "It does not please me," said the King with a sigh. "He ought to be far more forward than he is now, ought he not, brother? You, who have so many children, must know. Is there not something wrong about him?" "Oh, no," said the Crown Prince, exchanging meaning looks with the nurse, who did not understand at all, but stood frightened and trembling with the tears in her eyes. "Nothing to make your Majesty at all uneasy. No doubt his Royal Highness will outgrow it in time." "Outgrow--what?" "A slight delicacy--ahem!--in the spine; something inherited, perhaps, from his dear mother." "Ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweetest woman that ever lived. Come here, my little son." And as the Prince turned round upon his father a small, sweet, grave face--so like his mother's--his Majesty the King smiled and held out his arms. But when the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but wriggling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance clouded over. "I ought to have been told of this. It is terrible--terrible! And for a prince, too! Send for all the doctors in my kingdom immediately." They came, and each gave a different opinion, and ordered a different mode of treatment. The only thing they agreed in was what had been pretty well known before: that the prince must have been hurt when he was an infant--let fall, perhaps, so as to injure his spine and lower limbs. Did nobody remember? No, nobody. Indignantly, all the nurses denied that any such accident had happened, was possible to have happened, until the faithful country nurse recollected that it really had happened, on the day of the christening. For which unluckily good memory all the others scolded her so severely that she had no peace of her life, and soon after, by the influence of the young lady nurse who had carried the baby that fatal day, and who was a sort of connection of the Crown Prince, being his wife's second cousin once removed, the poor woman was pensioned off, and sent to the Beautiful Mountains, from whence she came, with orders to remain there for the rest of her days. But of all this the King knew nothing, for, indeed, after the first shock of finding out that his son could not walk, and seemed never likely to walk, he interfered very little concerning him. The whole thing was too painful, and his Majesty had never liked painful things. Sometimes he inquired after Prince Dolor, and they told him his Royal Highness was going on as well as could be expected, which really was the case. For after worrying the poor child and perplexing themselves with one remedy after another, the Crown Prince, not wishing to offend any of the differing doctors, had proposed leaving him to nature; and nature, the safest doctor of all, had come to his help, and done her best. He could not walk, it is true; his limbs were mere useless additions to his body; but the body itself was strong and sound. And his face was the same as ever--just his mother's face, one of the sweetest in the world! Even the King, indifferent as he was, sometimes looked at the little fellow with sad tenderness, noticing how cleverly he learned to crawl, and swing himself about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he was as active in motion as most children of his age. "Poor little man! he does his best, and he is not unhappy; not half so unhappy as I, brother," addressing the Crown Prince, who was more constant than ever in his attendance upon the sick monarch. "If anything should befall me, I have appointed you as Regent. In case of my death, you will take care of my poor little boy?" "Certainly, certainly; but do not let us imagine any such misfortune. I assure your Majesty--everybody will assure you--that it is not in the least likely." He knew, however, and everybody knew, that it was likely, and soon after it actually did happen. The King died, as suddenly and quietly as the Queen had done--indeed, in her very room and bed; and Prince Dolor was left without either father or mother--as sad a thing as could happen, even to a Prince. He was more than that now, though. He was a king. In Nomansland, as in other countries, the people were struck with grief one day and revived the next. "The king is dead--long live the king!" was the cry that rang through the nation, and almost before his late Majesty had been laid beside the queen in their splendid mausoleum, crowds came thronging from all parts of the royal palace, eager to see the new monarch. They did see him--the Prince Regent took care they should--sitting on the floor of the council-chamber, sucking his thumb! And when one of the gentlemen-in-waiting lifted him up and carried him--fancy, carrying a king!--to the chair of state, and put the crown on his head, he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncomfortable. Sliding down to the foot of the throne, he began playing with the golden lions that supported it, stroking their paws and putting his tiny fingers into their eyes, and laughing--laughing as if he had at last found something to amuse him. "There's a fine king for you!" said the first lord-in-waiting, a friend of the Prince Regent's (the Crown Prince that used to be, who, in the deepest mourning, stood silently beside the throne of his young nephew. He was a handsome man, very grand and clever looking). "What a king! who can never stand to receive his subjects, never walk in processions, who, to the last day of his life, will have to be carried about like a baby. Very unfortunate!" "Exceedingly unfortunate," repeated the second lord. "It is always bad for a nation when its king is a child; but such a child--a permanent cripple, if not worse." "Let us hope not worse," said the first lord in a very hopeless tone, and looking towards the Regent, who stood erect and pretended to hear nothing. "I have heard that these sort of children with very large heads and great broad foreheads and staring eyes, are----well, well, let us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. In the meantime----" "I swear," said the Crown Prince, coming forward and kissing the hilt of his sword--"I swear to perform my duties as regent, to take all care of his Royal Highness--his Majesty, I mean," with a grand bow to the little child, who laughed innocently back again. "And I will do my humble best to govern the country. Still, if the country has the slightest objection----" But the Crown Prince being generalissimo, and having the whole army at his beck and call, so that he could have begun a civil war in no time; the country had, of course, not the slightest objection. So the king and queen slept together in peace, and Prince Dolor reigned over the land--that is, his uncle did; and everybody said what a fortunate thing it was for the poor little Prince to have such a clever uncle to take care of him. All things went on as usual; indeed, after the Regent had brought his wife and her seven sons, and established them in the palace, rather better than usual. For they gave such splendid entertainments and made the capital so lively, that trade revived, and the country was said to be more flourishing than it had been for a century. Whenever the Regent and his sons appeared, they were received with shouts--"Long live the Crown Prince!" "Long live the Royal family!" And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them, and made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses, one height above another, down to the youngest, on his tiny black pony, no bigger than a large dog. [Illustration: "_And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them._"] [Illustration: "_They made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses._"] As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince Dolor--for somehow people soon ceased to call him his Majesty, which seemed such a ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple, with only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of--he was seen very seldom by anybody. Sometimes, people daring enough to peer over the high wall of the palace garden, noticed there, carried in a footman's arms, or drawn in a chair, or left to play on the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a pretty little boy, with a bright intelligent face, and large melancholy eyes--no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his mother's, and she was by no means sad-minded, but thoughtful and dreamy. They rather perplexed people, those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly innocent and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing, told a lie for instance, they would turn round with such a grave silent surprise--the child never talked much--that every naughty person in the palace was rather afraid of Prince Dolor. He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even know it, being no better a child than many other children, but there was something about him which made bad people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of themselves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind. I suppose, because they were touched to see a poor little fellow who did not in the least know what had befallen him, or what lay before him, living his baby life as happy as the day was long. Thus, whether or not he was good himself, the sight of him and his affliction made other people good, and, above all, made everybody love him. So much so, that his uncle the Regent began to feel a little uncomfortable. Now, I have nothing to say against uncles in general. They are usually very excellent people, and very convenient to little boys and girls. Even the "cruel uncle" of "The Babes in the Wood" I believe to be quite an exceptional character. And this "cruel uncle" of whom I am telling was, I hope, an exception too. He did not mean to be cruel. If anybody had called him so, he would have resented it extremely: he would have said that what he did was done entirely for the good of the country. But he was a man who had been always accustomed to consider himself first and foremost, believing that whatever he wanted was sure to be right, and, therefore, he ought to have it. So he tried to get it, and got it too, as people like him very often do. Whether they enjoy it when they have it, is another question. Therefore, he went one day to the council-chamber, determined on making a speech and informing the ministers and the country at large that the young King was in failing health, and that it would be advisable to send him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains. Whether he really meant to do this; or whether it occurred to him afterwards that there would be an easier way of attaining his great desire, the crown of Nomansland, is a point which I cannot decide. But soon after, when he had obtained an order in council to send the King away--which was done in great state, with a guard of honour composed of two whole regiments of soldiers--the nation learnt, without much surprise, that the poor little Prince--nobody ever called him king now--had gone on a much longer journey than to the Beautiful Mountains. He had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours; at least, so declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent to take care of him. They brought his coffin back in great state, and buried it in the mausoleum with his parents. So Prince Dolor was seen no more. The country went into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and his uncle reigned in his stead. That illustrious personage accepted his crown with great decorum, and wore it with great dignity, to the last. But whether he enjoyed it or not, there is no evidence to show. CHAPTER III. And what of the little lame prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to have forgotten? Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been familiar with his sweet ways--these many a time sighed and said, "Poor Prince Dolor!" Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, "Well, perhaps his Royal Highness is better where he is than even there." They did not know--indeed, hardly anybody did know--that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of country, barren, level, bare, except for short stunted grass, and here and there a patch of tiny flowers. Not a bush--not a tree--not a resting-place for bird or beast was in that dreary plain. In summer, the sunshine fell upon it hour after hour with a blinding glare; in winter, the winds and rains swept over it unhindered, and the snow came down, steadily, noiselessly, covering it from end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for days and weeks unmarked by a single footprint. [Illustration: "_One large round tower which rose up in the center of the plain._"] Not a pleasant place to live in--and nobody did live there, apparently. The only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot, was one large round tower which rose up in the centre of the plain, and might be seen all over it--if there had been anybody to see, which there never was. Rose, right up out of the ground, as if it had grown of itself, like a mushroom. But it was not at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was very solidly built. In form, it resembled the Irish round towers, which have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find out when, or by whom, or for what purpose they were made; seemingly for no use at all, like this tower. It was circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until near the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall, through which one might possibly creep in or look out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet high, and it had a battlemented parapet, showing sharp against the sky. As the plain was quite desolate--almost like a desert, only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate sea-coast--nobody ever crossed it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky and the plain kept their secret to themselves. It was a very great secret indeed--a state secret--which none but so clever a man as the present king of Nomansland would ever have thought of. How he carried it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell. People said, long afterwards, that it was by means of a gang of condemned criminals, who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done, so that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact. And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which seemed a mere mass of masonry, utterly forsaken and uninhabited, was not so at all. Within twenty feet of the top, some ingenious architect had planned a perfect little house, divided into four rooms--as by drawing a cross within a circle you will see might easily be done. By making skylights, and a few slits in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete; eighty feet from the ground, and as inaccessible as a rook's nest on the top of a tree. A charming place to live in! if you once got up there, and never wanted to come down again. Inside--though nobody could have looked inside except a bird, and hardly even a bird flew past that lonely tower--inside it was furnished with all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys, and everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its only inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor little solitary child. One winter night, when all the plain was white with moonlight, there was seen crossing it a great tall black horse, ridden by a man also big and equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and a child. The woman--she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for she was a criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed to almost as severe a punishment. She was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child, and was allowed to live as long as the child lived--no longer. This, in order that she might take the utmost care of him; for those who put him there were equally afraid of his dying and of his living. And yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet sleepy smile--he had been very tired with his long journey--and clinging arms, which held tight to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him. And he was very helpless, with his poor small shrivelled legs, which could neither stand nor run away--for the little forlorn boy was Prince Dolor. [Illustration: "_He was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him._"] He had not been dead at all--or buried either. His grand funeral had been a mere pretence: a wax figure having been put in his place, while he himself was spirited away under charge of these two, the condemned woman and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so could neither tell nor repeat anything. When they reached the foot of the tower, there was light enough to see a huge chain dangling from the parapet, but dangling only half way. The deaf-mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together and lifted it up to meet the chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a sort of chair, in which the woman and the child placed themselves and were drawn up, never to come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them there, the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces again and packed it in his pack, mounted the horse, and disappeared across the plain. Every month they used to watch for him, appearing like a speck in the distance. He fastened his horse to the foot of the tower and climbed it, as before, laden with provisions and many other things. He always saw the Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well, and then went away until the following month. While his first childhood lasted, Prince Dolor was happy enough. He had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one thing wanting--love, never having known, he did not miss. His nurse was very kind to him, though she was a wicked woman. But either she had not been quite so wicked as people said, or she grew better through being shut up continually with a little innocent child, who was dependent upon her for every comfort and pleasure of his life. It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to tease or ill-use him, and he was never ill. He played about from room to room--there were four rooms--parlour, kitchen, his nurse's bed-room, and his own; learnt to crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about on all-fours almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was very much like a puppy or a kitten, as thoughtless and as merry--scarcely ever cross, though sometimes a little weary. As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be quiet for awhile, and then he would sit at the slits of windows, which were, however, much bigger than they looked from the bottom of the tower,--and watch the sky above and the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the sunshine coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds running races across the blank plain. By-and-by he began to learn lessons--not that his nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself. She was not a stupid woman, and Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so they got on very well, and his continual entreaty "What can I do? what can you find me to do?" was stopped; at least for an hour or two in the day. It was a dull life, but he had never known any other; anyhow, he remembered no other; and he did not pity himself at all. Not for a long time, till he grew to be quite a big little boy, and could read easily. Then he suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him from time to time--books which, not being acquainted with the literature of Nomansland, I cannot describe, but no doubt they were very interesting; and they informed him of everything in the outside world, and filled him with an intense longing to see it. From this time a change came over the boy. He began to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking. For his nurse hardly spoke, and whatever questions he asked beyond their ordinary daily life she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on pain of death, to tell him anything about himself, who he was, or what he might have been. He knew he was Prince Dolor, because she always addressed him as "my prince," and "your royal highness," but what a prince was he had not the least idea. He had no idea of any thing in the world, except what he found in his books. He sat one day surrounded by them, having built them up round him like a little castle wall. He had been reading them half the day, but feeling all the while that to read about things which you never can see is like hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For almost the first time in his life he grew melancholy: his hands fell on his lap; he sat gazing out of the window-slit upon the view outside--the view he had looked at every day of his life, and might look at for endless days more. Not a very cheerful view--just the plain and the sky--but he liked it. He used to think, if he could only fly out of that window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it would be! Perhaps when he died--his nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the tower till he died--he might be able to do this. Not that he understood much what dying meant, but it must be a change, and any change seemed to him a blessing. "And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about it; about that and many other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my poor white kitten." Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's one friend, the one interest of his life, had been a little white kitten, which the deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him--the only living creature Prince Dolor had ever seen. For four weeks it was his constant plaything and companion, till one moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It was not killed, he hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it pick itself up and scamper away, but he never caught sight of it more. "Yes, I wish I had something better than a kitten--a person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me. Oh, I want somebody--dreadfully, dreadfully!" As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap-tap-tap, as of a stick or a cane, and twisting himself round, he saw--what do you think he saw? Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still exceedingly curious. A little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been, had his legs grown like those of other children, but she was not a child--she was an old woman. Her hair was grey, and her dress was grey, and there was a grey shadow over her whereever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile, the prettiest hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice imaginable. "My dear little boy,"--and dropping her cane, the only bright and rich thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--"my own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me, but now you do want me, here I am." [Illustration: "_She laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--'My own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me.'_"] "And you are very welcome, madam," replied the Prince, trying to speak politely, as princes always did in books; "and I am exceedingly obliged to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?" For he knew that little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what had become of his own. "No," said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, putting back the hair from his forehead, and looking right into his eyes--"No, I am not your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you are as like her as ever you can be." "Will you tell her to come and see me then?" "She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. And she loves you very much--and so do I; and I want to help you all I can, my poor little boy." "Why do you call me poor?" asked Prince Dolor in surprise. The little old woman glanced down on his legs and feet, which he did not know were different from those of other children, and then at his sweet, bright face, which, though he knew not that either, was exceedingly different from many children's faces, which are often so fretful, cross, sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she smiled. "I beg your pardon, my prince," said she. "Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will you tell me yours, madam?" The little old woman laughed like a chime of silver bells. "I have not got a name--or rather, I have so many names that I don't know which to choose. However, it was I who gave you yours, and you will belong to me all your days. I am your godmother." "Hurrah!" cried the little prince; "I am glad I belong to you, for I like you very much. Will you come and play with me?" So they sat down together, and played. By-and-by they began to talk. "Are you very dull here?" asked the little old woman. "Not particularly, thank you, godmother. I have plenty to eat and drink, and my lessons to do, and my books to read--lots of books." "And you want nothing?" "Nothing. Yes--perhaps--If you please, godmother, could you bring me just one more thing?" "What sort of thing?" "A little boy to play with." The old woman looked very sad. "Just the thing, alas, which I cannot give you. My child, I cannot alter your lot in any way, but I can help you to bear it." "Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I have nothing to bear." "My poor little man!" said the old woman in the very tenderest tone of her tender voice. "Kiss me!" "What is kissing?" asked the wondering child. His godmother took him in her arms and embraced him many times. By-and-by he kissed her back again--at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all the strength of his warm little heart. "You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, I think. Promise me that you will never go away." "I must; but I will leave a present behind me--something as good as myself to amuse you--something that will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see." "What is it?" "A travelling-cloak." The Prince's countenance fell. "I don't want a cloak, for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and carries me round by the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as she does." "The more reason why you should ride; and besides, this travelling-cloak----" "Hush!--she's coming." There sounded outside the room door a heavy step and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes. "It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I don't want dinner at all--I only want you. Will her coming drive you away, godmother?" "Perhaps; but only for a little. Never mind; all the bolts and bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the window, or down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come." "Thank you," said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother--what would they say to one another? how would they look at one another?--two such different faces: one, harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other, sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins. When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his eyes, trembling all over: opening them again, he saw he need fear nothing; his lovely old godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the room. "What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in," said she sharply. "Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?" kicking a little bundle that lay beside them. "Oh, nothing, nothing--give it me!" cried the prince, and darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it quickly into his pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she had sat, and might be something belonging to her--his dear, kind godmother, whom already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart. It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful travelling-cloak. CHAPTER IV. And what of the travelling-cloak? What sort of cloak was it, and what good did it do the Prince? Stay, and I'll tell you all about it. Outside it was the commonest-looking bundle imaginable--shabby and small; and the instant Prince Dolor touched it, it grew smaller still, dwindling down till he could put it in his trousers pocket, like a handkerchief rolled up into a ball. He did this at once, for fear his nurse should see it, and kept it there all day--all night, too. Till after his next morning's lessons he had no opportunity of examining his treasure. When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a mere piece of cloth--circular in form, dark green in colour, that is, if it had any colour at all, being so worn and shabby, though not dirty. It had a split cut to the centre, forming a round hole for the neck--and that was all its shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South America are called _ponchos_--very simple, but most graceful and convenient. Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously; spread it out on the floor, then arranged it on his shoulders. It felt very warm and comfortable; but it was so exceedingly shabby--the only shabby thing that the Prince had ever seen in his life. [Illustration: "_Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously._"] "And what use will it be to me?" said he sadly. "I have no need of outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why was this given me, I wonder? and what in the world am I to do with it? She must be a rather funny person, this dear godmother of mine." Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and had given him the cloak, he folded it carefully and put it away, poor and shabby as it was, hiding it in a safe corner of his toy-cupboard, which his nurse never meddled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh at it, or at his godmother--as he felt sure she would, if she knew all. There it lay, and by-and-by he forgot all about it; nay, I am sorry to say, that, being but a child, and not seeing her again, he almost forgot his sweet old godmother, or thought of her only as he did of the angels or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit as if it had been a mere dream of the night. There were times, certainly, when he recalled her; of early mornings like that morning when she appeared beside him, and late evenings, when the grey twilight reminded him of the colour of her hair and her pretty soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of the night, with the stars peering in at his window, or the moonlight shining across his little bed, he would not have been surprised to see her standing beside it, looking at him with those beautiful tender eyes, which seemed to have a pleasantness and comfort in them different from anything he had ever known. But she never came, and gradually she slipped out of his memory--only a boy's memory, after all; until something happened which made him remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before. Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught--his nurse could not tell how--a complaint common to the people of Nomansland, called the doldrums, as unpleasant as measles or any other of our complaints; and it made him restless, cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely--while, in her intense terror lest he might die, she fidgetted him still more. At last, seeing he really was getting well, she left him to himself--which he was most glad of, in spite of his dulness and dreariness. There he lay, alone, quite alone. [Illustration: "_Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely._"] Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in which he longed to get up and do something, or go somewhere--would have liked to imitate his white kitten--jump down from the tower and run away, taking the chance of whatever might happen. Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for the kitten, he remembered, had four active legs, while he---- "I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked at my legs and sighed so bitterly? I wonder why I can't walk straight and steady like my nurse--only I wouldn't like to have her great noisy, clumping shoes. Still, it would be very nice to move about quickly--perhaps to fly, like a bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day skimming across the sky--one after the other." These were the passage-birds--the only living creatures that ever crossed the lonely plain; and he had been much interested in them, wondering whence they came and whither they were going. "How nice it must be to be a bird. If legs are no good, why cannot one have wings? People have wings when they die--perhaps: I wish I was dead, that I do. I am so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me. Nobody ever did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. Godmother, dear, have you quite forsaken me?" He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him at the back of his neck, and turning, found that he was resting, not on the sofa-pillows, but on a warm shoulder--that of the little old woman clothed in grey. How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her kind eyes, and felt her hands, to see if she were all real and alive! then put both his arms round her neck, and kissed her as if he would never have done kissing! "Stop, stop!" cried she, pretending to be smothered, "I see you have not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a good thing--in moderation. Only, just let me have breath to speak one word." "A dozen!" he said. "Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you since I saw you--or rather, since you saw me, which is a quite different thing." "Nothing has happened--nothing ever does happen to me," answered the Prince dolefully. "And are you very dull, my boy?" "So dull, that I was just thinking whether I could not jump down to the bottom of the tower like my white kitten." "Don't do that, being not a white kitten." "I wish I were!--I wish I were anything but what I am!" "And you can't make yourself any different, nor can I do it either. You must be content to stay just what you are." The little old woman said this--very firmly, but gently, too--with her arms round his neck, and her lips on his forehead. It was the first time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in surprise--but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness of her words. "Now, my prince--for you are a prince, and must behave as such--let us see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show you how to do for yourself. Where is your travelling-cloak?" Prince Dolor blushed extremely. "I--I put it away in the cupboard; I suppose it is there still." "You have never used it; you dislike it?" He hesitated, not wishing to be impolite. "Don't you think it's--just a little old and shabby, for a prince?" The old woman laughed--long and loud, though very sweetly. "Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world craved for it, they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and shabby! It's the most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I thought I would give it to you, because--because you are different from other people." "Am I?" said the Prince, and looked first with curiosity, then with a sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was sad and grave, with slow tears beginning to steal down. She touched his poor little legs. "These are not like those of other little boys." "Indeed!--my nurse never told me that." "Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I tell you, because I love you." "Tell me what, dear godmother?" "That you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, or play--that your life will be quite different to most people's lives: but it may be a very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid." "I am not afraid," said the boy; but he turned very pale, and his lips began to quiver, though he did not actually cry--he was too old for that, and, perhaps, too proud. Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to guess what his godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen pictures of them; running and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard to imitate, but always failed. Now he began to understand why he failed, and that he always should fail--that, in fact, he was not like other little boys; and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did, and play as they played, even if he had had them to play with. His was a separate life, in which he must find out new work and new pleasures for himself. The sense of _the inevitable_, as grown-up people call it--that we cannot have things as we want them to be, but as they are, and that we must learn to bear them and make the best of them--this lesson, which everybody has to learn soon or late--came, alas! sadly soon, to the poor boy. He fought against it for a while, and then, quite overcome, turned and sobbed bitterly in his godmother's arms. She comforted him--I do not know how, except that love always comforts; and then she whispered to him, in her sweet, strong, cheerful voice--"Never mind!" "No, I don't think I do mind--that is, I _won't_ mind," replied he, catching the courage of her tone and speaking like a man, though he was still such a mere boy. "That is right, my prince!--that is being like a prince. Now we know exactly where we are; let us put our shoulders to the wheel and----" "We are in Hopeless Tower" (this was its name, if it had a name), "and there is no wheel to put our shoulders to," said the child sadly. "You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you that you have a godmother called----" "What?" he eagerly asked. "Stuff-and-nonsense." "Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!" "Some people give it me, but they are not my most intimate friends. These call me--never mind what," added the old woman, with a soft twinkle in her eyes. "So as you know me, and know me well, you may give me any name you please; it doesn't matter. But I am your godmother, child. I have few godchildren; those I have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing in all the world." "I can well believe it," cried the little lame Prince, and forgot his troubles in looking at her--as her figure dilated, her eyes grew lustrous as stars, her very raiment brightened, and the whole room seemed filled with her beautiful and beneficent presence like light. He could have looked at her for ever--half in love, half in awe; but she suddenly dwindled down into the little old woman all in grey, and with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, asked for the travelling-cloak. "Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the dust off it, quick!" said she to Prince Dolor, who hung his head, rather ashamed. "Spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes and the edges turn up like a rim all round. Then go and open the sky-light--mind, I say _open the skylight_--set yourself down in the middle of it, like a frog on a water-lily leaf; say 'Abracadabra, dum dum dum,' and--see what will happen!" The prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all seemed so exceedingly silly; he wondered that a wise old woman like his godmother should talk such nonsense. "Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean," said she, answering, to his great alarm, his unspoken thoughts. "Did I not tell you some people called me by that name? Never mind; it doesn't harm me." And she laughed--her merry laugh--as child-like as if she were the prince's age instead of her own, whatever that might be. She certainly was a most extraordinary old woman. "Believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said she. "Here is the cloak: when you want to go travelling on it, say _Abracadabra, dum dum dum_; when you want to come back again, say _Abracadabra, tum tum ti_. That's all; good-bye." A puff of pleasant air passing by him, and making him feel for the moment quite strong and well, was all the Prince was conscious of. His most extraordinary godmother was gone. "Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness's cheeks have grown! You seem to have got well already," said the nurse, entering the room. "I think I have," replied the Prince very gently--he felt kindly and gently even to his grim nurse. "And now let me have my dinner, and go you to your sewing as usual." The instant she was gone, however, taking with her the plates and dishes, which for the first time since his illness he had satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang down from his sofa, and with one or two of his frog-like jumps, not graceful but convenient, he reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for his travelling-cloak. Alas! it was not there. While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse, thinking it a good opportunity for putting things to rights, had made a grand clearance of all his "rubbish," as she considered it: his beloved headless horses, broken carts, sheep without feet, and birds without wings--all the treasures of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with. Though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to feel they were there. They were all gone! and with them the travelling-cloak. He sat down on the floor, looking at the empty shelves, so beautifully clean and tidy, then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break. But quietly--always quietly. He never let his nurse hear him cry. She only laughed at him, as he felt she would laugh now. "And it is all my own fault," he cried. "I ought to have taken better care of my godmother's gift. O, godmother, forgive me! I'll never be so careless again. I don't know what the cloak is exactly, but I am sure it is something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don't let it be stolen from me--don't, please!" "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a silvery voice. "Why, that travelling-cloak is the one thing in the world which nobody can steal. It is of no use to anybody except the owner. Open your eyes, my prince, and see what you shall see." His dear old godmother, he thought, had turned eagerly round. But no; he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, all dust and cobwebs, his precious travelling-cloak. Prince Dolor darted towards it, tumbling several times on the way,--as he often did tumble, poor boy! and pick himself up again, never complaining. Snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it, cobwebs and all, as if it had been something alive. Then he began unrolling it, wondering each minute what would happen. But what did happen was so curious that I must leave it for another chapter. CHAPTER V. If any reader, big or little, should wonder whether there is a meaning in this story, deeper than that of an ordinary fairy tale, I will own that there is. But I have hidden it so carefully that the smaller people, and many larger folk, will never find it out, and meantime the book may be read straight on, like "Cinderella," or "Blue-Beard," or "Hop-o'-my Thumb," for what interest it has, or what amusement it may bring. Having said this, I return to Prince Dolor, that little lame boy whom many may think so exceedingly to be pitied. But if you had seen him as he sat patiently untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in a very tight and perplexing parcel, using skilfully his deft little hands, and knitting his brows with firm determination, while his eyes glistened with pleasure, and energy, and eager anticipation--if you had beheld him thus, you might have changed your opinion. When we see people suffering or unfortunate, we feel very sorry for them; but when we see them bravely bearing their sufferings, and making the best of their misfortunes, it is quite a different feeling. We respect, we admire them. One can respect and admire even a little child. When Prince Dolor had patiently untied all the knots, a remarkable thing happened. The cloak began to undo itself. Slowly unfolding, it laid itself down on the carpet, as flat as if it had been ironed; the split joined with a little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round till it was breast-high; for meantime the cloak had grown and grown, and become quite large enough for one person to sit in it, as comfortable as if in a boat. The Prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such an extraordinary, not to say a frightening thing. However, he was no coward, but a thorough boy, who, if he had been like other boys, would doubtless have grown up daring and adventurous--a soldier, a sailor, or the like. As it was, he could only show his courage morally, not physically, by being afraid of nothing, and by doing boldly all that it was in his narrow powers to do. And I am not sure but that in this way he showed more real valour than if he had had six pairs of proper legs. He said to himself, "What a goose I am! As if my dear godmother would ever have given me anything to hurt me. Here goes!" So, with one of his active leaps, he sprang right into the middle of the cloak, where he squatted down, wrapping his arms tight round his knees, for they shook a little and his heart beat fast. But there he sat, steady and silent, waiting for what might happen next. Nothing did happen, and he began to think nothing would, and to feel rather disappointed, when he recollected the words he had been told to repeat--"Abracadabra, dum, dum, dum!" He repeated them, laughing all the while, they seemed such nonsense. And then--and then---- Now, I don't expect anybody to believe what I am going to relate, though a good many wise people have believed a good many sillier things. And as seeing's believing, and I never saw it, I cannot be expected implicitly to believe it myself, except in a sort of a way; and yet there is truth in it--for some people. The cloak rose, slowly and steadily, at first only a few inches, then gradually higher and higher, till it nearly touched the skylight. Prince Dolor's head actually bumped against the glass, or would have done so, had he not crouched down, crying, "Oh, please don't hurt me!" in a most melancholy voice. Then he suddenly remembered his godmother's express command--"Open the skylight!" Regaining his courage at once, without a moment's delay, he lifted up his head and began searching for the bolt, the cloak meanwhile remaining perfectly still, balanced in air. But the minute the window was opened, out it sailed--right out into the clear fresh air, with nothing between it and the cloudless blue. Prince Dolor had never felt any such delicious sensation before! I can understand it. Cannot you? Did you never think, in watching the rooks going home singly or in pairs, oaring their way across the calm evening sky, till they vanish like black dots in the misty grey, how pleasant it must feel to be up there, quite out of the noise and din of the world, able to hear and see everything down below, yet troubled by nothing and teased by no one--all alone, but perfectly content. Something like this was the happiness of the little lame Prince when he got out of Hopeless Tower, and found himself for the first time in the pure open air, with the sky above him and the earth below. True, there was nothing but earth and sky; no houses, no trees, no rivers, mountains, seas--not a beast on the ground, or a bird in the air. But to him even the level plain looked beautiful; and then there was the glorious arch of the sky, with a little young moon sitting in the west like a baby queen. And the evening breeze was so sweet and fresh, it kissed him like his godmother's kisses; and by-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities--quantities! so that, when he began to count them, he was utterly bewildered. [Illustration: "_By-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities!_"] By this time, however, the cool breeze had become cold, the mist gathered, and as he had, as he said, no outdoor clothes, poor Prince Dolor was not very comfortable. The dews fell damp on his curls--he began to shiver. "Perhaps I had better go home," thought he. But how?--For in his excitement the other words which his godmother had told him to use had slipped his memory. They were only a little different from the first, but in that slight difference all the importance lay. As he repeated his "Abracadabra," trying ever so many other syllables after it, the cloak only went faster and faster, skimming on through the dusky empty air. The poor little Prince began to feel frightened. What if his wonderful travelling-cloak should keep on thus travelling, perhaps to the world's end, carrying with it a poor, tired, hungry boy, who, after all, was beginning to think there was something very pleasant in supper and bed? "Dear godmother," he cried pitifully, "do help me! Tell me just this once and I'll never forget again." Instantly the words came rushing into his head--"Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" Was that it? Ah, yes!--for the cloak began to turn slowly. He repeated the charm again, more distinctly and firmly, when it gave a gentle dip, like a nod of satisfaction, and immediately started back, as fast as ever, in the direction of the tower. He reached the skylight, which he found exactly as he had left it, and slipped in, cloak and all, as easily as he had got out. He had scarcely reached the floor, and was still sitting in the middle of his travelling-cloak--like a frog on a water-lily leaf, as his godmother had expressed it--when he heard his nurse's voice outside. "Bless us! what has become of your Royal Highness all this time? To sit stupidly here at the window till it is quite dark, and leave the skylight open too. Prince! what can you be thinking of? You are the silliest boy I ever knew." "Am I?" said he absently, and never heeding her crossness; or his only anxiety was lest she might find out anything. She would have been a very clever person to have done so. The instant Prince Dolor got off it, the cloak folded itself up into the tiniest possible parcel, tied all its own knots, and rolled itself of its own accord into the farthest and darkest corner of the room. If the nurse had seen it, which she didn't, she would have taken it for a mere bundle of rubbish not worth noticing. Shutting the skylight with an angry bang, she brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression of countenance. But Prince Dolor hardly saw it; he only saw, hid in the corner where nobody else would see it, his wonderful travelling-cloak. And though his supper was not particularly nice, he ate it heartily, scarcely hearing a word of his nurse's grumbling, which to-night seemed to have taken the place of her sullen silence. [Illustration: "_She brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression ... he only saw his wonderful travelling-cloak._" _Page 58._] "Poor woman!" he thought, when he paused a minute to listen and look at her, with those quiet, happy eyes, so like his mother's. "Poor woman! _she_ hasn't got a travelling-cloak!" And when he was left alone at last, and crept into his little bed, where he lay awake a good while, watching what he called his "sky-garden," all planted with stars, like flowers, his chief thought was, "I must be up very early to-morrow morning and get my lessons done, and then I'll go travelling all over the world on my beautiful cloak." So, next day, he opened his eyes with the sun, and went with a good heart to his lessons. They had hitherto been the chief amusement of his dull life; now, I am afraid, he found them also a little dull. But he tried to be good--I don't say Prince Dolor always was good, but he generally tried to be--and when his mind went wandering after the dark dusty corner where lay his precious treasure, he resolutely called it back again. "For," he said, "how ashamed my godmother would be of me if I grew up a stupid boy." But the instant lessons were done, and he was alone in the empty room, he crept across the floor, undid the shabby little bundle, his fingers trembling with eagerness, climbed on the chair, and thence to the table, so as to unbar the skylight--he forgot nothing now--said his magic charm, and was away out of the window, as children say, "in a few minutes less than no time!" Nobody missed him. He was accustomed to sit so quietly always, that his nurse, though only in the next room, perceived no difference. And besides, she might have gone in and out a dozen times, and it would have been just the same; she never could have found out his absence. For what do you think the clever godmother did? She took a quantity of moonshine, or some equally convenient material, and made an image, which she set on the window-sill reading, or by the table drawing, where it looked so like Prince Dolor, that any common observer would never have guessed the deception; and even the boy would have been puzzled to know which was the image and which was himself. And all this while the happy little fellow was away, floating in the air on his magic cloak, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things--or they seemed wonderful to him, who had hitherto seen nothing at all. First, there were the flowers that grew on the plain, which, whenever the cloak came near enough, he strained his eyes to look at; they were very tiny, but very beautiful--white saxifrage, and yellow lotus, and ground-thistles, purple and bright, with many others the names of which I do not know. No more did Prince Dolor, though he tried to find them out by recalling any pictures he had seen of them. But he was too far off; and though it was pleasant enough to admire them as brilliant patches of colour, still he would have liked to examine them all. He was, as a little girl I know once said of a playfellow, "a very _examining_ boy." "I wonder," he thought, "whether I could see better through a pair of glasses like those my nurse reads with, and takes such care of. How I would take care of them too! if only I had a pair!" Immediately he felt something queer and hard fixing itself on to the bridge of his nose. It was a pair of the prettiest gold spectacles ever seen; and looking downwards, he found that, though ever so high above the ground, he could see every minute blade of grass, every tiny bud and flower--nay, even the insects that walked over them. "Thank you, thank you!" he cried in a gush of gratitude--to anybody or everybody, but especially to his dear godmother, whom he felt sure had given him this new present. He amused himself with it for ever so long, with his chin pressed on the rim of the cloak, gazing down upon the grass, every square foot of which was a mine of wonders. Then, just to rest his eyes, he turned them up to the sky--the blue, bright, empty sky, which he had looked at so often and seen nothing. Now, surely there was something. A long, black, wavy line, moving on in the distance, not by chance, as the clouds move apparently, but deliberately, as if it were alive. He might have seen it before--he almost thought he had; but then he could not tell what it was. Looking at it through his spectacles, he discovered that it really was alive; being a long string of birds, flying one after the other, their wings moving steadily and their heads pointed in one direction, as steadily as if each were a little ship, guided invisibly by an unerring helm. "They must be the passage-birds flying seawards!" cried the boy, who had read a little about them, and had a great talent for putting two and two together and finding out all he could. "Oh, how I should like to see them quite close, and to know where they come from, and whither they are going! How I wish I knew everything in all the world!" A silly speech for even an "examining" little boy to make; because, as we grow older, the more we know, the more we find out there is to know. And Prince Dolor blushed when he had said it, and hoped nobody had heard him. Apparently somebody had, however; for the cloak gave a sudden bound forward, and presently he found himself high up in air, in the very middle of that band of ærial travellers, who had no magic cloak to travel on--nothing except their wings. Yet there they were, making their fearless way through the sky. Prince Dolor looked at them, as one after the other they glided past him; and they looked at him--those pretty swallows, with their changing necks and bright eyes--as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of a bird. [Illustration: "_They looked at him ... as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of bird._" _Page 62._] "Oh, I wish I were going with you, you lovely creatures!" cried the boy. "I'm getting so tired of this dull plain, and the dreary and lonely tower. I do so want to see the world! Pretty swallows, dear swallows! tell me what it looks like--the beautiful, wonderful world!" But the swallows flew past him--steadily, slowly, pursuing their course as if inside each little head had been a mariner's compass, to guide them safe over land and sea, direct to the place where they desired to go. The boy looked after them with envy. For a long time he followed with his eyes the faint wavy black line as it floated away, sometimes changing its curves a little, but never deviating from its settled course, till it vanished entirely out of sight. Then he settled himself down in the centre of the cloak, feeling quite sad and lonely. "I think I'll go home," said he, and repeated his "Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" with a rather heavy heart. The more he had, the more he wanted; and it is not always one can have everything one wants--at least, at the exact minute one craves for it; not even though one is a prince, and has a powerful and beneficent godmother. He did not like to vex her by calling for her, and telling her how unhappy he was, in spite of all her goodness; so he just kept his trouble to himself, went back to his lonely tower, and spent three days in silent melancholy without even attempting another journey on his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER VI. The fourth day it happened that the deaf-mute paid his accustomed visit, after which Prince Dolor's spirits rose. They always did, when he got the new books, which, just to relieve his conscience, the King of Nomansland regularly sent to his nephew; with many new toys also, though the latter were disregarded now. "Toys indeed! when I'm a big boy," said the Prince with disdain, and would scarcely condescend to mount a rocking-horse, which had come, somehow or other--I can't be expected to explain things very exactly--packed on the back of the other, the great black horse, which stood and fed contentedly at the bottom of the tower. Prince Dolor leaned over and looked at it, and thought how grand it must be to get upon its back--this grand live steed--and ride away, like the pictures of knights. "Suppose I was a knight," he said to himself; "then I should be obliged to ride out and see the world." But he kept all these thoughts to himself, and just sat still, devouring his new books till he had come to the end of them all. It was a repast not unlike the Barmecide's feast which you read of in the "Arabian Nights," which consisted of very elegant but empty dishes, or that supper of Sancho Panza in "Don Quixote," where, the minute the smoking dishes came on the table, the physician waved his hand and they were all taken away. Thus, almost all the ordinary delights of boy-life had been taken away from, or rather never given to, this poor little Prince. "I wonder," he would sometimes think--"I wonder what it feels like to be on the back of a horse, galloping away, or holding the reins in a carriage, and tearing across the country, or jumping a ditch, or running a race, such as I read of or see in pictures. What a lot of things there are that I should like to do! But first, I should like to go and see the world. I'll try." Apparently it was his godmother's plan always to let him try, and try hard, before he gained anything. This day the knots that tied up his travelling-cloak were more than usually troublesome, and he was a full half hour before he got out into the open air, and found himself floating merrily over the top of the tower. Hitherto, in all his journeys he had never let himself go out of sight of home, for the dreary building, after all, was home--he remembered no other; but now he felt sick of the very look of his tower, with its round smooth walls and level battlements. "Off we go!" cried he, when the cloak stirred itself with a slight slow motion, as if waiting his orders. "Anywhere--anywhere, so that I am away from here, and out into the world." As he spoke, the cloak, as if seized suddenly with a new idea, bounded forward and went skimming through the air, faster than the very fastest railway train. "Gee-up, gee-up!" cried Prince Dolor in great excitement. "This is as good as riding a race." And he patted the cloak as if it had been a horse--that is, in the way he supposed horses ought to be patted; and tossed his head back to meet the fresh breeze, and pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down, as he felt the wind grow keener and colder, colder than anything he had ever known. "What does it matter though?" said he. "I'm a boy, and boys ought not to mind anything." Still, for all his good-will, by-and-by he began to shiver exceedingly; also, he had come away without his dinner, and he grew frightfully hungry. And to add to everything, the sunshiny day changed into rain, and being high up, in the very midst of the clouds, he got soaked through and through in a very few minutes. "Shall I turn back?" meditated he. "Suppose I say 'Abracadabra?'" Here he stopped, for already the cloak gave an obedient lurch, as if it were expecting to be sent home immediately. "No--I can't--I can't go back! I must go forward and see the world. But oh! if I had but the shabbiest old rug to shelter me from the rain, or the driest morsel of bread and cheese, just to keep me from starving! Still, I don't much mind; I'm a prince, and ought to be able to stand anything. Hold on, cloak, we'll make the best of it." It was a most curious circumstance, but no sooner had he said this than he felt stealing over his knees something warm and soft; in fact, a most beautiful bearskin, which folded itself round him quite naturally, and cuddled him up as closely as if he had been the cub of the kind old mother-bear that once owned it. Then feeling in his pocket, which suddenly stuck out in a marvellous way, he found, not exactly bread and cheese, nor even sandwiches, but a packet of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. It was not meat, nor pudding, but a combination of both, and it served him excellently for both. He ate his dinner with the greatest gusto imaginable, till he grew so thirsty he did not know what to do. "Couldn't I have just one drop of water, if it didn't trouble you too much, kindest of godmothers." For he really thought this want was beyond her power to supply. All the water which supplied Hopeless Tower was pumped up with difficulty, from a deep artesian well--there were such things known in Nomansland--which had been made at the foot of it. But around, for miles upon miles, the desolate plain was perfectly dry. And above it, high in air, how could he expect to find a well, or to get even a drop of water? He forgot one thing--the rain. While he spoke, it came on in another wild burst, as if the clouds had poured themselves out in a passion of crying, wetting him certainly, but leaving behind, in a large glass vessel which he had never noticed before, enough water to quench the thirst of two or three boys at least. And it was so fresh, so pure--as water from the clouds always is, when it does not catch the soot from city chimneys and other defilements--that he drank it, every drop, with the greatest delight and content. Also, as soon as it was empty, the rain filled it again, so that he was able to wash his face and hands and refresh himself exceedingly. Then the sun came out and dried him in no time. After that he curled himself up under the bearskin rug, and though he determined to be the most wide-awake boy imaginable, being so exceedingly snug and warm and comfortable, Prince Dolor condescended to shut his eyes, just for one minute. The next minute he was sound asleep. When he awoke, he found himself floating over a country quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. Yet it was nothing but what most of you children see every day and never notice it--a pretty country landscape, like England, Scotland, France, or any other land you choose to name. It had no particular features--nothing in it grand or lovely--was simply pretty, nothing more; yet to Prince Dolor, who had never gone beyond his lonely tower and level plain, it appeared the most charming sight imaginable. First, there was a river. It came tumbling down the hillside, frothing and foaming, playing at hide-and-seek among rocks, then bursting out in noisy fun like a child, to bury itself in deep still pools. Afterwards it went steadily on for a while, like a good grown-up person, till it came to another big rock, where it misbehaved itself extremely. It turned into a cataract and went tumbling over and over, after a fashion that made the Prince--who had never seen water before, except in his bath or his drinking-cup--clap his hands with delight. "It is so active, so alive! I like things active and alive!" cried he, and watched it shimmering and dancing, whirling and leaping, till, after a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream. After that it went along, deep and quiet, but flowing steadily on, till it reached a large lake, into which it slipped, and so ended its course. [Illustration: "_After a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream._"] All this the boy saw, either with his own naked eye, or through his gold spectacles. He saw also as in a picture, beautiful but silent, many other things, which struck him with wonder, especially a grove of trees. Only think, to have lived to his age (which he himself did not know, as he did not know his own birthday) and never to have seen trees! As he floated over these oaks, they seemed to him--trunk, branches, and leaves--the most curious sight imaginable. "If I could only get nearer, so as to touch them," said he, and immediately the obedient cloak ducked down; Prince Dolor made a snatch at the topmost twig of the tallest tree, and caught a bunch of leaves in his hand. Just a bunch of green leaves--such as we see in myriads; watching them bud, grow, fall, and then kicking them along on the ground as if they were worth nothing. Yet, how wonderful they are--every one of them a little different. I don't suppose you could ever find two leaves exactly alike, in form, colour, and size--no more than you could find two faces alike, or two characters exactly the same. The plan of this world is infinite similarity and yet infinite variety. Prince Dolor examined his leaves with the greatest curiosity--and also a little caterpillar that he found walking over one of them. He coaxed it to take an additional walk over his finger, which it did with the greatest dignity and decorum, as if it, Mr. Caterpillar, were the most important individual in existence. It amused him for a long time; and when a sudden gust of wind blew it overboard, leaves and all, he felt quite disconsolate. "Still, there must be many live creatures in the world besides caterpillars. I should like to see a few of them." The cloak gave a little dip down, as if to say "All right, my Prince," and bore him across the oak forest to a long fertile valley--called in Scotland a strath, and in England a weald--but what they call it in the tongue of Nomansland I do not know. It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds. Also, in it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures, wild and tame. Cows and horses, lambs and sheep, fed in the meadows; pigs and fowls walked about the farmyards; and, in lonelier places, hares scudded, rabbits burrowed, and pheasants and partridges, with many other smaller birds, inhabited the fields and woods. [Illustration: "_It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds._"] [Illustration: "_In it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures._"] Through his wonderful spectacles the Prince could see everything; but, as I said, it was a silent picture; he was too high up to catch anything except a faint murmur, which only aroused his anxiety to hear more. "I have as good as two pairs of eyes," he thought. "I wonder if my godmother would give me a second pair of ears." Scarcely had he spoken, than he found lying on his lap the most curious little parcel, all done up in silvery paper. And it contained--what do you think? Actually, a pair of silver ears, which, when he tried them on, fitted so exactly over his own, that he hardly felt them, except for the difference they made in his hearing. There is something which we listen to daily and never notice. I mean the sounds of the visible world, animate and inanimate. Winds blowing, waters flowing, trees stirring, insects whirring (dear me! I am quite unconsciously writing rhyme), with the various cries of birds and beasts--lowing cattle, bleating sheep, grunting pigs, and cackling hens--all the infinite discords that somehow or other make a beautiful harmony. We hear this, and are so accustomed to it that we think nothing of it; but Prince Dolor, who had lived all his days in the dead silence of Hopeless Tower, heard it for the first time. And oh! if you had seen his face. He listened, listened, as if he could never have done listening. And he looked and looked, as if he could not gaze enough. Above all, the motion of the animals delighted him: cows walking, horses galloping, little lambs and calves running races across the meadows, were such a treat for him to watch--he that was always so quiet. But, these creatures having four legs, and he only two, the difference did not strike him painfully. Still, by-and-by, after the fashion of children--and, I fear, of many big people too--he began to want something more than he had, something that would be quite fresh and new. "Godmother," he said, having now begun to believe that, whether he saw her or not, he could always speak to her with full confidence that she would hear him--"Godmother, all these creatures I like exceedingly--but I should like better to see a creature like myself. Couldn't you show me just one little boy?" There was a sigh behind him--it might have been only the wind--and the cloak remained so long balanced motionless in air, that he was half afraid his godmother had forgotten him, or was offended with him for asking too much. Suddenly, a shrill whistle startled him, even through his silver ears, and looking downwards, he saw start up from behind a bush on a common, something-- Neither a sheep, nor a horse, nor a cow--nothing upon four legs. This creature had only two; but they were long, straight, and strong. And it had a lithe active body, and a curly head of black hair set upon its shoulders. It was a boy, a shepherdboy, about the Prince's own age--but, oh! so different. Not that he was an ugly boy--though his face was almost as red as his hands, and his shaggy hair matted like the backs of his own sheep. He was rather a nice-looking lad; and seemed so bright, and healthy, and good-tempered--"jolly" would be the word, only I am not sure if they have such an one in the elegant language of Nomansland--that the little Prince watched him with great admiration. "Might he come and play with me? I would drop down to the ground to him, or fetch him up to me here. Oh, how nice it would be if I only had a little boy to play with me!" But the cloak, usually so obedient to his wishes, disobeyed him now. There were evidently some things which his godmother either could not or would not give. The cloak hung stationary, high in air, never attempting to descend. The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird and, shading his eyes, looked up at it, making the Prince's heart beat fast. [Illustration: "_The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird._"] However, nothing ensued. The boy turned round, with a long, loud whistle--seemingly his usual and only way of expressing his feelings. He could not make the thing out exactly--it was a rather mysterious affair, but it did not trouble him much--_he_ was not an "examining" boy. Then, stretching himself, for he had been evidently half asleep, he began flopping his shoulders with his arms, to wake and warm himself; while his dog, a rough collie, who had been guarding the sheep meanwhile, began to jump upon him, barking with delight. "Down Snap, down! Stop that, or I'll thrash you," the Prince heard him say; though with such a rough hard voice and queer pronunciation that it was difficult to make the words out. "Hollo! Let's warm ourselves by a race." They started off together, boy and dog--barking and shouting, till it was doubtful which made the most noise or ran the fastest. A regular steeple-chase it was: first across the level common, greatly disturbing the quiet sheep; and then tearing away across country, scrambling through hedges, and leaping ditches, and tumbling up and down over ploughed fields. They did not seem to have anything to run for--but as if they did it, both of them, for the mere pleasure of motion. And what a pleasure that seemed! To the dog of course, but scarcely less so to the boy. How he skimmed along over the ground--his cheeks glowing, and his hair flying, and his legs--oh, what a pair of legs he had! Prince Dolor watched him with great intentness, and in a state of excitement almost equal to that of the runner himself--for a while. Then the sweet pale face grew a trifle paler, the lips began to quiver and the eyes to fill. "How nice it must be to run like that!" he said softly, thinking that never--no, never in this world--would he be able to do the same. Now he understood what his godmother had meant when she gave him his travelling-cloak, and why he had heard that sigh--he was sure it was hers--when he had asked to see "just one little boy." "I think I had rather not look at him again," said the poor little Prince, drawing himself back into the centre of his cloak, and resuming his favourite posture, sitting like a Turk, with his arms wrapped round his feeble, useless legs. "You're no good to me," he said, patting them mournfully. "You never will be any good to me. I wonder why I had you at all; I wonder why I was born at all, since I was not to grow up like other little boys. _Why_ not?" A question, so strange, so sad, yet so often occurring in some form or other, in this world--as you will find, my children, when you are older--that even if he had put it to his mother she could only have answered it, as we have to answer many as difficult things, by simply saying, "I don't know." There is much that we do not know, and cannot understand--we big folks, no more than you little ones. We have to accept it all just as you have to accept anything which your parents may tell you, even though you don't as yet see the reason of it. You may some time if you do exactly as they tell you, and are content to wait. Prince Dolor sat a good while thus, or it appeared to him a good while, so many thoughts came and went through his poor young mind--thoughts of great bitterness, which, little though he was, seemed to make him grow years older in a few minutes. Then he fancied the cloak began to rock gently to and fro, with a soothing kind of motion, as if he were in somebody's arms: somebody who did not speak, but loved him and comforted him without need of words; not by deceiving him with false encouragement or hope, but by making him see the plain hard truth, in all its hardness, and thus letting him quietly face it, till it grew softened down, and did not seem nearly so dreadful after all. Through the dreary silence and blankness, for he had placed himself so that he could see nothing but the sky, and had taken off his silver ears, as well as his gold spectacles--what was the use of either when he had no legs to walk or run?--up from below there rose a delicious sound. You have heard it hundreds of times, my children, and so have I. When I was a child I thought there was nothing so sweet; and I think so still. It was just the song of a skylark, mounting higher and higher from the ground, till it came so close that Prince Dolor could distinguish its quivering wings and tiny body, almost too tiny to contain such a gush of music. "O, you beautiful, beautiful bird!" cried he; "I should dearly like to take you in and cuddle you. That is, if I could--if I dared." But he hesitated. The little brown creature with its loud heavenly voice almost made him afraid. Nevertheless, it also made him happy; and he watched and listened--so absorbed that he forgot all regret and pain, forgot everything in the world except the little lark. It soared and soared, and he was just wondering if it would soar out of sight, and what in the world he should do when it was gone, when it suddenly closed its wings, as larks do, when they mean to drop to the ground. But, instead of dropping to the ground, it dropped right into the little boy's breast. What felicity! If it would only stay! A tiny soft thing to fondle and kiss, to sing to him all day long, and be his playfellow and companion, tame and tender, while to the rest of the world it was a wild bird of the air. What a pride, what a delight! To have something that nobody else had--something all his own. As the travelling-cloak travelled on, he little heeded where, and the lark still stayed, nestled down in his bosom, hopped from his hand to his shoulder, and kissed him with its dainty beak, as if it loved him, Prince Dolor forgot all his grief, and was entirely happy. But when he got in sight of Hopeless Tower, a painful thought struck him. "My pretty bird, what am I to do with you? If I take you into my room and shut you up there, you, a wild skylark of the air, what will become of you? I am used to this, but you are not. You will be so miserable, and suppose my nurse should find you--she who can't bear the sound of singing? Besides, I remember her once telling me that the nicest thing she ever ate in her life was lark pie!" The little boy shivered all over at the thought. And, though the merry lark immediately broke into the loudest carol, as if saying derisively that he defied anybody to eat _him_--still Prince Dolor was very uneasy. In another minute he had made up his mind. "No, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you if I can help it; I would rather do without you altogether. Yes, I'll try. Fly away, my darling, my beautiful! Good-bye, my merry, merry bird." Opening his two caressing hands, in which, as if for protection, he had folded it, he let the lark go. It lingered a minute, perching on the rim of the cloak, and looking at him with eyes of almost human tenderness; then away it flew, far up into the blue sky. It was only a bird. But, some time after, when Prince Dolor had eaten his supper--somewhat drearily, except for the thought that he could not possibly sup off lark pie now--and gone quietly to bed, the old familiar little bed, where he was accustomed to sleep, or lie awake contentedly thinking--suddenly he heard outside the window a little faint carol--faint but cheerful--cheerful, even though it was the middle of the night. The dear little lark! it had not flown away after all. And it was truly the most extraordinary bird, for, unlike ordinary larks, it kept hovering about the tower in the silence and darkness of the night, outside the window or over the roof. Whenever he listened for a moment, he heard it singing still. He went to sleep as happy as a king. CHAPTER VII. "Happy as a king." How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or, indeed, any part of his own history. Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he had had a father and mother as other little boys had, what they had been like, and why he had never seen them. But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss them--only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little children and their mothers, who helped them when they were in difficulty, and comforted them when they were sick, he, feeling ill and dull and lonely, wondered what had become of his mother, and why she never came to see him. Then, in his history lessons, of course, he read about kings and princes, and the governments of different countries, and the events that happened there. And though he but faintly took in all this, still he did take it in, a little, and worried his young brain about it, and perplexed his nurse with questions, to which she returned sharp and mysterious answers, which only set him thinking the more. He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last journey in the travelling-cloak, the journey which had given him so much pain, his desire to see the world had somehow faded away. He contented himself with reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and never left him again. True, it kept out of the way; and though his nurse sometimes dimly heard it, and said, "What is that horrid noise outside?" she never got the faintest chance of making it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet all to himself, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near him, and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, and even in the night, fragments of its delicious song. All during the winter--so far as there ever was any difference between summer and winter in Hopeless Tower--the little bird cheered and amused him. He scarcely needed anything more--not even his travelling-cloak, which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its innumerable knots. Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these treasures and left him alone--to use them, or lose them, apply them, or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with children, when they grow into big children, old enough to distinguish between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either. Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken legs; which were of no use, only an encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, nature had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his childhood--his mother's own face. How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who knows! The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never gave up his lessons till he had learnt them all--never thought it a punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of trouble sometimes. "But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man;--a prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings. The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the boy was always wondering--"Nurse"--and one day he startled her with a sudden question--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?" The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed by since her crime--if it was a crime--and her sentence, that she now seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to. Used also to the little lame prince, her charge--whom at first she had hated, though she carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life hung. But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child, imprisoned here till he grew into an old man--and became a dull, worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual. He did not now. "Nurse--dear nurse," said he, "I don't mean to vex you, but tell me--what is a king? shall I ever be one?" When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be, even if he did know his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might happen--who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them. She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken, if she were to take a pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than scorned. After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote-- "You are a king." [Illustration: "_After long doubt ... she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate ... wrote--'You are a king.'_"] Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; his eyes glistened; he held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a king. "Hush!" said his nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then, terribly frightened all the while--people who have done wrong always are frightened--she wrote down in a few hurried sentences his history. How his parents had died--his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him to end his days in this lonely tower. "I, too," added she, bursting into tears. "Unless, indeed, you could get out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for me also, my prince, that I may not die in this desolate place." "Poor old nurse!" said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong. He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious and important had taken possession of his mind. "Suppose," thought he, "I were to do as she says, and go out into the world, no matter how it hurts me--the world of people, active people, as active as that boy I saw. They might only laugh at me--poor helpless creature that I am; but still I might show them I could do something. At any rate, I might go and see if there was anything for me to do. Godmother, help me!" It was so long since he had asked her help, that he was hardly surprised when he got no answer--only the little lark outside the window sang louder and louder, and the sun rose, flooding the room with light. Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing himself which was hard work, for he was not used to it--he had always been accustomed to depend upon his nurse for everything. "But I must now learn to be independent," thought he. "Fancy a king being dressed like a baby!" So he did the best he could--awkwardly but cheerily--and then he leaped to the corner where lay his travelling-cloak, untied it as before, and watched it unrolling itself--which it did rapidly, with a hearty good-will, as if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor--or felt as if he was. He jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was out through the skylight immediately. "Good-bye, pretty lark!" he shouted, as he passed it on the wing, still warbling its carol to the newly-risen sun. "You have been my pleasure, my delight; now I must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back again. Perhaps she'll hear you--perhaps she won't--but it will do her good all the same. Good-bye!" But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly remembered that he had not determined where to go--indeed, he did not know, and there was nobody to tell him. "Godmother," he cried, in much perplexity, "you know what I want--at least, I hope you do, for I hardly do myself--take me where I ought to go; show me whatever I ought so see--never mind what I like to see," as a sudden idea came into his mind that he might see many painful and disagreeable things. But this journey was not for pleasure--as before. He was not a baby now, to do nothing but play--big boys do not always play. Nor men neither--they work. Thus much Prince Dolor knew--though very little more. And as the cloak started off, travelling faster than he had ever known it to do--through sky-land and cloud-land, over freezing mountain-tops, and desolate stretches of forest, and smiling cultivated plains, and great lakes that seemed to him almost as shoreless as the sea--he was often rather frightened. But he crouched down, silent and quiet; what was the use of making a fuss? and, wrapping himself up in his bear-skin, waited for what was to happen. After some time he heard a murmur in the distance, increasing more and more till it grew like the hum of a gigantic hive of bees. And, stretching his chin over the rim of his cloak, Prince Dolor saw--far, far below him, yet with his gold spectacles and silver ears on, he could distinctly hear and see--What? Most of us have sometime or other visited a great metropolis--have wandered through its network of streets--lost ourselves in its crowds of people--looked up at its tall rows of houses, its grand public buildings, churches and squares. Also, perhaps, we have peeped into its miserable little back alleys, where dirty children play in gutters all day and half the night--or where men reel tipsy and women fight--where even young boys go about picking pockets, with nobody to tell them it is wrong, except the policeman; and he simply takes them off to prison. And all this wretchedness is close behind the grandeur--like the two sides of the leaf of a book. An awful sight is a large city, seen anyhow, from anywhere. But, suppose you were to see it from the upper air; where, with your eyes and ears open, you could take in everything at once? What would it look like? How would you feel about it? I hardly know myself. Do you? Prince Dolor had need to be a king--that is, a boy with a kingly nature--to be able to stand such a sight without being utterly overcome. But he was very much bewildered--as bewildered as a blind person who is suddenly made to see. He gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his eyes. "I can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful--so dreadful. And I don't understand it--not one bit. There is nobody to tell me about it. I wish I had somebody to speak to." "Do you? Then pray speak to me. I was always considered good at conversation." The voice that squeaked out this reply was an excellent imitation of the human one, though it came only from a bird. No lark this time, however, but a great black and white creature that flew into the cloak, and began walking round and round on the edge of it with a dignified stride, one foot before the other, like any unfeathered biped you could name. "I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, sir," said the boy politely. [Illustration: "_One half the people seemed so happy and busy._" _Page 90._] [Illustration: "_The other half were so wretched and miserable._" _Page 90._] "Ma'am, if you please. I am a mother bird, and my name is Mag, and I shall be happy to tell you everything you want to know. For I know a great deal; and I enjoy talking. My family is of great antiquity; we have built in this palace for hundreds--that is to say, dozens of years. I am intimately acquainted with the King, the Queen, and the little princes and princesses--also the maids of honour, and all the inhabitants of the city. I talk a good deal, but I always talk sense, and I dare say I should be exceedingly useful to a poor little ignorant boy like you." "I am a prince," said the other gently. "All right. And I am a magpie. You will find me a most respectable bird." "I have no doubt of it," was the polite answer--though he thought in his own mind that Mag must have a very good opinion of herself. But she was a lady and a stranger, so, of course, he was civil to her. She settled herself at his elbow, and began to chatter away, pointing out with one skinny claw while she balanced herself on the other, every object of interest,--evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants did, that there was no capital in the world like the great metropolis of Nomansland. I have not seen it, and therefore cannot describe it, so we will just take it upon trust, and suppose it to be, like every other fine city, the finest city that ever was built. "Mag" said so--and of course she knew. Nevertheless, there were a few things in it which surprised Prince Dolor--and, as he had said, he could not understand them at all. One half the people seemed so happy and busy--hurrying up and down the full streets, or driving lazily along the parks in their grand carriages, while the other half were so wretched and miserable. "Can't the world be made a little more level? I would try to do it if I were the king." "But you're not the king: only a little goose of a boy," returned the magpie loftily. "And I'm here not to explain things, only to show them. Shall I show you the royal palace?" It was a very magnificent palace. It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers. It extended over acres of ground, and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city. Its windows looked in all directions, but none of them had any particular view--except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains. But since the Queen died there, it had been closed, boarded up, indeed, the magpie said. It was so little and inconvenient, that nobody cared to live in it. Besides, the lower apartments, which had no view, were magnificent--worthy of being inhabited by his Majesty the King. [Illustration: "_It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers ... and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city._"] [Illustration: "_Its windows looked in all directions ... except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains._"] "I should like to see the King," said Prince Dolor. But what followed was so important that I must take another chapter to tell it in. CHAPTER VIII. What, I wonder, would be most people's idea of a king? What was Prince Dolor's? Perhaps a very splendid personage, with a crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, sitting on a throne, and judging the people. Always doing right, and never wrong--"The king can do no wrong" was a law laid down in olden times. Never cross, or tired, or sick, or suffering; perfectly handsome and well-dressed, calm and good-tempered, ready to see and hear everybody, and discourteous to nobody; all things always going well with him, and nothing unpleasant ever happening. This, probably, was what Prince Dolor expected to see. And what did he see? But I must tell you how he saw it. "Ah," said the magpie, "no levée to-day. The King is ill, though his Majesty does not wish it to be generally known--it would be so very inconvenient. He can't see you, but perhaps you might like to go and take a look at him, in a way I often do? It is so very amusing." Amusing, indeed! The Prince was just now too much excited to talk much. Was he not going to see the King his uncle, who had succeeded his father, and dethroned himself; had stepped into all the pleasant things that he, Prince Dolor, ought to have had, and shut him up in a desolate tower? What was he like, this great, bad, clever man? Had he got all the things he wanted, which another ought to have had? And did he enjoy them? "Nobody knows," answered the magpie, just as if she had been sitting inside the Prince's heart, instead of on the top of his shoulder. "He is a king, and that's enough. For the rest nobody knows." As she spoke Mag flew down on to the palace roof, where the cloak had rested, settling down between the great stacks of chimneys as comfortably as if on the ground. She pecked at the tiles with her beak--truly she was a wonderful bird--and immediately a little hole opened, a sort of door, through which could be seen distinctly the chamber below. [Illustration: "_She pecked at the tiles with her beak ... a little hole opened ... 'Now look in, Prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again.'_" _Page 92._] "Now look in, my prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again." But the boy hesitated. "Isn't it rude?--won't they think us--intruding?" "O dear no! there's a hole like this in every palace; dozens of holes, indeed. Everybody knows it, but nobody speaks of it. Intrusion! Why, though the Royal family are supposed to live shut up behind stone walls ever so thick, all the world knows that they live in a glass house where everybody can see them, and throw a stone at them. Now, pop down on your knees, and take a peep at his Majesty." His Majesty! The Prince gazed eagerly down, into a large room, the largest room he had ever beheld, with furniture and hangings grander than anything he could have ever imagined. A stray sunbeam, coming through a crevice of the darkened windows, struck across the carpet, and it was the loveliest carpet ever woven--just like a bed of flowers to walk over; only nobody walked over it; the room being perfectly empty and silent. "Where is the King?" asked the puzzled boy. "There," said Mag, pointing with one wrinkled claw to a magnificent bed, large enough to contain six people. In the centre of it, just visible under the silken counterpane--quite straight and still--with its head on the lace pillow--lay a small figure, something like waxwork, fast asleep--very fast asleep! There were a quantity of sparkling rings on the tiny yellow hands, that were curled a little, helplessly, like a baby's, outside the coverlet; the eyes were shut, the nose looked sharp and thin, and the long grey beard hid the mouth, and lay over the breast. A sight not ugly, nor frightening, only solemn and quiet. And so very silent--two little flies buzzing about the curtains of the bed, being the only audible sound. "Is that the King?" whispered Prince Dolor. "Yes," replied the bird. He had been angry--furiously angry; ever since he knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong, wicked man. Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How helpless he lay! with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good. "What is the matter with him?" asked the Prince again. "He is dead," said the Magpie with a croak. No, there was not the least use in being angry with him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry for him, except that he looked so peaceful, with all his cares at rest. And this was being dead? So, even kings died? "Well, well, he hadn't an easy life, folk say, for all his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-bye, your Majesty." With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor's first and last sight of his uncle was ended. He sat in the centre of his travelling-cloak silent and thoughtful. "What shall we do now?" said the Magpie. "There's nothing much more to be done with his Majesty, except a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the world will. He interested the world exceedingly when he was alive, and he ought to do it now he's dead--just once more. And since he can't hear me, I may as well say that, on the whole, his Majesty is much better dead than alive--if we can only get somebody in his place. There'll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we float up again, and see it all. At a safe distance, though. It will be such fun." "What will be fun?" "A revolution." Whether anybody except a magpie would have called it "fun," I don't know, but it certainly was a remarkable scene. As soon as the Cathedral bell began to toll, and the minute guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together. "Long live the King!" "The King is dead--down with the King!" "Down with the crown, and the King too!" "Hurrah for the Republic!" "Hurrah for no Government at all." Such were the shouts which travelled up to the travelling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene! When you children are grown men and women--or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries beside Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all. For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting people down by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burnt, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand. But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by-and-by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge. Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast after one another that they quite confused his faculties. "Oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; "only let me go home!" for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after all this. "Good-bye, then," said the magpie, flapping her wings. She had been chatting incessantly all day and all night, for it was actually thus long that Prince Dolor had been hovering over the city, neither eating nor sleeping, with all these terrible things happening under his very eyes. "You've had enough, I suppose, of seeing the world?" "Oh, I have--I have!" cried the Prince with a shudder. "That is, till next time. All right, your Royal Highness. You don't know me, but I know you. We may meet again sometime." She looked at him with her clear piercing eyes, sharp enough to see through everything, and it seemed as if they changed from bird's eyes to human eyes, the very eyes of his godmother, whom he had not seen for ever so long. But the minute afterwards she became only a bird, and with a screech and a chatter spread her wings and flew away. Prince Dolor fell into a kind of swoon, of utter misery, bewilderment, and exhaustion, and when he awoke he found himself in his own room--alone and quiet--with the dawn just breaking, and the long rim of yellow light in the horizon glimmering through the window panes. CHAPTER IX. When Prince Dolor sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was, whither he had been, and what he had seen the day before, he perceived that his room was empty. Generally, his nurse rather worried him by breaking his slumbers, coming in and "setting things to rights," as she called it. Now, the dust lay thick upon chairs and tables; there was no harsh voice heard to scold him for not getting up immediately--which, I am sorry to say, this boy did not always do. For he so enjoyed lying still, and thinking lazily, about everything or nothing, that, if he had not tried hard against it, he would certainly have become like those celebrated "Two little men Who lay in their bed till the clock struck ten." It was striking ten now, and still no nurse was to be seen. He was rather relieved at first, for he felt so tired; and besides when he stretched out his arm, he found to his dismay that he had gone to bed in his clothes. Very uncomfortable he felt, of course; and just a little frightened. Especially when he began to call and call again, but nobody answered. Often he used to think how nice it would be to get rid of his nurse and live in this tower all by himself--like a sort of monarch, able to do everything he liked, and leave undone all that he did not want to do; but now that this seemed really to have happened, he did not like it at all. "Nurse--dear nurse--please come back!" he called out. "Come back, and I will be the best boy in all the land." And when she did not come back, and nothing but silence answered his lamentable call, he very nearly began to cry. "This won't do," he said at last, dashing the tears from his eyes. "It's just like a baby, and I'm a big boy--shall be a man some day. What has happened, I wonder? I'll go and see." He sprang out of bed--not to his feet, alas! but to his poor little weak knees, and crawled on them from room to room. All the four chambers were deserted--not forlorn or untidy, for everything seemed to have been done for his comfort--the breakfast and dinner-things were laid, the food spread in order. He might live "like a prince," as the proverb is, for several days. But the place was entirely forsaken--there was evidently not a creature but himself in the solitary tower. A great fear came upon the poor boy. Lonely as his life had been, he had never known what it was to be absolutely alone. A kind of despair seized him--no violent anger or terror, but a sort of patient desolation. "What in the world am I to do?" thought he, and sat down in the middle of the floor, half inclined to believe that it would be better to give up entirely, lay himself down and die. This feeling, however, did not last long, for he was young and strong, and I said before, by nature a very courageous boy. There came into his head, somehow or other, a proverb that his nurse had taught him--the people of Nomansland were very fond of proverbs:-- "For every evil under the sun There is a remedy, or there's none; If there is one, try to find it-- If there isn't, never mind it." "I wonder--is there a remedy now, and could I find it?" cried the Prince, jumping up and looking out of the window. No help there. He only saw the broad bleak sunshiny plain--that is, at first. But, by-and-by, in the circle of mud that surrounded the base of the tower he perceived distinctly the marks of a horse's feet, and just in the spot where the deaf-mute was accustomed to tie up his great black charger, while he himself ascended, there lay the remains of a bundle of hay and a feed of corn. "Yes, that's it. He has come and gone, taking nurse away with him. Poor nurse! how glad she would be to go!" That was Prince Dolor's first thought. His second--wasn't it natural?--was a passionate indignation at her cruelty--at the cruelty of all the world towards him--a poor little helpless boy. Then he determined--forsaken as he was--to try and hold on to the last, and not to die as long as he could possibly help it. Anyhow, it would be easier to die here than out in the world, among the terrible doings which he had just beheld. From the midst of which, it suddenly struck him, the deaf-mute had come--contrived somehow to make the nurse understand that the king was dead, and she need have no fear in going back to the capital, where there was a grand revolution, and everything turned upside down. So, of course she had gone. "I hope she'll enjoy it, miserable woman--if they don't cut off her head too." And then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so bitterly towards her, after all the years she had taken care of him--grudgingly, perhaps, and coldly; still, she had taken care of him, and that even to the last: for, as I have said, all his four rooms were as tidy as possible, and his meals laid out, that he might have no more trouble than could be helped. "Possibly she did not mean to be cruel. I won't judge her," said he. And afterwards he was very glad that he had so determined. For the second time he tried to dress himself, and then to do everything he could for himself--even to sweeping up the hearth and putting on more coals. "It's a funny thing for a prince to have to do," said he laughing. "But my godmother once said princes need never mind doing anything." And then he thought a little of his godmother. Not of summoning her, or asking her to help him--she had evidently left him to help himself, and he was determined to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independent boy--but he remembered her, tenderly and regretfully, as if even she had been a little hard upon him--poor, forlorn boy that he was! But he seemed to have seen and learned so much within the last few days, that he scarcely felt like a boy, but a man--until he went to bed at night. When I was a child, I used often to think how nice it would be to live in a little house all by my own self--a house built high up in a tree, or far away in a forest, or half way up a hillside,--so deliciously alone and independent. Not a lesson to learn--but no! I always liked learning my lessons. Anyhow, to choose the lessons I liked best, to have as many books to read and dolls to play with as ever I wanted: above all, to be free and at rest, with nobody to teaze, or trouble, or scold me, would be charming. For I was a lonely little thing, who liked quietness--as many children do; which other children, and sometimes grown-up people even, cannot always understand. And so I can understand Prince Dolor. After his first despair, he was not merely comfortable, but actually happy in his solitude, doing everything for himself, and enjoying everything by himself--until bedtime. Then, he did not like it at all. No more, I suppose, than other children would have liked my imaginary house in a tree, when they had had sufficient of their own company. But the prince had to bear it--and he did bear it--like a prince: for fully five days. All that time he got up in the morning and went to bed at night, without having spoken to a creature, or, indeed, heard a single sound. For even his little lark was silent: and as for his travelling-cloak, either he never thought about it, or else it had been spirited away--for he made no use of it, nor attempted to do so. A very strange existence it was, those five lonely days. He never entirely forgot it. It threw him back upon himself, and into himself--in a way that all of us have to learn when we grow up, and are the better for it--but it is somewhat hard learning. On the sixth day, Prince Dolor had a strange composure in his look, but he was very grave, and thin, and white. He had nearly come to the end of his provisions--and what was to happen next? Get out of the tower he could not; the ladder the deaf-mute used was always carried away again; and if it had not been, how could the poor boy have used it? And even if he slung or flung himself down, and by miraculous chance came alive to the foot of the tower how could he run away? Fate had been very hard to him, or so it seemed. He made up his mind to die. Not that he wished to die; on the contrary, there was a great deal that he wished to live to do; but if he must die, he must. Dying did not seem so very dreadful; not even to lie quiet like his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now, and neither be miserable nor naughty any more, and escape all those horrible things that he had seen going on outside the palace, in that awful place which was called "the world." "It's a great deal nicer here," said the poor little Prince, and collected all his pretty things round him: his favourite pictures, which he thought he should like to have near him when he died; his books and toys--no, he had ceased to care for toys now; he only liked them because he had done so as a child. And there he sat very calm and patient, like a king in his castle, waiting for the end. "Still, I wish I had done something first--something worth doing, that somebody might remember me by," thought he. "Suppose I had grown a man, and had had work to do, and people to care for, and was so useful and busy that they liked me, and perhaps even forgot I was lame. Then, it would have been nice to live, I think." A tear came into the little fellow's eyes, and he listened intently through the dead silence for some hopeful sound. Was there one--was it his little lark, whom he had almost forgotten? No, nothing half so sweet. But it really was something--something which came nearer and nearer, so that there was no mistaking it. It was the sound of a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so admired in Nomansland. Not pleasant music, but very bold, grand, and inspiring. As he listened to it the boy seemed to recall many things which had slipped his memory for years, and to nerve himself for whatever might be going to happen. What had happened was this. The poor condemned woman had not been such a wicked woman after all. Perhaps her courage was not wholly disinterested, but she had done a very heroic thing. As soon as she heard of the death and burial of the King, and of the changes that were taking place in the country, a daring idea came into her head--to set upon the throne of Nomansland its rightful heir. Thereupon she persuaded the deaf-mute to take her away with him, and they galloped like the wind from city to city, spreading everywhere the news that Prince Dolor's death and burial had been an invention concocted by his wicked uncle--that he was alive and well, and the noblest young Prince that ever was born. It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. The country, weary, perhaps, of the late King's harsh rule, and yet glad to save itself from the horrors of the last few days, and the still further horrors of no rule at all, and having no particular interest in the other young princes, jumped at the idea of this Prince, who was the son of their late good King and the beloved Queen Dolorez. "Hurrah for Prince Dolor! Let Prince Dolor be our sovereign!" rang from end to end of the kingdom. Everybody tried to remember what a dear baby he once was--how like his mother, who had been so sweet and kind, and his father, the finest looking king that ever reigned. Nobody remembered his lameness--or, if they did, they passed it over as a matter of no consequence. They were determined to have him to reign over them, boy as he was--perhaps just because he was a boy, since in that case the great nobles thought they should be able to do as they liked with the country. Accordingly, with a fickleness not confined to the people of Nomansland, no sooner was the late King laid in his grave than they pronounced him to have been a usurper; turned all his family out of the palace, and left it empty for the reception of the new sovereign, whom they went to fetch with great rejoicing; a select body of lords, gentlemen, and soldiers, travelling night and day in solemn procession through the country, until they reached Hopeless Tower. There they found the Prince, sitting calmly on the floor--deadly pale indeed, for he expected a quite different end from this, and was resolved if he had to die, to die courageously, like a prince and a king. But when they hailed him as prince and king, and explained to him how matters stood, and went down on their knees before him, offering the crown (on a velvet cushion, with four golden tassels, each nearly as big as his head)--small though he was and lame, which lameness the courtiers pretended not to notice--there came such a glow into his face, such a dignity into his demeanour, that he became beautiful, king-like. "Yes," he said, "if you desire it, I will be your king. And I will do my best to make my people happy." Then there arose, from inside and outside the tower, such a shout as never yet was heard across the lonely plain. Prince Dolor shrank a little from the deafening sound. "How shall I be able to rule all this great people? You forget, my lords, that I am only a little boy still." "Not so very little," was the respectful answer. "We have searched in the records, and found that your Royal Highness--your Majesty, I mean--is precisely fifteen years old." "Am I?" said Prince Dolor; and his first thought was a thoroughly childish pleasure that he should now have a birthday, with a whole nation to keep it. Then he remembered that his childish days were done. He was a monarch now. Even his nurse, to whom, the moment he saw her, he had held out his hand, kissed it reverently, and called him ceremoniously "his Majesty the King." "A king must be always a king, I suppose," said he half sadly, when, the ceremonies over, he had been left to himself for just ten minutes, to put off his boy's clothes, and be re-attired in magnificent robes, before he was conveyed away from his tower to the Royal Palace. He could take nothing with him; indeed, he soon saw that, however politely they spoke, they would not allow him to take anything. If he was to be their king, he must give up his old life for ever. So he looked with tender farewell on his old books, old toys, the furniture he knew so well, and the familiar plain in all its levelness, ugly yet pleasant, simply because it was familiar. "It will be a new life in a new world," said he to himself; "but I'll remember the old things still. And, oh! if before I go, I could but once see my dear old godmother." While he spoke, he had laid himself down on the bed for a minute or two, rather tired with his grandeur, and confused by the noise of the trumpets which kept playing incessantly down below. He gazed, half sadly, up to the skylight, whence there came pouring a stream of sun-rays, with innumerable motes floating there, like a bridge thrown between heaven and earth. Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey. [Illustration: "_There came pouring a stream of sun-rays ... like a bridge ... Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey._"] So beautiful looked she--old as she was--that Prince Dolor was at first quite startled by the apparition. Then he held out his arms in eager delight. "O, godmother, you have not forsaken me!" "Not at all, my son. You may not have seen me, but I have seen you, many a time." "How?" "O, never mind. I can turn into anything I please, you know. And I have been a bear-skin rug, and a crystal goblet--and sometimes I have changed from inanimate to animate nature, put on feathers, and made myself very comfortable as a bird." "Ha!" laughed the Prince, a new light breaking in upon him, as he caught the infection of her tone, lively and mischievous. "Ha, ha! a lark, for instance?" "Or a magpie," answered she, with a capital imitation of Mistress Mag's croaky voice. "Do you suppose I am always sentimental and never funny?--If anything makes you happy, gay or grave, don't you think it is more than likely to come through your old godmother?" "I believe that," said the boy tenderly, holding out his arms. They clasped one another in a close embrace. Suddenly Prince Dolor looked very anxious. "You will not leave me now that I am a king? Otherwise, I had rather not be a king at all. Promise never to forsake me?" The little old woman laughed gaily. "Forsake you? that is impossible. But it is just possible you may forsake me. Not probable though. Your mother never did, and she was a queen. The sweetest queen in all the world was the lady Dolorez." "Tell me about her," said the boy eagerly. "As I get older I think I can understand more. Do tell me." "Not now. You couldn't hear me for the trumpets and the shouting. But when you are come to the palace, ask for a long-closed upper room, which looks out upon the Beautiful Mountains; open it and take it for your own. Whenever you go there, you will always find me, and we will talk together about all sorts of things." "And about my mother?" The little old woman nodded--and kept nodding and smiling to herself many times, as the boy repeated over and over again the sweet words he had never known or understood--"my mother--my mother." "Now I must go," said she, as the trumpets blared louder and louder, and the shouts of the people showed that they would not endure any delay. "Good-bye, Good-bye! Open the window and out I fly." Prince Dolor repeated gaily the musical rhyme--but all the while tried to hold his godmother fast. Vain, vain!--for the moment that a knocking was heard at his door, the sun went behind a cloud, the bright stream of dancing motes vanished, and the little old woman with them--he knew not where. So Prince Dolor quitted his tower--which he had entered so mournfully and ignominiously, as a little helpless baby carried in the deaf-mute's arms--quitted it as the great King of Nomansland. [Illustration: "_So Prince Dolor quitted his tower ... quitted it as the great King of Nomansland._" _Page 111._] The only thing he took away with him was something so insignificant, that none of the lords, gentlemen, and soldiers who escorted him with such triumphant splendour, could possibly notice it--a tiny bundle, which he had found lying on the floor just where the bridge of sunbeams had rested. At once he had pounced upon it, and thrust it secretly into his bosom, where it dwindled into such small proportions, that it might have been taken for a mere chest-comforter--a bit of flannel--or an old pocket-handkerchief! It was his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER X. Did Prince Dolor become a great king? Was he, though little more than a boy, "the father of his people," as all kings ought to be? Did his reign last long--long and happy?--and what were the principal events of it, as chronicled in the history of Nomansland? Why, if I were to answer all these questions, I should have to write another book. And I'm tired, children, tired--as grown-up people sometimes are; though not always with play. (Besides, I have a small person belonging to me, who, though she likes extremely to listen to the word-of-mouth story of this book, grumbles much at the writing of it, and has run about the house clapping her hands with joy when mamma told her that it was nearly finished. But that is neither here nor there.) I have related, as well as I could, the history of Prince Dolor, but with the history of Nomansland I am as yet unacquainted. If anybody knows it, perhaps he or she will kindly write it all down in another book. But mine is done. However, of this I am sure, that Prince Dolor made an excellent king. Nobody ever does anything less well, not even the commonest duty of common daily life, for having such a godmother as the little old woman clothed in grey, whose name is--well, I leave you to guess. Nor, I think, is anybody less good, less capable of both work and enjoyment in after life, for having been a little unhappy in his youth, as the Prince had been. I cannot take upon myself to say that he was always happy now--who is?--or that he had no cares; just show me the person who is quite free from them! But, whenever people worried and bothered him--as they did sometimes, with state etiquette, state squabbles, and the like, setting up themselves and pulling down their neighbours--he would take refuge in that upper room which looked out on the Beautiful Mountains and, laying his head on his godmother's shoulder, become calmed and at rest. Also, she helped him out of any difficulty which now and then occurred--for there never was such a wise old woman. When the people of Nomansland raised the alarm--as sometimes they did--for what people can exist without a little fault-finding?--and began to cry out, "Unhappy is the nation whose king is a child," she would say to him gently, "You are a child. Accept the fact. Be humble--be teachable. Lean upon the wisdom of others till you have gained your own." He did so. He learned how to take advice before attempting to give it, to obey before he could righteously command. He assembled round him all the good and wise of his kingdom--laid all its affairs before them, and was guided by their opinions until he had maturely formed his own. This he did, sooner than anybody would have imagined, who did not know of his godmother and his travelling-cloak--two secret blessings, which, though many guessed at, nobody quite understood. Nor did they understand why he loved so the little upper room, except that it had been his mother's room, from the window of which, as people remembered now, she had used to sit for hours watching the Beautiful Mountains. Out of that window he used to fly--not very often; as he grew older, the labours of state prevented the frequent use of his travelling-cloak; still he did use it sometimes. Only now it was less for his own pleasure and amusement than to see something, or investigate something, for the good of the country. But he prized his godmother's gift as dearly as ever. It was a comfort to him in all his vexations; an enhancement of all his joys. It made him almost forget his lameness--which was never cured. However, the cruel things which had been once foreboded of him did not happen. His misfortune was not such a heavy one after all. It proved to be much less inconvenience, even to himself, than had been feared. A council of eminent surgeons and mechanicians invented for him a wonderful pair of crutches, with the help of which, though he never walked easily or gracefully, he did manage to walk, so as to be quite independent. And such was the love his people bore him that they never heard the sound of his crutch on the marble palace-floors without a leap of the heart, for they knew that good was coming to them whenever he approached them. Thus, though he never walked in processions, never reviewed his troops mounted on a magnificent charger, nor did any of the things which make a show monarch so much appreciated, he was able for all the duties and a great many of the pleasures of his rank. When he held his levées, not standing, but seated on a throne, ingeniously contrived to hide his infirmity, the people thronged to greet him; when he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went--every countenance brightened as he passed, and his own, perhaps, was the brightest of all. [Illustration: "_When he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went._" _Page 116._] First, because, accepting his affliction as inevitable, he took it patiently; second, because, being a brave man, he bore it bravely; trying to forget himself, and live out of himself, and in and for other people. Therefore other people grew to love him so well, that I think hundreds of his subjects might have been found who were almost ready to die for their poor lame King. He never gave them a queen. When they implored him to choose one, he replied that his country was his bride, and he desired no other. But, perhaps, the real reason was that he shrank from any change; and that no wife in all the world would have been found so perfect, so lovable, so tender to him in all his weaknesses, as his beautiful old godmother. His four-and-twenty other godfathers and godmothers, or as many of them as were still alive, crowded round him as soon as he ascended the throne. He was very civil to them all, but adopted none of the names they had given him, keeping to the one by which he had been always known, though it had now almost lost its meaning; for King Dolor was one of the happiest and cheerfullest men alive. He did a good many things, however, unlike most men and most kings, which a little astonished his subjects. First, he pardoned the condemned woman who had been his nurse, and ordained that from henceforward there should be no such thing as the punishment of death in Nomansland. All capital criminals were to be sent to perpetual imprisonment in Hopeless Tower, and the plain round about it, where they could do no harm to anybody, and might in time do a little good, as the woman had done. Another surprise he shortly afterwards gave the nation. He recalled his uncle's family, who had fled away in terror to another country, and restored them to all their honours in their own. By-and-by he chose the eldest son of his eldest cousin (who had been dead a year), and had him educated in the royal palace, as the heir to the throne. This little prince was a quiet, unobtrusive boy, so that everybody wondered at the King's choosing him, when there were so many more; but as he grew into a fine young fellow, good and brave, they agreed that the King judged more wisely than they. "Not a lame prince neither," his Majesty observed one day, watching him affectionately; for he was the best runner, the highest leaper, the keenest and most active sportsman in the country. "One cannot make oneself, but one can sometimes help a little in the making of somebody else. It is well." This was said, not to any of his great lords and ladies, but to a good old woman--his first homely nurse--whom he had sought for far and wide, and at last found, in her cottage among the Beautiful Mountains. He sent for her to visit him once a year, and treated her with great honour until she died. He was equally kind, though somewhat less tender, to his other nurse, who, after receiving her pardon, returned to her native town and grew into a great lady, and I hope a good one. But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show. [Illustration: "_But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show._" _Page 118. Thus King Dolor's reign passed, year after year, long and prosperous. Whether he was happy--"as happy as a king"--is a question no human being can decide. But I think he was, because he had the power of making everybody about him happy, and did it too; also because he was his godmother's godson, and could shut himself up with her whenever he liked, in that quiet little room, in view of the Beautiful Mountains, which nobody else ever saw or cared to see. They were too far off, and the city lay so low. But there they were, all the time. No change ever came to them; and I think, at any day throughout his long reign, the King would sooner have lost his crown than have lost sight of the Beautiful Mountains. In course of time, when the little prince, his cousin, was grown into a tall young man, capable of all the duties of a man, his Majesty did one of the most extraordinary acts ever known in a sovereign beloved by his people and prosperous in his reign. He announced that he wished to invest his heir with the royal purple--at any rate, for a time--while he himself went away on a distant journey, whither he had long desired to go. Everybody marvelled, but nobody opposed him. Who could oppose the good King, who was not a young king now? And, besides, the nation had a great admiration for the young Regent--and, possibly, a lurking pleasure in change. So there was fixed a day, when all the people whom it would hold, assembled in the great square of the capital, to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties, and undertaking his new vows. He was a very fine young fellow; tall and straight as a poplar tree, with a frank handsome face--a great deal handsomer than the King, some people said, but others thought differently. However, as his Majesty sat on his throne, with his grey hair falling from underneath his crown, and a few wrinkles showing in spite of his smile, there was something about his countenance which made his people, even while they shouted, regard him with a tenderness mixed with awe. [Illustration: "_All the people ... assembled to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties and undertaking his new vows._" _Page 119._] He lifted up his thin, slender hand, and there came a silence over the vast crowd immediately. Then he spoke, in his own accustomed way, using no grand words, but saying what he had to say in the simplest fashion, though with a clearness that struck their ears like the first song of a bird in the dusk of the morning. "My people, I am tired: I want to rest. I have had a long reign, and done much work--at least, as much as I was able to do. Many might have done it better than I--but none with a better will. Now I leave it to others. I am tired, very tired. Let me go home." There rose a murmur--of content or discontent none could well tell; then it died down again, and the assembly listened silently once more. "I am not anxious about you--my people--my children," continued the king. "You are prosperous and at peace. I leave you in good hands. The Prince Regent will be a fitter king for you than I." "No, no, no!" rose the universal shout--and those who had sometimes found fault with him shouted louder than anybody. But he seemed as if he heard them not. "Yes, yes," said he, as soon as the tumult had a little subsided; and his voice sounded firm and clear; and some very old people, who boasted of having seen him as a child, declared that his face took a sudden change, and grew as young and sweet as that of the little Prince Dolor. "Yes, I must go. It is time for me to go. Remember me sometimes, my people, for I have loved you well. And I am going a long way, and I do not think I shall come back any more." He drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket--a bundle that nobody had ever seen before. It was small and shabby-looking, and tied up with many knots, which untied themselves in an instant. With a joyful countenance, he muttered over it a few half-intelligible words. Then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his Majesty could not tell how it came about, the King was away--away--floating right up in the air--upon something, they knew not what, except that it appeared to be as safe and pleasant as the wings of a bird. And after him sprang a bird--a dear little lark, rising from whence no one could say, since larks do not usually build their nests in the pavement of city squares. But there it was, a real lark, singing far over their heads, louder and clearer, and more joyful, as it vanished further into the blue sky. Shading their eyes, and straining their ears, the astonished people stood, until the whole vision disappeared like a speck in the clouds--the rosy clouds that overhung the Beautiful Mountains. Then they guessed that they should see their beloved king no more. Well-beloved as he was, he had always been somewhat of a mystery to them, and such he remained. But they went home, and, accepting their new monarch, obeyed him faithfully for his cousin's sake. King Dolor was never again beheld or heard of in his own country. But the good he had done there lasted for years and years; he was long missed and deeply mourned--at least, so far as anybody could mourn one who was gone on such a happy journey. Whither he went, or who went with him, it is impossible to say. But I myself believe that his godmother took him, on his travelling-cloak, to the Beautiful Mountains. What he did there, or where he is now, who can tell? I cannot. But one thing I am quite sure of, that, wherever he is, he is perfectly happy. And so, when I think of him, am I. THE END. [Illustration: STORY OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE] The author of this little book, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, was a woman as modest, sweet, and wholesome as the story itself. She lived in England, but her writings endeared her to people all over the world. Some American ladies who went to call upon her in her home, Wildwood Cottage, in Hampstead, near London, describe her as wearing a black silk gown with a plain linen collar, her brown hair drawn smoothly back from an open brow, and her face, gracious and winning to an unusual degree, bearing the look of one who had tasted of sorrow. This was when she was already a well-known writer, having won her place in literature by hard and faithful work; but probably she did not dream, even then, that she would come to be recognized as, next to Dickens, the most widely-read novelist of her time. She was born April 20, 1826, at Stoke-upon-Trent, one of the chief manufacturing towns of Staffordshire, England. Staffordshire is the central county of England, and has many curious and interesting features. It forms the sloping base of a long chain of hills, where in countless ages the sea, sometimes covering the land and again driven away from it by the upheaval of a great body of earth and stone, has worn down the grit and limestone rock into clay. Did you know that all clay was mud made by the washing away of rocks? Just think how many hundreds of years it took to make the little ball of clay you model with! Well, the people who lived in this country found out, eighteen hundred years ago, that they could mould their clay into pots and basins, even if they could not make things grow in it; so they dug up the clay, shaped it with their hands, and baked it in the sun, making jars, bowls, and other useful things which they sold to farmers in exchange for food. About that time there came marching over the thickly wooded land, companies of Roman soldiers, who took all the clay bowls they wanted for their own use, and showed the potters how to make better ones. They also compelled them to make floors, roofs, and wall ornaments of clay baked in very hot ovens, called kilns. Much of this old Roman pottery was, of course, broken and lost, but still, if you should ever go there, you would find pieces of it in the banks of the little rivers and brooks near the clay pits, pieces more than a thousand years old. Because it is so full of clay--dark blue clay, and red and yellow ochres, used for coloring and painting, as well as red and black chalk--the country seems to have been made for potteries. Besides this, there used always to be plenty of wood to keep the kilns hot, for a great forest covered nearly all the land. This was a continuation of the Forest of Arden, about which you will read some day, as well as about Sherwood Forest, which sheltered Robin Hood and his merry men.--Have you heard about them yet?--Later, when better fuel was needed, two great coal fields were discovered underlying the county, one of them twenty miles long by two broad. Here, then, where all was so perfectly prepared for his work, it was natural that the greatest potter of modern times, and one of the greatest of all times, should be born--Josiah Wedgwood, who lived for many years in the very town where Mrs. Craik was born. He not only loved to make dishes and jars of all kinds as perfect as possible, but while shut in with a long illness he studied the chemistry and the arithmetic needed in his trade. In years of hard labor and close study he so mastered his trade that he made it both a science and an art. He, more than any other, turned the county into one of the busiest places in the world, where thousands of men work from morning till night to supply the whole world with every sort of thing that can be made out of clay. Perhaps on the bottom of your plates at home you may find printed the words "Staffordshire, England." Before Wedgwood's time--in 1653, to be accurate--Stoke-upon-Trent was a small group of thatched houses and two pot-works, gathered around the ancient parish church. In 1762, thirty-two years after Wedgwood's birth, it had a population of 8,000, of whom 7,000 were employed, in one way or another, in the pottery trade. The whole country-side is now black with smoke from the many factories. At one time, when the potters used salt to glaze their ware--that is, to put a bright polish on it--they used to open up their huge ovens every Saturday morning, between the hours of eight and twelve, and cast in salt. It would then melt, and run over the surface of the clay jugs and things inside, and leave a smooth, shining surface. If you let some salt and water, very strong of salt, boil over an old crock of your mother's, when the fire is making the stove red-hot, you will see how it works. Indeed, it was through an accidental boiling-over of this sort that salt-glaze was discovered. On Saturdays, when the salt was cast into the kilns, it made great clouds of smoke and vapor, filling streets and houses, and spreading far out into the country, so heavy that travelers to town lost their way, and persons in the street ran against each other. Here lived, and preached, and argued, and laid down the law, a brilliant, enthusiastic Irishman, named Thomas Mulock, the father of the woman who wrote this book. He was a minister, but one who did not agree with any of the other ministers around him. He had a warm, eager nature, and a temper to match, and as the second of twenty-two children must have exercised from his early childhood all that power of domineering which made Lord Byron nickname him "Muley Mulock." By this name he was known over half of Europe, but for all that he was much loved and admired, and moved in the same circle as Byron, Scott, Southey, and Wordsworth. From him, Mrs. Craik undoubtedly inherited her gifts as a writer. Her mother was a daughter of Mr. Mellard, a tanner and a member of the Reverend Thomas Mulock's congregation. She was one of three sisters who used to talk with the young minister over the wall that separated their gardens. There is a legend that he went all in white to the wedding, his shoes being of white satin; but this is very likely only a picturesque bit of gossip, kept alive by the fact that Mr. Mulock was quite romantic enough and independent enough to have done such a thing if it had happened to strike his fancy. His wife was a frail little woman, and the troubles which soon beset her husband on account of his strong, new opinions, were hard for her to bear, as was also the way in which he, like a hot-blooded Irishman, sure that he was right and all the rest of the world wrong, marched straight into the thick of any theological fight that might be going on. Dinah, at last, although merely an inexperienced girl, persuaded her mother to go with her to London, to seek a little peace and quiet, leaving the father to fight out his battles alone in the country place he found--or made--so full of strife. This was a tremendous responsibility for a young girl with no means to speak of and only an ordinarily good education, such as was given to young ladies in the girls' schools of those days. At school she seems to have been a great favorite, and is described as being always the center of a bevy of girls, who hung round her lovingly, and for whom she prophesied the most wonderful things. She was always sure they had great abilities, but seemed to be quite unconscious that she herself was the most gifted of them all, and would be remembered when they were forgotten. Even after she came to London, she made friends among other girls, and in spite of her unceasing and exacting work, seems always to have had time to enjoy them and make them enjoy her. She was only twenty years old when, in 1846, she went to London, and undertook the main support of her mother and the two young brothers who soon joined them. She did everything her pen could find to do, writing stories for fashion books and other periodicals, and had the satisfaction, finally, of knowing that she had succeeded in caring for her aged mother to the end of her life. Of the two brothers, the elder, Thomas, Jr., true son of his father, took part in some act of rebellion while studying at the Royal Academy. His father sided with the principals of the school and approved of the son's being expelled, his own heart aching, most probably, while he did what he thought was his duty. The son's heart, in turn, was sore at what he must have thought unloving conduct on the father's part. At any rate, he decided soon after to go to Australia, and, as he was about to board the ship, fell off the quay and was killed. This was a heavy blow to the brave young sister, now left with only the younger brother. He was a musician and a photographer of no mean rank at a time when few persons thought of photography as an art. Though he never proved a support to her, always leaning on her motherly care and getting himself into many scrapes from which she had to pull him out he was nevertheless the joy of his sister's life. In London Miss Mulock made friends whose assistance, later, was worth a great deal to her. She had published, in 1849, her first novel, _The Ogilvies_, which brought her recognition, and made men and women of real power in the world of letters seek her out. When they knew her personally, her simple cordiality, friendliness, and, above all, her thorough goodness of heart, made them her warm friends. When she found herself able to take a cottage--the "Wildwood Cottage" already spoken of--she quickly gathered around her some of the brightest and best people in the great city. From that time on, her books came out steadily and in great numbers. In all, she wrote forty-six works, including many novels, some essays, and two or three volumes of poetry. The greatest of her novels is _John Halifax, Gentleman_, considered by many the best story of English middle-class life ever written. This novel was translated into French, German, Italian, Greek, and Russian, and is still one of the most frequently called for books in the public libraries. Her poems, _Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True_, and _Philip My King_, are known wherever English is spoken. There is an interesting story connected with the latter poem. Philip Bourke Marston, the boy to whom it refers, was the son of one of Miss Mulock's London friends, Westland Marston, a famous dramatic poet and critic. When his little son was born, August 13, 1850, he asked Miss Mulock to be Philip's godmother, and traces of her deep affection for the gifted child are to be found among her writings. _A Hero_ was written for him, and it is to him, evidently, that the lovely little poem, _A Child's Smile_, refers. The boy lost his sight when only three years old. The cause is said to have been too much belladonna, given to prevent scarlet fever. For many years enough sight remained to enable him, in his own words, to see "the three boughs waving in the wind, the pageant of sunset in the west, and the glimmer of a fire upon the hearth." Shut in thus to the inner world of thought and feeling, Philip indulged in an imaginative series of wonderful adventures, and in long daydreams excited by music. Perhaps his blindness, coupled with his vivid imagination, is the reason why the beautiful poems he wrote when he grew older show such a wonderfully vivid power of portraying nature. When he saw a tree-bough waving in the wind, he saw it only dimly with his outward eyes, but as he sat dreaming over it afterward, it became more real to him than any bough was likely to become to an everyday, hearty boy who saw so many trees, with so many branches, that he hardly noticed them at all. It must have been a great comfort to him to have such a godmother as Miss Mulock--a real fairy godmother, who could weave magic spells of the most interesting stories, and heal the aches of his poor heart by sweet little poems. It was at Wildwood Cottage that Miss Mulock formed that close acquaintance with George Lillie Craik that finally led to her marriage with him. Mr. Craik met with a serious railroad accident near her house, which she promptly gave up to him, she staying with a friend near by; in the long days of convalescence they learned to know each other thoroughly. The marriage was singularly happy. Mr. Craik was a man of letters as well as a publisher, and they had every taste in common. Their life together was beautiful and full of a deep peace. Although they had no children of their own, they had an adopted daughter, Dorothy, and she it is for whom _The Adventures of a Brownie_ was written. It is probably because of Mrs. Craik's devotion and love for her that the little book is so free from self-consciousness, so evidently written wholeheartedly "as told to my child." Mrs. Craik's death, which took place in 1887, was, like her life, full of self-sacrificing affection and obedience to duty. She had not been ill, beyond a few attacks of heart-trouble that no one considered serious. By some blessed chance, on the morning of her last day on earth, her husband took an especially loving farewell of her--so much so that Dorothy laughed at him, and Mrs. Craik, smiling happily, reminded her that, although they had been so long married, they were lovers still. It was within a few weeks of Dorothy's marriage when the sudden heart failure came, and Mrs. Craik's one wish was that she might be permitted to live four weeks longer, so that her death might not overshadow her daughter's wedding. She resigned even this unselfish wish when she saw that it was not God's will. The beauty of her character, it may be supposed, quite as much as any peculiar merit in her writings, led Queen Victoria, who always tried to reward uprightness of life as well as unusual skill in any art, to bestow upon Mrs. Craik the only mark of recognition in her power. This was a small pension, and although she often was criticised for keeping a sum of money she did not need, while many less fortunate writers did need it, she retained it as her right, to use as her conscience dictated. She set it aside for struggling authors who would accept help from the queen's bounty that they would refuse from her private funds. Other writers may be more brilliant and more profound than Mrs. Craik, but her tales of simple goodness bring, not only a sense of rest and relief to the reader, but also a new desire to put goodness into his own daily life. In all her stories Mrs. Craik makes goodness as lovely as it really is. There are sad things in them, but the sadness is always made sweet at last by courage and patience and kindliness. 
7155	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 2. Chapter V. Tom as a Patrician. Tom Canty, left alone in the prince's cabinet, made good use of his opportunity. He turned himself this way and that before the great mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the prince's high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass. Next he drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and laying it across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by way of salute to the lieutenant of the Tower, five or six weeks before, when delivering the great lords of Norfolk and Surrey into his hands for captivity. Tom played with the jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the costly and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal Court herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur. He wondered if they would believe the marvellous tale he should tell when he got home, or if they would shake their heads, and say his overtaxed imagination had at last upset his reason. At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel lonely; very soon he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to toy with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless, then distressed. Suppose some one should come, and catch him in the prince's clothes, and the prince not there to explain. Might they not hang him at once, and inquire into his case afterward? He had heard that the great were prompt about small matters. His fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and seek the prince, and, through him, protection and release. Six gorgeous gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree, clothed like butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him. He stepped quickly back and shut the door. He said-- "Oh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why came I here to cast away my life?" He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening, starting at every trifling sound. Presently the door swung open, and a silken page said-- "The Lady Jane Grey." The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him. But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice-- "Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?" Tom's breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer out-- "Ah, be merciful, thou! In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty of Offal Court in the city. Prithee let me see the prince, and he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt. Oh, be thou merciful, and save me!" By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. The young girl seemed horror-stricken. She cried out-- "O my lord, on thy knees?--and to ME!" Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair, sank down, murmuring-- "There is no help, there is no hope. Now will they come and take me." Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding through the palace. The whisper--for it was whispered always--flew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon, "The prince hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!" Soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had in it dismay. Presently a splendid official came marching by these groups, making solemn proclamation-- "IN THE NAME OF THE KING! Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the King!" The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been stricken dumb. Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of "The prince! See, the prince comes!" Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered and pathetic eyes. Great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants. Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard the door close behind him. Around him stood those who had come with him. Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. His large head was very grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey also. His clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly frayed in places. One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was wrapped in bandages. There was silence now; and there was no head there but was bent in reverence, except this man's. This stern-countenanced invalid was the dread Henry VIII. He said--and his face grew gentle as he began to speak-- "How now, my lord Edward, my prince? Hast been minded to cozen me, the good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a sorry jest?" Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words 'me, the good King' fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting up his hands, he exclaimed-- "Thou the KING? Then am I undone indeed!" This speech seemed to stun the King. His eyes wandered from face to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him. Then he said in a tone of deep disappointment-- "Alack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but I fear me 'tis not so." He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle voice, "Come to thy father, child: thou art not well." Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England, humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly. Presently he said-- "Dost not know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say thou know'st me. Thou DOST know me, dost thou not?" "Yea: thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!" "True, true--that is well--be comforted, tremble not so; there is none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth--is't not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?" "I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born, and 'tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one little word. Oh speak it, sir!" "Die? Talk not so, sweet prince--peace, peace, to thy troubled heart --thou shalt not die!" Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry-- "God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy land!" Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in waiting, and exclaimed, "Thou heard'st it! I am not to die: the King hath said it!" There was no movement, save that all bowed with grave respect; but no one spoke. He hesitated, a little confused, then turned timidly toward the King, saying, "I may go now?" "Go? Surely, if thou desirest. But why not tarry yet a little? Whither would'st go?" Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly-- "Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I moved to seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to misery, yet which harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me; whereas these pomps and splendours whereunto I am not used--oh, please you, sir, to let me go!" The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed a growing distress and uneasiness. Presently he said, with something of hope in his voice-- "Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits unmarred as toucheth other matter. God send it may be so! We will make trial." Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely in the same tongue. The lords and doctors manifested their gratification also. The King said-- "'Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally. How say you, sir?" The physician addressed bowed low, and replied-- "It jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined aright." The King looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart-- "Now mark ye all: we will try him further." He put a question to Tom in French. Tom stood silent a moment, embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said diffidently-- "I have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty." The King fell back upon his couch. The attendants flew to his assistance; but he put them aside, and said-- "Trouble me not--it is nothing but a scurvy faintness. Raise me! There, 'tis sufficient. Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor troubled head upon thy father's heart, and be at peace. Thou'lt soon be well: 'tis but a passing fantasy. Fear thou not; thou'lt soon be well." Then he turned toward the company: his gentle manner changed, and baleful lightnings began to play from his eyes. He said-- "List ye all! This my son is mad; but it is not permanent. Over-study hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement. Away with his books and teachers! see ye to it. Pleasure him with sports, beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come again." He raised himself higher still, and went on with energy, "He is mad; but he is my son, and England's heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he reign! And hear ye further, and proclaim it: whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh against the peace and order of these realms, and shall to the gallows! . . . Give me to drink--I burn: this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . . There, take away the cup. . . . Support me. There, that is well. Mad, is he? Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of Wales, and I the King will confirm it. This very morrow shall he be installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form. Take instant order for it, my lord Hertford." One of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said-- "The King's majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of England lieth attainted in the Tower. It were not meet that one attainted--" "Peace! Insult not mine ears with his hated name. Is this man to live for ever? Am I to be baulked of my will? Is the prince to tarry uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an Earl Marshal free of treasonable taint to invest him with his honours? No, by the splendour of God! Warn my Parliament to bring me Norfolk's doom before the sun rise again, else shall they answer for it grievously!" {1} Lord Hertford said-- "The King's will is law;" and, rising, returned to his former place. Gradually the wrath faded out of the old King's face, and he said-- "Kiss me, my prince. There . . . what fearest thou? Am I not thy loving father?" "Thou art good to me that am unworthy, O mighty and gracious lord: that in truth I know. But--but--it grieveth me to think of him that is to die, and--" "Ah, 'tis like thee, 'tis like thee! I know thy heart is still the same, even though thy mind hath suffered hurt, for thou wert ever of a gentle spirit. But this duke standeth between thee and thine honours: I will have another in his stead that shall bring no taint to his great office. Comfort thee, my prince: trouble not thy poor head with this matter." "But is it not I that speed him hence, my liege? How long might he not live, but for me?" "Take no thought of him, my prince: he is not worthy. Kiss me once again, and go to thy trifles and amusements; for my malady distresseth me. I am aweary, and would rest. Go with thine uncle Hertford and thy people, and come again when my body is refreshed." Tom, heavy-hearted, was conducted from the presence, for this last sentence was a death-blow to the hope he had cherished that now he would be set free. Once more he heard the buzz of low voices exclaiming, "The prince, the prince comes!" His spirits sank lower and lower as he moved between the glittering files of bowing courtiers; for he recognised that he was indeed a captive now, and might remain for ever shut up in this gilded cage, a forlorn and friendless prince, except God in his mercy take pity on him and set him free. And, turn where he would, he seemed to see floating in the air the severed head and the remembered face of the great Duke of Norfolk, the eyes fixed on him reproachfully. His old dreams had been so pleasant; but this reality was so dreary! Chapter VI. Tom receives instructions. Tom was conducted to the principal apartment of a noble suite, and made to sit down--a thing which he was loth to do, since there were elderly men and men of high degree about him. He begged them to be seated also, but they only bowed their thanks or murmured them, and remained standing. He would have insisted, but his 'uncle' the Earl of Hertford whispered in his ear-- "Prithee, insist not, my lord; it is not meet that they sit in thy presence." The Lord St. John was announced, and after making obeisance to Tom, he said-- "I come upon the King's errand, concerning a matter which requireth privacy. Will it please your royal highness to dismiss all that attend you here, save my lord the Earl of Hertford?" Observing that Tom did not seem to know how to proceed, Hertford whispered him to make a sign with his hand, and not trouble himself to speak unless he chose. When the waiting gentlemen had retired, Lord St. John said-- "His majesty commandeth, that for due and weighty reasons of state, the prince's grace shall hide his infirmity in all ways that be within his power, till it be passed and he be as he was before. To wit, that he shall deny to none that he is the true prince, and heir to England's greatness; that he shall uphold his princely dignity, and shall receive, without word or sign of protest, that reverence and observance which unto it do appertain of right and ancient usage; that he shall cease to speak to any of that lowly birth and life his malady hath conjured out of the unwholesome imaginings of o'er-wrought fancy; that he shall strive with diligence to bring unto his memory again those faces which he was wont to know--and where he faileth he shall hold his peace, neither betraying by semblance of surprise or other sign that he hath forgot; that upon occasions of state, whensoever any matter shall perplex him as to the thing he should do or the utterance he should make, he shall show nought of unrest to the curious that look on, but take advice in that matter of the Lord Hertford, or my humble self, which are commanded of the King to be upon this service and close at call, till this commandment be dissolved. Thus saith the King's majesty, who sendeth greeting to your royal highness, and prayeth that God will of His mercy quickly heal you and have you now and ever in His holy keeping." The Lord St. John made reverence and stood aside. Tom replied resignedly-- "The King hath said it. None may palter with the King's command, or fit it to his ease, where it doth chafe, with deft evasions. The King shall be obeyed." Lord Hertford said-- "Touching the King's majesty's ordainment concerning books and such like serious matters, it may peradventure please your highness to ease your time with lightsome entertainment, lest you go wearied to the banquet and suffer harm thereby." Tom's face showed inquiring surprise; and a blush followed when he saw Lord St. John's eyes bent sorrowfully upon him. His lordship said-- "Thy memory still wrongeth thee, and thou hast shown surprise--but suffer it not to trouble thee, for 'tis a matter that will not bide, but depart with thy mending malady. My Lord of Hertford speaketh of the city's banquet which the King's majesty did promise, some two months flown, your highness should attend. Thou recallest it now?" "It grieves me to confess it had indeed escaped me," said Tom, in a hesitating voice; and blushed again. At this moment the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey were announced. The two lords exchanged significant glances, and Hertford stepped quickly toward the door. As the young girls passed him, he said in a low voice-- "I pray ye, ladies, seem not to observe his humours, nor show surprise when his memory doth lapse--it will grieve you to note how it doth stick at every trifle." Meantime Lord St. John was saying in Tom's ear-- "Please you, sir, keep diligently in mind his majesty's desire. Remember all thou canst--SEEM to remember all else. Let them not perceive that thou art much changed from thy wont, for thou knowest how tenderly thy old play-fellows bear thee in their hearts and how 'twould grieve them. Art willing, sir, that I remain?--and thine uncle?" Tom signified assent with a gesture and a murmured word, for he was already learning, and in his simple heart was resolved to acquit himself as best he might, according to the King's command. In spite of every precaution, the conversation among the young people became a little embarrassing at times. More than once, in truth, Tom was near to breaking down and confessing himself unequal to his tremendous part; but the tact of the Princess Elizabeth saved him, or a word from one or the other of the vigilant lords, thrown in apparently by chance, had the same happy effect. Once the little Lady Jane turned to Tom and dismayed him with this question,-- "Hast paid thy duty to the Queen's majesty to-day, my lord?" Tom hesitated, looked distressed, and was about to stammer out something at hazard, when Lord St. John took the word and answered for him with the easy grace of a courtier accustomed to encounter delicate difficulties and to be ready for them-- "He hath indeed, madam, and she did greatly hearten him, as touching his majesty's condition; is it not so, your highness?" Tom mumbled something that stood for assent, but felt that he was getting upon dangerous ground. Somewhat later it was mentioned that Tom was to study no more at present, whereupon her little ladyship exclaimed-- "'Tis a pity, 'tis a pity! Thou wert proceeding bravely. But bide thy time in patience: it will not be for long. Thou'lt yet be graced with learning like thy father, and make thy tongue master of as many languages as his, good my prince." "My father!" cried Tom, off his guard for the moment. "I trow he cannot speak his own so that any but the swine that kennel in the styes may tell his meaning; and as for learning of any sort soever--" He looked up and encountered a solemn warning in my Lord St. John's eyes. He stopped, blushed, then continued low and sadly: "Ah, my malady persecuteth me again, and my mind wandereth. I meant the King's grace no irreverence." "We know it, sir," said the Princess Elizabeth, taking her 'brother's' hand between her two palms, respectfully but caressingly; "trouble not thyself as to that. The fault is none of thine, but thy distemper's." "Thou'rt a gentle comforter, sweet lady," said Tom, gratefully, "and my heart moveth me to thank thee for't, an' I may be so bold." Once the giddy little Lady Jane fired a simple Greek phrase at Tom. The Princess Elizabeth's quick eye saw by the serene blankness of the target's front that the shaft was overshot; so she tranquilly delivered a return volley of sounding Greek on Tom's behalf, and then straightway changed the talk to other matters. Time wore on pleasantly, and likewise smoothly, on the whole. Snags and sandbars grew less and less frequent, and Tom grew more and more at his ease, seeing that all were so lovingly bent upon helping him and overlooking his mistakes. When it came out that the little ladies were to accompany him to the Lord Mayor's banquet in the evening, his heart gave a bound of relief and delight, for he felt that he should not be friendless, now, among that multitude of strangers; whereas, an hour earlier, the idea of their going with him would have been an insupportable terror to him. Tom's guardian angels, the two lords, had had less comfort in the interview than the other parties to it. They felt much as if they were piloting a great ship through a dangerous channel; they were on the alert constantly, and found their office no child's play. Wherefore, at last, when the ladies' visit was drawing to a close and the Lord Guilford Dudley was announced, they not only felt that their charge had been sufficiently taxed for the present, but also that they themselves were not in the best condition to take their ship back and make their anxious voyage all over again. So they respectfully advised Tom to excuse himself, which he was very glad to do, although a slight shade of disappointment might have been observed upon my Lady Jane's face when she heard the splendid stripling denied admittance. There was a pause now, a sort of waiting silence which Tom could not understand. He glanced at Lord Hertford, who gave him a sign--but he failed to understand that also. The ready Elizabeth came to the rescue with her usual easy grace. She made reverence and said-- "Have we leave of the prince's grace my brother to go?" Tom said-- "Indeed your ladyships can have whatsoever of me they will, for the asking; yet would I rather give them any other thing that in my poor power lieth, than leave to take the light and blessing of their presence hence. Give ye good den, and God be with ye!" Then he smiled inwardly at the thought, "'Tis not for nought I have dwelt but among princes in my reading, and taught my tongue some slight trick of their broidered and gracious speech withal!" When the illustrious maidens were gone, Tom turned wearily to his keepers and said-- "May it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some corner and rest me?" Lord Hertford said-- "So please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us to obey. That thou should'st rest is indeed a needful thing, since thou must journey to the city presently." He touched a bell, and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire the presence of Sir William Herbert. This gentleman came straightway, and conducted Tom to an inner apartment. Tom's first movement there was to reach for a cup of water; but a silk-and-velvet servitor seized it, dropped upon one knee, and offered it to him on a golden salver. Next the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his buskins, timidly asking leave with his eye, but another silk-and-velvet discomforter went down upon his knees and took the office from him. He made two or three further efforts to help himself, but being promptly forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with a sigh of resignation and a murmured "Beshrew me, but I marvel they do not require to breathe for me also!" Slippered, and wrapped in a sumptuous robe, he laid himself down at last to rest, but not to sleep, for his head was too full of thoughts and the room too full of people. He could not dismiss the former, so they stayed; he did not know enough to dismiss the latter, so they stayed also, to his vast regret--and theirs. Tom's departure had left his two noble guardians alone. They mused a while, with much head-shaking and walking the floor, then Lord St. John said-- "Plainly, what dost thou think?" "Plainly, then, this. The King is near his end; my nephew is mad--mad will mount the throne, and mad remain. God protect England, since she will need it!" "Verily it promiseth so, indeed. But . . . have you no misgivings as to . . . as to . . ." The speaker hesitated, and finally stopped. He evidently felt that he was upon delicate ground. Lord Hertford stopped before him, looked into his face with a clear, frank eye, and said-- "Speak on--there is none to hear but me. Misgivings as to what?" "I am full loth to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so near to him in blood, my lord. But craving pardon if I do offend, seemeth it not strange that madness could so change his port and manner?--not but that his port and speech are princely still, but that they DIFFER, in one unweighty trifle or another, from what his custom was aforetime. Seemeth it not strange that madness should filch from his memory his father's very lineaments; the customs and observances that are his due from such as be about him; and, leaving him his Latin, strip him of his Greek and French? My lord, be not offended, but ease my mind of its disquiet and receive my grateful thanks. It haunteth me, his saying he was not the prince, and so--" "Peace, my lord, thou utterest treason! Hast forgot the King's command? Remember I am party to thy crime if I but listen." St. John paled, and hastened to say-- "I was in fault, I do confess it. Betray me not, grant me this grace out of thy courtesy, and I will neither think nor speak of this thing more. Deal not hardly with me, sir, else am I ruined." "I am content, my lord. So thou offend not again, here or in the ears of others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken. But thou need'st not have misgivings. He is my sister's son; are not his voice, his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle? Madness can do all the odd conflicting things thou seest in him, and more. Dost not recall how that the old Baron Marley, being mad, forgot the favour of his own countenance that he had known for sixty years, and held it was another's; nay, even claimed he was the son of Mary Magdalene, and that his head was made of Spanish glass; and, sooth to say, he suffered none to touch it, lest by mischance some heedless hand might shiver it? Give thy misgivings easement, good my lord. This is the very prince--I know him well--and soon will be thy king; it may advantage thee to bear this in mind, and more dwell upon it than the other." After some further talk, in which the Lord St. John covered up his mistake as well as he could by repeated protests that his faith was thoroughly grounded now, and could not be assailed by doubts again, the Lord Hertford relieved his fellow-keeper, and sat down to keep watch and ward alone. He was soon deep in meditation, and evidently the longer he thought, the more he was bothered. By-and-by he began to pace the floor and mutter. "Tush, he MUST be the prince! Will any he in all the land maintain there can be two, not of one blood and birth, so marvellously twinned? And even were it so, 'twere yet a stranger miracle that chance should cast the one into the other's place. Nay, 'tis folly, folly, folly!" Presently he said-- "Now were he impostor and called himself prince, look you THAT would be natural; that would be reasonable. But lived ever an impostor yet, who, being called prince by the king, prince by the court, prince by all, DENIED his dignity and pleaded against his exaltation? NO! By the soul of St. Swithin, no! This is the true prince, gone mad!" Chapter VII. Tom's first royal dinner. Somewhat after one in the afternoon, Tom resignedly underwent the ordeal of being dressed for dinner. He found himself as finely clothed as before, but everything different, everything changed, from his ruff to his stockings. He was presently conducted with much state to a spacious and ornate apartment, where a table was already set for one. Its furniture was all of massy gold, and beautified with designs which well-nigh made it priceless, since they were the work of Benvenuto. The room was half-filled with noble servitors. A chaplain said grace, and Tom was about to fall to, for hunger had long been constitutional with him, but was interrupted by my lord the Earl of Berkeley, who fastened a napkin about his neck; for the great post of Diaperers to the Prince of Wales was hereditary in this nobleman's family. Tom's cupbearer was present, and forestalled all his attempts to help himself to wine. The Taster to his highness the Prince of Wales was there also, prepared to taste any suspicious dish upon requirement, and run the risk of being poisoned. He was only an ornamental appendage at this time, and was seldom called upon to exercise his function; but there had been times, not many generations past, when the office of taster had its perils, and was not a grandeur to be desired. Why they did not use a dog or a plumber seems strange; but all the ways of royalty are strange. My Lord d'Arcy, First Groom of the Chamber, was there, to do goodness knows what; but there he was--let that suffice. The Lord Chief Butler was there, and stood behind Tom's chair, overseeing the solemnities, under command of the Lord Great Steward and the Lord Head Cook, who stood near. Tom had three hundred and eighty-four servants beside these; but they were not all in that room, of course, nor the quarter of them; neither was Tom aware yet that they existed. All those that were present had been well drilled within the hour to remember that the prince was temporarily out of his head, and to be careful to show no surprise at his vagaries. These 'vagaries' were soon on exhibition before them; but they only moved their compassion and their sorrow, not their mirth. It was a heavy affliction to them to see the beloved prince so stricken. Poor Tom ate with his fingers mainly; but no one smiled at it, or even seemed to observe it. He inspected his napkin curiously, and with deep interest, for it was of a very dainty and beautiful fabric, then said with simplicity-- "Prithee, take it away, lest in mine unheedfulness it be soiled." The Hereditary Diaperer took it away with reverent manner, and without word or protest of any sort. Tom examined the turnips and the lettuce with interest, and asked what they were, and if they were to be eaten; for it was only recently that men had begun to raise these things in England in place of importing them as luxuries from Holland. {1} His question was answered with grave respect, and no surprise manifested. When he had finished his dessert, he filled his pockets with nuts; but nobody appeared to be aware of it, or disturbed by it. But the next moment he was himself disturbed by it, and showed discomposure; for this was the only service he had been permitted to do with his own hands during the meal, and he did not doubt that he had done a most improper and unprincely thing. At that moment the muscles of his nose began to twitch, and the end of that organ to lift and wrinkle. This continued, and Tom began to evince a growing distress. He looked appealingly, first at one and then another of the lords about him, and tears came into his eyes. They sprang forward with dismay in their faces, and begged to know his trouble. Tom said with genuine anguish-- "I crave your indulgence: my nose itcheth cruelly. What is the custom and usage in this emergence? Prithee, speed, for 'tis but a little time that I can bear it." None smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the other in deep tribulation for counsel. But behold, here was a dead wall, and nothing in English history to tell how to get over it. The Master of Ceremonies was not present: there was no one who felt safe to venture upon this uncharted sea, or risk the attempt to solve this solemn problem. Alas! there was no Hereditary Scratcher. Meantime the tears had overflowed their banks, and begun to trickle down Tom's cheeks. His twitching nose was pleading more urgently than ever for relief. At last nature broke down the barriers of etiquette: Tom lifted up an inward prayer for pardon if he was doing wrong, and brought relief to the burdened hearts of his court by scratching his nose himself. His meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad, shallow, golden dish with fragrant rosewater in it, to cleanse his mouth and fingers with; and my lord the Hereditary Diaperer stood by with a napkin for his use. Tom gazed at the dish a puzzled moment or two, then raised it to his lips, and gravely took a draught. Then he returned it to the waiting lord, and said-- "Nay, it likes me not, my lord: it hath a pretty flavour, but it wanteth strength." This new eccentricity of the prince's ruined mind made all the hearts about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment. Tom's next unconscious blunder was to get up and leave the table just when the chaplain had taken his stand behind his chair, and with uplifted hands, and closed, uplifted eyes, was in the act of beginning the blessing. Still nobody seemed to perceive that the prince had done a thing unusual. By his own request our small friend was now conducted to his private cabinet, and left there alone to his own devices. Hanging upon hooks in the oaken wainscoting were the several pieces of a suit of shining steel armour, covered all over with beautiful designs exquisitely inlaid in gold. This martial panoply belonged to the true prince--a recent present from Madam Parr the Queen. Tom put on the greaves, the gauntlets, the plumed helmet, and such other pieces as he could don without assistance, and for a while was minded to call for help and complete the matter, but bethought him of the nuts he had brought away from dinner, and the joy it would be to eat them with no crowd to eye him, and no Grand Hereditaries to pester him with undesired services; so he restored the pretty things to their several places, and soon was cracking nuts, and feeling almost naturally happy for the first time since God for his sins had made him a prince. When the nuts were all gone, he stumbled upon some inviting books in a closet, among them one about the etiquette of the English court. This was a prize. He lay down upon a sumptuous divan, and proceeded to instruct himself with honest zeal. Let us leave him there for the present. 
7156	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 3. Chapter VIII. The question of the Seal. About five o'clock Henry VIII. awoke out of an unrefreshing nap, and muttered to himself, "Troublous dreams, troublous dreams! Mine end is now at hand: so say these warnings, and my failing pulses do confirm it." Presently a wicked light flamed up in his eye, and he muttered, "Yet will not I die till HE go before." His attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his pleasure concerning the Lord Chancellor, who was waiting without. "Admit him, admit him!" exclaimed the King eagerly. The Lord Chancellor entered, and knelt by the King's couch, saying-- "I have given order, and, according to the King's command, the peers of the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the House, where, having confirmed the Duke of Norfolk's doom, they humbly wait his majesty's further pleasure in the matter." The King's face lit up with a fierce joy. Said he-- "Lift me up! In mine own person will I go before my Parliament, and with mine own hand will I seal the warrant that rids me of--" His voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks; and the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly assisted him with restoratives. Presently he said sorrowfully-- "Alack, how have I longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it cometh, and I am robbed of this so coveted chance. But speed ye, speed ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me. I put my Great Seal in commission: choose thou the lords that shall compose it, and get ye to your work. Speed ye, man! Before the sun shall rise and set again, bring me his head that I may see it." "According to the King's command, so shall it be. Will't please your majesty to order that the Seal be now restored to me, so that I may forth upon the business?" "The Seal? Who keepeth the Seal but thou?" "Please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since, saying it should no more do its office till your own royal hand should use it upon the Duke of Norfolk's warrant." "Why, so in sooth I did: I do remember . . . What did I with it?. . . I am very feeble . . . So oft these days doth my memory play the traitor with me . . . 'Tis strange, strange--" The King dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his grey head weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect what he had done with the Seal. At last my Lord Hertford ventured to kneel and offer information-- "Sire, if that I may be so bold, here be several that do remember with me how that you gave the Great Seal into the hands of his highness the Prince of Wales to keep against the day that--" "True, most true!" interrupted the King. "Fetch it! Go: time flieth!" Lord Hertford flew to Tom, but returned to the King before very long, troubled and empty-handed. He delivered himself to this effect-- "It grieveth me, my lord the King, to bear so heavy and unwelcome tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince's affliction abideth still, and he cannot recall to mind that he received the Seal. So came I quickly to report, thinking it were waste of precious time, and little worth withal, that any should attempt to search the long array of chambers and saloons that belong unto his royal high--" A groan from the King interrupted the lord at this point. After a little while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone-- "Trouble him no more, poor child. The hand of God lieth heavy upon him, and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and sorrow that I may not bear his burden on mine old trouble-weighted shoulders, and so bring him peace." He closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent. After a time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around until his glance rested upon the kneeling Lord Chancellor. Instantly his face flushed with wrath-- "What, thou here yet! By the glory of God, an' thou gettest not about that traitor's business, thy mitre shall have holiday the morrow for lack of a head to grace withal!" The trembling Chancellor answered-- "Good your Majesty, I cry you mercy! I but waited for the Seal." "Man, hast lost thy wits? The small Seal which aforetime I was wont to take with me abroad lieth in my treasury. And, since the Great Seal hath flown away, shall not it suffice? Hast lost thy wits? Begone! And hark ye--come no more till thou do bring his head." The poor Chancellor was not long in removing himself from this dangerous vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving the royal assent to the work of the slavish Parliament, and appointing the morrow for the beheading of the premier peer of England, the luckless Duke of Norfolk. {1} Chapter IX. The river pageant. At nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace was blazing with light. The river itself, as far as the eye could reach citywards, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and with pleasure-barges, all fringed with coloured lanterns, and gently agitated by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless garden of flowers stirred to soft motion by summer winds. The grand terrace of stone steps leading down to the water, spacious enough to mass the army of a German principality upon, was a picture to see, with its ranks of royal halberdiers in polished armour, and its troops of brilliantly costumed servitors flitting up and down, and to and fro, in the hurry of preparation. Presently a command was given, and immediately all living creatures vanished from the steps. Now the air was heavy with the hush of suspense and expectancy. As far as one's vision could carry, he might see the myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade their eyes from the glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the palace. A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. They were richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately carved. Some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some with cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats-of-arms; others with silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened to them, which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the breezes fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they belonged to nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their sides picturesquely fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with armorial bearings. Each state barge was towed by a tender. Besides the rowers, these tenders carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy helmet and breastplate, and a company of musicians. The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the great gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'They were dressed in striped hose of black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver roses, and doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front and back with the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in gold. Their halberd staves were covered with crimson velvet, fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with gold tassels. Filing off on the right and left, they formed two long lines, extending from the gateway of the palace to the water's edge. A thick rayed cloth or carpet was then unfolded, and laid down between them by attendants in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the prince. This done, a flourish of trumpets resounded from within. A lively prelude arose from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with white wands marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. They were followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came another carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city guard, in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves; then the Garter King-at-arms, in his tabard; then several Knights of the Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires; then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the Lord High Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and purfled with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their scarlet cloaks; and then the heads of the different civic companies, in their robes of state. Now came twelve French gentlemen, in splendid habiliments, consisting of pourpoints of white damask barred with gold, short mantles of crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and carnation coloured hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the steps. They were of the suite of the French ambassador, and were followed by twelve cavaliers of the suite of the Spanish ambassador, clothed in black velvet, unrelieved by any ornament. Following these came several great English nobles with their attendants.' There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the Prince's uncle, the future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed in a 'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin flowered with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' He turned, doffed his plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began to step backward, bowing at each step. A prolonged trumpet-blast followed, and a proclamation, "Way for the high and mighty the Lord Edward, Prince of Wales!" High aloft on the palace walls a long line of red tongues of flame leapt forth with a thunder-crash; the massed world on the river burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and Tom Canty, the cause and hero of it all, stepped into view and slightly bowed his princely head. He was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with a front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and edged with ermine. Over this he wore a mantle of white cloth-of-gold, pounced with the triple-feathered crest, lined with blue satin, set with pearls and precious stones, and fastened with a clasp of brilliants. About his neck hung the order of the Garter, and several princely foreign orders;' and wherever light fell upon him jewels responded with a blinding flash. O Tom Canty, born in a hovel, bred in the gutters of London, familiar with rags and dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this! Chapter X. The Prince in the toils. We left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal Court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels. There was but one person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he was not heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil. The Prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against the treatment he was suffering, until John Canty lost what little patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury over the Prince's head. The single pleader for the lad sprang to stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon his own wrist. Canty roared out-- "Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy reward." His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head: there was a groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd, and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode. Presently the Prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the door closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a tallow candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features of the loathsome den, and also the occupants of it. Two frowsy girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage, and expecting and dreading it now. From another corner stole a withered hag with streaming grey hair and malignant eyes. John Canty said to this one-- "Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar them not till thou'st enjoyed them: then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. Stand forth, lad. Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forgot it. Name thy name. Who art thou?" The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more, and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face and said-- "'Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak. I tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of Wales, and none other." The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the floor where she stood, and almost took her breath. She stared at the Prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son, that he burst into a roar of laughter. But the effect upon Tom Canty's mother and sisters was different. Their dread of bodily injury gave way at once to distress of a different sort. They ran forward with woe and dismay in their faces, exclaiming-- "Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!" The mother fell on her knees before the Prince, put her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising tears. Then she said-- "Oh, my poor boy! Thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work at last, and ta'en thy wit away. Ah! why did'st thou cleave to it when I so warned thee 'gainst it? Thou'st broke thy mother's heart." The Prince looked into her face, and said gently-- "Thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good dame. Comfort thee: let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the King my father restore him to thee." "The King thy father! Oh, my child! unsay these words that be freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to thee. Shake of this gruesome dream. Call back thy poor wandering memory. Look upon me. Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth thee?" The Prince shook his head and reluctantly said-- "God knoweth I am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly have I never looked upon thy face before." The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and, covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs and wailings. "Let the show go on!" shouted Canty. "What, Nan!--what, Bet! mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the Prince's presence? Upon your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!" He followed this with another horse-laugh. The girls began to plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said-- "An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal his madness: prithee, do." "Do, father," said Bet; "he is more worn than is his wont. To-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and come not empty home again." This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind to business. He turned angrily upon the Prince, and said-- "The morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole; two pennies, mark ye--all this money for a half-year's rent, else out of this we go. Show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy begging." The Prince said-- "Offend me not with thy sordid matters. I tell thee again I am the King's son." A sounding blow upon the Prince's shoulder from Canty's broad palm sent him staggering into goodwife Canty's arms, who clasped him to her breast, and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and slaps by interposing her own person. The frightened girls retreated to their corner; but the grandmother stepped eagerly forward to assist her son. The Prince sprang away from Mrs. Canty, exclaiming-- "Thou shalt not suffer for me, madam. Let these swine do their will upon me alone." This speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set about their work without waste of time. Between them they belaboured the boy right soundly, and then gave the girls and their mother a beating for showing sympathy for the victim. "Now," said Canty, "to bed, all of ye. The entertainment has tired me." The light was put out, and the family retired. As soon as the snorings of the head of the house and his mother showed that they were asleep, the young girls crept to where the Prince lay, and covered him tenderly from the cold with straw and rags; and their mother crept to him also, and stroked his hair, and cried over him, whispering broken words of comfort and compassion in his ear the while. She had saved a morsel for him to eat, also; but the boy's pains had swept away all appetite--at least for black and tasteless crusts. He was touched by her brave and costly defence of him, and by her commiseration; and he thanked her in very noble and princely words, and begged her to go to her sleep and try to forget her sorrows. And he added that the King his father would not let her loyal kindness and devotion go unrewarded. This return to his 'madness' broke her heart anew, and she strained him to her breast again and again, and then went back, drowned in tears, to her bed. As she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep into her mind that there was an undefinable something about this boy that was lacking in Tom Canty, mad or sane. She could not describe it, she could not tell just what it was, and yet her sharp mother-instinct seemed to detect it and perceive it. What if the boy were really not her son, after all? Oh, absurd! She almost smiled at the idea, spite of her griefs and troubles. No matter, she found that it was an idea that would not 'down,' but persisted in haunting her. It pursued her, it harassed her, it clung to her, and refused to be put away or ignored. At last she perceived that there was not going to be any peace for her until she should devise a test that should prove, clearly and without question, whether this lad was her son or not, and so banish these wearing and worrying doubts. Ah, yes, this was plainly the right way out of the difficulty; therefore she set her wits to work at once to contrive that test. But it was an easier thing to propose than to accomplish. She turned over in her mind one promising test after another, but was obliged to relinquish them all--none of them were absolutely sure, absolutely perfect; and an imperfect one could not satisfy her. Evidently she was racking her head in vain--it seemed manifest that she must give the matter up. While this depressing thought was passing through her mind, her ear caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had fallen asleep. And while she listened, the measured breathing was broken by a soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. This chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan worth all her laboured tests combined. She at once set herself feverishly, but noiselessly, to work to relight her candle, muttering to herself, "Had I but seen him THEN, I should have known! Since that day, when he was little, that the powder burst in his face, he hath never been startled of a sudden out of his dreams or out of his thinkings, but he hath cast his hand before his eyes, even as he did that day; and not as others would do it, with the palm inward, but always with the palm turned outward--I have seen it a hundred times, and it hath never varied nor ever failed. Yes, I shall soon know, now!" By this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with the candle, shaded, in her hand. She bent heedfully and warily over him, scarcely breathing in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly flashed the light in his face and struck the floor by his ear with her knuckles. The sleeper's eyes sprang wide open, and he cast a startled stare about him --but he made no special movement with his hands. The poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and grief; but she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the boy to sleep again; then she crept apart and communed miserably with herself upon the disastrous result of her experiment. She tried to believe that her Tom's madness had banished this habitual gesture of his; but she could not do it. "No," she said, "his HANDS are not mad; they could not unlearn so old a habit in so brief a time. Oh, this is a heavy day for me!" Still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she could not bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she must try the thing again--the failure must have been only an accident; so she startled the boy out of his sleep a second and a third time, at intervals--with the same result which had marked the first test; then she dragged herself to bed, and fell sorrowfully asleep, saying, "But I cannot give him up--oh no, I cannot, I cannot--he MUST be my boy!" The poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the Prince's pains having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter weariness at last sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep. Hour after hour slipped away, and still he slept like the dead. Thus four or five hours passed. Then his stupor began to lighten. Presently, while half asleep and half awake, he murmured-- "Sir William!" After a moment-- "Ho, Sir William Herbert! Hie thee hither, and list to the strangest dream that ever . . . Sir William! dost hear? Man, I did think me changed to a pauper, and . . . Ho there! Guards! Sir William! What! is there no groom of the chamber in waiting? Alack! it shall go hard with--" "What aileth thee?" asked a whisper near him. "Who art thou calling?" "Sir William Herbert. Who art thou?" "I? Who should I be, but thy sister Nan? Oh, Tom, I had forgot! Thou'rt mad yet--poor lad, thou'rt mad yet: would I had never woke to know it again! But prithee master thy tongue, lest we be all beaten till we die!" The startled Prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back among his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation-- "Alas! it was no dream, then!" In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had banished were upon him again, and he realised that he was no longer a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves. In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away. The next moment there were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty ceased from snoring and said-- "Who knocketh? What wilt thou?" A voice answered-- "Know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?" "No. Neither know I, nor care." "Belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons. An thou would save thy neck, nothing but flight may stead thee. The man is this moment delivering up the ghost. 'Tis the priest, Father Andrew!" "God-a-mercy!" exclaimed Canty. He roused his family, and hoarsely commanded, "Up with ye all and fly--or bide where ye are and perish!" Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street and flying for their lives. John Canty held the Prince by the wrist, and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low voice-- "Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name. I will choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the scent. Mind thy tongue, I tell thee!" He growled these words to the rest of the family-- "If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London Bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's shop on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then will we flee into Southwark together." At this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into light; and not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude of singing, dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the river frontage. There was a line of bonfires stretching as far as one could see, up and down the Thames; London Bridge was illuminated; Southwark Bridge likewise; the entire river was aglow with the flash and sheen of coloured lights; and constant explosions of fireworks filled the skies with an intricate commingling of shooting splendours and a thick rain of dazzling sparks that almost turned night into day; everywhere were crowds of revellers; all London seemed to be at large. John Canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a retreat; but it was too late. He and his tribe were swallowed up in that swarming hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from each other in an instant. We are not considering that the Prince was one of his tribe; Canty still kept his grip upon him. The Prince's heart was beating high with hopes of escape, now. A burly waterman, considerably exalted with liquor, found himself rudely shoved by Canty in his efforts to plough through the crowd; he laid his great hand on Canty's shoulder and said-- "Nay, whither so fast, friend? Dost canker thy soul with sordid business when all that be leal men and true make holiday?" "Mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not," answered Canty, roughly; "take away thy hand and let me pass." "Sith that is thy humour, thou'lt NOT pass, till thou'st drunk to the Prince of Wales, I tell thee that," said the waterman, barring the way resolutely. "Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed!" Other revellers were interested by this time. They cried out-- "The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes." So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one of its handles, and with the other hand bearing up the end of an imaginary napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty, who had to grasp the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off the lid with the other, according to ancient custom. {1} This left the Prince hand-free for a second, of course. He wasted no time, but dived among the forest of legs about him and disappeared. In another moment he could not have been harder to find, under that tossing sea of life, if its billows had been the Atlantic's and he a lost sixpence. He very soon realised this fact, and straightway busied himself about his own affairs without further thought of John Canty. He quickly realised another thing, too. To wit, that a spurious Prince of Wales was being feasted by the city in his stead. He easily concluded that the pauper lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately taken advantage of his stupendous opportunity and become a usurper. Therefore there was but one course to pursue--find his way to the Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. He also made up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for spiritual preparation, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered, according to the law and usage of the day in cases of high treason. Chapter XI. At Guildhall. The royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its stately way down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated boats. The air was laden with music; the river banks were beruffled with joy-flames; the distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from its countless invisible bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire into the sky, incrusted with sparkling lights, wherefore in their remoteness they seemed like jewelled lances thrust aloft; as the fleet swept along, it was greeted from the banks with a continuous hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and boom of artillery. To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and this spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. To his little friends at his side, the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey, they were nothing. Arrived at the Dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid Walbrook (whose channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight under acres of buildings) to Bucklersbury, past houses and under bridges populous with merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at last came to a halt in a basin where now is Barge Yard, in the centre of the ancient city of London. Tom disembarked, and he and his gallant procession crossed Cheapside and made a short march through the Old Jewry and Basinghall Street to the Guildhall. Tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the Lord Mayor and the Fathers of the City, in their gold chains and scarlet robes of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at the head of the great hall, preceded by heralds making proclamation, and by the Mace and the City Sword. The lords and ladies who were to attend upon Tom and his two small friends took their places behind their chairs. At a lower table the Court grandees and other guests of noble degree were seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners took places at a multitude of tables on the main floor of the hall. From their lofty vantage-ground the giants Gog and Magog, the ancient guardians of the city, contemplated the spectacle below them with eyes grown familiar to it in forgotten generations. There was a bugle-blast and a proclamation, and a fat butler appeared in a high perch in the leftward wall, followed by his servitors bearing with impressive solemnity a royal baron of beef, smoking hot and ready for the knife. After grace, Tom (being instructed) rose--and the whole house with him --and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the Princess Elizabeth; from her it passed to the Lady Jane, and then traversed the general assemblage. So the banquet began. By midnight the revelry was at its height. Now came one of those picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day. A description of it is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who witnessed it: 'Space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled after the Turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with gold; hats on their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of gold, girded with two swords, called scimitars, hanging by great bawdricks of gold. Next came yet another baron and another earl, in two long gowns of yellow satin, traversed with white satin, and in every bend of white was a bend of crimson satin, after the fashion of Russia, with furred hats of gray on their heads; either of them having an hatchet in their hands, and boots with pykes' (points a foot long), 'turned up. And after them came a knight, then the Lord High Admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets of crimson velvet, voyded low on the back and before to the cannell-bone, laced on the breasts with chains of silver; and over that, short cloaks of crimson satin, and on their heads hats after the dancers' fashion, with pheasants' feathers in them. These were appareled after the fashion of Prussia. The torchbearers, which were about an hundred, were appareled in crimson satin and green, like Moors, their faces black. Next came in a mommarye. Then the minstrels, which were disguised, danced; and the lords and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was a pleasure to behold.' And while Tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild' dancing, lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of kaleidoscopic colours which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures below him presented, the ragged but real little Prince of Wales was proclaiming his rights and his wrongs, denouncing the impostor, and clamouring for admission at the gates of Guildhall! The crowd enjoyed this episode prodigiously, and pressed forward and craned their necks to see the small rioter. Presently they began to taunt him and mock at him, purposely to goad him into a higher and still more entertaining fury. Tears of mortification sprang to his eyes, but he stood his ground and defied the mob right royally. Other taunts followed, added mockings stung him, and he exclaimed-- "I tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, I am the Prince of Wales! And all forlorn and friendless as I be, with none to give me word of grace or help me in my need, yet will not I be driven from my ground, but will maintain it!" "Though thou be prince or no prince, 'tis all one, thou be'st a gallant lad, and not friendless neither! Here stand I by thy side to prove it; and mind I tell thee thou might'st have a worser friend than Miles Hendon and yet not tire thy legs with seeking. Rest thy small jaw, my child; I talk the language of these base kennel-rats like to a very native." The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect, and bearing. He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and trunks were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the camp. The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an explosion of jeers and laughter. Some cried, "'Tis another prince in disguise!" "'Ware thy tongue, friend: belike he is dangerous!" "Marry, he looketh it--mark his eye!" "Pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the cub!" Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat of it. The next moment a score of voices shouted, "Kill the dog! Kill him! Kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed himself against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon like a madman. His victims sprawled this way and that, but the mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against the champion with undiminished fury. His moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "Way for the King's messenger!" and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the mob, who fled out of harm's reach as fast as their legs could carry them. The bold stranger caught up the Prince in his arms, and was soon far away from danger and the multitude. Return we within the Guildhall. Suddenly, high above the jubilant roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-note. There was instant silence--a deep hush; then a single voice rose--that of the messenger from the palace--and began to pipe forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing listening. The closing words, solemnly pronounced, were-- "The King is dead!" The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all sank upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the building-- "Long live the King!" Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses beside him, a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford. A sudden purpose dawned in his face. He said, in a low tone, at Lord Hertford's ear-- "Answer me truly, on thy faith and honour! Uttered I here a command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none rise up to say me nay?" "None, my liege, in all these realms. In thy person bides the majesty of England. Thou art the king--thy word is law." Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great animation-- "Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and never more be law of blood! Up from thy knees and away! To the Tower, and say the King decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not die!" {1} The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far and wide over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence, another prodigious shout burst forth-- "The reign of blood is ended! Long live Edward, King of England!" 
7154	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 1. Hugh Latimer Bishop of Worcester to Lord Cromwell on the birth of the Prince of Wales (afterward Edward VI.). From the National Manuscripts preserved by the British Government. Ryght honorable Salutem in Christo Jesu and Syr here ys no lesse joynge and rejossynge in thes partees for the byrth of our prynce hoom we hungurde for so longe then ther was (I trow) inter vicinos att the byrth of S. J. Baptyste as thys berer Master Erance can telle you. Gode gyffe us alle grace to yelde dew thankes to our Lorde Gode Gode of Inglonde for verely He hathe shoyd Hym selff Gode of Inglonde or rather an Inglyssh Gode yf we consydyr and pondyr welle alle Hys procedynges with us from tyme to tyme. He hath over cumme alle our yllnesse with Hys excedynge goodnesse so that we are now moor then compellyd to serve Hym seke Hys glory promott Hys wurde yf the Devylle of alle Devylles be natt in us. We have now the stooppe of vayne trustes ande the stey of vayne expectations; lett us alle pray for hys preservatione. Ande I for my partt wylle wyssh that hys Grace allways have and evyn now from the begynynge Governares Instructores and offyceres of ryght jugmente ne optimum ingenium non optima educatione deprevetur. Butt whatt a grett fowlle am I! So whatt devotione shoyth many tymys butt lytelle dyscretione! Ande thus the Gode of Inglonde be ever with you in alle your procedynges. The 19 of October. Youres H. L. B. of Wurcestere now att Hartlebury. Yf you wolde excytt thys berere to be moore hartye ayen the abuse of ymagry or mor forwarde to promotte the veryte ytt myght doo goode. Natt that ytt came of me butt of your selffe etc. (Addressed) To the Ryght Honorable Loorde P. Sealle hys synguler gode Lorde. To those good-mannered and agreeable children Susie and Clara Clemens this book is affectionately inscribed by their father. I will set down a tale as it was told to me by one who had it of his father which latter had it of HIS father this last having in like manner had it of HIS father--and so on back and still back three hundred years and more the fathers transmitting it to the sons and so preserving it. It may be history it may be only a legend a tradition. It may have happened it may not have happened: but it COULD have happened. It may be that the wise and the learned believed it in the old days; it may be that only the unlearned and the simple loved it and credited it. Contents. I. The birth of the Prince and the Pauper. II. Tom's early life. III. Tom's meeting with the Prince. IV. The Prince's troubles begin. V. Tom as a patrician. VI. Tom receives instructions. VII. Tom's first royal dinner. VIII. The question of the Seal. IX. The river pageant. X. The Prince in the toils. XI. At Guildhall. XII. The Prince and his deliverer. XIII. The disappearance of the Prince. XIV. 'Le Roi est mort--vive le Roi.' XV. Tom as King. XVI. The state dinner. XVII. Foo-foo the First. XVIII. The Prince with the tramps. XIX. The Prince with the peasants. XX. The Prince and the hermit. XXI. Hendon to the rescue. XXII. A victim of treachery. XXIII. The Prince a prisoner. XXIV. The escape. XXV. Hendon Hall. XXVI. Disowned. XXVII. In prison. XXVIII. The sacrifice. XXIX. To London. XXX. Tom's progress. XXXI. The Recognition procession. XXXII. Coronation Day. XXXIII. Edward as King. Conclusion. Justice and Retribution. Notes. 'The quality of mercy . . . is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes; 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The thron-ed monarch better than his crown'. Merchant of Venice. Chapter I. The birth of the Prince and the Pauper. In the ancient city of London on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty who did not want him. On the same day another English child was born to a rich family of the name of Tudor who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so longed for him and hoped for him and prayed God for him that now that he was really come the people went nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took a holiday and high and low rich and poor feasted and danced and sang and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together. By day London was a sight to see with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop and splendid pageants marching along. By night it was again a sight to see with its great bonfires at every corner and its troops of revellers making merry around them. There was no talk in all England but of the new baby Edward Tudor Prince of Wales who lay lapped in silks and satins unconscious of all this fuss and not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and watching over him--and not caring either. But there was no talk about the other baby Tom Canty lapped in his poor rags except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble with his presence. Chapter II. Tom's early life. Let us skip a number of years. London was fifteen hundred years old and was a great town--for that day. It had a hundred thousand inhabitants--some think double as many. The streets were very narrow and crooked and dirty especially in the part where Tom Canty lived which was not far from London Bridge. The houses were of wood with the second story projecting over the first and the third sticking its elbows out beyond the second. The higher the houses grew the broader they grew. They were skeletons of strong criss-cross beams with solid material between coated with plaster. The beams were painted red or blue or black according to the owner's taste and this gave the houses a very picturesque look. The windows were small glazed with little diamond-shaped panes and they opened outward on hinges like doors. The house which Tom's father lived in was up a foul little pocket called Offal Court out of Pudding Lane. It was small decayed and rickety but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty's tribe occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but Tom his grandmother and his two sisters Bet and Nan were not restricted--they had all the floor to themselves and might sleep where they chose. There were the remains of a blanket or two and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw but these could not rightly be called beds for they were not organised; they were kicked into a general pile mornings and selections made from the mass at night for service. Bet and Nan were fifteen years old--twins. They were good-hearted girls unclean clothed in rags and profoundly ignorant. Their mother was like them. But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. They got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief and his mother a beggar. They made beggars of the children but failed to make thieves of them. Among but not of the dreadful rabble that inhabited the house was a good old priest whom the King had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly. Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin and how to read and write; and would have done the same with the girls but they were afraid of the jeers of their friends who could not have endured such a queer accomplishment in them. All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty's house. Drunkenness riot and brawling were the order there every night and nearly all night long. Broken heads were as common as hunger in that place. Yet little Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of it but did not know it. It was the sort of time that all the Offal Court boys had therefore he supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing. When he came home empty-handed at night he knew his father would curse him and thrash him first and that when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all over again and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving mother would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she had been able to save for him by going hungry herself notwithstanding she was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it by her husband. No Tom's life went along well enough especially in summer. He only begged just enough to save himself for the laws against mendicancy were stringent and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew's charming old tales and legends about giants and fairies dwarfs and genii and enchanted castles and gorgeous kings and princes. His head grew to be full of these wonderful things and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw tired hungry and smarting from a thrashing he unleashed his imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. One desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real prince with his own eyes. He spoke of it once to some of his Offal Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that. He often read the priest's old books and got him to explain and enlarge upon them. His dreamings and readings worked certain changes in him by-and-by. His dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament his shabby clothing and his dirt and to wish to be clean and better clad. He went on playing in the mud just the same and enjoying it too; but instead of splashing around in the Thames solely for the fun of it he began to find an added value in it because of the washings and cleansings it afforded. Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in Cheapside and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of London had a chance to see a military parade when some famous unfortunate was carried prisoner to the Tower by land or boat. One summer's day he saw poor Anne Askew and three men burned at the stake in Smithfield and heard an ex-Bishop preach a sermon to them which did not interest him. Yes Tom's life was varied and pleasant enough on the whole. By-and-by Tom's reading and dreaming about princely life wrought such a strong effect upon him that he began to ACT the prince unconsciously. His speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and courtly to the vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. But Tom's influence among these young people began to grow now day by day; and in time he came to be looked up to by them with a sort of wondering awe as a superior being. He seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such marvellous things! and withal he was so deep and wise! Tom's remarks and Tom's performances were reported by the boys to their elders; and these also presently began to discuss Tom Canty and to regard him as a most gifted and extraordinary creature. Full-grown people brought their perplexities to Tom for solution and were often astonished at the wit and wisdom of his decisions. In fact he was become a hero to all who knew him except his own family--these only saw nothing in him. Privately after a while Tom organised a royal court! He was the prince; his special comrades were guards chamberlains equerries lords and ladies in waiting and the royal family. Daily the mock prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in the royal council and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his imaginary armies navies and viceroyalties. After which he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings eat his poor crust take his customary cuffs and abuse and then stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw and resume his empty grandeurs in his dreams. And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince in the flesh grew upon him day by day and week by week until at last it absorbed all other desires and became the one passion of his life. One January day on his usual begging tour he tramped despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and Little East Cheap hour after hour bare-footed and cold looking in at cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other deadly inventions displayed there--for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is judging by the smell they were--for it had never been his good luck to own and eat one. There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was a melancholy day. At night Tom reached home so wet and tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved--after their fashion; wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. For a long time his pain and hunger and the swearing and fighting going on in the building kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to far romantic lands and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and gilded princelings who live in vast palaces and had servants salaaming before them or flying to execute their orders. And then as usual he dreamed that HE was a princeling himself. All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved among great lords and ladies in a blaze of light breathing perfumes drinking in delicious music and answering the reverent obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make way for him with here a smile and there a nod of his princely head. And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about him his dream had had its usual effect--it had intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. Then came bitterness and heart-break and tears. Chapter III. Tom's meeting with the Prince. Tom got up hungry and sauntered hungry away but with his thoughts busy with the shadowy splendours of his night's dreams. He wandered here and there in the city hardly noticing where he was going or what was happening around him. People jostled him and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By-and-by he found himself at Temple Bar the farthest from home he had ever travelled in that direction. He stopped and considered a moment then fell into his imaginings again and passed on outside the walls of London. The Strand had ceased to be a country-road then and regarded itself as a street but by a strained construction; for though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of it there were only some scattered great buildings on the other these being palaces of rich nobles with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river--grounds that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone. Tom discovered Charing Village presently and rested himself at the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then idled down a quiet lovely road past the great cardinal's stately palace toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond--Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry the wide-spreading wings the frowning bastions and turrets the huge stone gateway with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions and other the signs and symbols of English royalty. Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last? Here indeed was a king's palace. Might he not hope to see a prince now--a prince of flesh and blood if Heaven were willing? At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue--that is to say an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms clad from head to heel in shining steel armour. At a respectful distance were many country folk and people from the city waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that might offer. Splendid carriages with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside were arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure. Poor little Tom in his rags approached and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels with a beating heart and a rising hope when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins shining with jewels; at his hip a little jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near--his servants without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince--a prince a living prince a real prince--without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper-boy's heart was answered at last. Tom's breath came quick and short with excitement and his eyes grew big with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind instantly to one desire: that was to get close to the prince and have a good devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about he had his face against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers. The soldier said -- Mind thy manners, thou young beggar! The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate with his face flushed and his eyes flashing with indignation and cried out -- How dar'st thou use a poor lad like that? How dar'st thou use the King my father's meanest subject so? Open the gates, and let him in! You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You should have heard them cheer and shout "Long live the Prince of Wales!" The soldiers presented arms with their halberds opened the gates and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in in his fluttering rags to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty. Edward Tudor said-- Thou lookest tired and hungry: thou'st been treated ill. Come with me. Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to--I don't know what; interfere no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture and they stopped stock still where they were like so many statues. Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace which he called his cabinet. By his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before except in books. The prince with princely delicacy and breeding sent away the servants so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then he sat near by and asked questions while Tom ate. What is thy name, lad? Tom Canty, an' it please thee, sir. 'Tis an odd one. Where dost live? In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. Offal Court! Truly 'tis another odd one. Hast parents? Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to say it--also twin sisters, Nan and Bet. Then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, I take it? Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days. Doth she mistreat thee? There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings. A fierce look came into the little prince's eyes and he cried out-- What! Beatings? Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir. "What dost thou make of this?" "Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. It is not meet that one of my degree should utter the thing." "Then will _I_ utter it. Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and countenance that I bear. Fared we forth naked, there is none could say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales. And, now that I am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier--Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?" "Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the poor man-at-arms--" "Peace! It was a shameful thing and a cruel!" cried the little prince, stamping his bare foot. "If the King--Stir not a step till I come again! It is a command!" In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and glowing eyes. As soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the bars, and tried to shake them, shouting-- "Open! Unbar the gates!" The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the prince burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath, the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him whirling to the roadway, and said-- "Take that, thou beggar's spawn, for what thou got'st me from his Highness!" The crowd roared with laughter. The prince picked himself out of the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting-- "I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt hang for laying thy hand upon me!" The soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said mockingly-- "I salute your gracious Highness." Then angrily--"Be off, thou crazy rubbish!" Here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting-- "Way for his Royal Highness! Way for the Prince of Wales!" Chapter IV. The Prince's troubles begin. After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself. As long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and they sought amusement elsewhere. He looked about him, now, but could not recognise the locality. He was within the city of London--that was all he knew. He moved on, aimlessly, and in a little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were infrequent. He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed then where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church. He recognised this church. Scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs. The prince took heart at once--he felt that his troubles were at an end, now. He said to himself, "It is the ancient Grey Friars' Church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ's Church. Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done so generously by them--and the more that that son is himself as poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever shall be." He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting themselves, and right noisily, too. They were all dressed alike, and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men and 'prentices{1}--that is to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles. It was a sufficiently ugly costume. The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said with native dignity-- "Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales desireth speech with him." A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said-- "Marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?" The prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to his hip, but there was nothing there. There was a storm of laughter, and one boy said-- "Didst mark that? He fancied he had a sword--belike he is the prince himself." This sally brought more laughter. Poor Edward drew himself up proudly and said-- "I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king my father's bounty to use me so." This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified. The youth who had first spoken, shouted to his comrades-- "Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father, where be your manners? Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!" With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and did mock homage to their prey. The prince spurned the nearest boy with his foot, and said fiercely-- "Take thou that, till the morrow come and I build thee a gibbet!" Ah, but this was not a joke--this was going beyond fun. The laughter ceased on the instant, and fury took its place. A dozen shouted-- "Hale him forth! To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond! Where be the dogs? Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!" Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before--the sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs. As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far down in the close-built portion of the city. His body was bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud. He wandered on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot after the other. He had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since they brought him only insult instead of information. He kept muttering to himself, "Offal Court--that is the name; if I can but find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop, then am I saved--for his people will take me to the palace and prove that I am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own again." And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by those rude Christ's Hospital boys, and he said, "When I am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart. I will keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day's lesson be not lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and breedeth gentleness and charity." {1} The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw and gusty night set in. The houseless prince, the homeless heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed together. Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said-- "Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, I warrant me! If it be so, an' I do not break all the bones in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other." The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned shoulder, and eagerly said-- "Oh, art HIS father, truly? Sweet heaven grant it be so--then wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!" "HIS father? I know not what thou mean'st; I but know I am THY father, as thou shalt soon have cause to--" "Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!--I am worn, I am wounded, I can bear no more. Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. Believe me, man, believe me!--I speak no lie, but only the truth!--put forth thy hand and save me! I am indeed the Prince of Wales!" The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head and muttered-- "Gone stark mad as any Tom o' Bedlam!"--then collared him once more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, "But mad or no mad, I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or I'm no true man!" With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm of human vermin. 
29005	----	PRINCE VANCE [Illustration] PRINCE VANCE The Story of a Prince with a Court in his Box BY ELEANOR PUTNAM and ARLO BATES _ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK MYRICK_ BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1888 _Copyright, 1888_, BY ARLO BATES. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. _TO THE BOY ORIC_ _Dear son, this twisted, tangled web of whims For you was woven while you scarcely knew The simplest speech men use; but infant limbs, That round and smooth in dimpled fairness grew, Waved for all word in a babe's perfect glee, So wondrous sweet to see._ _It is not stranger than this world must seem To one who its vagaries first does scan; It is less weird than the enchanted dream Which life may change to ere you be a man. Such as it is, take it for this alone,-- That it is all your own._ _Those who together wrought its colors gay, And its fantastic warp and woof entwined, May not again for you in work or play Together labor. Yet the loving mind In which they then were one will still be one Till life and sense be done._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page THE FAIRY COPETTA AND THE PRINCE _Frontispiece_ INITIAL: Chapter I 15 INITIAL: Chapter II 20 "'Come,' he said to the Prince, in rather an injured tone" 21 "He picked up the poor tutor, and putting him on the window-sill laughed at him" 24 TAILPIECE: "'It is in here,' the Blue Wizard said, holding out a pretty gold bonbon box" 25 INITIAL: Chapter III 26 THE ROYAL TABLE, WITH THE COURT SHRINKING 27 "'Oh, as to that,' the Blue Wizard answered carelessly, giving the King in turn a bath in the finger-bowl" 31 TAILPIECE: "He seated his royal mother on the top of the sugar-bowl" 33 INITIAL: Chapter IV 34 TAILPIECE: THE HISSING SWANS 40 INITIAL: Chapter V 41 "The Lord Chancellor, who seemed to be always in trouble, picked some sort of quarrel with a large green grasshopper" 44 "He moved from a bunch of thistles which he had carefully stripped to the next" 46 INITIAL: Chapter VI 50 "'How do you know?' demanded the raven, fixing his glittering eye on the Prince" 51 "But presently a little window opened in the side of the tree trunk, from which a wrinkled old face looked out" 56 INITIAL: Chapter VII 59 "'But I want it in my mouth,' sighed the man on the ground" 61 "A second man stood on an overturned bucket and blew into the mouth of the first with a pair of bellows" 63 "'What's all this?' the Prince asked of one who seemed of some authority" 66 INITIAL: Chapter VIII 68 The Court on the Fisherman's Table 71 INITIAL: Chapter IX 76 "He stopped in amazement, and no wonder" 77 TAILPIECE: THE GIANT'S CASTLE 81 INITIAL: Chapter X 82 PRINCE VANCE ON THE GIANT'S HAND 83 "'I should not wonder, now,' she said, 'if my husband would give these things to me; they are too small to be of any use except as seasoning'" 90 INITIAL: Chapter XI 93 INITIAL: Chapter XII 97 "'There!' she exclaimed, as she held it toward him, 'there it is; and good enough eating for a royal prince'" 99 "'But,' asked the Prince, 'does nobody know anything? Has nobody any sense?'" 101 TAILPIECE: "'Why don't you catch me?'" 104 INITIAL: Chapter XIII 105 "Now that at last he was standing still, the Prince perceived his nose was of a most peculiar and curious fashion" 107 "'Simply a sort of slow-match; grows in the daytime as much as it burns away at night'" 110 INITIAL: Chapter XIV 112 At the Funny Man's Table 113 INITIAL: Chapter XV 118 "The monkey, looking up, wiped its eyes upon a small lace handkerchief, which was already quite damp enough" 121 TAILPIECE: "At this the monkey wept so violently" 125 INITIAL: Chapter XVI 126 "He was a good-natured-looking old man; but his head, body, arms, and legs, even his features, were twisted" 127 INITIAL: Chapter XVII 130 "The Prince took the spade and began to dig, though not very hopefully" 134 THE WIZARD MAKING A CAT'S-CRADLE 137 INITIAL: Chapter XVIII 140 "'Don't quibble!' retorted the cat, sharply" 143 INITIAL: Chapter XIX 146 "As the last stroke of twelve ceased, out stepped the Fairy Copetta" 148 PRINCE VANCE. I. It was certainly not strange that Prince Vance was so stupefied with astonishment that he sat for a full half-hour foolishly staring before him, without an effort to move a muscle or to stir from his seat. Indeed, it is probable that any other prince in the same circumstances would have been equally struck dumb with amazement,--as any one may see who will attend while I go back to the beginning, and relate what had happened. By the beginning is meant the birth of Prince Vance, when the powerful fairy Copetta had been chosen his godmother, since which time she certainly had not devoted herself to being agreeable to the Prince. She had insisted, for instance, that her godson should pay attention to his lessons; that he should show respect to his tutors; and, what was most outrageous of all, that he, Prince Vance, only son of his parents and sole heir to the kingdom, should learn to obey. She had coolly informed her godson, moreover, that if he did not obey her willingly, it would certainly be the worse for him; since learn he must, by harsh means, if no others would move him. All this seemed to Vance a most unpleasant and unreasonable sort of talk, and, as may be imagined, it did not increase his love for his godmother. So things had gone on from bad to worse between them until Vance was a fine, lusty lad beginning his teens, when one day the Blue Wizard came to court. Vance had been having a remarkably unpleasant scene with his godmother that morning. She had come popping into the school-room, in a disagreeable way she had of appearing when she was least expected; and, of course, nothing would do but she must come at the exact moment when the Prince was engaged in boxing his tutor's ears (without boxing-gloves), because the poor old man wanted him to learn the boundaries of what would some day be his own kingdom. "You shall see the boundaries by travelling over them all on foot," the fairy had said crossly. "You are growing up idle, selfish, and disobedient; a shame to your godmother and a disgrace to your family. You will be associating with the Blue Wizard next, I dare say!" "Yes, so I will," the Prince answered stubbornly; for though he really had never heard of the Blue Wizard before, he would have said anything just then to vex his godmother,--"so I will. I should like to see him. I really wish he would come this very day!" "As for me, you evil boy!" Copetta said, more angrily yet, striking her cane sharply upon the ground, "you shall want me badly enough before you find me, I promise you; and sorrow shall have made you wiser before you look upon my face again." "Not that I shall miss you much, with your scoldings and fault-findings!" replied the saucy Prince; and as she vanished before his eyes, according to her startling custom, he began shying his books at the head of his tutor, to the great discomfort of that unhappy man, who thought that his lot in life was indeed a sad one, and wished himself a wood-cutter in the royal forest, or indeed anything rather than what he was. When his pile of books was quite gone, and the blackboard erasers, the bits of crayon, and the pointer had been thrown after them, the Prince put his hands in his pockets and lounged to the window, whistling a tune he had caught from a hand-organ. His twelve younger sisters were just coming into the courtyard, two by two, returning from taking their morning airing with their governesses. The Princesses were quite as good as the Prince was bad, and there could certainly have been no prettier sight than that of the twelve royal little girls walking along so properly and primly. Each had a green velvet pelisse, a neat Leghorn bonnet, and a green fringed parasol; each wore nice buff mitts and a good-tempered smile, and each had a complexion like pink and white ice-cream, and eyes like pretty blue beads. It was therefore very naughty indeed of Prince Vance to shout "Boh!" so loudly that each Princess started and hopped quite one foot from the ground, and even the governesses put their hands to their hearts. This, however, gave much joy to the Prince; and after his sisters had disappeared he stood by the window still whistling, with his hands in his pockets and a wicked grin on his face. "Your Royal Highness," began the tutor, meekly, "your Highness really must not put your Highness's hands in your Highness's trousers pockets, and whistle that dreadful tune. If her Royal Highness the Queen should hear you, she would certainly have me beheaded." "Why should I care for that?" asked the Prince, carelessly; and just at that moment he caught sight of the Blue Wizard himself coming into the court below. II Whatever else might be said of the Blue Wizard, nobody would ever think of calling him a beauty. His nose and his chin were long and pointed, his eyebrows big and bushy, his teeth sharp and protruding from his mouth; and everything about him--skin, hair, teeth, and dress--was as blue as a sky on a June afternoon when not a cloud is to be seen. He had, too, a way of perking his head about, which was most unsettling to the nerves; twitching and twisting it constantly from side to side, like a toy mandarin. He came boldly into the courtyard of the palace, quite as if the whole place belonged to him; and catching sight of Prince Vance at the window above, he raised one finger, long and skinny and blue as a larkspur blossom, and beckoned for him to come down. The Prince hesitated. Certainly the Blue Wizard was not so charming in his looks as to make one wish to get any nearer to him, but Vance happened to remember that his godmother had seemed to disapprove most highly of this very wizard; so with an idea of displeasing Copetta, the Prince obeyed the beckoning finger and went down. [Illustration] At a nearer view the Wizard looked even uglier than from a distance. His very lips were blue, and when he opened his mouth his tongue was seen to be blue also. "Come," he said to the Prince, in rather an injured tone, "you keep me waiting long enough, I hope, when I only came to teach you a droll trick." "That is good," answered Vance, growing interested at once. "I do like droll tricks. What is it?" "It is in here," the Blue Wizard said, holding out a pretty gold bonbon box. "Just make anybody eat one of these, and then you shall see what you shall see." The Prince took the box in his hand and opened his lips to ask another question; but before he could speak a single word the Blue Wizard had vanished quite away, and he stood alone. He went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs, wondering what the trick could be. "I'll try it on the tutor first," he concluded, "because I'm sure I don't care what happens to him, and I really must know what the droll trick is." So he went smilingly up to his tutor and offered the open box; and the simple old gentleman, suspecting nothing, bowed and simpered at the great honor his Royal Highness did him, and quickly swallowed one of the little bonbons. And this is what happened. Pouf! The unfortunate tutor shut up like a crush-hat, and shrunk together until he was as short as a pygmy and as plump as a mushroom. Really one might just as well have no tutor at all as to have one so tiny. How Prince Vance did laugh! Of all the wizards he had ever known--and for one so young his Highness had known a great many wizards; he almost always met more or less of them when he played truant by climbing out of a back window and going into the woods fishing--he thought the Blue Wizard was the most amusing and had invented the very drollest trick. "Dear me, your Highness!" said the poor tutor, in so tiny a voice that it was quite all the Prince could do to hear him. "Dear me! what is the matter? I certainly feel very queer; I do, indeed." "You look even queerer than you feel, I fancy," replied the naughty Prince, chuckling with glee. [Illustration] He picked up the poor tutor, and putting him on the window-sill laughed at him till his sides were fairly sore. Then he began to consider how he could get the most fun and make the most mischief out of his bonbons, for there were not a great many of them; and, being a shrewd young rascal, he at last contrived the plan of putting them into the ice-cream which was then being frozen for the royal dinner. Then everybody would be sure to get a taste at least of the magic potion; and slipping down into the kitchen, the wicked young Prince succeeded in carrying out this evil and dangerous plan. [Illustration] III Everybody looked at the Prince when at dinner he declined ice-cream. It was unheard of. Nobody had ever known him to do such a thing before. The twelve young Princesses, though much too well bred to remark upon it, stared at their brother with their twenty-four beady blue eyes, and made their twelve little mouths as round as penny pieces in their surprise. Now the King, being fond of ice-cream, happened to eat quite steadily for some moments without stopping; so that when he did look up he beheld his Queen already shrunk to the size of a teaspoon, and every moment growing smaller. "My dear," said he, gravely, "really I don't think you ought,--before the children too; just consider what a bad example you are setting them." [Illustration] "I'm sure, Sire," replied the Queen, rather crossly, for the sudden shrinking had given her quite a giddy feeling,--"I'm sure I cannot imagine what you are talking about. Bad example, indeed! You had better be looking to your own behavior. What the children will think of you for growing so very small, I'm sure I cannot imagine." At this moment the royal pair looked about on their daughters. They were about the size of lucifer matches! They ran their eyes down the long table; every person there was a pygmy. Horror and fear filled every mind save that of Prince Vance. He nearly went wild with joy over the great success of his trick. He had, it is true, run out of the dining-hall at first, from his old habit of starting off whenever he had performed any of his abominable jokes; but he soon ventured to come back again, and round and round the table he went, laughing as if he would kill himself at the tiny people sprawling helplessly in their big chairs. The Prince helped himself to fruit and cakes and bonbons from the table. He seated his royal mother on top of the sugar-bowl, and put the poor old King in the salt-cellar. As for the Lord Chancellor, whom he especially hated, Vance dumped the bewigged old fop into the pepper-box, where he would really have sneezed himself to death in another minute, had not the Blue Wizard fortunately appeared and given the unhappy man a sudden bath in a finger-bowl. "It worked well, didn't it?" the Blue Wizard observed with a grin, as he put the Lord Chancellor, very white and limp, on the window-seat to dry in the sun. "Oh, awfully well!" Vance replied briskly, although secretly he was more than a little afraid of this particular wizard, who seemed to be much more sudden in his way of appearing and disappearing than the common sort of wizards to which the Prince was accustomed. "The worst of it is," remarked the Wizard, thoughtfully, pulling his bushy eyebrows with his long blue fingers, "you can't change 'em back." "What!" exclaimed the Prince, in his confusion dropping his father into the pudding sauce and entirely ruining the royal robes. "Can't change them back? But you must change them back if I tell you to." [Illustration] "Oh, as to that," the Blue Wizard answered carelessly, giving the king in turn a bath in the finger-bowl, "what you say isn't of the least consequence any way. In the first place, no wizard is bound to obey anybody who does not himself know how to obey; and in the second place, nobody can undo this particular charm but the Crushed Strawberry Wizard." "Very well, then," said Vance, imperiously, paying no attention whatever to the first part of the Blue Wizard's remark; "go and get the Crushed Strawberry Wizard." "Get him yourself!" was the answer. "_I_ don't want him. It is nothing to me, you know; this isn't my family." "But where does the Crushed Strawberry Wizard live?" asked the Prince, more humbly. "I'm sure I've no idea," the Blue Wizard replied lightly; "and now I think of it, I don't believe I care. I'm sure I don't see why I should." "But it's all your fault," blubbered Vance, beginning to cry, and sitting down upon his uncle, the Duke Ogee, without even noticing him till the Duke wriggled so that Vance jumped up in a fright, thinking he had sat down upon a frog. "I'm sure you got me into the scrape." "Now you're getting tiresome," said the Wizard, yawning. "I never liked tiresome people myself." "But I don't know what to do-oo!" sobbed the Prince. At this the Wizard only gave a terrible laugh and vanished quite away again, leaving the naughty young Prince to get out of his trouble as best he could. [Illustration] IV For a few moments Prince Vance continued to cry rather noisily, though it must be confessed that it was more because he was so vexed at the Blue Wizard than because he was at all sorry for what he had done. Indeed, he did not even now realize that the trick was likely to turn out a very serious thing; and after a while he dried his eyes, and having collected his wits proceeded to collect also all the little people and put them together at one end of the royal dining-table. They made such a pretty sight, with their little court robes and tiny jewels, that Vance was charmed with them and declared them to be more interesting than white mice or even guinea pigs. He could hear them, too, if he listened very closely indeed, quarrelling and blaming one another for what had befallen them; and this was so vastly funny to the wicked Prince that he rubbed his hands and fairly danced again with glee. It was only when the palace cat, pouncing upon the Lord Chancellor as he lay upon the window-sill, snatched him and carried him off in her mouth, that Vance began to be a little frightened, and to realize that, having made the whole family unable to protect themselves, it had now become his duty to care for them and see that they came to no harm. He just managed to save the Lord Chancellor from the lantern jaws of the royal cat, and then proceeded at once to set his small family in safe places for the night. Some he put in the crystal lily-cups of the chandeliers; others in the crannies of the golden mouldings on the wall; while for the King and Queen and the twelve little Princesses, he found a lovely chamber in a pink porcelain shell which hung from the ceiling by silver chains, and was commonly used for the burning of perfumes and spices to make the air of the dining-hall sweet and delightful. All this being attended to, the Prince betook himself to bed; but the palace seemed very lonely and silent, and the Prince was so dull and so frightened that he might not have gone to sleep at all, save for the cheering thought that at least there was no danger of lessons on the morrow, as the tutor was too small to teach, and his father and mother far too little to make him obey. "I will go to the preserve closets," he murmured to himself as he was dropping off to sleep. "There is now nobody to stop me. I shall begin with the damsons and the honey in the morning, and I shall have all the wedding cake and macaroons that I can possibly eat." But, alas for the Prince! when morning came he found that affairs were turning out differently indeed from the way in which he had planned. When he came down to breakfast, with his foolish head full of visions of ordering the cook to send up pigeon pot-pie, curry of larks, strong coffee,--which was a forbidden delight to the Prince except upon his birthdays,--and unlimited buttered toast and jam, what a downfall to all his hopes was it to find, pacing the dining-hall, the fierce and cruel General Bopi, who, luckily for himself, had been out hunting the day before, and so missed the fatal dinner, and was still quite as large as life if not larger. He had discovered the state of affairs at the palace; and so far from making himself unhappy about this, he was evidently in great good spirits, and, to say the least, was disposed to make the best of matters instead of the worst. He had put on the King's very best crown which was kept to be worn only on great occasions, and with a cloak of royal ermine on his shoulders was strutting boldly up and down, enjoying his new splendors and the feeling of power which they brought. How it happened Vance never was quite able to tell, but the first thing he knew, his dreams of having his own way and ordering the servants about to his heart's content were shattered, and he found himself somehow pushed and hustled outside on the palace steps,--himself, the Prince, and heir to the royal throne, turned away from his own door and ordered to leave the kingdom on pain of death. "But my family!" cried Vance; "I hid them from the cat, and now they will starve. Nobody can find them but me!" "As for their starving," the General replied indifferently, "I don't know that I care for that; but I would rather the palace should be rid of the whole vermin race of them, so you may come in and gather them up. But be quick about it, or I'll set the royal bloodhounds on you!" Thus roughly treated, the poor Prince made haste to collect his scattered family from the nooks and crannies where he had hidden them. He was cramming them into his pockets with very little thought for their feelings, when he happened to remember his sister's baby-house, which not only had parlors, bedrooms, and dining-rooms in plenty, but was well furnished with everything which the heart of little people could desire. This he begged very humbly of the new king, and having it granted him he packed his family into it, making them as comfortable as their reduced circumstances would allow. A grinning footman strapped the box on the back of the Prince as an organ-grinder carries his organ; then he helped him out of the palace with a sudden push which had nearly sent him headlong down the steps. Laughing pages ran before him, and the Prince recalled the many times he had tweaked their noses and stuck pins in the calves of their legs. Everybody seemed heartily glad to see him go. "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" quoth the palace hound; "you will never again put my meat up a tree where I cannot get it." "Get out with you!" snapped the royal cat. "I'm glad you are turned out of the house. Let us hope a body can take a nap in comfort now, without having her tail stepped on or snuff sprinkled in her face." "Don't trouble yourself ever to come back," screeched the peacock, hoarsely. "For my part, I'm tired of having my handsomest tail-feathers snatched out by the handful. I'm sure I trust I shall never set eyes on you again." So it was with all the animals in the royal gardens. The deer, the emus, the gazelles, the swans, the flamingoes, the parrots, even his own particular white mice and spotted guinea pigs, declared that they were glad he was going, and hoped he might never come back any more. Not a creature did anything but rejoice as the royal beggar was tumbled rudely out from his own father's gardens and left standing alone in the highway, already heartily sorry for his prank, and quite at his wits' end as to what to do with the Court which he carried in his baggage. [Illustration] V Considering that Prince Vance had never done anything at all for himself, not even so much as to tie his own shoe-strings, it was a pretty hard lot for him to be turned out into the world to get his own living, and take care of the whole Court besides. At first he was almost tempted to throw away the box and all his relatives with it; but although of course he could not be expected to think so much of his father and mother now that there was so very little of them to be fond of, still under all his follies Vance had a good sort of heart, and so he trudged away with the troublesome little Court strapped tightly to his shoulders. I am not perfectly sure that he did not take some pleasure in jolting it about, for I have more than once seen little folk bang and jerk bundles they were made to carry against their wills. At any rate, the King and the Queen and the Court came very near being seasick upon dry land, from the jolting and rocking of this new manner of travelling. Prince Vance had not the least idea where he was going. He knew, of course, that he wanted to find the Crushed Strawberry Wizard, but he did not know where that individual lived, or how to go to work to find him; so he only made his best pace to get away from the palace as fast as he could, being afraid that the new king might repent of not having taken his head from his shoulders, and send somebody after him. It was about sunset when he came to a beautiful field which lay along the banks of a wide dark river; and Vance, who by this time was half starved, was delighted that wild strawberries grew here in great plenty, making the ground quite red. He first looked about for somebody to pick them for him, but naturally he found no one; so he set down his luggage and fell to helping himself, eating very fast and paying very little attention to the rules of good society. It was not until he had stuffed himself to the throat that he happened to think that his travelling companions might also be hungry. He opened the box and let them out, and found much pleasure in watching their funny antics as they stumbled over tiny pebbles or became entangled in the grass and struggled helplessly as if caught in some horrible thicket. Two or three would seat themselves around one ripe berry, and dine from it where it was growing; others drank drops of the evening dew, which already shone in the clover leaves and buttercups; while the Lord Chancellor, who seemed to be always getting into trouble, picked some sort of quarrel with a large green grasshopper,--and so terrible did the battle become that there is no telling who would have come out of it alive had not Vance gone to the poor Lord's help and frightened the insect away. Under all these trying circumstances the poor nobles kept something of their court manners; and their smiles and stately movements, their bowings and courtesies, seemed to Prince Vance so droll that he went into violent fits of laughter and rolled about on the grass. [Illustration] As it grew dark he did indeed stop laughing and think longingly of his soft bed with its silken pillows and down coverings, but in truth he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open at all; and as soon as he had picked his small relatives and friends out of the damp grass and put them safely into their box, he lay down under a spreading beech-tree and fell into a sound and delicious sleep. The morning found the Prince somewhat refreshed and gave him a fresh determination. He resolved to set out at once on the search for the Crushed Strawberry Wizard, leaving no means untried until he discovered him and prevailed upon him to change the transformed Court to its former condition. He shouldered his box and started bravely on the road, not knowing at all where he was going, and already beginning to regret that he had not paid to his lessons at least sufficient attention to have learned in which direction his own kingdom extended. He had walked an hour or two when he saw by the roadside a man engaged in gathering the down from the tall thistles that grew by the way. "Hallo!" cried the Prince; "what do you expect to do with that?" "Beds," answered the man, shortly, and without stopping his work. "Oh!" Vance said, seating himself on a stone and putting down his box beside him. "You make beds of it, do you? They must be very soft." "Dandelion," replied the man. "Dandelion?" repeated the Prince. "That doesn't mean anything." [Illustration] The man nodded his head in a knowing way, but said nothing. He was a strange-looking individual, with clothing which was made of all sorts of odds and ends pieced together; while so lean and wizened was he that it made the Prince hungry only to look at him. "Do you mean that dandelion down makes better beds?" asked Vance, whose wits were being sharpened by his travels. The other nodded. "Then why in the world couldn't you say so? You are not dumb." "Breath," returned the little thin man, briefly. He moved from the bunch of thistles which he had stripped to the next, turning as he did so and carefully picking up his footprints to use over again and save himself the trouble of making new ones. "You are certainly the most economical man I ever saw," declared the Prince, irritably. "I wouldn't be so mean with my old footprints; nobody else would bother to pick them up. And as for breath, you might spare a little more of that; it doesn't cost anything." The man paid no especial attention to these rather uncivil remarks, but went on in his work with great diligence. "Do talk a little!" Vance said, becoming more and more impatient every moment. "At least you can tell me how to find the Crushed Strawberry Wizard?" "Why?" asked the man, with the first show of interest he had displayed. "I'm going in search of him." "Wouldn't," was the little man's reply. "Why not?" "Dreadfully wearing on shoes," the other answered. Then he stopped and collected the breath which he had used in this speech,--for him a very long one,--and went on steadily picking thistledown. "But I must find him," Vance persisted, vexed anew at this reply; "where does he live?" "Don't know," said the thistledown-gatherer, shortly. Vance arose from the stone with an impatient flounce, and took up his box so suddenly that the teeth of all the Court chattered. "Well," he said snappishly, "you are certainly the stingiest man I ever saw. You can't even give away a civil word." "Oh, no!" returned the old man, with an expression of great astonishment. "Never give anything away. What will you give for your dolls?" Now, this question might sound like pure idiocy to some people; but funnily enough it came into the head of Vance that when he had been teasing those twelve models of propriety, his sisters, a few days before, and had made their blue bead-like eyes swim with tears by taking away their playthings, he had used just those very same words to them. He hung his head a little; but still, determined to put a bold face on the matter, he said,-- "Don't talk nonsense! Tell me the way to the Crushed Strawberry Wizard's this minute!" But, to his surprise, where the queer old man had stood there was only a seedy black raven, very battered and ragged, but with a remarkable pair of glittering red eyes. VI "I must say," the raven remarked severely, "that, considering the fact that nobody invited you to come to this concert at all, and that you have no check for a reserved seat, it would look better in you to keep quiet and not disturb the entertainment." "Concert!" exclaimed Vance, in bewilderment. "There isn't any concert." "But there is going to be," returned the bird, more severely than before. "I'm going to sing myself. First, I shall sing a love-song. Be quiet!" And without further ado he began, in a terribly hoarse and cracked voice,-- "Snip-snap, frip-frap, Bungalee, tee hee lees; Jip-jap; nip-nap, Tungatee tinum gee me strap, Bring me a bottle of cheese." "Oh, come," exclaimed the Prince, "you must really know that that is nonsense! It certainly means nothing." [Illustration] "How do you know?" demanded the raven, fixing his glittering eye on the Prince. "Do you understand the language of love?" "No," said Vance, more humbly; "I must confess that I don't, though I've always heard it was very silly." "Speaking of the boundaries of a king--" the raven began easily; but the Prince interrupted in great haste. "Nobody _was_ speaking of boundaries," he said sharply; "you made that up yourself." "--dom," resumed the raven, calmly, paying no sort of attention to the interruption of the Prince, but cocking his head on one side and looking wickedly out of one eye, "they are very useful to know, and there are various ways of learning them. Some people learn them in the school room; that's one way: some travel; that's--" But before he could get any farther Vance had caught up a stone and flung it at him. With a terrible croaking the raven flew up into the air in circles higher and higher until he vanished straight overhead. "Ten to one that was Godmother herself," grumbled Vance, as he picked up his box and started again along the dusty road. All the rest of the day he travelled, growing more and more weary, until at sunset he came to a very old woman sitting beside a great tree upon the river's bank. "Hallo!" cried Vance, not too politely. The wrinkled old creature looked at the river, at the tree, at the sky,--everywhere, in a word, except at the travel-stained Vance. "Come!" he said more roughly yet, "why don't you speak when you are spoken to? Do you know who I am?" The aged crone wrinkled her forehead and lifted her grizzled eyebrows, still without looking at him. "No," she answered coolly, "I don't know that I do. You look like a boot-black with that box on your shoulders, only that a boot-black would be more civil-spoken." An angry retort sprang to the lips of the Prince, but before he could give vent to it a terrible little shrill sound from the box struck his ears. In sudden dismay he unslung the baby-house, and opened it to discover what was the matter with his family. In the middle of the floor of the largest room of the baby-house were all the Court, gathered about the old King, who had fallen in a faint from hunger. "He is starved!" cried the Queen, in a piercing wee voice of anguish. "I am starving myself!" roared the Lord Chamberlain, in a keen though tiny roar. "We are all starving!" shrieked the whole Court, in voices more or less audible. "Well," Vance said, looking at the affliction of the little people, "I must say this is extremely disagreeable of them all to be starving. They always are starving." "Very," the old woman echoed, with a sneering chuckle. As she spoke, she took from beneath her faded cloak a basket in which were delicate white cakes, fruits, and honey. These she began to eat with great relish, apparently not at all interested in the Prince or his family. "Come, now," cried he, "give me some of that! My Court is half dead." "Really?" she returned, coolly munching away. "Yes," shouted Vance, vainly attempting to snatch something from the well-filled basket, "and I must have a cake to feed them on." The old lady made no resistance, but only flitted up like a bird, in some unaccountable way, to a limb of a tree, where she sat eating as placidly as ever. "Goodness!" said poor Vance, startled half out of his wits, "are you Godmother too? You shy about just like her." "She is a friend of mine," answered the old woman. "I know all about you, too, for that matter." There was nothing left for Vance but to beg for pity, and at last the strange creature threw him down half a small cake. "There's plenty for your family." Vance provided for his little people, and then began humbly to beg for a few morsels for himself. "Wait," said the woman on the bough overhead, "till I see what there is in the pantry." She disappeared with great suddenness; but presently a little window opened in the side of the tree trunk, from which the wrinkled old face looked out. [Illustration] "Here are a few dry crusts from the closet," she said. "You may have them. With a little honey I think they will go very well." She handed two or three mouldy scraps of bread out as she spoke, which Vance took with as good grace as he could muster. "Where is the honey?" he asked, eying his crusts ruefully. "Oh, I'll eat the honey while you eat the crusts," was the answer. "That is by far the best way to arrange it." "You are mean enough, I hope," he exclaimed angrily. But, alas! at the word the crusts left his grasp and appeared in the hand of the old woman. "Oh, very well," she said, "just as you please! You are not obliged to have them, of course." Poor Vance was ready to cry with vexation and hunger, and quite broke down at this last misfortune. He begged so humbly for the crusts that at last the queer old crone relented and gave them back; and never did anything taste sweeter to him than these dry and mouldy morsels of bread. "You may sleep where you are," the woman said as he finished; and she closed the window with a slam, leaving it impossible to say where it had been. "Oh, by the way," she cried, a moment later, sticking her head through the bark of the tree, in a way that looked very uncomfortable indeed, "about those boundaries, you know, and the Crushed Strawberry Wizard, I was going to say--But, no; on the whole, it's no matter." And once more she disappeared, not again to be seen. "I must say," muttered Prince Vance, "strange things happen to me all the time." And curling himself up on the moss, he fell fast asleep from weariness. VII The morning sun shining into his eyes awakened him; and after looking about carefully to assure himself that there was nothing to be had to eat in that place, Vance shouldered his box and trudged along the river's bank. It was a beautiful bright morning; the birds were singing, the flowers were opening to the light, and had it not been for a constantly growing hunger, the young traveller might have enjoyed his walk greatly. As it was, he soon became so hungry that he could think of nothing but eating. He went on, however, until about noon, before he found any food; then to his great joy he came upon a fine tree hanging full of ripe peaches, rosy and plump as a baby's cheek. "Now for a feast!" he said eagerly to himself, as he put down his box and prepared to gather a hatful of the delicious fruit. Just then he stumbled over something, and looking down saw a man lying on the grass with his eyes shut and his mouth open. "Hallo!" exclaimed the Prince. "Who are you? Are you awake or asleep?" "Awake," answered the man, without stirring. "Why don't you get up then?" asked Vance. "Are you ill?" "No," replied the man, briefly. And indeed he was as stout a fellow as one would meet in a summer's day. "Then what are you doing?" demanded the Prince, who had lost all patience and who thought that the other might at least take the trouble to open his eyes to see who was talking to him. "Waiting," the man said, opening his eyes at last. "Waiting for what?" "For a peach to drop into my mouth." "One has fallen beside your cheek," said Vance, "and another right in your hand." [Illustration] "But I want it in my mouth," sighed the man on the ground. "I am so dreadfully hungry." "So dreadfully lazy, you mean," exclaimed Vance, quite out of patience; and he began to eat the luscious fruit. "You must certainly be the laziest man in the world." "If you think that," was the drawling answer, "you ought to see my cousin Loto, who lives down the river a mile as the crow flies." "He'll have to be lazy, indeed, to beat you," the Prince said, as he once more shouldered his box. "Do you know where the Crushed Strawberry Wizard lives?" "I know," returned the man, "but I'm too lazy to tell." "It wouldn't take you any longer to tell than to say you can't tell," cried Vance, hotly. "Perhaps not," was the cool retort; "but if I told it would be doing something, and I never do anything." The Prince started on his way without another word. He did not even stop to put a peach into the lazy man's open mouth, as he at first had some thought of doing. He kept along beside the river for some time, and had nearly forgotten the words of the lazy man about his cousin, when suddenly he came upon what to his horror he at first supposed to be the body of some thief hanging from a tree. As he got closer, however, he found that the man was alive and suspended by a belt which went under his arms. The man did not seem in the least to mind being hung, but looked quite calm and peaceful. A second man stood upon an overturned bucket and blew into the mouth of the first with a pair of bellows. [Illustration] "What are you doing?" asked Vance curiously, as he stopped beside them. "Why," replied the man with the bellows, "this fellow is too lazy to stand, so we have to hang him up; and he is too lazy to breathe for himself, so he pays me a groat a day to do it for him with the bellows." "I saw a man up the river who was too lazy to eat," observed Vance. "I thought he was bad enough, but this is surely the laziest man alive." "If you think that," the blower answered, "you should see his cousin Gobbo, who lives a mile farther down the river as the crow flies." At this Vance was reminded that nightfall was not very far off, and once more he started on his way. The man with the bellows jumped down from his bucket and ran eagerly after him. He was a simple-looking man, with a large and frog-like mouth. "It creeps in the family," he whispered hoarsely to the Prince. "What does?" "Laziness. If it were anything else, you know, you'd say it _ran_ in the family. But wait till you see Gobbo!" Just then he noticed that Loto was growing quite limp and purple in the face for want of breath; so he hastily scrambled back to his bucket, and once more began to blow for dear life and a groat a day. "By the way," asked Vance, halting, "do you know where the Crushed Strawberry Wizard lives?" "He knows," replied the blower, "but you can't get it out of him. He's too lazy to speak; so it's no manner of use fretting about it." With a sigh of weariness and disgust the royal wayfarer turned away and went on his journey. Just at dusk he reached a small village, or rather a group of poor little houses; and as he was about to knock at the door of one to ask for shelter, he saw a procession coming over the fields. There were a number of men with flaring torches, one or two with picks and spades, while in the midst was carried a bier upon which lay a man with his eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. [Illustration] "What's all this?" the Prince asked of one who seemed of some authority in the company. "We are going to bury Gobbo," replied the man. "But he isn't dead yet," exclaimed Vance, quite horrified. "True," the man returned, in a matter-of-fact tone, "but he does not care about living. I know, for he's hired me to think for him these ten years. Now I'm tired of it, and so I think it's best to bury him; and of course it's all the same as if he thought so himself." "Well," said Vance, who was beginning to grow badly confused by the odd people he encountered, "if he doesn't mind I'm sure I don't know why I should. But perhaps before he is buried he can tell me where to find the Crushed Strawberry Wizard." "He won't take the trouble to remember," answered the man, "and I'm sure I'll do no more thinking for him." "Well," was the thought with which the unlucky Vance consoled himself, "it is something to have seen the laziest man on earth." VIII He found an empty hut, in which was some mouldy straw; and there he passed the night, sleeping as soundly as if he had been on his own royal bed of down in the palace at home. His breakfast was begged at the door of one of the houses in the village; and all day he followed the river, until near evening he came to the gray seashore and the huts of the fisher folk. "What is the name of the river I have been following?" he asked of a wrinkled old fisherman who was mending his net in the sunset. "It is called Laf," the old man answered. "It is the eastern border of Jolliland, as the coast is the northern." "Oh, bother boundaries!" Vance exclaimed, "I hate them. Can you give me something to eat?" "We are poor folk," said the old man, "but I suppose we can give ye a bite if ye pays for it." "Pay for it!" cried Vance, in astonishment. "Do you know who I am?" "Not rightly," said the fisherman; "but from yer look and from yer box I take ye for a travelling showman. What have ye got in yer box?" "My family," answered the Prince, before he thought. "Do you know where the Crushed Strawberry Wizard lives?" "Not rightly," the other replied again; "but I think somewhere alongshore. What sort of a family have ye got? A happy family?" "I'm sure I hope they're happy," was Vance's response. "I know that I am not. Perhaps they may like being carried better than I like carrying them." "What can they do?" the fisherman persisted. "Can they dance and eat buns like a bear, or do they fight and knock each other about like Punch and Judy?" "They do nothing of the sort," began the Prince, angrily. "It is not a show at all; it is--" Then remembering that if he was rude to the fisherman he should certainly lose all chance of getting a supper, he became more polite, and ended by saying,-- "They are--I mean they act out a king and queen and their court." "Truly," cried the fisherman; "that is a rare show indeed! I never saw the like. Come in and get your supper, and afterward we will have out the puppets." Upon this he led the way into his hut, and bade the Prince follow him. It was a very poor little hut indeed, with rude walls, in which the cracks were stuffed with seaweed to keep out the wind, and with a small fire burning on the heap of flat stones which served for a fireplace. The fisherman's wife, who was old and quite crooked with rheumatism, was hobbling about getting the supper, which she said was all but ready. When it was all ready, without the but, they sat down, though the poor Prince, hungry as he was, found it hard work to swallow the dry red herring, the rasping oaten cakes, and the brackish water of which the meal consisted. When he had finished the meal,--which, as you may suppose, did not take long,--he set his box upon the table and opened it. [Illustration] "First," he said, "let us give them some food, and you shall see how prettily they can play at eating and drinking." But if the food was coarse eating to Vance, you may well imagine that it was quite beyond the power of the tiny teeth of the little people, who were not able to eat a morsel. This made them wring their hands and weep upon their tiny pocket-handkerchiefs; and the King even boxed the Lord Chancellor's ears, so angry was he at being disappointed of his supper. All this was vastly amusing to the fisherman and his wife, who thought the whole thing was done as a show, and would not hear of Vance's closing his box until the darkness quite hid the supposed puppets from sight. In the night, as Vance lay trying in vain to sleep upon the hard clay floor of the cottage, he overheard the fisherman and his wife whispering together. "I tell ye, wife," the old man was saying, "I will do it, so there be's an end to the matter. I tell ye I will have the show for my very own. I could make more money with the puppets in one day at the fair, than I make by a year's fishing hereabouts." "But the boy," asked the old woman, eagerly,--"ye won't hurt the boy, will ye, good man?" "Hurt him? No," returned the fisherman, "I won't do him no harm. I'll sell him for a sailor to the ship that lies in the offing, and then I'll take his show and travel about the country with it, making money." As Vance heard this, you may be sure he shivered with horror at the idea that his family was to be stolen and he himself sold to go as a sailor. He lay very still, however, till the loud snoring told him that the fisherman and his wife were both asleep, when he rose softly, and finding his precious box shouldered his burden, crept quietly from the cottage, and made all the speed he could in the darkness to leave the wicked fisherman and his hut far, far behind. At daybreak he met a man just pushing his boat from the shore, and from him he asked whither the road along the beach would lead him. "That's a thing as nobody can't tell ye," said the man, fitting the oars into his boat, "because nobody don't rightly know. Howsoever, I advise ye to take it, for it's full as likely to lead somewheres as nowheres." This advice was of no great value to the Prince, yet he felt obliged to follow it, as he dared not go back; so he tramped on steadily, though the sun was high, and the box was heavy, and the Court within buzzed like a hive of angry bees at being forced to go so long without food. IX Near noon the Prince was joined by a jelly-fish, who seemed to be of a cheerful and lively disposition, and who insisted upon attaching himself to Vance and going along with him. The boy thought that he already had quite as many people as he was able to look after, and he told the creature so plainly. "Besides," he finished quite crossly, for he was really out of patience, "to say the truth, you flump so that you make me nervous." "Boys shouldn't have nerves," said the jelly-fish, coolly. "Of course, if I have no legs I can't walk, and if I can't walk I must flump. That's plain, even to you, I suppose." Prince Vance was too vexed to reply; so the pair kept on in silence, save for the tired footsteps of the boy and the loud flumping of the jelly-fish on the damp sand of the shore. Near sundown they reached a broad field where ripe grain of some sort seemed to be growing, and through it, shaded by trees, ran a brook, clear as crystal. Into this field the weary Prince gladly turned, and first of all opened his box, half fearing lest he should find the poor little Court quite dead from cruel hunger. They were not indeed really lifeless, but they were lying about limp and white, and looked as if there was very little strength left in them. The Prince hastily filled them several acorn cups from the clear, cold brook, and then, seizing one of the long heads, of which the grain hung full, he broke it open as quickly as possible. [Illustration] "Raw wheat," he said, "is certainly not good, but at least it will keep them from starva--" He stopped in amazement, and no wonder; for instead of the grain he expected to find, the pod was full of chocolate creams, large, and all of the most delicious flavors, as the Prince found by trying one. He opened another pod in astonishment; lemon drops fell from it. A third was full of burnt almonds, while a fourth contained sugared dates. In short, the whole wonderful field was full of sweetmeats: cocoanut cakes and macaroons; cream figs, marsh mallows, and gum drops; almond paste, candied nuts, sugared seeds, and crystallized fruits; in truth, you could not even dream of any sort of luscious confectionery which was not growing fresh and plentiful in that charming field. Very quickly the Prince placed several fine bonbons upon the baby-house table. The King, too near starving to care much for good manners, carved with his sword, and ladies and gentlemen seized slices in their hands and ate as if famished. A wine drop furnished them with delicious cordial to drink, and thus the Court feasted so merrily that it would have done one's heart good to see them. Having thus provided for his family, you may be sure that Vance was not a great while in providing for himself; and having shelled a fine lapful of bonbons, he sat down to enjoy himself in peace, when to his vexation he heard at his side the unwelcome voice of the jelly-fish. "Feed me first!" cried the creature; "I have no hands to gather bonbons for myself. Feed me first! I am hungry too." Poor Prince Vance! He was indeed weary and warm and hungry, and his patience was quite gone. "Go and eat without hands, then!" he cried crossly; and seizing the flabby creature he tossed it recklessly away from him among the vines. He had, however, hardly drawn a breath of relief, and was just setting his teeth in a delicious bit of nougat, when back came the jelly-fish quite unhurt and fully as cheerful as ever. "Now, why should you take the trouble to do a thing of that sort?" demanded the fish. "It cannot amuse you, and it doesn't hurt me. I shall certainly flump back again as often as you throw me away, so you see it is of no use; and if it is of no use, why, it certainly is not useful. I suppose even you can see that. Feed me!" "I don't see any way of feeding you," replied the Prince, with his mouth full of sugared apricot; "you certainly have no mouth." "That is apparently true," returned the fish, amiably; "but just lay a soft bonbon on top of me and see what will happen." The Prince did as he was bid, and had the satisfaction of seeing a large orange cream melt gradually away as the jelly-fish slowly drew it into himself. The Prince had eaten, for once in his life, all the sugar-plums he wanted, and had just taken a drink of water from the cold, clear brook, when he heard a voice like thunder rolling among the hills. "Who is this," it cried, "in my lollipop field, stealing my lollipops?" With his heart thumping loudly against his side, Vance looked up and beheld a sight which might have made a king and his army shake in their shoes; and how much more a poor little Prince with a Court to care for and only a jelly-fish to help him! [Illustration] X The sight which so terrified Prince Vance was indeed nothing more nor less than a horrible giant, fully as tall as the tallest church-steeple you ever saw, and having in his forehead three hideous great eyes--red, white, and blue--and a mouth which looked like nothing so much as a dark cave on a mountain side. Before Vance really knew what had happened, he found himself snatched up and standing upon the great hand of the giant, as if it were a table. "Please," he said, speaking in a great hurry, he was so frightened,--"please, we only took a few because we were nearly starving. We did not know they belonged to you, and we meant no harm. Please, oh, please let us go this once, and we'll promise never, never to come back any more." [Illustration] "Oh, ho!" cried the giant, with a great laugh; "let you go, indeed! Not so fast, Thumbkin! I am fond of little people like you." Poor Vance danced helplessly about upon the giant's great palm, but could do nothing to help himself and had to look on as the giant seized the box in his other hand and shook it gently, making the little folk fly about wildly and get many a bruise and bump from tables and chairs. "These will amuse my wife vastly," said the giant, as he began to stride toward home. "I should not wonder but she'd preserve ye in brown sugar. I like such little relishes, and 'tis a long time since I've had any." At this you can fancy that poor Vance became quite ill with fear; but as there seemed just then to be no way of escaping, he held his tongue and looked sharply about him until in time they came to the giant's castle. It was a huge gray stone building, with iron-barred windows, and at the gate three dogs so enormous in size and so hideous to see that merely to hear of them would be enough to give one the shivers, so you shall be told nothing at all about them. Horrible as they looked, they stood in fear of the giant; and at his word they lay down meekly enough, and did not even growl as he strode by them through the court and into the castle hall. "Wife," cried the giant to a woman who stood admiring herself in a big mirror in the end of the room,--"wife, come ye here and see what I have found." "What have you found?" asked she, without turning away from the glass. "Is it anything to wear?" "Zounds!" shouted the giant. "Can you think of nothing but dress, Madam? No, it is far better than something to wear; it is something to eat. Come, put on the pot!" At this all hope forsook poor Vance, and he thought that his end had come indeed. But the giant's wife spoke up sharply, and declared that it was quite too late to be cooking anything fresh for supper, and that the giant might wait until morning. "What is there for supper, anyhow?" asked the giant, discontentedly, for he had quite counted upon the fresh stew he would have made from Vance. "Why," replied the giantess, "there's the sea-serpent pie I've warmed up, and I've opened a can of elephant's heads by way of a relish." "Be quick with it," growled the giant, "or I shall eat this boy up raw in no time!" At this the giant's wife, who was by no means a bad-hearted woman, though rather fond of dress and vain of her beauty, (and being as high as a steeple, one must confess that there was a good deal of her to be vain of!) gave Vance a shove into a corner to get him out of her husband's sight; and in the corner Vance was glad enough to stay hid while the giant ate an enormous supper, and drank a whole cask of ale which his wife drew for him from a huge butt in the corner of the hall. After he had finished eating and drinking, the giant bade his wife look to it that the boy was put in a safe place for the night; then, seizing a candle as long as a bean-pole, he stumbled heavily away to bed. His wife, who had been sitting by the fire, now rose and invited Vance to come and share the remains of the supper. "You are a pretty little boy," she said, "and that peach-colored velvet jacket must have been handsome before it grew so soiled. Now come, eat a bit of pie and drink a little ale; you want to be in good condition for to-morrow. If you must be made into a stew, of course you'd rather be a good stew than a bad one." "I don't know about that," replied Vance, dismally; "if I must be cooked whether I like it or not, I rather think I would like to taste particularly nasty." "Oh, fie now!" cried the giantess. "Good little boys do not talk so. I am sure you must be a good little boy, by your looks. What is in your box? Jewelry?" "If I will show you," asked Vance, with some hope in his voice, "will you let me go? My dear, kind lady, you do pity me, don't you? I am sure you are kind and good. Only let me go, and I will send you beautiful jewels. I will do anything for you if you will only let me go." "No," said the giantess, "I can't do that. He would beat me to death if I let you go; besides, you could not get by the dogs if I let you free twenty times over. But I'll tell you what I will do; if you will unlock your box I'll give you laughing-gas before I cook you to-morrow, and then you won't know what has happened till you are fairly stewed and eaten." This was but cold comfort to Vance, as you may imagine; but he saw that the giantess meant kindly, and he still hoped to escape in some way, so he swallowed his sobs as best he could and proceeded to open his box. No sooner were the tiny people free than they began to run eagerly about the table, eating the crumbs of oaten bread and the grains of sugar which the untidy giantess had scattered. Small as the little courtiers were, their jewels and robes glistened and made a fine show; and the giantess leaned upon her elbows and watched them with delight, declaring them the prettiest little things she ever saw. "I should not wonder, now," she said, "if my husband would give these little things to me; they are too small to be of any use except as seasoning. I wish I could make them useful in some way." [Illustration] The giantess, as has been said, was a vain woman, and she was always thinking how everything could be put to use as something to wear. "I have an idea," she said, suddenly jumping up and bringing a spool of pink silk from her work-box, which was about the size of a Saratoga trunk. "I have heard of ladies wearing live beetles fastened by tiny gold chains to their breast-pins. I believe I can do something of the sort with these little puppets." "But, Madam," begged Vance, in dismay, "you do not seem to understand that these are my own royal rela--" "Now, you be still!" said the giant's wife, playfully, "or I'll pop you into that steaming kettle over there without a single sniff of laughing-gas; and you can't begin to fancy how unpleasant you would find it,--you can't, really." At this Prince Vance shivered, and said very feebly indeed,-- "Please don't hurt them, dear Mrs. Giant; they are very tender." "I shall not hurt them," said the lady, "or at least only enough to make them kick; they are so amusing when they kick." As she talked, she tied bits of silk about the waists of the King and the Queen, and hung them in her ears as children sometimes hang buttons when they pretend to have eardrops. When she had fastened on her strange ear-rings, she made a necklace of the Princesses and Courtiers, and having put it on she began to admire herself in the glass as if she would never be done. After a while, however, she got so sleepy that she could no longer see, and was even too tired to toss her head and make the King and the Queen swing about in her ears. She put her new jewelry back in their box, and picking Vance up put him into a wooden bird-cage on the wall. "Pleasant dreams!" she said cheerfully. And then she too went away to bed. XI Left alone in his high-hung cage, poor Vance was indeed in deep despair. He saw no way out of his troubles, and could not help weeping as he bemoaned his miserable lot. "It is all the fault of that wretched Blue Wizard!" he exclaimed; for it did not occur to him that it was his own bad behavior which brought the Blue Wizard to the palace in the first place. Just at this moment, in a pause between his sobs, the Prince heard a familiar flumping sound on the stone floor below him; and looking down beheld to his surprise his old companion the jelly-fish. "How do you do?" asked the jelly-fish, politely. "I suppose you're not very glad to see me." "Oh, but I am, though!" cried the Prince, not very politely. "I should be glad to see anybody now, no matter who. How did you get by the dogs?" "I flew," replied the creature. "Jelly-fish cannot fly," said the Prince; "so that cannot be true." "Well, then," responded the jelly-fish, indifferently, "I swam; and if that isn't true, why, I suppose it is false. Even you can see the wisdom of that, can't you? However, now that I am here, I've something to tell you. This castle is in the township of Bogarru, and Bogarru is situated on the western boundary of Jolliland, which--" "Who cares for boundaries?" the impatient Prince interrupted. "Have you nothing pleasanter than that to talk about?" "--brings me to my point," the unmoved jelly-fish continued. "Whenever I visit a place for the first time I am able to have one wish come true. This is my first visit to Bogarru. Now the question is, Shall I wish the heathen of Gobbs Island to become converted, stop eating their grandmothers and take to wearing clothes; or shall I wish you out of this castle, you and your Court, in the time a cat winks?" "The last, the last!" cried the Prince, too eager to speak correctly. "Dear, kind, good jelly-fish, do wish us out of this horrible place, and you shall go everywhere with me if you want to, and I'll never speak rudely to you again as long as you live!" "Ah!" replied the fish, "I was afraid you'd choose thus. You care more for yourself than you do for the Gobbs Islanders. It is not truly noble, but perhaps it is natural. Now, then, open your mouth and shut your eyes!" The Prince obeyed, and at once there was a taste of something exceedingly bitter on his tongue; sparks danced before his closed eyes, and directly he felt a whiff of cool fresh air blowing upon him. "Open your eyes!" said the voice of the jelly-fish. The Prince did so, and to his great joy found himself, with his box beside him, out upon a country road, with the stars twinkling over his head. "Oh, dear, good jelly-fish!" he cried joyously, "how can I ever thank you?" "You seem to be fonder of me than you were a while ago," observed the jelly-fish, dryly. "However, I forgive you. If you want to find the Crushed Strawberry Wizard, keep straight on along this road till you come to the house of the Funny Man. Flubaloo!" The jelly-fish disappeared as he spoke this last mysterious word. "What a pity!" said the Prince; "I can never tell him how sorry I am for my rudeness. I have lost my only friend. I wonder what he meant by 'flubaloo,' now?" This, however, was so hard a question to think out that at last the Prince decided to give it up. So, shouldering his pack, he started briskly off along the high-road, not daring to linger till daylight for fear that the giant would wake up, and, finding his prisoner gone, would come after him and carry him back to the terrible castle of Bogarru. XII All night Prince Vance trudged on in the starlight, and did not stop even to take breath till he saw the sky begin to grow red with the coming sunrise; then, clambering over a hedge, he laid himself down in its shelter, and instantly fell into a deep and heavy sleep. The sun was high above him when he woke, and at once he became aware of a great ringing of bells, blowing of horns, and beating of drums, as if he were in the midst of some holiday celebration. He started up, rubbing his eyes, and found that he had fallen asleep in a field which was now gay with hundreds of merry-makers. Flags were flying from tents and booths; bands of musicians were playing; glass-blowers and jugglers were performing their tricks; peasants in gay dresses were singing, dancing, and feasting; and there were all manner of shows and swings and merry-go-rounds, enough to have turned your head entirely, had you been there to see. As to the Prince, he was so delighted as even to forget for a while both hunger and weariness, and walked about from sight to sight, crying "Hurrah!" as the jugglers and rope-dancers performed their curious and daring tricks. At length he came to a booth in which an old woman was preparing over her fire a kettle of steaming stew, which to the hungry Prince seemed to send forth the most delicious odor of any stew he ever had known in his life. "Ah," he exclaimed eagerly, "that smells exceedingly savory, good mother!" "Ay," replied the old woman; "and truly it ought, for it has in it blue pigeons, a fine fat cock, three wild hares, and every vegetable and savory herb known in all Jolliland. Will you have a bowl?" "Ay," said the Prince, "that I will; and let the bowl be a large one!" he added, as he watched the old woman filling a goodly wooden basin with the stew. "There!" she exclaimed as she held it toward him, "there it is; and good enough eating for a royal prince, if I do say it who made it. One silver bit and 'tis yours, my fine young fellow!" [Illustration] "But," stammered the Prince, his mouth watering as the fragrant steam reached his nostrils,--"but I have no silver bit. If you will only trust me for it, I will pay you as soon as ever I find the Crushed Straw--" He stopped speaking suddenly, for he saw that the woman was laughing at him. She had snatched the basin of stew as it were from his very mouth; and as she laughed loudly and shrilly, she pointed at the Prince with her fat forefinger. Drawn by the noise she was making, all the peasants flocked around, crying out,-- "What is it, Mother Michael? What is the joke? Tell us, that we may laugh too; for you know we must laugh. It is our duty to laugh." "He wants to be trusted for a basin of broth," tittered the old dame, "and he says that he will pay me when he finds the Crushed Strawberry Wizard!" At this all the peasants laughed in chorus till the very hills echoed. "I don't see what you are laughing at," cried the poor Prince, hotly; "I think you are very silly indeed." "Of course we are!" answered the laughing peasants. "It is our duty to be silly. If we cannot laugh at something, we laugh at nothing, since this is Sillyburg, the merriest town in Jolliland." [Illustration] "But," asked the Prince, in vexation, "does nobody here know anything? Has nobody any sense?" "Of course not!" said the peasants. "Who cares about knowing anything, and what's the good of having sense? We have a good time in the world, and that's enough for us." The Prince would have reproved the peasants for talking so foolishly, but that the words seemed to have a strangely familiar sound; and he suddenly remembered that he had used them himself at one time when his tutor was urging him to learn common fractions. In the mean time the peasants, always eager for any new thing, had become very anxious to know what was in the mysterious box which the Prince carried. "If it is a show," they cried, "open the box and set it out. We are weary for something new to laugh at." But the Prince hardly thought it would please the King and Queen to be laughed at by a crowd of gaping rustics. To be sure, he had shown them before, but that was in private and not as a real exhibition at a public fair. Some days ago this would not have troubled the Prince at all; but trial and hardship were fast making Vance into a very different sort of boy from the Prince who was the despair of his poor tutor and the torment of the entire palace. However, the poor wayfarer reflected that as food was only to be had for money, money must be earned in some way, or the Court and himself were certain to starve. It also occurred to him that if his family still had any feelings they must be such exceedingly small ones that they were not of much importance; and accordingly he opened his box and proceeded to show off his tiny relatives, the peasants screaming with laughter at the airs and graces of the little Courtiers, and offering them all manner of cakes, fruits, and bonbons for the sake of seeing them eat. The Court Priest pleased the rustics particularly, as he seized the only sugared almond and ran away with it into a corner, pursued by the entire Court, all squabbling and quarrelling in the most undignified manner possible. This sight so delighted the peasants that they gave Vance plenty of good silver bits, and thus he was able at last to buy himself a breakfast, though you may be quite sure he did not get it of the old woman who had made sport of him before. When he had finished his meal, which was eaten sitting on the grass before a chicken-pasty booth, he rose and asked the peasants politely the way to the Funny Man's house. "The house is far away," they cried, "but the Funny Man is here at the Fair if you can only find him. You can't always find him." "This is the Funny Man," cried a jolly gay voice. "This is I! Here I be. Why don't you catch me?" [Illustration] XIII Vance looked, and saw, dodging and hopping about behind a neighboring booth, a fat little man dressed in green and hung all over with fluttering ribbons and jingling bells. He looked so lively and merry that at first sight the Prince was quite charmed with him; but he soon thought that his looks were far more agreeable than his behavior, for the Funny Man would neither stop to speak nor to listen, but kept running and dodging about and hiding behind booths or groups of peasants, so that the Prince was in despair about ever finding out from him where the Crushed Strawberry Wizard lived. "I want to speak to you, if you please," cried the Prince. "I have something which I must say to you; I really must." "Catch me, then!" cried the Funny Man. "Chase me! Run after me! Whoop! Now you see me, and now you don't! Hurrah for me and my legs!" Away dashed the Funny Man, and away scampered the angry Prince in pursuit of him. But Vance soon found it to be of no use in the world to try to capture so swift a runner; so he stopped, hot and breathless and weary, while all the peasants held their sides to prevent their splitting with laughter, and cried,-- "Hurrah for the Funny Man!" "Do you give it up?" asked the Funny Man, as Vance seated himself by his box and wiped his heated forehead. "Of course I do," answered the Prince, crossly. "I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself. Why do you want to act so, anyway?" "For the fun of it afterward," replied the Funny Man. Now that at last he was standing still, the Prince perceived that his nose was of a most peculiar and curious fashion. It was not only of large size and green in color, but it ended in a long and slender pipe, something like a stick of macaroni, which was twisted up for ornament or convenience into a sort of figure eight. [Illustration] "For the fun of it afterward," repeated the Funny Man. "Well," said the Prince, "I should say that it couldn't be any great fun, in the first place, to be a grown-up man like you, and it certainly can be no fun whatever afterward." "Oh," rejoined the Funny Man, "that's only one of my queer sayings, you know. It doesn't really mean anything. By the by, what did you want of me?" "A friend of mine who was a jelly-fish," began the Prince, "told me to ask you how I should find the Crushed Strawberry Wizard." "Pooh!" cried the Funny Man, turning rapidly on the ends of his pointed toes. "I don't care about doing that. Why should I? There's no fun in it. Stop a minute, though! Is that _all_ the jelly-fish said? You are sure he said nothing more, not a word?" "Nothing that meant anything," replied the Prince. "He said 'Flubaloo' as he left me." "No!" exclaimed the Funny Man, turning rather pale. "Did he really, though? If he did, that puts matters in a very different light, a very serious light. Come home with me, and in the morning I'll set you off on the right road. Hurry! for we have a good distance to go, and 'tis a roundabout way." Following the lead of the Funny Man, the Prince found himself once more upon the high-road, along which they journeyed until late in the afternoon, when their path suddenly plunged deep into the forest. "Wait a minute!" said the Funny Man; "I must light my nose." "Do what?" asked the astonished Prince. "Light my nose, Stupid!" replied his guide. The Prince said no more, but looked on in silent amazement while the Funny Man untwisted the figure eight at the point of his nose, and removed a small copper cap which covered the end. He then struck a match and applied it to the bottom of this macaroni-like tube. A light like a large star at once appeared, and shed its yellow beams about so widely as to make the gloomy forest-road as light as day. "Excuse me for speaking of it," said the Prince, politely, "but that's a strange sort of nose you have." "Not at all," answered the Funny Man, carelessly; "very common in these parts,--very common, indeed. Simply a sort of slow-match; grows in the daytime as much as it burns away at night. Come on! I'm going to run, and you must catch me. Hurrah! Now you see me and now you don't!" [Illustration] Alas for the poor Prince! it was mostly "don't." The light flickered and danced ahead of him like a will-o'-the-wisp, and was often lost entirely; while the tired boy, burdened with his cumbersome box, hastened after as best he might, stumbling and tumbling over stones and tough roots, splashing through miry places and running violently against tree-trunks, till just as he was ready to sink down in despair and let his unpleasant companion go where he would, he came suddenly upon the Funny Man resting upon the gate of a curious little house, and laughing with great glee at the race he had led the Prince. "Here we are," said the Funny Man; "come in! My wife's at home, and I've no doubt supper's all ready except the seasoning. I always season things myself, because I'm something of an epicure." As he spoke, he led the way into the house, having put out his light and once more wound his nose up into its figure eight. XIV The room in which the Prince found himself was bright and cheery, and the table was laid for supper. The wife of the Funny Man was rather a mournful-looking woman, which the Prince privately thought was by no means to be wondered at. She had a somewhat peculiar and startling appearance, from the fact that her head was twisted completely round on her body, so that she faced the wrong way. "Curious effect, isn't it?" asked the Funny Man, as he observed that the Prince was staring at his wife. "I did it one day for a joke, and the best part of it all is that I have forgotten the charm to bring her round right again." "Does she think it is a joke?" asked the Prince. [Illustration] "As to that," replied the Funny Man, indifferently, "I don't know, because I never asked her, and I certainly do not care one way or another." "?reppus ot nwod tis ot uoy esaelp ti lliW" said the woman, after the Funny Man had busied himself a few moments with the dishes. Vance stared in confusion, but the Funny Man seemed quite used to this odd way of speaking. "Her talk is all hind-side before," he explained, chuckling, "since I turned her head about. Sit down! Supper is ready." They all sat down. The unfortunate woman faced the wall behind her, and therefore she was a little awkward in ladling the soup. However, that was a slight affair, and Vance was far too famished to be particular. The pottage gave forth a most appetizing odor, and the Prince hastily plunged in his spoon and began to eat. He had not taken a fair taste before he stopped eating with a terribly wry face. The soup was bitterer than gall. "Don't you like the seasoning?" snickered the Funny Man. "Now, come, that's too bad, when I thought 'twould be just to your liking!" Too angry to speak, the Prince snatched a glass of water and drank, only to find it scalding hot and full of salt. "Try a bit of venison pasty," urged his host, pleasantly. "No more fooling, on my word!" "?opiH, enola dlihc roop eht tel uoy t'nac yhW" asked the wife, who seemed to be as kind-hearted as could be expected of one so twisted. The Prince, however, had already tasted of the pasty, which proved hotter than fire with red pepper. So it was with everything on the table. Nothing was fit to eat. The ragout was full of pins and needles, the wine was drugged with nauseous herbs, the cakes were stuffed with cotton; and the Prince cracked his teeth instead of the almonds, which were cleverly made out of stone. All this nonsense was very bitter to the hungry Prince, as you may suppose; but as for the Funny Man, he was quite wild with delight. He rolled over and over on the floor, and the tears of joy streamed down his cheeks at the success of his jokes. "This is the best fun I've had for months," he cried. "This is joy! This is true happiness!" "A very poor sort of happiness," the Prince said ruefully. "I think I will go to bed." Alas! here things were just as bad. As the Prince entered his chamber a bucket of ice-cold water, balanced above, fell down and drenched him to the skin. His bed was full of eels and frogs; and when the poor boy tried to get a nap in a chair a tame owl and a pair of pet bats flapped their wings in his face and tweaked his nose and ears. At the earliest peep of dawn the tortured Prince shouldered his box and left his chamber. Sitting on the balustrade, whittling, was the host. XV "Good-morning!" said the Funny Man, politely. "I hope you slept well." "I did not sleep at all," replied the Prince, hotly; "and of course you knew I wouldn't." "That was the joke, you know," the Funny Man chuckled, pocketing his knife and preparing to lead the way to the breakfast-table. The Prince, however, had no mind for another feast like that of the night before; so he resisted all urging and started forth. "Don't miss the way!" said the Funny Man, who seemed to be much cast down because the Prince would not stay to breakfast. "Cross the stream, you know, than climb a red stile, and there you are on the straight road. If ever I come your way I'll make you a visit. I've taken a fancy to you." "That's more than I've done to you," muttered Vance, as he trudged away. He was very angry indeed with the Funny Man, and yet he had an unpleasant remembrance of a time, not so very far away, when he himself was the terror of the entire palace on account of his fondness for playing cruel jokes upon others. The road was rough, the sun was hot, and the Prince was so famished that he was glad to devour a couple of apples which had fallen from the cart of a peasant bound for market. Still Vance cheered himself with the thought that his troubles were about to end. He was now near the home of the Crushed Strawberry Wizard; so he pressed on till mid-afternoon, only stopping once when he came upon some pears growing upon a stunted tree by the roadside. They were small, crabbed, and stony; but the hungry Prince was glad enough to gather a number and eat them seated in the pear-tree's scanty shade. As to the Court, it was quite a relief to Vance to remember that the peasants at the fair had provided the baby-house with cakes and bonbons enough to last for many days. "After all," the Prince said to himself, as he once more trudged along,--"after all, they have a far easier time of it than I. I don't think I should much mind being little myself if I could have as good a time as they do." Toward the middle of the afternoon the Prince reached a dark wood into which his road seemed to lead him. He had not walked far before he heard a sound as of somebody sobbing, and also a curious clashing noise as of cymbals striking together. These sounds became more and more distinct as the Prince kept on; and at last he came to a small monkey who was seated in a low juniper-tree, weeping most bitterly and now and then smiting its hands together in sorrow. The hands of the monkey, being of metal (as indeed was the creature's entire body), produced, as they beat together, the cymbal-like sounds which the Prince had heard. "What is the matter?" asked the Prince, as the monkey continued to weep without paying any attention whatever to him. [Illustration] The monkey, looking up, wiped its eyes upon a small lace handkerchief which was already quite damp enough. "I am so miserable," it sighed. "Did you never hear folk say it was cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey? I am the brass monkey. They mean me; they mean my tail." "But it never has been cold enough to freeze your tail off," said the Prince, consolingly. "No," replied the monkey, wretchedly; "but then I'm always afraid it will be, and that's just as bad. Oh, what a world this is!" The monkey upon this fell to weeping more bitterly than before, and the Prince sneezed violently three times. "There!" exclaimed the monkey, dismally; "now you're taking cold because I'm so damp with crying." "Oh, never mind that!" replied the Prince, politely. "It really doesn't matter. A good sneeze is really quite refreshing." "That reminds me," said the monkey, "that I was sent to tell you to go back again; this isn't the road." "Not the--" began the Prince, looking puzzled. "Road," finished the monkey, beginning to cry once more. "To the Crushed Strawberry Wizard's, you know. You have just come back by another way nearly to the Castle of Bogarru, where the giant lives. The Funny Man told you wrong." "Told me wrong!" repeated the poor Prince, now thoroughly discouraged. "Yes," said the monkey, "for a joke, you know. Oh, my beautiful brass tail! What a world this is!" "This is the very worst and meanest joke of the whole!" cried the Prince. He shivered at the idea of being once more near the castle of the terrible giant; and then he remembered the weary miles he had travelled that day under the burning sun, and thinking of these things he could have wept with right good-will, had it not been that the brass monkey had already made quite a pool of tears, and Vance was afraid of causing a flood. "You must go back the way you came," said the monkey, wringing the tears from its handkerchief. "It will take you longer than it did to come, because now it will be night. At daybreak you will see three silver birches in a meadow; then climb the hedge and follow a row of large white stones till you come to a green stile; after this the path is straight to the Crushed Strawberry Wizard's door. You cannot miss it." "If this is true," said the Prince, "I am a thousand times obliged to you. But are you quite certain that this, too, is not a joke?" "Oh, my jointed brass body!" cried the monkey, mournfully. "Now, do I look like a joker? I never made a joke in my life, never." "I should be only too glad," said the Prince, as he turned to go, "to do something to cheer you up, if I might." "Oh, no!" wailed the monkey; "nobody can do anything. Besides, I like to be miserable; it is the only comfort I have. Go! it is getting darker every minute. Oh, my brass toes and fingers, what a world this is!" At this the monkey wept so violently that Vance had to give up all idea of thanking him or even of saying good-by; so he contented himself by turning and hastening back along the path by which he had come. [Illustration] XVI Nearly all night the Prince kept on over the stony road. When the sky grew gray, he took a short nap under a thorny hedge, and by sunrise he was once more on his way. On his right, in a beautiful green field, he saw to his great delight three silver birches, their branches rustling lightly in the morning wind. Vance climbed the hedge and walked on steadily, being guided, as the monkey had promised, by a seemingly endless row of pure white stones. At noon he came upon a green stile, but it was so crooked that the Prince thought he could more easily climb the hedge than get over it. As he drew nearer he perceived a curious little man, who appeared to be hunting for something in the grass at the foot of the stile. He was a good-natured-looking old man; but his head, body, arms, and legs, even his features, were twisted so that nothing about him was fair or straight. He greeted the Prince very kindly, however, and invited him to sit down by the brook and share his luncheon of bread and cheese. This, you may imagine, the famished Prince was only too glad to do. [Illustration] "You've heard, perhaps," said the stranger, "of the crooked man who walked a crooked mile and found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile? I am the man. I haven't found the sixpence yet, but hope to do so soon. I want to warn you, when you reach the Crushed Strawberry Wizard's, not to speak until he has spoken, or you'll spoil the charm for ten years." "How good you are!" exclaimed the Prince, gratefully. "How terrible if, after all my journeying, I had spoilt the charm! Can I do anything for you? I will help hunt for the sixpence if you like, or I will beg the Wizard to untwist you." "Oh, never mind!" returned the Crooked Man, cheerfully. "As to the sixpence, I must find that myself; and as to my crookedness, a whirlwind did it and a whirlwind must undo it. I don't mind. You see, I do not feel as badly as I look." Thanking the kind little man once more for his luncheon and his good advice, Vance started off merrily through the beech-wood, feeling that his toilsome journey was truly drawing to an end at last. The birds sang, the brook babbled cheerfully beside him, and the breeze brought him sweet odors from a thousand flowers. Just at sunset the Prince left the wood, and came into a small open glade where the grass was like cool green velvet to his feet, and a crystal fountain splashed in the midst of a bed of flowers. Here Vance beheld a curious pink house shaped like an enormous strawberry; and before the door, busily making tatting, was a strange-looking person, all of a pinkish magenta color even to his hair, and wearing a gown and pointed hat of the same unpleasant hue. Prince Vance had found the Crushed Strawberry Wizard at last. XVII It was well that Vance had been warned by the Crooked Man not to speak first, as he certainly would have done so, for in truth the Crushed Strawberry Wizard did not appear to be at all a talkative sort of man. He did indeed look up as Vance came near and put down his box; but he said nothing, and closing his eyes, went on making tatting in silence. Vance stood on one foot awhile, and then on the other. He counted the white doves upon the peaked roof, and watched a small old lady who was gathering herbs in the tiny garden beside the house; but he was very careful not to speak. At last his patience was rewarded. The Wizard opened his eyes and spoke. "The reason," he said very slowly, "that a sausage cannot walk is that it has no legs. You can understand that, can't you?" "Oh, certainly!" replied the Prince, politely. He was extremely anxious not to say anything to make the Wizard angry. "Well, then," returned the Wizard, "don't pretend that you can't, that's all." For some time longer the Wizard made tatting in silence; then once again he spoke. "The reason," he said gravely, "that a horse has no trunk is because it is not an elephant. Can you see the philosophy of that?" "Yes, your--" "Majesty," the Prince was about to say, in his eagerness to be polite; but he changed his mind just in time, and said courteously, "Yes, your Wizardship." This appeared to please the Wizard, for he bent his head three times and invited the Prince in to tea. The table was already spread; and seated about it were the old lady Vance had seen herb-gathering, and nine black cats with green eyes, peaked caps, and nice white napkins under their chins. The Wizard placed a chair for the Prince. "This is my wife," he said, waving his hand toward the tiny old lady. "She is a professional witch. She eats nothing but grasshoppers gathered when the moon is full." The Wizard here lowered his voice mysteriously and bent toward Vance. "Economical," he said, "very economical. She hardly costs me a groat a year, except for her high-heeled shoes; those come dear, but she must have them, being a professional witch, you know. Now, as to these cats, how many lives should you guess they had among them, eh?" "I have heard," replied the Prince, "that every cat has nine lives, so I should think that there must be eighty-one lives here." "You'd be wrong, then," said the Wizard, "for some of these cats have only one or two lives left. I keep 'em, you understand, so that when folks lose their lives, all they have to do is to come to me and I can sell them new ones from the cats." "Do the cats like it?" asked Vance. "They don't mind," replied the Wizard. "Anyhow, they know they've all got to come to it. When the last life is gone, a cat turns into a wind; you've heard them of a March night, yowling about the castle turrets." "The moon," said the witch, speaking for the first time, "being probably if not otherwise added to this whose salt, magnifying." "You are right, my dear," said the Wizard, "as you always are. The boy _is_ better off in bed." Upon this the Wizard left the table and led Vance to a neat little bed-chamber, where he bade him good-night. The Prince, having opened his box to give his family some air, lay down and enjoyed the first night of slumber in a bed which he had known since leaving the palace. The next morning, after breakfasting with the Wizard, the witch, and the cats, the Prince was called into the garden and given a spade. "Just dig awhile, as we talk," said the Wizard, seating himself, "and see if you can find any Greek roots. My wife wants some for a philter she is making." [Illustration] "Tintypes," observed the witch, "catnip promulgating canticles concerning emoluments, producing." Vance stared; but the Wizard, who was evidently accustomed to this odd sort of talk, answered quietly: "You are right, as usual, my dear. He must be very careful not to cut them in two with his spade." The Prince took the spade and began to dig, though not very hopefully. The truth was, he had never been at all successful in finding Greek roots himself; and besides he was longing to ask the Wizard for the charm which should restore his family. However, he dug away bravely and said nothing till the Wizard spoke to him. "I suppose," said the Wizard, at length, "that, as to your family, you know the rule for simple reduction, don't you?" "Yes," said the Prince, doubtfully, "I do if that page wasn't torn out of my book. However, I could learn it." "Learn it, then," said the Wizard; "and when you have learned it, use it." "But, if you please," ventured the Prince, humbly, "they are already reduced to the lowest terms. I don't wish to reduce them any more." "All right, then," replied the Wizard, crossly; for the truth was, that, having a variety of affairs on his mind that day, he had forgotten that Vance's Court were pygmies, and was thinking they were giants, and a wizard never likes to find himself mistaken. "All right, then; don't reduce them. I'm sure I don't care what you do." "Oh, don't say that!" begged the Prince, with tears in his eyes. "Please don't act as if you didn't care! Oh, your Wizardship, I've come so far to find you, and I've met such unpleasant people, and such horrible things have happened to me on the way, pray do not refuse to help me now that I have found you at last!" "Well, then," returned the Wizard, "be polite, and do as I tell you. Do you find any roots, by the by?" "Not one," said the Prince, leaning on his spade in despair. "That's bad," said the Wizard. "I would sell the charm to you for one Greek root." "Oh," cried the Prince, "my tutor has some, I know. His head used to be full of them; and unless they have grown so small that he has lost them, I'll be bound he has them still." [Illustration] Upon this the Prince hastened to open his box, and, to his great delight, succeeded in obtaining from his tutor several Greek roots which, though small, were of good shape and in fair condition. These being given to the Wizard, and by him handed to the witch, the Prince waited eagerly for the charm to be told him. But the Wizard had apparently no mind to speak. He whistled a few moments, and then, drawing a string from his pocket, began to make a cat's-cradle over his long crushed-strawberry fingers. "I've sent a message by telegraph to the court cat," he announced. "Go through that white gateway, and you'll come to the high-road. It is the southern boundary of Jolliland. Your way is straight. By sunset you will be at the castle. The cat knows all." XVIII The Prince thanked the Wizard, though not very warmly: for, to tell the truth, he did not much believe that the Wizard had sent a message to the cat; and even if he had, Vance had in times past so hectored and tormented that poor animal that he felt some delicacy in asking a favor from her now. However, he kept on in the direction pointed out, passed through the white gate, and started forth merrily enough along the high-road. He was disturbed, indeed, by some fears of the wicked General Bopi; but he had, in spite of himself, some faith in the Crushed Strawberry Wizard, and he meant to be very cautious in approaching the palace. By sundown, as the Wizard had promised, the young Prince found his long journey ended, and beheld at last the dear old home where he was born and had always lived till his own misdoings sent him forth. How beautiful it looked to the worn and footsore Prince, with its velvety terraces, its clear blue lake, marble statues, and crystal fountains, lovely flowers, waving ferns, and shady trees, and, above all, the great golden palace itself, its turrets flashing and glittering in the rays of the setting sun! The Prince could have wept for very joy. Everything about the palace seemed wonderfully still. The white swans slept upon the lake, and the peacocks stood like jewelled images upon the terrace. Peeping about cautiously for any signs of the wicked General, the Prince made his way softly through the shrubbery till he was very near the front entrance of the palace. Still no signs of the pretended king. The court cat, sleeker than in the days when Vance made her life a burden, sat alone on the upper step, placidly washing herself. "You may as well come out from behind that almond-tree," she said, "for I see you plainly enough." At this the Prince came out, still cautiously looking about him, and set his box down upon the steps. "Dear cat," he said politely, "how do you do?" "Humph!" replied Tabby, rather unpleasantly. "'Dear cat!' How touching!" "I've been gone a long time," ventured the Prince. "That may be," returned the cat; "the days have passed swiftly enough with us here. We have not grown thin in your absence." "That is true," the Prince assented rather shamefacedly, and he hastened to change the subject. "Where is everybody?" "Beheaded," replied the cat, briefly; "that is, all but the King." "Do you mean General Bopi?" asked the Prince. "You know I have the real King here in my box." "Don't quibble!" retorted the cat, sharply. "A king is known by his deeds. If you have seen the way he's been beheading people right and left, I think you'd call him something more than a general. What few he has left alive have fled from the palace and are hiding in the woods." [Illustration] "And where is the Gen--King himself?" asked Vance, uneasily. "Oh!" replied the cat, carelessly, "he's 'round." "'Round where?" asked Vance. "'Round here," the cat replied. "I don't see him," said the Prince, with a start, as he looked about him on all sides. "No?" said the cat. "That's because you can't see through me." "How very strangely you talk, cat!" exclaimed Vance. "I don't know what you mean." "Well," returned the cat, "you know those funny bonbons?" "Yes," murmured the Prince, hanging his head a bit and blushing. "One rolled under the sofa," the cat observed thoughtfully. "Yes," said Vance, "I remember that one was dropped and I couldn't find it." "After the telegram reached me from the Crushed Strawberry Wizard," remarked the cat, "I rolled the bonbon out into the middle of the floor. It was a pretty pink bonbon, and the King, coming into the room, saw it and gobbled it up." "Well," exclaimed the Prince, breathlessly, "what then?" The cat put out her tongue and licked her chops. "He was very tender," she said. "You ate him?" he asked breathlessly. The cat placidly nodded her head, her whiskers twitching with the remembrance of her feast. "Then," cried Prince Vance, joyously, "my father is King again, or will be when he is made big enough. You say you had a telegram from the Crushed Strawberry Wizard. Tell me, do tell me, dear cat, what it said." "I can't till midnight," said the cat, "or all will be spoiled, and the charm won't work." XIX Before he left home the Prince would have stamped about and made a great uproar at being obliged to wait even a minute for anything he wanted; but of late he had learned, among other lessons, the lesson of patience; so he neither stormed nor cried, but entering the palace seated himself where he could see the great hall-clock and watch for midnight. He was so weary, however, that he could not keep his eyes open, and presently he was as sound asleep as a dormouse. At length the cat touched him on the shoulder, her claws pricking him so that he sprang up in a hurry. "Wake up!" said the cat; "the clock will strike twelve in seven minutes." "Why, have I been asleep?" asked the Prince, rubbing his eyes. "It looks like it," replied the cat. "Why did you leave the Court shut up in the box?" "To tell the truth," the Prince confessed, "I was afraid they might be running about the floor in the dark and--something might eat them by mistake." "Well," the cat answered, with a look as near a blush as a cat can come to such a thing, "you may be right. One never can tell what may happen. It is now almost on the stroke of twelve, and we must make haste. Run out to the terrace and see if the peahen has laid an egg. If she has, bring it in here to me; and be very quick!" Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the Prince hastened to do as he was bid. He found an egg, indeed, and rushing back to the palace reached the hall just as the clock sounded the first stroke of twelve. "Break it exactly across the middle, and do it with three blows," the cat commanded. The Prince obeyed, and from the shattered fragments of the shell, just as the last stroke of twelve ceased, out stepped the Fairy Copetta, as sharp, fresh, and brisk from top to toe as if she had just been made, and not in the least as if she had found her quarters in the peahen's egg either close or confining. She shook out her petticoat with a brisk little flirt, hopped lightly down from the table, and hit the Prince a tap on the head with her cane. [Illustration] "Well," she said sharply, "how about the Blue Wizard? Do you like him as well as you thought you should?" "I don't know," stammered the poor Prince, decidedly taken aback by his godmother's sudden appearance. "Did I say I liked him? I had forgotten--I mean I don't like him at all, if you please, Godmother." "Oh!" exclaimed the old lady, mockingly, "don't you, really? Yet, if I remember rightly, you quite longed for a visit from him a while ago. Well, then, how about the giant of Bogarru and the Funny Man, both intimate friends of mine--did you like them, eh? Did you find them witty and agreeable? Did they treat you with great respect because you were a real live prince, eh?" "You know they did not," cried the Prince. "I must say, Godmother, that you have strange taste in choosing friends." "Each to his liking," responded Copetta, lightly. "I dare say, now, that you found more pleasure in that stupid jelly-fish, or that dismal brass monkey, or that crooked man,--and _he's_ a beauty, by the way!" "I did like them," replied the Prince, stoutly; "they were so good to me. Are they, too, friends of yours, Godmother?" "Why, yes," said the fairy, her bright eyes twinkling elfishly, "I think I may say that they're rather intimate with me." "I didn't know," ventured Vance, rather timidly, "but they might all be you, Godmother." "Perhaps you think," she answered tartly, "that I am a sort of living multiplication-table, or that I have as many lives as a cat. By the way, can you bound the kingdom now?" "I ought to be able to bound it," the Prince replied; "I have been quite around it on foot." "Well," returned his godmother, acidly, "I dare say it hasn't hurt you. That reminds me; have you had enough of it?" "Oh, please, Godmother," cried the Prince, "I have had enough of everything but kindness; and oh, Godmother, if you only would tell me how to turn my people back again, indeed, there is nothing I wouldn't do. Believe me, dear Godmother, I'm a very different sort of boy from the one who wouldn't learn the boundaries, and wanted to know the Blue Wizard; I am, indeed." "Humph!" sniffed the fairy, though secretly she was not ill pleased with him, "you're a much dirtier one, at all events. Have you washed your face since you've been gone?" "I'm afraid I haven't washed it very often," confessed the humbled Prince. "You see, I've had so much else on my mind, Godmother." "Bah!" exclaimed the fairy. "Go take a bath!" "But the Court, Godmother," pleaded the Prince, timidly; "they must be very tired of being small." "Tut, tut," cried the godmother, sharply, "how you do harp on one string, to be sure! 'Tis very ill bred of you. However, as it's not for yourself, I don't mind telling you that it's a very simple matter when you once know how to do it. They were facing each other when they shrank, were they not?" "Yes," said the Prince, blushing. "Turn them all back to back, then," said the fairy, snappishly. "I should think any fool might have known enough to do that long ago." Vance opened his box, and trembling with excitement arranged his relatives and friends in two rows, back to back. Pouf! The effect was magical! Quicker by far than they had grown small, the little folk regained their former size. Then, indeed, confusion reigned. Such gabbling and chattering and running about; such hand-shakings, embracing, and congratulations; such beratings and cuffings of Vance because he had made them small, and then such kissings and caressings because he had made them large again! Never was there known such a mighty confusion and uproar in any royal palace before or since. "But, Godmother," ventured Vance, timidly, when the excitement had died away enough to allow a body to begin once more to think,--"But, Godmother, if you please, may I ask you one question?" "If it's a short one," replied the sharp old lady, "and not _too_ foolish." "Well, then," asked Vance, "I would like very much to know, if you please, what we should have done if the peahen had happened not to lay an egg?" "Pshaw!" said the godmother, crisply. "Stuff!" [Illustration] University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 
7159	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 6. Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps. The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were gentle-humoured, all were thirsty. The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad. After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat. The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. They grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway. This showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in which their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did not take the hedges, too. By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife and her daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented some of their familiarities. When they took their leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the authorities. About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village at different points to ply their various trades--'Jack' was sent with Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none--so he finally said-- "I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will beg." "WE, forsooth! Follow thy trade--it befits thee. But _I_ will not beg." "Thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise. "Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?" "What dost thou mean?" "Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?" "I? Thou idiot!" "Spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer. Thy father says thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will even make so bold as to SAY he lied," scoffed Hugo. "Him YOU call my father? Yes, he lied." "Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy amusement, not thy hurt. An' I tell him this, he will scorch thee finely for it." "Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him." "I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment. Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out of one's way to invite them. But a truce to these matters; _I_ believe your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he DOTH lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. A wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for nought. But come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?" The King said, impatiently-- "Have done with this folly--you weary me!" Hugo replied, with temper-- "Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I will tell you what you WILL do. You will play decoy whilst _I_ beg. Refuse, an' you think you may venture!" The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said, interrupting-- "Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in a fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery were in your belly, and say, 'Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o' God's name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!' --and mind you, keep you ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny, else shall you rue it." Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony. "O, dear, O dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "O poor soul, poor soul, how he doth suffer! There--let me help thee up." "O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman--but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me to my sorrows." "A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature"--and he fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. "There, poor lad, take them and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where--" "I am not his brother," said the King, interrupting. "What! not his brother?" "Oh, hear him!" groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. "He denies his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!" "Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For shame! --and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy brother, who is he, then?" "A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your pocket likewise. An' thou would'st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest." But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up and off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry lustily as he went. The King, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm's reach. He took the first road that offered, and soon put the village behind him. He hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of security took their place. He recognised, now, that he was hungry, and also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. His clothes were against him. He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in the way of like treatment no more. But hunger is pride's master; so, as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly. The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch laboured slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light--always far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of a sheep's bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made the little King feel that all life and activity were far removed from him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the centre of a measureless solitude. He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand. He stepped back into the shadows and waited. The lantern stood by the open door of a barn. The King waited some time--there was no sound, and nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable barn looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the threshold he heard voices behind him. He darted behind a cask, within the barn, and stooped down. Two farm-labourers came in, bringing the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile. Whilst they moved about with the light, the King made good use of his eyes and took the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to himself. He also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the crown of England for one night. By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind them and taking the lantern with them. The shivering King made for the blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them up, and then groped his way safely to the stall. Of two of the blankets he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. He was a glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost suffocatingly powerful. Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of semi-consciousness. Then, just as he was on the point of losing himself wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him! He was broad awake in a moment, and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that mysterious touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay motionless, and listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and there was no sound. He continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long time, but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound. So he began to drop into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that mysterious touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light touch from this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly fears. What should he do? That was the question; but he did not know how to answer it. Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from this inscrutable horror? But fly whither? He could not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark, within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay where he was, and endure this living death all night--was that better? No. What, then, was there left to do? Ah, there was but one course; he knew it well--he must put out his hand and find that thing! It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try it. Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark, gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it had encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just GOING to. But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his hand lightly swept against something soft and warm. This petrified him, nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm. He thought he would rather die than touch it again. But he thought this false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of human curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again --against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping persistently on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair; he shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was not a rope at all, but the calf's tail. The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and suffered just as he had done. The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even this humble animal were welcome. And he had been so buffeted, so rudely entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel that he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at least a soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf. While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways than one. Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back, drew the covers up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace of Westminster. Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming. He was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he was happy. The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and projections --but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and comfortable: let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled the closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full of serenity and peace. The distant dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained, and the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove along the roof; but the Majesty of England slept on, undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a simple creature, and not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed by sleeping with a king. Chapter XIX. The Prince with the peasants. When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made a cosy bed for itself in his bosom. Being disturbed now, it scampered away. The boy smiled, and said, "Poor fool, why so fearful? I am as forlorn as thou. 'Twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself so helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for a good omen; for when a king has fallen so low that the very rats do make a bed of him, it surely meaneth that his fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no lower go." He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the sound of children's voices. The barn door opened and a couple of little girls came in. As soon as they saw him their talking and laughing ceased, and they stopped and stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they presently began to whisper together, then they approached nearer, and stopped again to gaze and whisper. By-and-by they gathered courage and began to discuss him aloud. One said-- "He hath a comely face." The other added-- "And pretty hair." "But is ill clothed enow." "And how starved he looketh." They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him, examining him minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new kind of animal, but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half feared he might be a sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion. Finally they halted before him, holding each other's hands for protection, and took a good satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked up all her courage and inquired with honest directness-- "Who art thou, boy?" "I am the King," was the grave answer. The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide open and remained so during a speechless half minute. Then curiosity broke the silence-- "The KING? What King?" "The King of England." The children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other again --wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said-- "Didst hear him, Margery?--he said he is the King. Can that be true?" "How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a lie? For look you, Prissy, an' it were not true, it WOULD be a lie. It surely would be. Now think on't. For all things that be not true, be lies--thou canst make nought else out of it." It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and it left Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on. She considered a moment, then put the King upon his honour with the simple remark-- "If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee." "I am truly the King." This settled the matter. His Majesty's royalty was accepted without further question or discussion, and the two little girls began at once to inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he came to be so unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. It was a mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they would not be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with feeling, forgetting even his hunger for the time; and it was received with the deepest and tenderest sympathy by the gentle little maids. But when he got down to his latest experiences and they learned how long he had been without food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a breakfast for him. The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, "When I am come to mine own again, I will always honour little children, remembering how that these trusted me and believed in me in my time of trouble; whilst they that were older, and thought themselves wiser, mocked at me and held me for a liar." The children's mother received the King kindly, and was full of pity; for his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect touched her womanly heart. She was a widow, and rather poor; consequently she had seen trouble enough to enable her to feel for the unfortunate. She imagined that the demented boy had wandered away from his friends or keepers; so she tried to find out whence he had come, in order that she might take measures to return him; but all her references to neighbouring towns and villages, and all her inquiries in the same line went for nothing--the boy's face, and his answers, too, showed that the things she was talking of were not familiar to him. He spoke earnestly and simply about court matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking of the late King 'his father'; but whenever the conversation changed to baser topics, he lost interest and became silent. The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up. As she proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices to surprise the boy into betraying his real secret. She talked about cattle--he showed no concern; then about sheep--the same result: so her guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked about mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and tradesmen of all sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails, and charitable retreats: but no matter, she was baffled at all points. Not altogether, either; for she argued that she had narrowed the thing down to domestic service. Yes, she was sure she was on the right track, now; he must have been a house servant. So she led up to that. But the result was discouraging. The subject of sweeping appeared to weary him; fire-building failed to stir him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no enthusiasm. The goodwife touched, with a perishing hope, and rather as a matter of form, upon the subject of cooking. To her surprise, and her vast delight, the King's face lighted at once! Ah, she had hunted him down at last, she thought; and she was right proud, too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had accomplished it. Her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the King's, inspired by gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from the sputtering pots and pans, turned itself loose and delivered itself up to such an eloquent dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes, that within three minutes the woman said to herself, "Of a truth I was right--he hath holpen in a kitchen!" Then he broadened his bill of fare, and discussed it with such appreciation and animation, that the goodwife said to herself, "Good lack! how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones withal? For these belong only upon the tables of the rich and great. Ah, now I see! ragged outcast as he is, he must have served in the palace before his reason went astray; yes, he must have helped in the very kitchen of the King himself! I will test him." Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the King to mind the cooking a moment--hinting that he might manufacture and add a dish or two, if he chose; then she went out of the room and gave her children a sign to follow after. The King muttered-- "Another English king had a commission like to this, in a bygone time--it is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office which the great Alfred stooped to assume. But I will try to better serve my trust than he; for he let the cakes burn." The intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it, for this King, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings concerning his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted--the cookery got burned. The woman returned in time to save the breakfast from entire destruction; and she promptly brought the King out of his dreams with a brisk and cordial tongue-lashing. Then, seeing how troubled he was over his violated trust, she softened at once, and was all goodness and gentleness toward him. The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly refreshed and gladdened by it. It was a meal which was distinguished by this curious feature, that rank was waived on both sides; yet neither recipient of the favour was aware that it had been extended. The goodwife had intended to feed this young tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other tramp or like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding she had given him, that she did what she could to atone for it by allowing him to sit at the family table and eat with his betters, on ostensible terms of equality with them; and the King, on his side, was so remorseful for having broken his trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that he forced himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the family level, instead of requiring the woman and her children to stand and wait upon him, while he occupied their table in the solitary state due to his birth and dignity. It does us all good to unbend sometimes. This good woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she got out of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp; and the King was just as self-complacent over his gracious humility toward a humble peasant woman. When breakfast was over, the housewife told the King to wash up the dishes. This command was a staggerer, for a moment, and the King came near rebelling; but then he said to himself, "Alfred the Great watched the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes too--therefore will I essay it." He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise too, for the cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy thing to do. It was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but he finished it at last. He was becoming impatient to get away on his journey now; however, he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so easily. She furnished him some little odds and ends of employment, which he got through with after a fair fashion and with some credit. Then she set him and the little girls to paring some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this service that she retired him from it and gave him a butcher knife to grind. Afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he had laid the good King Alfred about far enough in the shade for the present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that would read picturesquely in story-books and histories, and so he was half-minded to resign. And when, just after the noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a basket of kittens to drown, he did resign. At least he was just going to resign--for he felt that he must draw the line somewhere, and it seemed to him that to draw it at kitten-drowning was about the right thing--when there was an interruption. The interruption was John Canty--with a peddler's pack on his back--and Hugo. The King discovered these rascals approaching the front gate before they had had a chance to see him; so he said nothing about drawing the line, but took up his basket of kittens and stepped quietly out the back way, without a word. He left the creatures in an out-house, and hurried on, into a narrow lane at the rear. Chapter XX. The Prince and the hermit. The high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under the impulse of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped toward a wood in the distance. He never looked back until he had almost gained the shelter of the forest; then he turned and descried two figures in the distance. That was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them critically, but hurried on, and never abated his pace till he was far within the twilight depths of the wood. Then he stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe. He listened intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn --awful, even, and depressing to the spirits. At wide intervals his straining ear did detect sounds, but they were so remote, and hollow, and mysterious, that they seemed not to be real sounds, but only the moaning and complaining ghosts of departed ones. So the sounds were yet more dreary than the silence which they interrupted. It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was the rest of the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and he was at last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm. He struck straight through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was disappointed in this. He travelled on and on; but the farther he went, the denser the wood became, apparently. The gloom began to thicken, by-and-by, and the King realised that the night was coming on. It made him shudder to think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he tried to hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for he could not now see well enough to choose his steps judiciously; consequently he kept tripping over roots and tangling himself in vines and briers. And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light! He approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and listen. It came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby little hut. He heard a voice, now, and felt a disposition to run and hide; but he changed his mind at once, for this voice was praying, evidently. He glided to the one window of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance within. The room was small; its floor was the natural earth, beaten hard by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes and a ragged blanket or two; near it was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two or three pots and pans; there was a short bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the remains of a faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which was lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human skull. The man was of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers were very long and snowy white; he was clothed in a robe of sheepskins which reached from his neck to his heels. "A holy hermit!" said the King to himself; "now am I indeed fortunate." The hermit rose from his knees; the King knocked. A deep voice responded-- "Enter!--but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt stand is holy!" The King entered, and paused. The hermit turned a pair of gleaming, unrestful eyes upon him, and said-- "Who art thou?" "I am the King," came the answer, with placid simplicity. "Welcome, King!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm. Then, bustling about with feverish activity, and constantly saying, "Welcome, welcome," he arranged his bench, seated the King on it, by the hearth, threw some faggots on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor with a nervous stride. "Welcome! Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not worthy, and were turned away. But a King who casts his crown away, and despises the vain splendours of his office, and clothes his body in rags, to devote his life to holiness and the mortification of the flesh--he is worthy, he is welcome!--here shall he abide all his days till death come." The King hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid no attention to him--did not even hear him, apparently, but went right on with his talk, with a raised voice and a growing energy. "And thou shalt be at peace here. None shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee with supplications to return to that empty and foolish life which God hath moved thee to abandon. Thou shalt pray here; thou shalt study the Book; thou shalt meditate upon the follies and delusions of this world, and upon the sublimities of the world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and scourge thy body with whips, daily, to the purifying of thy soul. Thou shalt wear a hair shirt next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only; and thou shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go his way again, baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall not molest thee." The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and began to mutter. The King seized this opportunity to state his case; and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension. But the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed. And still muttering, he approached the King and said impressively-- "'Sh! I will tell you a secret!" He bent down to impart it, but checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude. After a moment or two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out, and peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his face close down to the King's, and whispered-- "I am an archangel!" The King started violently, and said to himself, "Would God I were with the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a madman!" His apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his face. In a low excited voice the hermit continued-- "I see you feel my atmosphere! There's awe in your face! None may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very atmosphere of heaven. I go thither and return, in the twinkling of an eye. I was made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent from heaven to confer that awful dignity. Their presence filled this place with an intolerable brightness. And they knelt to me, King! yes, they knelt to me! for I was greater than they. I have walked in the courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs. Touch my hand--be not afraid--touch it. There--now thou hast touched a hand which has been clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob! For I have walked in the golden courts; I have seen the Deity face to face!" He paused, to give this speech effect; then his face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again saying, with angry energy, "Yes, I am an archangel; A MERE ARCHANGEL!--I that might have been pope! It is verily true. I was told it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope! --and I SHOULD have been pope, for Heaven had said it--but the King dissolved my religious house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!" Here he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse, and now and then a pathetic "Wherefore I am nought but an archangel--I that should have been pope!" So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King sat and suffered. Then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he became all gentleness. His voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and fell to prattling along so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the King's heart completely. The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper --chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were changed to reverence and affection for the man. This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper; then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire, and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way. Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his mind. Apparently he was unsuccessful. Now he started quickly up, and entered his guest's room, and said-- "Thou art King?" "Yes," was the response, drowsily uttered. "What King?" "Of England." "Of England? Then Henry is gone!" "Alack, it is so. I am his son." A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched his bony hands with a vindictive energy. He stood a few moments, breathing fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice-- "Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless and homeless?" There was no response. The old man bent down and scanned the boy's reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing. "He sleeps--sleeps soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of evil satisfaction. A smile flitted across the dreaming boy's features. The hermit muttered, "So--his heart is happy;" and he turned away. He went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something; now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always mumbling to himself. At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty old butcher knife and a whetstone. Then he crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating. The winds sighed around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the distances. The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of these things. At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and nodded his head with satisfaction. "It grows sharper," he said; "yes, it grows sharper." He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on, entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in articulate speech-- "His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down into the eternal fires! Yes, down into the eternal fires! He escaped us--but it was God's will, yes it was God's will, we must not repine. But he hath not escaped the fires! No, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming, unpitying, remorseless fires--and THEY are everlasting!" And so he wrought, and still wrought--mumbling, chuckling a low rasping chuckle at times--and at times breaking again into words-- "It was his father that did it all. I am but an archangel; but for him I should be pope!" The King stirred. The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife uplifted. The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more. The hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his position and scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arms, and presently crept away, saying,-- "It is long past midnight; it is not best that he should cry out, lest by accident someone be passing." He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling he managed to tie the King's ankles together without waking him. Next he essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to cross them, but the boy always drew one hand or the other away, just as the cord was ready to be applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready to despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next moment they were bound. Now a bandage was passed under the sleeper's chin and brought up over his head and tied fast--and so softly, so gradually, and so deftly were the knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy slept peacefully through it all without stirring. Chapter XXI. Hendon to the rescue. The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought the low bench. He seated himself upon it, half his body in the dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so, with his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his patient vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly whetted his knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay bound and helpless in his web. After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,--yet not seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,--observed, on a sudden, that the boy's eyes were open! wide open and staring!--staring up in frozen horror at the knife. The smile of a gratified devil crept over the old man's face, and he said, without changing his attitude or his occupation-- "Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?" The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question. "Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!" A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched. Then he struggled again to free himself--turning and twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately--but uselessly--to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time to time, "The moments are precious, they are few and precious--pray the prayer for the dying!" The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles, panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon the savage old man. The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice-- "I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already gone. It seems but a moment--only a moment; would it had endured a year! Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an' thou fearest to look upon--" The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the moaning boy. Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin--the knife dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help; then a clatter of swift footsteps, retreating. Immediately came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door, followed by-- "Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the devils!" Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the King's ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice! The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the King heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the 'chapel':-- "Homage and greeting, reverend sir! Where is the boy--MY boy?" "What boy, friend?" "What boy! Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!--I am not in the humour for it. Near to this place I caught the scoundrels who I judged did steal him from me, and I made them confess; they said he was at large again, and they had tracked him to your door. They showed me his very footprints. Now palter no more; for look you, holy sir, an' thou produce him not--Where is the boy?" "O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that tarried here the night. If such as you take an interest in such as he, know, then, that I have sent him of an errand. He will be back anon." "How soon? How soon? Come, waste not the time--cannot I overtake him? How soon will he be back?" "Thou need'st not stir; he will return quickly." "So be it, then. I will try to wait. But stop!--YOU sent him of an errand?--you! Verily this is a lie--he would not go. He would pull thy old beard, an' thou didst offer him such an insolence. Thou hast lied, friend; thou hast surely lied! He would not go for thee, nor for any man." "For any MAN--no; haply not. But I am not a man." "WHAT! Now o' God's name what art thou, then?" "It is a secret--mark thou reveal it not. I am an archangel!" There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon--not altogether unprofane--followed by-- "This doth well and truly account for his complaisance! Right well I knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service of any mortal; but, lord, even a king must obey when an archangel gives the word o' command! Let me--'sh! What noise was that?" All this while the little King had been yonder, alternately quaking with terror and trembling with hope; and all the while, too, he had thrown all the strength he could into his anguished moanings, constantly expecting them to reach Hendon's ear, but always realising, with bitterness, that they failed, or at least made no impression. So this last remark of his servant came as comes a reviving breath from fresh fields to the dying; and he exerted himself once more, and with all his energy, just as the hermit was saying-- "Noise? I heard only the wind." "Mayhap it was. Yes, doubtless that was it. I have been hearing it faintly all the--there it is again! It is not the wind! What an odd sound! Come, we will hunt it out!" Now the King's joy was nearly insupportable. His tired lungs did their utmost--and hopefully, too--but the sealed jaws and the muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort. Then the poor fellow's heart sank, to hear the hermit say-- "Ah, it came from without--I think from the copse yonder. Come, I will lead the way." The King heard the two pass out, talking; heard their footsteps die quickly away--then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful silence. It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching again --and this time he heard an added sound,--the trampling of hoofs, apparently. Then he heard Hendon say-- "I will not wait longer. I CANNOT wait longer. He has lost his way in this thick wood. Which direction took he? Quick--point it out to me." "He--but wait; I will go with thee." "Good--good! Why, truly thou art better than thy looks. Marry I do not think there's not another archangel with so right a heart as thine. Wilt ride? Wilt take the wee donkey that's for my boy, or wilt thou fork thy holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of a mule that I have provided for myself?--and had been cheated in too, had he cost but the indifferent sum of a month's usury on a brass farthing let to a tinker out of work." "No--ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine own feet, and will walk." "Then prithee mind the little beast for me while I take my life in my hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big one." Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must have broken its spirit, for hostilities seemed to cease from that moment. With unutterable misery the fettered little King heard the voices and footsteps fade away and die out. All hope forsook him, now, for the moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart. "My only friend is deceived and got rid of," he said; "the hermit will return and--" He finished with a gasp; and at once fell to struggling so frantically with his bonds again, that he shook off the smothering sheepskin. And now he heard the door open! The sound chilled him to the marrow --already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat. Horror made him close his eyes; horror made him open them again--and before him stood John Canty and Hugo! He would have said "Thank God!" if his jaws had been free. A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his captors, each gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with all speed through the forest. 
30167	----	file was produced from images generously made available by the University of Florida Digital Collections.) [Illustration: Royal Children of English History] [Illustration: ALFRED THE GREAT LEARNING TO READ.] [Illustration] Royal Children of English History, by E. Nesbit Illustrated by Frances Brundage and M. Bowley. RAPHAEL TUCK & SONS, LTD. London, Paris, New York Publishers to the QUEEN. No. 2091. Black & White Drawings & Letterpress printed in England Contents Page Alfred the Great 5 Prince Arthur 12 Henry the Third 20 The First Prince of Wales 27 Edward the Black Prince 35 Henry the Fifth and the Baby King 42 [Illustration] [Illustration: ROYAL CHILDREN OF ENGLISH HISTORY Alfred the Great.] WHEN I was very, very little, I hated history more than all my other lessons put together, because I had to learn it out of a horrid little book, called somebody's "Outlines of English History"; and it seemed to be all the names of the kings and the dates of battles, and, believing it to be nothing else, I hated it accordingly. I hope you do not think anything so foolish, because, really, history is a story, a story of things that happened to real live people in our England years ago; and the things that are happening here and now, and that are put in the newspapers, will be history for little children one of these days. The people in those old times were the same kind of people who live now. Mothers loved their children then, and fathers worked for them, just as mothers and fathers do now, and children then were good or bad, as the case might be, just as little children are now. And the people you read about in history were real live people, who were good and bad, and glad and sorry, just as people are now-a-days. [Sidenote: A.D. 827.] You know that if you were to set out on a journey from one end of England to another, wherever you went, through fields and woods and lanes, you would still be in the kingdom of Queen Victoria. But once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, if a child had set out to ride, he might have begun his ride in the morning in one kingdom, and finished it in the evening in another, because England was not one great kingdom then as it is now, but was divided up into seven pieces, with a king to look after each, and these seven kings were always quarrelling with each other and trying to take each other's kingdom away, just as you might see seven naughty children, each with a plot of garden, trying to take each other's gardens and spoiling each other's flowers in their wicked quarrels. But presently came one King, named Egbert, who was stronger than all the others; so he managed to put himself at the head of all the kingdoms, and he was the first King of _all_ England. But though he had got the other kings to give in to him, he did not have at all a peaceful time. There were some very fierce wild pirates, called Danes, who used to come sailing across the North Sea in ships with carved swans' heads at the prow, and hundreds of fighting men aboard. Their own country was bleak and desolate, and they were greedy and wanted the pleasant English land. So they used to come and land in all sorts of places along the sea-shore, and then they would march across the fields and kill the peaceful farmers, and set fire to their houses, and take their sheep and cows. Or sometimes they would drive them out, and live in the farmhouses themselves. Of course, the English people were not going to stand this; so they were always fighting to drive the Danes away when they came here. [Sidenote: A.D. 871.] Egbert's son allowed the Danes to grow very strong in England, and when he died he left several sons, like the kings in the fairy tales; and the first of these princes was made King, but he could not beat the Danes, and then the second one was made King, but he could not beat the Danes. In the fairy tales, you know, it is always the youngest prince who has all the good fortune, and in this story the same thing happened. This prince did what none of his brothers could do. He drove out the Danes from England, and gave his people a chance of being quiet and happy and good. His name was Alfred. Like most great men, this King Alfred had a good mother. She used to read to him, when he was little, out of a great book with gold and precious stones on the cover, and inside beautiful songs and poetry. And one day she said to the young princes, who were all very fond of being read to out of this splendid book-- "Since you like the book so much, I will give it to the one who is first able to read it, and to say all the poetry in it by heart." The eldest prince tried to learn it, but I suppose he did not try hard enough; and the other princes tried, but I fear they were too lazy. But you may be quite sure the youngest prince did the right thing. He learnt to read, and then he set to work to learn the poems by heart; and it was a proud day for him and for the Queen when he was able to say all the beautiful poetry to her. She put the book into his hands for his very own, and they kissed each other with tears of pride and pleasure. You must not suppose that King Alfred drove out the Danes without much trouble, much thought, and much hard work. Trouble, thought, and hard work are the only three spells the fairies have left us, so of course he had to use them. He was made King just after the Danes had gained a great victory, and for the first eight years of his reign he was fighting them continually. At one time they had conquered almost the whole of England, and they would have killed Alfred if they could have found him. [Illustration] You know, a wise prince always disguises himself when danger becomes very great. So Alfred disguised himself as a farm labourer, and went to live with a farmer, who used to make him feed the beasts and help about the farm, and had no idea that this labourer was the great King himself. One day the farmer's wife went out--perhaps she went out to milk the cows; at any rate it was some important business--and she had made some cakes for supper, and she saw Alfred sitting idle in the kitchen, so she asked him to look after the cakes, to see that they did not burn. Alfred said he would. But he had just received some news about the Danes, and he was thinking and thinking and thinking over this, and he forgot all about the cakes, and when the farmer's wife came in she found them burnt black as coal. [Illustration] "Oh, you silly, greedy fellow," she said, "you can eat cakes fast enough; but you can't even take the trouble to bake them when other people take the trouble to make them for you." And I have heard that she even slapped his face. He bore it all very patiently. "I am very sorry," he said, "but I was thinking of other things." Just at that moment her husband came in followed by several strangers, and, to the good woman's astonishment, they all fell on their knees and greeted her husband's labourer as their King. "We have beaten the Danes," they said, "and everyone is asking where is King Alfred? You must come back with us." "Forgive me," cried the woman. "I didn't think of your being the King." "Forgive me," said Alfred, kindly. "I didn't think of your cakes being burnt." [Illustration: "THERE WERE NO CLOCKS IN THOSE DAYS BUT HE MADE A CLOCK OUT OF A CANDLE."] The Danes had many more fighting men than Alfred; so he was obliged to be very cautious and wise, or he could never have beaten them at all. In those days very few people could read; and the evenings used to seem very long sometimes, so that anybody who could tell a story or sing a song was made much of, and some people made it their trade to go about singing songs and telling stories and making jokes to amuse people who could not sing songs or tell stories or make jokes themselves. These were called gleemen, and wherever they went they were always welcomed and put at a good place at table, and treated with respect and kindness; and in time of war no one ever killed a gleeman, so they could always feel quite safe whatever was going on. Now Alfred once wanted to know how many Danes there were in a certain Danish camp, and whether they were too strong for him to beat. So he disguised himself as a gleeman and took a harp, for his mother had taught him to sing and play very prettily, and he went and sang songs to the Danes and told stories to them. But all the time he kept his eyes open, and found out all he wanted to know. And he saw that the Danes were not expecting to be attacked by the English people, so that, instead of keeping watch, they were feasting and drinking and playing all their time. Then he went back to his own soldiers, and they crept up to the Danish camp and fell upon it while the Danes were feasting and making merry, and as the Danes were not expecting a fight, the English were easily able to get much the best of it. At last, after many fights, King Alfred managed to make peace with the Danes, and then he settled down to see what he could do for his own people. He saw that if he was to keep out the wicked Danes he must be able to fight them by sea as well as by land. So he learned how to build ships and taught his people how to build them, and that was the beginning of the great English navy, which you ought to be proud of if you are big enough to read this book. Alfred was wise enough to see that knowledge is power, and, as he wanted his people to be strong, he tried to make them learned. He built schools, and at University College, Oxford, there are people that will tell you that that college was founded by Alfred the Great. He used to divide up his time very carefully, giving part to study and part to settling disputes among his people, and part to his shipbuilding and his other duties. They had no clocks and watches in those days, and he used sometimes to get so interested in his work as to forget that it was time to leave it and go on to something else, just as you do sometimes when you get so interested in a game of rounders that you forget that it is time to go on with your lessons. The idea of a clock never entered into Alfred's head, at least not a clock with wheels, and hands on its face, but he was so clever that he made a clock out of a candle. He painted rings of different colours round the candle, and when the candle had burnt down to the first ring it was half an hour gone, and when it was burnt to the next ring it was another half-hour, and so on. So he could tell exactly how the time went. He was called Alfred the Great, and no king has better deserved such a title. "So long as I have lived," he said, "I have striven to live worthily." And he longed, above all things, to leave "to the men that came after a remembrance of him in good works." He did many good and wise things, but the best and wisest thing he ever did was to begin to write the History of England. There had been English poems before this, but no English stories that were not written in poetry. So that Alfred's book was the first of all the thousands and thousands of English books that you see on the shelves of the big libraries. His book is generally called the Saxon Chronicle, and was added to by other people after his death. He made a number of wise laws. It is believed that it was he who first ordained that an Englishman should be tried not only by a judge but also by a jury of people like himself. [Illustration: KING·ALFRED·DISGUISED·HIMSELF·AS·A· GLEEMAN·&·TOOK·A·HARP·&·SAND·SONGS TO·THE·DANES·&·TOLD STORIES·TO THEM] [Sidenote: A.D. 901.] Though he had fought bravely when fighting was needed to defend his kingdom, yet he loved peace and all the arts of peace. He loved justice and kindness, and little children; and all folk loved and wept for him when he died, because he was a good King who had always striven to live worthily, that is to say, he had always tried to be good. His last words to his son, just before he died, were these--"It is just that the English people should be as free as their own thoughts." You must not think that this means that the English people should be free to think as they like or to do as they like. What it means is, that an Englishman should be as free to do good deeds as he is to think good thoughts. [Illustration: PRINCE ARTHUR] [Sidenote: A.D. 1066.] THE Danes never succeeded in conquering England and in making it their own, though many of them settled in England and married English wives. But some relations of the Danes, called the Normans, were bolder and stronger and more fortunate. And William, who was called the Conqueror, became King of England, and left his son to rule after him. And when four Norman Kings had reigned in England, the Count of Anjou was made the English King, because his mother was the heiress of the English crown. His great-grandfather, Ingeger, the first Count of Anjou, must have been a very brave man. When he was quite a boy he was page to his godmother, who was a great lady. It was the custom then for boys of noble family to serve noble ladies as pages. One morning this lady's husband was found dead in his bed, and the poor lady was accused by a nobleman, named Gontran, of murdering him. Gontran said he was quite sure of her guilt, and that he was ready to stake his life on it, that is to say, he offered to fight anyone who should say that the lady was innocent. This seems a curious way of finding out a person's innocence or guilt, but it was the custom of the times. The poor lady could find no one who believed in her enough to risk his life, and she began to despair, when suddenly her boy-page rushed forward and begged that, though he was not yet a knight, and so had really no right to fight, yet that he might be allowed to do combat in her defence. "The whole Court were spectators. The Duke Charles was on his throne, and the accused widow in a litter curtained with black. Prayers were offered that God would aid the right. The trumpets sounded, and the champions rode in full career against each other. At the first onset Gontran's lance pierced his adversary's shield so that he could not disengage it, and Ingeger was thus enabled to close with him, hurl him to the ground, and despatch him with a dagger. Then, while the lists rang with applause, the brave boy rushed up to his godmother and threw himself into her arms in a transport of joy." [Illustration] When William conquered England he became King of England and still owned his own possessions in Normandy, and the Count of Anjou, when he became King, still held the lands he had held as Count, so that the Kings of England held a great part of France as well as England. The Counts of Anjou used to wear a sprig of broom, or _planta genista_, in their helmets, and from this they were called the Plantagenet Kings. The first of them was brave and clever, and the second was brave, but the third, John, was mean and cruel and cowardly, and had really no right to the throne at all. His nephew, Prince Arthur of Brittany, ought to have been King, because he was the son of John's elder brother. But John wanted the kingdom for himself, and though the King of France tried to help Arthur to get his rights, John would not give up the crown he had stolen. He managed to take Prince Arthur prisoner, and then pretended to be very fond of him. "All this quarrel has been a mistake," he said; "come with me and I will give you a kingdom." So Prince Arthur went with him, and in the dark night, as they passed along by the river, the wicked King stabbed the young Prince with his own hand, and pushed him into the swift-flowing water. "There," he cried, "that is the kingdom I promised you." And the poor young Prince sank into the dark flood, never to rise again. Shakespeare tells another story of Prince Arthur's death, which you will read for yourselves one day; and this is the story:-- After King John had taken the young Prince prisoner, he shut him up in the Castle of Northampton, and ordered Hubert de Burgh, the Governor of the Castle, to put poor Arthur's eyes out, because he thought that no one would want a blind boy to be King of England. So Hubert went into the room where the little Prince was shut up. "Good morning," said the Prince. "You are sad, Hubert." "Indeed, I have been merrier," said Hubert, who, though he did not like to disobey the King, was yet miserable at the wicked deed he had been asked to do. "Nobody," said Arthur, "should be sad but I. If I were out of prison and kept sheep I should be as merry as the day is long. And so I would be here but for my uncle. He is afraid of me and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son? Indeed it is not, and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert." "If I talk to him," said Hubert to himself, "I shall never have the courage to do this wicked deed." "Are you ill, Hubert?" Arthur went on. "You look pale to-day. If you were ill I would sit all night and watch you, for I believe I love you more than you do me." Hubert dared not listen. He felt he must do the King's wicked will, so he pulled out the paper on which the King had written his cruel order, and showed it to the young Prince. Arthur read it calmly and then turned to Hubert. "So you are to put out my eyes with hot irons?" [Illustration: "YOU ARE SAD, HUBERT," SAID THE PRINCE.] "Young boy, I must," said Hubert. "And you will?" asked Arthur. And Hubert answered, "And I will." "Have you the heart?" cried Arthur. "Do you remember when your head ached how I tied it up with my own handkerchief, and sat up with you the whole night holding your hand and doing everything I could for you! Many a poor man's son would have lain still and never have spoke a loving word to you; but you, at your sick service, had a prince. Will you put out my eyes--those eyes that never did, nor never shall, so much as frown on you?" "I have sworn to do it," said Hubert. He called two men, who brought in the fire and the hot irons, and the cord to bind the little Prince. "Give me the irons," said Hubert, "and bind him here." "For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound," cried Arthur. "I will not struggle--I will stand stone still. Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away and I will sit as quiet as a lamb, and I will forgive you whatever torment you may put me to." And Hubert was moved by his pleading, and told the men to go; and as they went they said--"We are glad to have no part in such a wicked deed as this." Then Arthur flung his arms round Hubert and implored him to spare his eyes, and at last Hubert consented, for all the time his heart had been sick at the cruel deed he had promised to do. Then he took Prince Arthur away and hid him, and told the King he was dead. But King John's lords were so angry when they heard that Arthur was dead, and John seemed so sorry for having given the order to Hubert, that Hubert thought it best to tell him that Arthur had not been killed at all, but was still alive and safe. John was now so terrified at the anger of his lords on Arthur's account that Arthur might from that time have been safe from him. But the poor boy was so frightened by what he had gone through that he made up his mind to risk his life in trying to escape. So he decided to leap down from the top of the tower as his only means of escape. Then he thought he could get away in disguise without being recognised. [Illustration] "The wall is high, and yet will I leap down," he said. "Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not." So he leaped, but the tower was high, and the fall killed him. And before he died, he murmured--"Heaven take my soul and England keep my bones." That is the story as Shakespeare gives it. [Illustration] Almost everyone in England hated King John, even before this dreadful affair of Prince Arthur's death. The King of France took Normandy away from him, and his own people would not help him to fight for it. He was very cruel and revengeful, and often put people in prison or killed them without giving any reason for it, or having them properly tried. So the great nobles of England joined together and said that they would not let John be King any longer in England unless he would give them a written promise to behave better in future. At first he laughed at the idea, and said he should do as he chose, and that he would fight the lords and keep them in their proper place. But he had to give in when he found that only seven of the lords of England were on his side and all the rest against him. So then he asked the barons and the bishops to meet him at Runnymede and there he put his big seal to a writing, promising what they wished. He did not sign his name to it, but you can see that very parchment sealed in the British Museum with the King's big seal to it. [Sidenote: Magna Charta A.D. 1215.] But though he fixed his seal to the paper he did not keep the promises that were in it, and the barons grew so angry that they asked the King of France to help them to fight John, and to turn him out. [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD] John ran away when he heard that the French were coming. He left his friends to fight his battles, and went off, wrecking the castles of the barons who had asked the French Prince to come over, and who were now with him. Then someone told the barons that the French Prince was determined to cut off all their heads as soon as he had got England for his own. So they saw how foolish they had been to ask him to come and help them. John was in Lincolnshire, and was coming across the sands at the Wash, but the tide suddenly came in and swept away his crown, his treasure, his food, and everything was lost in the sea. King John was very miserable at losing all his treasures, and he tried to drown his sorrows by drinking a lot of beer and eating much more than was good for him. This brought on a fever, and he died miserably, with no one at all to be sorry for him. [Sidenote: A.D. 1216.] He was and is the best-hated of all our English kings. There was much danger in travelling in those days, for robbers used to hide in the woods and lonely places, and to attack and rob travellers. Many of the nobles themselves who were in attendance on the King, being often unable to get their proper pay, either belonged to these robber bands or secretly helped them, and shared with them the plunder they took from those they robbed. The best known of these robbers was the famous Robin Hood, who lived in the time of King Richard and King John. He is supposed to have been a nobleman, and to have had his hiding place in Sherwood Forest, and he is said to have been kind and merciful to the poor, and to have helped them out of the money and good things he stole from the rich. Many songs about him have come down to us. The poor suffered in those old days many and great hardships at the hands of the nobles of England, who indeed robbed and oppressed them very cruelly. So they were ready enough to sing the praises of one who stole only from the rich and who gave to the poor. [Illustration] [Illustration: HENRY THE THIRD.] [Sidenote: A.D. 1216.] HENRY THE THIRD was crowned at Gloucester when he was only nine years old. You remember that King John's crown had been lost in the Wash with his other treasures, so they crowned Henry with a gold bracelet of his mother's. The lords who attended the coronation banquet wore white ribbons round their heads as a sign of their homage to the innocent, helpless child. They made him swear to do as his father had promised in the great charter sealed at Runnymede; and the Earl of Pembroke was appointed to govern the kingdom till Henry grew up. Henry grew up unlike his cruel father. He was gentle, tenderhearted, fond of romance, music and poetry, sculpture, painting and architecture. Some of the most beautiful churches we have were built in his reign. But, though he had so many good qualities, he had no bravery, no energy and perseverance. He was fond of pleasure and of the beautiful things of this world, and cared too little for the beautiful things of the soul. He was fond of gaiety, and his young queen was of the same disposition. She was one of four sisters. Two of these sisters married kings and two married counts, and the kings' wives were so proud of being queens that they used to make their sisters, the countesses, sit on little low stools while they themselves sat on handsome high chairs. Henry's time passed in feasts and songs and dancing. Romances and curious old Breton ballads were translated into English, and recited at the Court with all sorts of tales of love and battle and chivalry. The object of chivalry was to encourage men in noble and manly exercises, and to teach them to succour the oppressed, to uphold the dignity of women, and to help the Christian faith. And chivalry was made attractive by all sorts of gay and pretty devices. Knights used to wear in their helmets a ribbon or a glove that some lady had given them, and it was supposed that, while they had the precious gift of a good lady in their possession, they would do nothing base or disloyal that should dishonour the gift they carried. [Illustration] Each young noble at twelve years old was placed as page in some other noble household. There, for two years, he learned riding and fencing, and the use of arms. When the lord killed a deer the pages skinned it and carried it home. At a feast the pages carried in the chief dishes and poured the wine for their lords to drink. They helped the ladies of the house in many ways, and carried their trains on state occasions. At fourteen a page became a squire. He helped his lord to put on his armour, carried his shield to battle, cleaned and polished his lord's armour and sharpened his sword, and he was allowed to wear silver spurs instead of iron ones, such as the common people wore. When he was considered worthy to become a knight he went through a ceremony which dedicated him to the service of God. The day before he was to become a knight the young man stripped and bathed. Then he put on a white tunic--the white as a promise of purity; a red robe--the red meant the blood he was to shed in fighting for the right; and he put on a black doublet (which is a sort of jacket), and this was black in token of death, of which a knight was never to be afraid. Then he went into the church, and there he spent the night in prayer. He heard the priests singing their chant in the darkness of the big church, and he thought of his sins, and steadfastly purposed to lead a new life. In the morning he confessed his sins, walked up to the altar, laid down his belt and sword, and then knelt at the foot of the altar steps. He received the Holy Communion, and then the lord who was to make him a knight gave him the accolade--three strokes on the back of the bare neck with the flat side of the sword--and said: "In the name of Saint George I make thee a knight,"--and bade him take back his sword--"in the name of God and Saint George, and use it like a true knight as a terror and punishment for evil-doers, and a defence for widows and orphans, and the poor, and the oppressed, and the priests--the servants of God." The priests and the ladies came round him and put on his gilt spurs, and his coat of mail, and his breastplate, and armpieces, and gauntlets, and took the sword and girded it on him. Then the young man swore to be faithful to God, the King, and woman; his squire brought him his helmet, and his horse's shoes rang on the church pavement and under the tall arches as his squire led the charger up the aisle. In the presence of priests, and knights, and ladies assembled, the young knight sprang upon his horse and caracoled before the altar, brandishing his lance and his sword. And then away to do the good work he was sworn to. Many, of course, forgot their promises and broke their vows, but in those wild times many a rough man was made gentle, many a cruel man less cruel, and many a faint-hearted one made bold by the noble thoughts from which the idea of chivalry sprang. Now, you know, England is governed by the Queen and Parliament. But in those old days England was ruled by the King and by such nobles as had money and strength enough to be able to rule by force. These nobles were indeed a terror to the people. They lived in strong, stoutly-built castles, with a great moat or ditch round them, and having always many retainers and armed servants, they were often able to resist the King himself. It was the growing power and riches of the King which they most dreaded, for he only could do them harm. It was then for their own sakes--to guard their own persons, to protect their own property against the King--rather than from any desire to help the people, that the barons resisted first John and then Henry. [Illustration] But among them was a noble, unselfish man, who loved his fellow countrymen, and who saw, that to make people rich, and happy, and prosperous, they must be allowed to share in the government of the country in which they live. This noble Englishman, Simon de Montfort, was called the great Earl, and it was he who headed the resistance to Henry the Third, when that King tried to escape from keeping the promises contained in the Great Charter which he had bound himself to obey. The resistance grew so strong that at last there was war in England. At the Battle of Lewes, Simon de Montfort defeated Henry and took him prisoner, and with him was his son, Prince Edward. Then at last a Parliament was called. Two knights were sent to it from each county, and from every town two citizens. It was chiefly to get these towns represented in Parliament that the great Earl opposed the King. Prince Edward was very anxious to escape and fight another battle for his father. So he pretended to be very ill. When he got better he asked his gaolers to let him go out riding for the benefit of his health. They agreed, but of course, they sent a guard of soldiers out with him to see that he did not escape. Prince Edward rode out for several days with them and never even tried to get away. But one day he begged them to ride races with each other, while he looked on. They did so, and when their horses were quite tired, he shouted, "I have long enough enjoyed the pleasure of your company, gentlemen, and I bid you good-day," put spurs to his horse, and was soon out of their reach. His friend, the Earl of Gloucester, joined him, and they soon raised an army and defeated the great Earl at Evesham. [Sidenote: A.D. 1265.] "Let us commend our souls to God," said Simon, as Prince Edward and his men came down upon him and the little band of knights who stood by his side. One by one the knights fell, till Simon only was left. He hacked his way through his foes, and had nearly escaped when his horse was brought to the ground, and a death wound was given him from behind. "It is God's grace," he said, and died. But though the leader died, the work was done, and a Parliament established in England. Some of the priests in England had grown very wicked and greedy. They neglected their duties and thought only of feasting and making themselves comfortable. But some good monks came over from Rome, and determined to try to show the English priests what a Christian's duty was. They made a vow to be poor, and to deny themselves everything, except just enough food to keep body and soul together. They would not even have books at first, but spent all the money they could collect on the poor. They nursed the sick and helped the unfortunate. They would not wear pretty clothes or beautiful vestments, but were dressed in plain grey or black serge, with a rope round the waist, and bare feet. Although they were foreigners and could speak but little English, they encouraged people to write in the English language instead of in Latin or French. [Illustration] It was a favourite dream of the early English and French kings to take Jerusalem and the Holy Land from the hands of the Saracens, and to let Christians be the guardians of the place where Christ lived and died. To do this they were constantly making war on the Saracens, and these wars were called Crusades, and the knights who went to them Crusaders. Crusaders carried a red cross on their banners and on their shields. The Saracens' banners and shields had a crescent like a new moon. For two hundred years this fighting went on, and the last of our English princes to take part in it was Prince Edward. He had only three hundred knights with him, and was not able to attack Jerusalem, because he could not get together more than seven thousand men. His knights went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, but he stayed in his camp at Acre. One day a messenger came into his tent with letters, and while he was reading them the wicked messenger stabbed him. He had been sent to do so by the Saracens, because they were afraid of this brave prince. The prince caught the blow on his arm, and kicked the messenger to the ground, but the man rose and rushed at him again with the knife. The dagger just grazed the prince's forehead, and seizing a wooden footstool Prince Edward dashed out the messenger's brains. His wife, the Princess Eleanor, was afraid the dagger was poisoned. So she sucked the blood from his wound with her own lips, and so most likely saved his life. But he was very ill in spite of this, and England nearly lost one of her best and bravest princes. [Sidenote: A.D. 1272.] As soon as he was well enough to travel, he set out for England, and on the way he was met with the sad news that his father and two of his children were dead. So he became King of England, and he was the father of the first Prince of Wales. [Illustration: PRINCESS ELEANOR] [Illustration: The First Prince of Wales. ICH DIEN] THERE were Welsh princes long before there were English kings, and the Welsh princes could not bear to be subject to the kings of England. So they were always fighting to get back their independence. But the English kings could not let them be free as they wished, because England could never have been safe with an independent kingdom so close to her. So there were constant wars between the two countries, and sometimes the fortune of battle went one way and sometimes the other. But at last the Welsh Prince Llewellyn was killed. He had gone to the south of Wales to cheer up his subjects there, and he had crossed the river Wye into England, when a small band of English knights came up. A young knight named Adam Frankton met with a Welsh chief as he came out of a barn to join the Welsh army. Frankton at once attacked him, and after a struggle, wounded the Welsh chief to death. Then he rode on to battle, and when he came back he tried to find out what had become of the Welshman. He heard that he was already dead, and then they found that the dead man was the great Welsh Prince Llewellyn. His head was taken off and sent to London, where it was placed on the battlements of the Tower and crowned, in scorn, with ivy. This was because an old Welsh magician, years before, had said that when English money became round, the Welsh princes should be crowned in London. And money had become round in this way:-- Before this there were silver pennies, and when anyone wanted a half-penny, he chopped the silver penny in two, and if he wanted a farthing he chopped the silver penny in four, so that money was all sorts of queer shapes. But Edward the First had caused round copper half-pennies and farthings to be made, and when the Welsh prince had heard of this he had believed that the old magician's words were coming true, and that he should defeat Edward and become king of England himself. Instead of this, the poor man's head was cut off, and, in mockery of his hopes and dreams, they crowned the poor dead head with the wreath of ivy. Now the Welsh wanted another prince, and King Edward said: "If you will submit to me and not fight any more, you shall have a prince who was born in Wales, can speak never a word of English, and never did wrong to man, woman, or child." The Welsh people agreed that if they could have such a prince as that, they would be contented and quiet, and give up fighting. And so one day the leaders of the Welsh met King Edward at his castle in Caernarvon and asked for the Prince he had promised them, and he came out of his castle with his little son, who had only been born a week before, in his arms. "Here is your Prince," he said, holding up the little baby. "He was born in Wales, he cannot speak a word of English, and he has never done harm to man, woman or child." Instead of being angry at the trick the king had played them, the Welsh people were very pleased. Welsh nurses took care of the baby, so that he really did learn to speak in Welsh before he could speak in English. And the Welsh were so pleased with their baby king that from that time Edward the First had no more trouble with them. There are many stories told of this prince's boldness as a child. He promised them to grow up as brave as his father, and it would have been better for him if he had done so. He was always very fond of hunting, and once when he was quite young, he and his servants were hunting the deer. His servants lost the trace of the deer, and presently, when they reined up their horses, they found that the young prince was no longer with them. They looked everywhere for him, very frightened lest he should have fallen into the hands of robbers; and at last they heard a horn blown in the forest. They followed the sound of it and presently found that the young prince had seen which way the deer went, and had followed it and killed it all by himself. [Illustration] Now King Edward the First had great trouble with his Scotch nobles, and many were the battles he fought with them, until at last he forced the Scottish king Balliol to declare himself his vassal, and he became the over-lord of Scotland. But there arose a brave Scot named William Wallace, who longed to see his country free from England, and he drove the English back, and again and again he beat them. But in a few years Edward got together another army, and leading them into Scotland he beat the Scots and took Wallace prisoner. Wallace was tried and found guilty of treason, and when he had been beheaded, they crowned his head with laurel and placed it on London Bridge, for all the passers-by, by road or river, to see. [Sidenote: A.D. 1305.] Then two men claimed the Scottish crown, Robert Bruce and John, who was called the Red Comyn. They were jealous of each other, and Bruce thought that Comyn had betrayed him. They met in a church to have an explanation. "You are a traitor," said Bruce. [Illustration] "You lie," said Comyn. And Bruce in a fury struck at him with his dagger, and then, filled with horror, rushed from the church. "To horse, to horse," he cried. One of his attendants, named Kirkpatrick, asked him what was the matter. "I doubt," said Bruce, "that I have slain the Red Comyn." "You doubt!" said Kirkpatrick. "I will make sure." So saying, he hurried back into the church and killed the wounded man. And now the task of defending Scotland against Edward was left to Robert Bruce. King Edward was so angry when he heard of this murder, that at the feast, when his son was made a knight, he swore over the swan, which was the chief dish and which was the emblem of truth and constancy, that he would never rest two nights in the same place till he had chastised the Scots. And for some time the Scots and English were at bitter war, and when King Edward died, he made his son promise to go on fighting. [Sidenote: A.D. 1307.] But Edward the Second was not a man like his father. He was more like his grandfather Henry the Third, caring for pretty colours and pretty things, rich clothes, rich feasts, rich jewels, and surrounding himself with worthless favourites. Robert Bruce said he was more afraid of the dead bones of Edward the First than of the living body of Edward of Caernarvon, and that it was easier to win a kingdom from his son than a foot of land from the father. Gradually the castles the English had taken in Scotland were won back from them. For twenty years the English had held the Castle of Edinburgh, and at the end of that time, Randolph, a Scottish noble, came to besiege it. The siege was long, and the brave English showed no signs of giving in. Randolph was told that it was possible to climb up the south face of the rock on which the castle stood, and steep as the rock was, Randolph and some others began to climb it one dark night. When they were part of the way up, and close to the wall of the castle, they heard a soldier above them cry out--"Away, I see you," and down came stone after stone. Had many more been thrown Randolph and his companions must have been dashed to the ground and killed, for it was only on a very narrow ledge that they had found a footing. But the soldier was only in joke, trying to frighten his fellows. He had not really seen them at all, and he passed on. When all was quiet again, the daring Scots climbed up till they reached the top of the wall, and when they had fixed a rope ladder the rest of their men came up. Then they fell upon the men of the garrison and killed them, and the castle was taken by the Scots. [Sidenote: A.D. 1314.] But a greater loss awaited the English. Edward led an English army to battle in Scotland; and at Bannockburn they met the force of the Scots king. They fought till the field was slippery with blood, and covered with broken armour and lances and arrows. Then at the last, as the English began to waver, Bruce charged down on them with more soldiers and utterly routed them. Edward with difficulty saved his life, and throughout England there were bitter lamentings at the loss and shame the country had suffered. Scotland was free from the English yoke, and of all the great conquests the first Edward had won, only Berwick-on-Tweed remained to the English. Edward II. was never loved by his subjects. He made favourites of silly and wicked persons, and so gave much offence to good folk. He was wasteful and extravagant, and did not even try to govern the country wisely and well, while his favourites made themselves hated more and more by their dishonesty and wickedness. The last of his favourites was named Despenser, and he was as much hated by the Queen Isabella as by the lords and people of England. Despenser not only made himself hated by the queen, but he managed also to make her dislike her husband, the king, with whom she had long been on unfriendly terms. At last Isabella, disgusted with her husband and his favourite, ran away to France, and there, with the help of the Count of Hainault and other friends in England, she raised an army and attacked and defeated her husband and his favourite. The young Despenser was hanged on a gibbet fifty feet high, and a Parliament was called to decide what should be done with the king. [Illustration] The Parliament declared its right to make or unmake kings, and ordered that Edward should not be king any more. Some members went to Edward at Kenilworth to tell him what they had decided, and Edward clad in a plain black gown, received them and quietly promised to be king no more. Then he was taken to Berkeley Castle, and a few months after the people learned that he was dead. [Illustration] There has always been much doubt whether he died a natural death or was murdered. The Bishop of Hereford, who had always been on the queen's side, is said to have sent to two wicked men the following message written in Latin--"Edwardum occidere nolite timere bonum est." Now this message had two meanings according to the way the stops were put in. The first was--"Be unwilling to fear to kill Edward--it is good." The other was--"Be unwilling to kill Edward--it is good to fear." So you see that, if this message fell into anyone's hands for whom it was not intended, the bishop would have been able to say he meant to warn people not to kill the king, while Gurney and Maltravers, who received the message, could say that the paper was an order to kill him. The story goes, that they came to the castle and there found the poor king in a dungeon. He was standing in mire and puddle, and, although he was a king, they gave him only bread and water. Then he thought of his former greatness and how brave and gallant a show he had made as a knight, and he cried out-- "Tell Isabel, the queen, I looked not thus When for her sake I ran at tilt in France And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont." [Sidenote: A.D. 1327.] He was too weak to resist these wicked men, and they had no mercy in their hearts, but murdered him. [Illustration: HENRY VI., THE BABY KING. (_See page 47._)] [Illustration: Edward the Black Prince.] [Sidenote: A.D. 1340.] THE name of Edward the Black Prince will always be remembered with love and admiration by all young Englishmen, because he was by all accounts a very brave, gallant, and courteous prince, feared by his foes and by his friends beloved. His father, Edward the Third, had not given up his hopes of regaining his lost possessions in France, so he spent two long years in getting together money and ships and an army. He fought the French fleet near Sluys. Both sides fought fiercely, and at last the English won. The French had thought that they were quite sure to get the best of it, and they were afraid to tell the King of France how the English had beaten them, for hundreds of the French had been either killed or been forced to jump into the sea to escape the swords of the English. Now, at this time every king kept a jester to make jokes and amuse him and his friends at their feasts, and the jester was a privileged person, who could say anything he liked. So now they told the jester of the King of France that he must tell the king the bad news, because he could say what he liked and no one would punish him for it. So the jester said-- "Oh! what dastardly cowards the English are!" "How so?" said the king, who expected to hear that the cowardly English had been driven away by his men. [Illustration: ·KING· ·EDWARD· ·SAILS· ·FOR· ·FRANCE·] "Because," answered the jester, "they have not jumped into the sea as our brave men had to do." So then the king asked him what he meant, and then the courtiers came forward and told the sad story of the English victory. Then Edward besieged a town called Tournay, but he had not enough money to get provisions for his men, so he had to make friends with the king of France for a little while and go back to England. Six years later he pawned his crown and his queen's jewels, and at last got together enough money to go and fight with the French again. He landed at La Hogue, and as he landed he fell so violently that his nose began to bleed. "Oh, this is a bad sign," said his courtiers, "that your first step on French soil should be a fall." "Not so," said the king. "It is a good sign. It shows that the land desires me: so she takes me close to her." He had thirty-two thousand men with him, and his son, the Black Prince. Some say he was called the Black Prince because he wore black armour, but others say it was because he made himself as great a terror to the French as a black night is to foolish children. Edward marched towards the French and the French marched to meet him, and as they marched they broke down all the bridges, so that the English could not advance by them. But Edward had made up his mind to get across the river Seine and fight with his enemies; and he was no more to be stopped by the water than a dog would have been who wanted to get over to the other side to fight another dog. He got a poor man to show him a place where the river was shallow at low tide, and there he plunged into the river, crying, "Let him who loves me follow me," and the whole army followed and got safely to the other side. Edward arranged his soldiers well, and went himself to the top of a little hill where there was a windmill. From this he could see everything that went on. The French had a far larger army than the English, and when they came in sight of Edward's army and saw how well placed it was, the wiser Frenchmen said, "Do not let us fight them to-day, for our men and horses are tired. Let us wait for to-morrow and then we can drive them back." So the foremost of the French army turned back, but those behind were discontented and thought the fighting had begun and that they had not had a chance. So they pushed forward till the whole French army was close to the English. [Illustration] [Sidenote: A.D. 1346.] King Edward had made all his soldiers sit on the grass and eat and drink. Mounted on his horse he rode among them telling them to be brave, for that they were now going to win a glorious victory and cover themselves with eternal glory. At three in the afternoon the first French soldiers came face to face with the Englishmen, and the battle began. Some soldiers from Genoa who had been paid to fight for the French king, said they did not want to fight, they were too tired and could not fight as good soldiers should, but the men behind pressed them on and they were beaten. A heavy rain fell, with thunder, and a great flight of crows hovered in the air over all the battalions, making a loud noise. Shortly afterwards it cleared up and the sun shone very bright. But the French had it in their faces and the English at their backs. [Illustration] When the Genoese drew near, they approached the English with a loud noise to frighten them; but the English remained quite quiet, and did not seem to attend to it. They then set up a second shout and advanced a little forward. The English never moved. Still they hooted a third time, and advanced with their crossbows presented and began to shoot. The English archers then moved a step forward and shot their arrows with such force and quickness that it seemed as if it snowed. The fight raged furiously, and presently a knight came galloping up to the windmill and begged the king to send help to his son, the Black Prince, as he was sore pressed. "Is my son in danger of his life?" said the king. "No, thank God," returned the knight, "but in great need of your help." Then the king answered: "Return to them that sent you and say that I command them to let the boy win his spurs, for I am determined that, if it please God, all the glory of this day shall be given to him and to those to whose care I have entrusted him." [Illustration] This message cheered the Prince mightily, and he and the English won the battle of Creçy. And the battle of Creçy, one of the most glorious in English History, was won by the common people of England, yeomen and archers, foot soldiers against the knights and squires of France with their swords and horses. In this battle the blind king of Bohemia took part with the French. "I pray you," he said to his friends, "lead me into the battle that I may strike one more stroke with this good sword of mine." So they led him in and he was killed. [Sidenote: A.D. 1356.] The battle of Poictiers was fought entirely under the direction of the Black Prince, and this was another splendid victory to England; and in this battle the French king was taken. The king was brought to the Black Prince as he was resting in his tent, and he behaved like the true gentleman he was. He showed the deepest respect and sympathy for his vanquished foe. He ordered the best of suppers to be served to the king, and would not sit with him to eat, but stood behind his chair and waited on him like a servant, saying--"I am only a prince. It is not fitting I should sit in the presence of the king of France." And King John said-- "Since it has pleased Heaven that I am a captive, I thank my God I have fallen into the hands of the most generous and valiant prince alive." King John was taken as a prisoner to London. They rode into the city, King John mounted on a beautiful white horse that belonged to the Black Prince, while Prince Edward himself, riding on a black pony, was ready to wait on him, and to do his bidding. It was this generous temper which made the Black Prince beloved by all who knew him; it was only during his last illness that his character seemed to be changed by the great sufferings that he underwent, and it was only during the last year of his life that he did anything of which a king and an Englishman need be ashamed. He seems to have inherited his skill in war from his father, and from his mother, Queen Philippa, he inherited gentleness, goodness, and true courtesy. There are many stories told of the goodness and courage of this lady. Among others, this:-- [Sidenote: A.D. 1347.] When Edward the Third had besieged Calais for a year, the good town which had held out so long was obliged to surrender, for there was no longer anything to eat in the city, and the folks said: "It is as good to die by the hands of the English as to die here by famine like rats in a hole." So they sent to tell the king they would give up the town to him. But Edward the Third was so angry with them for having resisted him so long, that he said that they should all be hanged. Then Edward the Black Prince begged his father not to be so hard on brave men who had only done what they believed to be their duty, and entreated him to spare them. Then said the king-- "I will spare them on condition that six citizens, bare-headed and bare-footed, clad only in their shirts, with ropes round their necks, shall come forth to me here, bringing the keys of the city." And when the men of Calais heard this, they said: "No; better to die than live a dishonoured life by giving up even one of these our brothers who have fought and suffered with us." But one of the chief gentlemen of Calais--Eustace de S. Pierre--said: "It is good that six of us should win eternal glory in this world and the sunshine of God's countenance in the next, by dying for our town and our brethren. I, for one, am willing to go to the English king on such terms as he commands." Then up rose his son and said likewise, and four other gentlemen, inspired by their courage, followed their example. So the six in their shirts, with ropes round their necks and the keys of the town in their hands, went out through the gates, and all the folk of Calais stood weeping and blessing them as they went. When they came to the king, he called for the hangman, saying--"Hang me these men at once." [Illustration] But Queen Philippa was there, and though she was ill, she left her tent weeping so tenderly that she could not stand upright. Therefore she cast herself upon her knees before the king, and spoke thus:-- "Ah, gentle sire, from the day I passed over sea I have asked for nothing; now I pray you, for the love of Our Lady's son Christ, to have mercy on these." King Edward waited for a while before speaking, and looked at the queen as she knelt, and he said--"Lady, I had rather you had been elsewhere. You pray so tenderly that I dare not refuse you; and though I do it against my will, nevertheless take them. I give them to you." Then took he the six citizens by the halters and delivered them to the queen, and released from death all those of Calais for the love of her. [Illustration: "THERE·IS·NOTHING·IN FRANCE·THAT·CAN·BE·WON WITH·A·DANCE·OR·A·SONG." HENRY the FIFTH and the BABY KING] [Sidenote: A.D. 1399.] HENRY the Fourth was the Black Prince's nephew, and he came to be king of England. His son was Henry the Fifth, the greatest of the Plantagenet kings. When he was a young man, and only Prince of Wales, he was very wild and fond of games and jokes. They used to call him Harry Madcap. Once, when he got into some trouble or other, his father, who was ill, sent for him, and he went at once in a fine dress that he had had made for a fancy dress party. It was of light blue satin with odd puckers in the sleeves, and at every pucker the tailor had left a little bit of blue thread and a tag like a needle. The king was very angry with the prince for daring to come into the royal presence in such a silly coat. Then Prince Harry said-- "Dear father, as soon as I heard that you wanted me, I was in such a hurry to come to you that I had no time to even think of my coat, much less change it." And so the king forgave him. Another time one of his servants got into trouble and was taken before the Chief Judge Sir William Gascoyne. The Prince went directly to the Court where the judge was and said-- "Lord Judge, this is my servant, and you must let him go, for I am the king's son." "No," said the judge, "I sit here in the place of the king himself, to do justice to all his subjects, and were this man the Prince of Wales himself, instead of being his servant, he should be punished in that he has offended against the law." The prince was so angry that he actually forgot himself so far as to strike Sir William Gascoyne. The good judge did not hesitate a minute. "You have insulted the king himself," he said, "in my person, since I sit here in his place to do justice. The common folks who offend against the law offend merely against the king; but you, young man, are a double traitor to your king and your father." And he sent the prince to prison. Henry begged the good judge's pardon afterwards, and when he came to the throne he thanked him for having behaved so justly and wisely, and gave him great honour because he had not been afraid to do his duty without respect of rank, and Henry behaved to the judge like a good son to a good father. No king of England was ever more wise or brave or just than Henry the Fifth; and even now he is remembered with affection. One of Shakespeare's most splendid plays is written about him, and, when you have once read that, you will always remember and love Henry the Fifth as all Englishmen should do. [Sidenote: A.D. 1413.] At the very beginning of his reign the wars with France began again. The king sent to France and claimed some lands that had belonged to Edward the Third; and the young prince of France sent back the message--"There is nothing in France that can be won with a dance or a song. You cannot get dukedoms in France by playing and feasting, and the prince sends you something that will suit you better than lands in France. He has sent you a barrel of tennis balls, and bids you play with them and let serious matters be." Then King Henry was very angry, and said--"We thank him for his present. When we have matched our rackets to these balls, We will in France, by God's grace, play a set Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard. Before I was King of England I was wild and merry because I knew not how great and solemn a state waited for me. I have played in my youth like a common man because I was only Prince of Wales; but now that I am King of England I will rise up with so full of glory that I will dazzle all the eyes of France." [Illustration] Henry sailed over to France and besieged a town called Harfleur. He spoke to the soldiers before they attacked the town. "Break down the wall and go through," he said, "or close the wall up with our English dead. Bend every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war proof. Be copy now to men of grosser blood And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not; Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George." The Englishmen answered nobly to his appeal, and Harfleur was taken. Then the English advanced to a place called Agincourt, a name fated to be linked with splendid glory for ever in the hearts of all English folk. The French had a very large army, and the English soldiers were tired with their long march. Many of them were ill and many were hungry; but they loved the king, and for his sake, and for the sake of their country, they were brave in spite of hunger and cold. Though they were in a strange country and many times outnumbered by their foes, they kept up a brave heart as Englishmen have done, thank God, many's the good time, all the world over. So few were they that the Earl of Westmoreland said, just before the battle,-- "Oh, that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day!" The king came in just as he was saying this, and said-- "No, if we are marked to die, we are enough for our country to lose. If we are to live, the fewer there are of us the greater share of honour. I do not covet gold or feasting, or fine garments, but honour I do covet. Wish not another man from England. I would not lose the honour of this fight by sharing it with more men than are here, and if any among our soldiers has no desire to fight, let him go. He shall have a passport and money to take him away. I should be ashamed to die in such a man's company. We need not wish for men from England. It is the men in England who will envy us when they hear of the great crown of honour and glory that we have won this day. This is Saint Crispin's day. Every man who fights on this day will remember it and be honoured to the last hour of his life. Crispin's day shall ne'er go by from this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile. And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day." Lord Salisbury came in as the king was saying this. "The French are in battle order," he said, "and ready to charge upon our men." "All things are ready," said the king quietly, "if our minds are ready." "Perish the man whose mind is backward now," said Westmoreland. "You wish no more for men from England then," said the king smiling. And Westmoreland, inspired with courage and confidence by the king's brave speech, answered--"I would to God, my king, that you and I alone without more help might fight this battle out to-day." "Why, now you have unwished five thousand men," said the king laughing, "and that pleases me more than to wish us one more. God be with you all." [Sidenote: A.D. 1415.] So they went into battle tired as they were. The brave English let loose such a shower of arrows that, as at Creçy, the white feathers of the arrows filled the air like snow, and the French fled before them. The Earl of Suffolk was wounded, and as he lay dying, the Duke of York, his great friend, wounded to death, dragged himself to Suffolk's side and took him by the beard and kissed his wounds, and cried aloud-- "Tarry, dear Cousin Suffolk, My soul shall keep thine company to heaven. Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry." [Illustration] Then he turned to the king's uncle, the Duke of Exeter, and took his hand and said: "Dear my lord, commend my service to my sovereign." Then he put his two arms round Suffolk's neck, and the two friends died together. But the battle was won. Peace was made with France, and to seal the peace Henry married the French princess, Katherine. A little son was born to them at Windsor, and was called Henry of Windsor, Prince of Wales; he was afterwards Henry the Sixth. When Henry the Fifth knew he was going to die, he called his brothers together and gave them good advice about ruling England and France, and begged them to take great care of his little son. Henry the Sixth was not a year old when his father died, and he was crowned at once. One of the finest English poems we have, was written about the Battle of Agincourt. I. Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. II. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Harry then, Though they be one to ten, Be not amazed. Yet have we well begun; Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. III. And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. IV. Poitiers and Cressy tell When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Then when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. V. They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. VI. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. VII. When down their bows they threw And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went-- Our men were hardy. VIII. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it. And many a deep wound lent His arms with blood besprent. And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. IX. Upon Saint Crispin' day Fought was this noble fray. Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? [Illustration: Father Tuck's "GOLDEN GIFT" AND "LITTLE LESSON" SERIES Uniform with this Volume, and Published at the same Price.] * * * * * Transcriber's Note: This edition did not contain a table of contents. One was created to aid the reader. 
41803	----	JOAN OF THE SWORD HAND _WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ THE STICKIT MINISTER. THE RAIDERS. THE PLAYACTRESS. THE LILAC SUNBONNET. BOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. THE MEN OF THE MOSS HAGS. CLEG KELLY. THE GREY MAN. LADS' LOVE. LOCHINVAR. THE STANDARD BEARER. THE RED AXE. THE BLACK DOUGLAS. IONE MARCH. KIT KENNEDY. SWEETHEART TRAVELLERS. SIR TOADY LION. [Illustration: "She met on the middle flight a grey-bearded man." (Page 25.) _Frontispiece_] JOAN OF THE SWORD HAND BY S. R. CROCKETT LONDON WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE 1900 _The Illustrations to this edition of "Joan of the Sword Hand" are by FRANK RICHARDS._ CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. THE HALL OF THE GUARD 7 II. THE BAITING OF THE SPARHAWK 14 III. JOAN DRAWS FIRST BLOOD 19 IV. THE COZENING OF THE AMBASSADOR 25 V. JOHANN THE SECRETARY 30 VI. AN AMBASSADOR'S AMBASSADOR 38 VII. H.R.H. THE PRINCESS IMPETUOSITY 47 VIII. JOHANN IN THE SUMMER PALACE 52 IX. THE ROSE GARDEN 59 X. PRINCE WASP 64 XI. THE KISS OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET 70 XII. JOAN FORSWEARS THE SWORD 79 XIII. THE SPARHAWK IN THE TOILS 84 XIV. AT THE HIGH ALTAR 90 XV. WHAT JOAN LEFT BEHIND 99 XVI. PRINCE WASP'S COMPACT 105 XVII. WOMAN'S WILFULNESS 111 XVIII. CAPTAINS BORIS AND JORIAN PROMOTE PEACE 120 XIX. JOAN STANDS WITHIN HER DANGER 126 XX. THE CHIEF CAPTAIN'S TREACHERY 131 XXI. ISLE RUGEN 139 XXII. THE HOUSE ON THE DUNES 144 XXIII. THE FACE THAT LOOKED INTO JOAN'S 150 XXIV. THE SECRET OF THERESA VON LYNAR 156 XXV. BORNE ON THE GREAT WAVE 163 XXVI. THE GIRL BENEATH THE LAMP 169 XXVII. WIFE AND PRIEST 175 XXVIII. THE RED LION FLIES AT KERNSBERG 182 XXIX. THE GREETING OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET 191 XXX. LOVE'S CLEAR EYE 197 XXXI. THE ROYAL MINX 204 XXXII. THE PRINCESS MARGARET IS IN A HURRY 212 XXXIII. A WEDDING WITHOUT A BRIDEGROOM 217 XXXIV. LITTLE JOHANNES RODE 222 XXXV. A PERILOUS HONEYMOON 229 XXXVI. THE BLACK DEATH 236 XXXVII. THE DROPPING OF A CLOAK 245 XXXVIII. THE RETURN OF THE BRIDE 251 XXXIX. PRINCE WASP STINGS 258 XL. THE LOVES OF PRIEST AND WIFE 266 XLI. THERESA KEEPS TROTH 277 XLII. THE WORDLESS MAN TAKES A PRISONER 287 XLIII. TO THE RESCUE 295 XLIV. THE UKRAINE CROSS 301 XLV. THE TRUTH-SPEAKING OF BORIS AND JORIAN 310 XLVI. THE FEAR THAT IS IN LOVE 315 XLVII. THE BROKEN BOND 324 XLVIII. JOAN GOVERNS THE CITY 332 XLIX. THE WOOING OF BORIS AND JORIAN 338 L. THE DIN OF BATTLE 345 LI. THERESA'S TREACHERY 355 LII. THE MARGRAF'S POWDER CHESTS 366 LIII. THE HEAD OF THE CHURCH VISIBLE 380 EPILOGUE OF EXPLICATION 388 CHAPTER I THE HALL OF THE GUARD Loud rang the laughter in the hall of the men-at-arms at Castle Kernsberg. There had come an embassy from the hereditary Princess of Plassenburg, recently established upon the throne of her ancestors, to the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein, ruler of that cluster of hill statelets which is called collectively Masurenland, and which includes, besides Hohenstein the original Eagle's Eyrie, Kernsberg also, and Marienfield. Above, in the hall of audience, the ambassador, one Leopold von Dessauer, a great lord and most learned councillor of state, sat alone with the young Duchess. They were eating of the baked meats and drinking the good Rhenish up there. But, after all, it was much merrier down below with Werner von Orseln, Alt Pikker, Peter Balta, and John of Thorn, though what they ate was mostly but plain ox-flesh, and their drink the strong ale native to the hill lands, which is called Wendish mead. "Get you down, Captains Jorian and Boris," the young Duchess had commanded, looking very handsome and haughty in the pride of her twenty years, her eight strong castles, and her two thousand men ready to rise at her word; "down to the hall of guard, where my officers send round the wassail. If they do not treat you well, e'en come up and tell it to me." "Good!" responded the two soldiers of the Princess of Plassenburg, turning them about as if they had been hinged on the same stick, and starting forward with precisely the same stiff hitch from the halt, they made for the door. "But stay," Joan of Hohenstein had said, ere they reached it, "here are a couple of rings. My father left me one or two such. Fit them upon your fingers, and when you return give them to the maidens of your choice. Is there by chance such an one, Captain Jorian, left behind you at Plassenburg?" "Aye, madam," said Jorian, directing his left eye, as he stood at attention, a little slantwise in the direction of his companion. "What is her name?" "Gretchen is her name," quoth the soldier. "And yours, Captain Boris?" The second automaton, a little slower of tongue than his companion, hesitated a moment. "Speak up," said his comrade, in an undergrowl; "say 'Katrin.'" "Katrin!" thundered Captain Boris, with bluff apparent honesty. "It is well," said the Duchess Joan; "I think no less of a sturdy soldier for being somewhat shamefaced as to the name of his sweetheart. Here is a ring apiece which will not shame your maidens in far Plassenburg, as you walk with them under the lime-trees, or buy ribbons for them in the booths that cluster about the Minster walls." The donor looked at the rings again. She espied the letters of a posy upon them. "Ha!" she cried, "Captain Boris, what said you was the name of your betrothed?" "Good Lord!" muttered Boris lowly to himself, "did I not tell the woman even now?--Gretchen!" "Hut, you fool!" Jorian's undergrowl came to his ear, "Katrin--not Gretchen; Gretchen is mine." "I mean Katrin, my Lady Duchess," said Boris, putting a bold face on the mistake. The young mistress of the castle smiled. "Thou art a strange lover," she said, "thus to forget the name of thy mistress. But here is a ring with a K writ large upon it, which will serve for thy Katherina. And here, Captain Jorian, is one with a G scrolled in Gothic, which thou wilt doubtless place with pride upon the finger of Mistress Gretchen among the rose gardens of Plassenburg." "Good!" said Jorian and Boris, making their bows together; "we thank your most gracious highness." "Back out, you hulking brute!" the undertone came again from Jorian; "she will be asking us for their surnames if we bide a moment longer. Now then, we are safe through the door; right about, Boris, and thank Heaven she had not time for another question, or we were men undone!" And with their rings upon their little fingers the two burly captains went down the narrow stair of Castle Kernsberg, nudging each other jovially in the dark places as if they had again been men-at-arms and no captains, as in the old days before the death of Karl the Usurper and the coming back of the legitimate Princess Helene into her rights. Being arrived at the hall beneath they soon found themselves the centre of a hospitable circle. Gruff, bearded Wendish men were these officers of the young Duchess; not a butterfly youngling or a courtly carpet knight among them, but men tanned like shipmen of the Baltic, soldiers mostly who had served under her father Henry, foraging upon occasion as far as the Mark in one direction and into Bor-Russia in the other, men grounded and compacted after the hearts of Jorian and Boris. It was small wonder that amid such congenial society the ex-men-at-arms found themselves presently very much at home. Scarcely were they seated when Jorian began to brag of the gift the Duchess had given him for the maiden of his troth. "And Boris here, that hulking cobold, that Hans Klapper upon the housetops, had well-nigh spoiled the jest; for when her ladyship asked him a second time in her sweet voice for the name of his 'betrothed,' he must needs lay his tongue to 'Gretchen,' instead of 'Katrin,' as he had done at the first!" Then all suddenly the bearded, burly officers of the Duchess Joan looked at each other with a little scared expression on their faces, through which gradually glimmered up a certain grim amusement. Werner von Orseln, the eldest and gravest of all, glanced round the full circle of his mess. Then he looked back at the two captains of the embassy guard of Plassenburg with a pitying glance. "And you lied about your sweethearts to the Duchess Joan?" he said. "Ha, ha! Yes! I trow yes," quoth Jorian jovially. "Wine may be dear, but this ring will pay the sweets of many a night!" "Ha, ha! It will, will it?" said Werner, the chief captain, grimly. "Aye, truly," echoed Boris, the mead beginning to work nuttily under his steel cap, "when we melt this--ha, ha!--Katrin's jewel, we'll quaff many a beaker. The Rhenish shall flow-ow-ow! And Peg and Moll and Elisabet shall be there--yes, and many a good fellow-ow-ow----" "Shut the door!" quoth Werner, the chief captain, at this point. "Sit down, gentlemen!" But Jorian and Boris were not to be so easily turned aside. "Call in the ale-drawer--the tapster, the pottler, the over-cellarer, whatever you call him. For we would have more of his vintage. Why, is this a night of jewels, and shall we not melt them? We may chance to get another for a second mouthful of lies to-morrow morning. A good duchess as ever was--a soft princess, a princess most gullible is this of yours, gentlemen of the Eagle's Nest, kerns of Kernsberg!" "Sit down," said Werner yet more gravely. "Captains Jorian and Boris, you do not seem to know that you are no longer in Plassenburg. The broom bush does not keep the cow betwixt Kernsberg and Hohenstein. Here are no Tables of Karl the Miller's Son to hamper our liege mistress. Do you know that you have lied to her and made a jest of it?" "Aye," cried Jorian, holding his ring high; "a sweet, easy maid, this of yours, as ever was cozened. An easy service yours must be. Lord! I could feather my nest well inside a year--one short year with such a mistress would do the business. Why, she will believe anything!" "So," said Werner von Orseln grimly, "you think so, do you, Captains Boris and Jorian, of the embassy staff? Well, listen!" He spoke very slowly, leaning towards them and punctuating his meaning upon the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right. "If I, Werner of Orseln, were now to walk upstairs, and in so many words tell my lady, 'the sweet, easy princess,' as you name her, Joan of the Sword Hand, as we are proud----" "_Joan of the Sword Hand! Hoch!_" The men-at-arms at the lower table, the bearded captains at the high board, the very page boys lounging and scuffling in the niches, rose to their feet at the name, pronounced in a voice of thunder-pride by Chief Captain Werner. "Joan of the Sword Hand! _Hoch!_ Hent yourselves up, Wends! Up, Plassenburg! Joan of the Sword Hand! Our Lady Joan! _Hoch!_ And three times _hoch_!" The hurrahs ran round the oak-panelled hall. Jorian and Boris looked at each other with surprise, but they were stout fellows, and took matters, even when most serious, pretty much as they came. "I thank you, gentlemen, on behalf of my lady, in whose name I command here," said Werner, bowing ceremoniously to all around, while the others settled themselves to listen. "Now, worthy soldiers of Plassenburg," he went on, "be it known to you that if (to suppose a case which will not happen) I were to tell our Lady Joan what you have confessed to us here and boasted of--that you lied and double lied to her--I lay my life and the lives of these good fellows that the pair of you would be aswing from the corner gallery of the Lion's Tower in something under five minutes." "Aye, and a good deed it were, too!" chorussed the round table of the guard hall. "Heaven send it, the jackanapes! To rail at our Duchess!" Jorian rose to his feet. "Up, Boris!" he cried; "no Bor-Russian, no kern of Hohenstein that ever lived, shall overcrow a captain of the armies of Plassenburg and a soldier of the Princess Helene--Heaven bless her! Take your ring in your hand, Boris, for we will go up straightway, you and I. And we will tell the Lady Duchess Joan that, having no sweetheart of legal standing, and no desire for any, we choused her into the belief that we would bestow her rings upon our betrothed in the rose-gardens of Plassenburg. Then will we see if indeed we shall be aswing in five minutes. Ready, Boris?" "Aye, thrice ready, Jorian!" "About, then! Quick march!" A great noise of clapping rose all round the hall as the two stout soldiers set themselves to march up the staircase by which they had just descended. "Stand to the doors!" cried Werner, the chief captain; "do not let them pass. Up and drink a deep cup to them, rather! To Captains Jorian and Boris of Plassenburg, brave fellows both! Charge your tankards. The mead of Wendishland shall not run dry. Fill them to the brim. A caraway seed in each for health's sake. There! Now to the honour and long lives of our guests. Jorian and Boris--_hoch_!" "_Jorian and Boris--hoch!_" The toast was drunk amid multitudinous shoutings and handshakings. The two men had stopped, perforce, for the doors were in the hands of the soldiers of the guard, and the pike points clustered thick in their path. They turned now in the direction of the high table from which they had risen. "Deal you so with your guests who come on embassy?" said Jorian, smiling. "First you threaten them with hanging, and then you would make them drunk with mead as long in the head as the devil of Trier that deceived the Archbishop-Elector and gat the holy coat for a foot-warmer!" "Sit down, gentlemen, and I also will sit. Now, hearken well," said Werner; "these honest fellows of mine will bear me out that I lie not. You have done bravely and spoken up like good men taken in a fault. But we will not permit you to go to your deaths. For our Lady Joan--God bless her!--would not take a false word from any--no, not if it were on Twelfth Night or after a Christmas merry-making. She would not forgive it from your old Longbeard upstairs, whose business it is--that is, if she found it out. 'To the gallows!' she would say, and we--why then we should sorrow for having to hasten the stretching of two good men. But what would you, gentlemen? We are her servants and we should be obliged to do her will. Keep your rings, lads, and keep also your wits about you when the Duchess questions you again. Nay, when you return to Plassenburg, be wise, seek out a Gretchen and a Katrin and bestow the rings upon them--that is, if ever you mean again to stand within the danger of Joan of the Sword Hand in this her castle of Kernsberg." "Gretchens are none so scarce in Plassenburg," muttered Jorian. "I think we can satisfy a pair of them--but at a cheaper price than a ring of rubies set in gold!" CHAPTER II THE BAITING OF THE SPARHAWK "Bring in the Danish Sparhawk, and we will bait him!" said Werner. "We have shown our guests but a poor entertainment. Bring in the Sparhawk, I say!" At this there ensued unyoked merriment. Each stout lad, from one end of the hall to the other, undid his belt as before a nobler course and nudged his fellow. "'Ware, I say, stand clear! Here comes the Wild Boar of the Ardennes, the Wolf of Thuringia, the Bear from the Forests of Bor-Russia! Stand clear--stand clear!" cried Werner von Orseln, laughing and pretending to draw a dagger to provide for his own safety. The inner door which led from the hall of the men-at-arms to the dungeons of the castle was opened, and all looked towards it with an air of great amusement and expectation. "Now we shall have some rare sport," each man said to his neighbour, and nodded. "The baiting of the Sparhawk! The Sparhawk comes!" Jorian and Boris looked with interest in the direction of the door through which such a remarkable bird was to arrive. They could not understand what all the pother could be about. "What the devil----?" said Jorian. And, not to be behindhand, "What the devil----?" echoed Boris. For mostly these two ran neck and neck from drop of flag to winning-post. Through the black oblong of the dungeon doorway there came a lad of seventeen or eighteen, tall, slim, dark-browed, limber. He walked between a pair of men-at-arms, who held his wrists firmly at either side. His hands were chained together, and from between them dangled a spiked ball that clanked heavily on the floor as he stumbled forward rather than walked into the room. He had black hair that waved from his forehead in a backward sweep, a nose of slightly Roman shape, which, together with his bold eagle's eyes, had obtained him the name of the Spar or Sparrow-hawk. And on his face, handsome enough though pale, there was a look of haughty disdain and fierce indignation such as one may see in the demeanour of a newly prisoned bird of prey, which hath not yet had time to forget the blue empyrean spaces and the stoop with half-closed wings upon the quarry trembling in the vale. "Ha, Sparhawk!" cried Werner, "how goes it, Sparhawk? Any less bold and peremptory than when last we met? Your servant, Count Maurice von Lynar! We pray you dance for us the Danish dance of shuffle-board, Count Maurice, if so your Excellency pleases!" The lad looked up the table and down with haughty eyes that deigned no answer. Werner von Orseln turned to his guests and said, "This Sparhawk is a little Dane we took on our last excursion to the north. It is only in that direction we can lead the foray, since you have grown so law-abiding and strong in Plassenburg and the Mark. His uncles and kinsfolk were all killed in the defence of Castle Lynar, on the Northern Haff. We know not which of these had also the claim of fatherhood upon him. At all events, his grandad had a manor there, and came from the Jutland sand-dunes to build a castle upon the Baltic shores. But he had better have stayed at home, for he would not pay the Peace Geld to our Henry. So the Lion roared, and we went to Castle Lynar and made an end--save of this spitting Sparhawk, whom our master would not let us kill, and whom now we keep with clipped wings for our sport." The lad listened with erected head and haughty eyes to the tale, but answered not a word. "Now," cried Werner, with his cup in his hand and his brows bent upon the youth, "dance for us as you used to do upon the Baltic, when the maids came in fresh from their tiring and the newest kirtles were donned. Dance, I say! Foot it for your life!" The lad Maurice von Lynar stood with his bold eyes upon his tormentors. "Curs of Bor-Russia," he said at last, in speech that trembled with anger, "you may vex the soul of a Danish gentleman with your aspersions, you may wound his body, but you will never be able to stand up to him in battle. You will never be worthy to eat or drink with him, to take his hand in comradeship, or to ride a tilt with him. Pigs of the sty you are, man by man of you--Wends and boors, and no king's gentlemen." "Bravo!" said Boris, under his breath, "that is none so dustily said for a junker!" "Silence with that tongue of yours!" muttered his mate. "Dost want to be yawing out of that window presently, with the wind spinning you about and about like a capon on a jack-spit? They are uncanny folk, these of the woman's castle--not to trust to. One knows not what they may do, nor where their jest may end." "Hans Trenck, lift this springald's pretty wrist-bauble!" said Werner. A laughing man-at-arms went up, his partisan still over his shoulder, and laying his hand upon the chain which depended between the manacled wrists of the boy Maurice, he strove to lift the spiked ball. "What!" cried Werner, "canst thou, pap-backed babe, not lift that which the noble Count Maurice of Lynar has perforce to carry about with him all day long? Down with your weapon, man, and to it like an apothecary compounding some blister for stale fly-blown rogues!" At the word the man laid down his partisan and lifted the ball high between his two hands. "Now dance!" commanded Werner von Orseln, "dance the Danish milkmaid's coranto, or I will bid him drop it on your toes. Dost want them jellied, man?" "Drop, and be damned in your low-born souls!" cried the lad fiercely. "Untruss my hands and let me loose with a sword, and ten yards clear on the floor, and, by Saint Magnus of the Isles, I will disembowel any three of you!" "You will not dance?" said Werner, nodding at him. "I will see you fry in hell fire first!" "Down with the ball, Hans Trenck!" cried Werner. "He that will not dance at Castle Kernsberg must learn at least to jump." The man-at-arms, still grinning, lifted the ball a little higher, balancing it in one hand to give it more force. He prepared to plump it heavily upon the undefended feet of young Maurice. "'Ware toes, Sparhawk!" cried the soldiers in chorus, but at that moment, suddenly kicking out as far as his chains allowed, the boy took the stooping lout on the face, and incontinently widened the superficial area of his mouth. He went over on his back amid the uproarious laughter of his fellows. "Ha! Hans Trenck, the Sparhawk hath spurred you, indeed! A brave Sparhawk! Down went poor Hans Trenck like a barndoor fowl!" The fellow rose, spluttering angrily. "Hold his legs, some one," he said, "I'll mark his pretty feet for him. He shall not kick so free another time." A couple of his companions took hold of the boy on either side, so that he could not move his limbs, and Hans again lifted high the ball. "Shall we stand this? They call this sport!" said Boris; "shall I pink the brutes?" "Sit down and shut your eyes. Our Prince Hugo will harry this nest of thieves anon. For the present we must bear their devilry if we want to escape hanging!" "Now then, for marrow and mashed trotters!" cried Hans, spitting the blood from the split corners of his mouth. "_Halt!_" CHAPTER III JOAN DRAWS FIRST BLOOD The word of command came full and strong from the open doorway of the hall. Hans Trenck came instantly to the salute with the ball in his hand. He had no difficulty in lifting it now. In fact, he did not seem able to let it down. Every man in the hall except the two captains of Plassenburg had risen to his feet and stood as if carved in marble. For there in the doorway, her slim figure erect and exceedingly commanding, and her beautiful eyes shining with indignation, stood the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein. "Joan of the Sword Hand!" said Jorian, enraptured. "Gott, what a wench!" In stern silence she advanced into the hall, every man standing fixed at attention. "Good discipline!" said Boris. "Shut your mouth!" responded Jorian. "Keep your hand so, Hans Trenck," said their mistress; "give me your sword, Werner! You shall see whether I am called Joan of the Sword Hand for naught. You would torture prisoners, would you, after what I have said? Hold up, I say, Hans Trenck!" And so, no man saying her nay, the girl took the shining blade and, with a preliminary swish through the air and a balancing shake to feel the elastic return, she looked at the poor knave fixed before her in the centre of the hall with his wrist strained to hold the prisoner's ball aloft at the stretch of his arm. What wonder if it wavered like a branch in an uncertain wind? "Steady there!" said Joan. And she drew back her arm for the stroke. The young Dane, who, since her entrance, had looked at nothing save the radiant beauty of the figure before him, now cried out, "For Heaven's sake, lady, do not soil the skirts of your dress with his villain blood. He but obeyed his orders. Let me be set free, and I will fight him or any man in the castle. And if I am beaten, let them torture me till I am carrion fit only to be thrown into the castle ditch." The Duchess paused and leaned on the sword, holding it point to the floor. "By whose orders was this thing done?" she demanded. The lad was silent. He disdained to tell tales even on his enemies. Was he not a gentleman and a Dane? "By mine, my lady!" said Werner von Orseln, a deep flush upon his manly brow. The girl looked severely at him. She seemed to waver. "Good, then!" she said, "the Dane shall fight Werner for his life. Loose him and chafe his wrists. Ho! there--bring a dozen swords from the armoury!" The flush was now rising to the boy's cheek. "I thank you, Duchess," he said. "I ask no more than this." "Faith, the Sparhawk is not tamed yet," said Boris; "we shall see better sport ere all be done!" "Hold thy peace," growled Jorian, "and look." * * * * * "Out into the light!" cried the young Duchess Joan, pointing the way with Werner's sword, which she still held in her hand. And going first she went forth from the hall of the soldiery, down the broad stairs, and soon through a low-arched door with a sculptured coat-of-arms over it, out into the quadrangle of the courtyard. "And now we will see this prisoner of ours, this cock of the Danish marches, make good his words. That, surely, is better sport than to drop caltrops upon the toes of manacled men." Werner followed unwillingly and with deep flush of shame upon his brow. "My lady," he said, going up to his mistress, "I do not need to prove my courage after I have served Kernsberg and Hohenstein for thirty-eight years--or well-nigh twice the years you have lived--fought for you and your father and shed my blood in a score of pitched battles, to say nothing of forays. Of course I will fight, but surely this young cockerel might be satisfied to have his comb cut by younger hands." "Was yours the order concerning the dropping of the ball?" asked the Duchess Joan. The grey-headed soldier nodded grimly. "I gave the order," he said briefly. "Then by St. Ursula and her boneyard, you must stand to it!" cried this fiery young woman. "Else will I drub you with the flat of your own sword!" Werner bowed with a slightly ironic smile on his grizzled face. "As your ladyship wills," he said; "I do not give you half obedience. If you say that I am to get down on my knees and play cat's cradle with the Kernsberg bairns, I will do it!" Joan of the Sword here looked calmly at him with a certain austerity in her glance. "Why, of course you would!" she said simply. Meanwhile the lad had been freed from his bonds and stood with a sword in his hand suppling himself for the work before him with quick little guards and feints and attacks. There was a proud look in his eyes, and as his glance left the Duchess and roved round the circle of his foes, it flashed full, bold, and defiant. Werner turned to a palish lean Bohemian who stood a little apart. "Peter Balta," he said, "will you be my second? Agreed! And who will care for my honourable opponent?" "Do not trouble yourself--that will arrange itself!" said Joan to her chief captain. With that she flashed lightfoot into one of the low doors which led into the flanking turrets of the quadrangle, and in a tierce of seconds she was out again, in a forester's dress of green doublet and broad pleated kirtle that came to her knee. "I myself," she said, challenging them with her eyes, "will be this young man's second, in this place where he has so many enemies and no friends." As the forester in green and the prisoner stood up together, the guards murmured in astonishment at the likeness between them. "Had this Dane and our Joan been brother and sister, they could not have favoured each other more," they said. A deep blush rose to the youth's swarthy face. "I am not worthy," he said, and kept his eyes upon the lithe figure of the girl in its array of well-fitting velvet. "I cannot thank you!" he said again. "Tut," she answered, "worthy--unworthy--thank--unthank--what avail these upon the mountains of Kernsberg and in the Castle of Joan of the Sword Hand? A good heart, a merry fight, a quick death! These are more to the purpose than many thanks and compliments. Peter Balta, are you seconding Werner? Come hither. Let us try the swords, you and I. Will not these two serve? Guard! Well smitten! There, enough. What, you are touched on the sword arm? Faith, man, for the moment I forgot that it was not you and I who were to drum. This tickling of steel goes to my head like wine and I am bound to forget. I am sorry--but, after all, a day or two in a sling will put your arm to rights again, Peter. These are good swords. Now then, Maurice von Lynar--Werner. At the salute! Ready! Fall to!" The burly figure of the Captain Werner von Orseln and the slim arrowy swiftness of Maurice the Dane were opposed in the clear shadow of the quadrangle, where neither had any advantage of light, and the swords of their seconds kept them at proper distance according to the fighting rules of the time. "I give the Sparhawk five minutes," said Boris to Jorian, after the first parry. It was little more than formal and gave no token of what was to follow. Yet for full twenty minutes Werner von Orseln, the oldest sworder of all the north, from the marshes of Wilna to the hills of Silesia, could do nothing but stand on the defensive, so fierce and incessant were the attacks of the young Dane. But Werner did not give back. He stood his ground, warily, steadfastly, with a half smile on his face, a wall of quick steel in front of him, and the point of his adversary's blade ever missing him an inch at this side, and coming an inch short upon that other. The Dane kept as steadily to the attack, and made his points as much by his remarkable nimbleness upon his feet as by the lightning rapidity of his sword-play. "The Kernsberger is playing with him!" said Boris, under his breath. Jorian nodded. He had no breath to waste. "But he is not going to kill him. He has not the Death in his eye!" Boris spoke with judgment, for so it proved. Werner lifted an eyebrow for the fraction of a second towards his mistress. And then at the end of the next rally his sword just touched his young adversary on the shoulder and the blood answered the thrust, staining the white underdoublet of the Dane. Then Werner threw down his sword and held out his hand. "A well-fought rally," he said; "let us be friends. We need lads of such metal to ride the forays from the hills of Kernsberg. I am sorry I baited you, Sparhawk!" "A good fight clears all scores!" replied the youth, smiling in his turn. "Bring a bandage for his shoulder, Peter Balta!" cried Joan. "Mine was the cleaner stroke which went so near your great muscle, but Werner's is somewhat the deeper. You can keep each other company at the dice-box these next days. And, as I warrant neither of you has a Lübeck guilder to bless yourself with, you can e'en play for love till you wear out the pips with throwing." "Then I am not to go back to the dungeon?" said the lad, one reason of whose wounding had been that he also lifted his eyes for a moment to those of his second. "To prison--no," said Joan; "you are one of us now. We have blooded you. Do you take service with me?" "I have no choice--your father left me none!" the lad replied, quickly altering his phrase. "Castle Lynar is no more. My grandfather, my father, and my uncles are all dead, and there is small service in going back to Denmark, where there are more than enough of hungry gentlemen with no wealth but their swords and no living but their gentility. If you will let me serve in the ranks, Duchess Joan, I shall be well content!" "I also," said Joan heartily. "We are all free in Kernsberg, even if we are not all equal. We will try you in the ranks first. Go to the men's quarters. George the Hussite, I deliver him to you. See that he does not get into any more quarrels till his arm is better, and curb my rascals' tongues as far as you can. Remember who meddles with the principal must reckon with the second." CHAPTER IV THE COZENING OF THE AMBASSADOR The next moment Joan had disappeared, and when she was seen again she had assumed the skirt she had previously worn over her dress of forester, and was again the sedate lady of the castle, ready to lead the dance, grace the banquet, or entertain the High State's Councillor of Plassenburg, Leopold von Dessauer. But when she went upstairs she met on the middle flight a grey-bearded man with a skull cap of black velvet upon his head. His dress also was of black, of a distinguishing plain richness and dignity. "Whither away, Ambassador?" she cried gaily at the sight of him. "To see to your principal's wound and that of the other whom your sword countered in the trial bout!" "What? You saw?" said the Duchess, with a quick flush. "I am indeed privileged not to be blind," said Dessauer; "and never did I see a sight that contented me more." "And you stood at the window saying in your heart (nay, do not deny it) 'unwomanly--bold--not like my lady the Princess of Plassenburg. She would not thus ruffle in the courtyard with the men-at-arms!'" "I said no such thing," said the High Councillor. "I am an old man and have seen many fair women, many sweet princesses, each perfect to their lovers, some of them even perfect to their lords. But I have never before seen a Duchess Joan of Hohenstein." "Ambassador," cried the girl, "if you speak thus and with that flash of the eye, I shall have to bethink me whether you come not as an ambassador for your own cause." "I would that I were forty years younger and a prince in my own right, instead of a penniless old baron. Why, then, I would not come on any man's errand--no, nor take a refusal even from your fair lips!" "I declare," said the Duchess Joan impetuously, "you should have no refusal from me. You are the only man I have ever met who can speak of love and yet be tolerable. It is a pity that my father left me the evil heritage that I must wed the Prince of Courtland or lose my dominions!" At the sound of the name of her predestined husband a sudden flashing thought seemed to wake in the girl's breast. "My lord," she said, "is it true that you go to Courtland after leaving our poor eagle's nest up here on the cliffs of the Kernsberg?" Von Dessauer bowed, smiling at her. He was not too old to love beauty and frankness in women. "It is true that I have a mission from my Prince and Princess to the Prince of Courtland and Wilna. But----" Joan of the Sword clasped her hands and drew a long breath. "I would not ask it of any man in the world but yourself," she said, "but will you let me go with you?" "My dear lady," said Dessauer, with swift deprecation, "to go with the ambassador of another power to the court and palace of the man you are to marry--that were a tale indeed, salt enough even for the Princes of Ritterdom. As it is----" The Duchess looked across at Dessauer with great haughtiness. "As it is, they talk more than enough about me already," she said. "Well--I know, and care not. I am no puling maid that waits till she is authorised by a conclave of the empire before she dares wipe her nose when she hath a cold in the head. Joan of the Sword Hand cares not what any prince may say--from yours of Plassenburg, him of the Red Axe, to the fat Margraf George." "Oh, our Prince, he says naught, but does much," said Dessauer. "He hath been a rough blade in his time, but Karl the Miller's son mellowed him, and by now his own Princess hath fairly civilised him." "Well," said Joan of the Sword, with determination, "then it is settled. I am coming with you to Courtland." A shade of anxiety passed over Dessauer's countenance. "My lady," he answered, "you let me use many freedoms of speech with you. It is the privilege of age and frailty. But let me tell you that the thing is plainly foolish. Hardly under the escort of the Empress herself would it be possible for you to visit, without scandal, the court of the Prince of Courtland and Wilna. But in the train of an envoy of Plassenburg, even if that ambassador be poor old Leopold von Dessauer, the thing, I must tell you, is frankly impossible." "Well, I am coming, at any rate!" said Joan, as usual rejecting argument and falling back upon assertion. "Make your count with that, friend of mine, whether you are shocked or no. It is the penalty a respectable diplomatist has to pay for cultivating the friendship of lone females like Joan of Hohenstein." Von Dessauer held up his hands in horror that was more than half affected. "My girl," he said, "I might be your grandfather, it is true, but do not remind me of it too often. But if I were your great-great-grandfather the thing you propose is still impossible. Think of what the Margraf George and his chattering train would say!" "Think of what every fathead princeling and beer-swilling ritter from here to Basel would say!" cried Joan, with her pretty nose in the air. "Let them say! They will not say anything that I care the snap of my finger for. And in their hearts they will envy you the experience--shall we say the privilege?" "Nay, I thought not of myself, my lady," said Dessauer, "for an old man, a mere anatomy of bones and parchment, I take strange pleasure in your society--more than I ought, I tell you frankly. You are to me more than a daughter, though I am but a poor baron of Plassenburg and the faithful servant of the Princess Helene. It is for your own sake that I say you cannot come to Wilna with me. Shall the future Princess of Courtland and Wilna ride in the train of an ambassador of Plassenburg to the palace in which she is soon to reign as queen?" "I said not that I would go as the Duchess," Joan replied, speaking low. "You say that you saw me at the fight in the courtyard out there. If you will not have the Duchess Joan von Hohenstein, what say you to the Sparhawk's second, Johann the Squire?" Dessauer started. "You dare not," he said; "why, there is not a lady in the German land, from Bohemia to the Baltic, that dares do as much." "Ladies," flashed Joan--"I am sick for ever of hearing that a lady must not do this or that, go here or there, because of her so fragile reputation. She may do needlework or embroider altar-cloths, but she must not shoot with a pistolet or play with a sword. Well, I am a lady; let him counter it who durst. And I cannot broider altar-cloths and I will not try--but I can shoot with any man at the flying mark. She must have a care for her honour, which (poor, feckless wretch!) will be smirched if she speaks to any as a man speaks to his fellows. Faith! For me I would rather die than have such an egg-shell reputation. I can care for mine own. I need none to take up my quarrel. If any have a word to say upon the repute of Joan of the Sword Hand--why, let him say it at the point of her rapier." The girl stood up, tall and straight, her head thrown back as it were at the world, with an exact and striking counterpart of the defiance of the young Dane in the presence of his enemies an hour before. Dessauer stood wavering. With quick tact she altered her tone, and with a soft accent and in a melting voice she added, "Ah, let me come. I will make such a creditable squire all in a suit of blue and silver, with just a touch of nutty juice upon my face that my old nurse knows the secret of." Still Dessauer stood silent, weighing difficulties and chances. "I tell you what," she cried, pursuing her advantage, "I will see the man I am to marry as men see him, without trappings and furbelows. And if you will not take me, by my faith! I will send Werner there, whom you saw fight the Dane, as my own envoy, and go with him as a page. On the honour of Henry the Lion, my father, I will do it!" Von Dessauer capitulated. "A wilful woman"--he smiled--"a wilful, wilful woman. Well, I am not responsible for aught of this, save for my own weakness in permitting it. It is a madcap freak, and no good will come of it." "But you will like it!" she said. "Oh, yes, you will like it very much. For, you see, you are fond of madcaps." CHAPTER V JOHANN THE SECRETARY Ten miles outside the boundary of the little hill state of Kernsberg, the embassage of Plassenburg was met by another cavalcade bearing additional instructions from the Princess Helene. The leader was a slender youth of middle height, the accuracy of whose form gave evidence of much agility. He was dark-skinned, of an olive complexion, and with closely cropped black hair which curled crisply about his small head. His eyes were dark and fine, looking straightly and boldly out upon all comers. With him, as chiefs of his escort, were those two silent men Jorian and Boris, who had, as it was reported, ridden to Plassenburg for instructions. None of those who followed Dessauer had ever before set eyes upon this youth, who came with fresh despatches, and, in consequence, great was the consternation and many the surmises as to who he might be who stood so high in favour with the Prince and Princess. But his very first words made the matter clear. "Your Excellency," he said to the Ambassador, "I bring you the most recent instructions from their Highnesses Hugo and Helene of Plassenburg. They sojourn for the time being in the city of Thorn, where they build a new palace for themselves. I was brought from Hamburg to be one of the master-builders. I have skill in plans, and I bring you these for your approval and in order to go over the rates of cost with you, as Treasurer of Plassenburg and the Wolfsmark." Dessauer took, with every token of deference, the sheaf of papers so carefully enwrapt and sealed with the seal of Plassenburg. "I thank you for your diligence, good master architect," he said; "I shall peruse these at my leisure, and, I doubt not, call upon you frequently for explanations." The young man rode on at his side, modestly waiting to be questioned. "What is your name, sir?" asked Dessauer, so that all the escort might hear. "I am called Johann Pyrmont," said the youth promptly, and with engaging frankness; "my father is a Hamburg merchant, trading to the Spanish ports for oil and wine, but I follow him not. I had ever a turn for drawing and the art of design!" "Also for having your own way, as is common with the young," said the Ambassador, smiling shrewdly. "So, against your father's will, you apprenticed yourself to an architect?" The young man bowed. "Nay, sir," he said, "but my good father could deny me nothing on which I had set my mind." "Not he," muttered Dessauer under his breath; "no, nor any one else either!" So, bridle by jingling bridle, they rode on over the interminable plain till Kernsberg, with its noble crown of towers, became first grey and afterwards pale blue in the utmost distance. Then, like a tall ship at sea, it sank altogether out of sight. And still they rode on through the marshy hollows, round innumerable little wildfowl-haunted lakelets, and so over the sandy, rolling dunes to the city of Courtland, where was abiding the Prince of that rich and noble principality. It had been a favourite scheme of dead princes of Courtland to unite to their fat acres and populous mercantile cities the hardy mountaineers and pastoral uplands of Kernsberg. But though Wilna and Courtland were infinitely more populous, the Eagle's Nest was ill to pull down, and hitherto the best laid plans for their union had invariably fallen through. But there had come to Joan's father, Henry called the Lion, and the late Prince Michael of Courtland a better thought. One had a daughter, the other a son. Neither was burdened with any law of succession, Salic or other. They held their domains by the free tenure of the sword. They could leave their powers to whomsoever they would, not even the Emperor having the right to say, "What doest thou?" So with that frank carelessness of the private feelings of the individual which has ever distinguished great politicians, they decreed that, as a condition of succession, their male and female heirs should marry each other. This bond of Heritage-brotherhood, as it was called, had received the sanction of the Emperor in full Diet, and now it wanted only that the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein should be of age, in order that the provinces might at last be united and the long wars of highland and lowland make an end. The scheme had taken everything into consideration except the private character of the persons principally affected, Prince Louis of Courtland and the young Duchess Joan. As they came nearer to the ancient city of Courtland, it spread like a metropolis before the eyes of the embassy of the Prince and Princess of Plassenburg. The city stretched from the rock whereon the fortress-palace was built, along a windy, irregular ridge. Innumerable crow-stepped gables were set at right angles to the street. The towers of the minster rose against the sky at the lower end, and far to the southward the palace of the Cardinal Archbishop cast peaked shadows from its many towers, walled and cinctured like a city within a city. It was a far-seen town this of Courtland, populous, prosperous, defenced. Its clear and broad river was navigable for any craft of the time, and already it threatened to equal if not to outstrip in importance the free cities of the Hanseatic League--so far, at least, as the trade of the Baltic was concerned. Courtland had long been considered too strong to be attacked, save from the Polish border, while the adhesion of Kernsberg, and the drafting of the Duchess's hardy fighting mountaineers into the lowland armies would render the princedom safe for many generations. Pity it was that plans so far-reaching and purposes so politic should be dependent upon the whims of a girl! But then it is just such whims that make the world interesting. * * * * * It was the last day of the famous tournament of the Black Eagle in the princely city of Courtland. Prince Louis had sent out an escort to bring in the travellers and conduct them with honour to the seats reserved for them. The Ambassador and High Councillor of Plassenburg must be received with all observance. He had, he gave notice, brought a secretary with him. For so the young architect was now styled, in order to give him an official position in the mission. The Prince had also sent a request that, as this was the day upon which all combatants wore plain armour and jousted unknown, for that time being the Ambassador should accept other escort and excuse him coming to receive him in person. They would meet at dinner on the morrow, in the great hall of the palace. The city was arrayed in flaming banners, some streaming high from the lofty towers of the cathedral, while others (in streets into which the wind came only in puffs) more languidly and luxuriously unfolded themselves, as the Black Eagle on its ground of white everywhere took the air. All over the city a galaxy of lighter silk and bunting, pennons, bannerettes, parti-coloured streamers of the national colours danced becking and bowing from window and roof-tree. Yet there was a curious silence too in the streets, as they rode towards the lists of the Black Eagle, and when at last they came within hearing of the hum of the thousands gathered there, they understood why the city had seemed so unwontedly deserted. The Courtlanders surrounded the great oval space of the lists in clustered myriads, and their eyes were bent inwards. It was the crisis of the great _mêlée_. Scarcely an eye in all that assembly was turned towards the strangers, who passed quite unobserved to their reserved places in the Prince's empty box. Only his sister Margaret, throned on high as Queen of Beauty, looked down upon them with interest, seeing that they were men who came, and that one at least was young. It was a gay and changeful scene. In the brilliant daylight of the lists a hundred knights charged and recharged. Those who had been unhorsed drew their swords and attacked with fury others of the enemy in like case. The air resounded with the clashing of steel on steel. Fifty knights with white plumes on their helmets had charged fifty wearing black, and the combat still raged. The shouts of the people rang in the ears of the ambassador of Plassenburg and his secretary, as they seated themselves and looked down upon the tide of combat over the flower-draped balustrades of their box. "The blacks have it!" said Dessauer after regarding the _mêlée_ with interest. "We have come in time to see the end of the fray. Would that we had also seen the shock!" And indeed the Blacks seemed to have carried all before them. They were mostly bigger and stronger built men, knights of the landward provinces, and their horses, great solid-boned Saxon chargers, had by sheer weight borne their way through the lighter ranks of the Baltic knights on the white horses. Not more than half a dozen of these were now in saddle, and all over the field were to be seen black knights receiving the submission of knights whose broken spears and tarnished plumes showed that they had succumbed in the charge to superior weight of metal. For, so soon as a knight yielded, his steed became the property of his victorious foe, and he himself was either carried or limped as best he could to the pavilion of his party, there to remove his armour and send it also to the victor--to whom, in literal fact, belonged the spoils. Of the half-dozen white knights who still kept up the struggle, one shone pre-eminent for dashing valour. His charger surged hither and thither through the crowd, his spear was victorious and unbroken, and the boldest opponent thought it politic to turn aside out of his path. Set upon by more than a score of riders, he still managed to evade them, and even when all his side had submitted and he alone remained--at the end of the lists to which he had been driven, he made him ready for a final charge into the scarce broken array of his foes, of whom more than twenty remained still on horseback in the field. But though his spear struck true in the middle of his immediate antagonist's shield and his opponent went down, it availed the brave white knight nothing. For at the same moment half a score of lances struck him on the shield, on the breastplate, on the vizor bars of his helmet, and he fell heavily to the earth. Nevertheless, scarcely had he touched the ground when he was again on his feet. Sword in hand, he stood for a moment unscathed and undaunted, while his foes, momentarily disordered by the energy of the charge, reined in their steeds ere they could return to the attack. "Oh, well ridden!" "Greatly done!" "A most noble knight!" These were the exclamations which came from all parts of the crowd which surged about the barriers on this great day. "I would that I were down beside him with a sword in my hand also!" said the young architect, Master Johann Pyrmont, secretary of the embassage of Plassenburg. "'Tis well you are where you are, madcap, sitting by an old man's side, instead of fighting by that of a young one," growled Dessauer. "Else then, indeed, the bent would be on fire." But at this moment the Princess Margaret, sister of the reigning Prince, rose in her place and threw down the truncheon, which in such cases stops the combat. "The black knights have won," so she gave her verdict, "but there is no need to humiliate or injure a knight who has fought so well against so many. Let the white knight come hither--though he be of the losing side. His is the reward of highest honour. Give him a steed, that he may come and receive the meed of bravest in the tourney!" The knights of the black were manifestly a little disappointed that after their victory one of their opponents should be selected for honour. But there was no appeal from the decision of the Queen of Love and Beauty. For that day she reigned alone, without council or diet imperial. The black riders had therefore to be contented with their general victory, which, indeed, was indisputable enough. The white knight came near and said something in a low voice, unheard by the general crowd, to the Princess. "I insist," she said aloud; "you must unhelm, that all may see the face of him who has won the prize." Whereat the knight bowed and undid his helmet. A closely-cropped fair-haired head was revealed, the features clearly chiselled and yet of a grave and massive beauty, the head of a marble emperor. "My brother--you!" cried Margaret of Courtland in astonishment. The voice of the Princess had also something of disappointment in it. Clearly she had wished for some other to receive the honour, and the event did not please her. But it was otherwise with the populace. "The young Prince! The young Prince!" cried the people, surging impetuously about the barriers. "Glory to the noble house of Courtland and to the brave Prince." The Ambassador looked curiously at his secretary. That youth was standing with eyes brilliant as those of a man in fever. His face had paled even under its dusky tan. His lips quivered. He straightened himself up as brave and generous men do when they see a deed of bravery done by another, or like a woman who sees the man she loves publicly honoured. "The Prince!" said Johann Pyrmont, in a voice hoarse and broken; "it is the Prince himself." And on his high seat the State's Councillor, Leopold von Dessauer, smiled well pleased. "This turns out better than I had expected," he muttered. "God Himself favours the drunkard and the madcap. Only wise men suffer for their sins--aye, and often for those of other people as well." CHAPTER VI AN AMBASSADOR'S AMBASSADOR After the tourney of the Black Eagle, Leopold von Dessauer had gone to bed early, feeling younger and lighter than he had done for years. Part of his scheme for these northern provinces of his fatherland consisted in gradual substitution of a few strong states for many weak ones. For this reason he smiled when he saw the eyes of his secretary shining like stars. It would yet more have rejoiced him had he known how uneasy lay that handsome head on its pillow. Aye, even in pain it would have pleasured him. For Von Dessauer was lying awake and thinking of the strange chances which help or mar the lives of men and women, when a sudden sense of shock, a numbness spreading upwards through his limbs, the rising of rheum to his eyes, and a humming in his ears, announced the approach of one of those attacks to which he had been subject ever since he had been wounded in a duel some years before--a duel in which his present Prince and his late master, Karl the Miller's Son, had both been engaged. The Ambassador called for Jorian in a feeble voice. That light-sleeping soldier immediately answered him. He had stretched himself out, wrapped in a blanket for all covering, on the floor of the antechamber in Dessauer's lodging. In a moment, therefore, he presented himself at the door completely dressed. A shake and a half-checked yawn completed his inexpensive toilet, for Jorian prided himself on not being what he called "a pretty-pretty captainet." "Your Excellency needs me?" he said, standing at the salute as if it had been the morning guard changing at the palace gate. "Give me my case of medicine," said the old man; "that in the bag of rough Silesian leather. So! I feel my old attack coming upon me. It will be three days before I can stir. Yet must these papers be put in the hands of the Prince early this morning. Ah, there is my little Johann; I was thinking about her--him, I mean. Well, he shall have his chance. This foul easterly wind may yet blow us all good!" He made a wry face as a twinge of pain caught him. It passed and he resumed. "Go, Jorian," he said, "tap light upon his chamber door. If he chance to be in the deep sleep of youth and health--not yet distempered by thought and love, by old age and the eating of many suppers--rap louder, for I must see him forthwith. There is much to set in order ere at nine o'clock he must adjourn to the summer palace to meet the Prince." So in a trice Jorian was gone and at the door of the architect-secretary, he of the brown skin and Greekish profile. Johann Pyrmont was, it appeared, neither in bed nor yet asleep. Instead, he had been standing at the window watching the brighter stars swim up one by one out of the east. The thoughts of the young man were happy thoughts. At last he was in the capital city of the Princes of Courtland. His many days' journey had not been in vain. Almost in the first moment he had seen the noble youthful Prince and his sister, and he was prepared to like them both. Life held more than the preparation of plans and the ordering of bricklayers at their tasks. There was in it, strangely enough, a young man with closely cropped head whom Johann had seen storm through the ranks of the fighting-men that day, and afterwards receive the guerdon of the bravest. Though what difference these things made to an architect of Hamburg town it was difficult (on the face of things) to perceive. Nevertheless, he stood and watched the east. It was five of a clear autumnal morning, and a light chill breath blew from the point at which the sun would rise. A pale moon in her last quarter was tossed high among the stars, as if upborne upon the ebbing tide of night. Translucent greyness filled the wide plain of Courtland, and in the scattered farms all about the lights, which signified early horse-tending and the milking of kine, were already beginning to outrival the waning stars. Orion, with his guardian four set wide about him, tingled against the face of the east, and the electric lamp of Sirius burnt blue above the horizon. The lightness and the hope of breathing morn, the scent of fields half reaped, the cool salt wind from off the sea, filled the channels of the youth's life. It was good to be alive, thought Johann Pyrmont, architect of Hamburg, or otherwise. Jorian rapped low, with more reverence than is common from captains to secretaries of legations. The young man was leaning out of the window and did not hear. The ex-man-at-arms rapped louder. At the sound Johann Pyrmont clapped his hand to the hip where his sword should have been. "Who is there?" he asked, turning about with keen alertness, and in a voice which seemed at once sweeter and more commanding than even the most imperious master-builder would naturally use to his underlings. "I--Jorian! His Excellency is taken suddenly ill and bade me come for you." Immediately the secretary opened the door, and in a few seconds stood at the old man's bedside. Here they talked low to each other, the young man with his hand laid tenderly on the forehead of his elder. Only their last words concern us at present. "This will serve to begin my business and to finish yours. Thereafter the sooner you return to Kernsberg the better. Remember the moon cannot long be lost out of the sky without causing remark." The young man received the Ambassador's papers and went out. Dessauer took a composing draught and lay back with a sigh. "It is humbling," he said to Jorian, "that to compose young wits you must do it through the heart, but in the case of the old through the stomach." "'Tis a strange draught _he_ hath gotten," said the soldier, indicating the door by which the secretary had gone forth. "If I be not mistaken, much water shall flow under bridge ere his sickness be cured." As soon as he had reached his own chamber Johann laid the papers upon the table without glancing at them. He went again to the window and looked across the city. During his brief absence the stars had thinned out. Even the moon was now no brighter than so much grey ash. But the east had grown red and burned a glorious arch of cool brightness, with all its cloud edges teased loosely into fretted wisps and flakes of changeful fire. The wind began to blow more largely and statedly before the coming of the sun. Johann drew a long breath and opened wide both halves of the casement. "To-day I shall see the Prince!" he said. It was exactly nine of the clock when he set out for the palace. He was attired in the plain black dress of a secretary, with only the narrowest corded edge and collar of rough-scrolled gold. The slimness of his waist was filled in so well that he looked no more than a well-grown, clean-limbed stripling of twenty. A plain sword in a scabbard of black leather was belted to his side, and he carried his papers in his hand sealed with seals and wrapped carefully about with silken ties. Yet, for all this simplicity, the eyes of Johann Pyrmont were so full of light, and his beauty of face so surprising, that all turned to look after him as he went by with a free carriage and a swing to his gait. Even the market girls ran together to gaze after the young stranger. Maids of higher degree called sharply to each other and crowded the balconies to look down upon him. But through the busy morning tumult of the streets Johann Pyrmont walked serene and unconscious. Was not he going to the summer palace to see the Prince? At the great door of the outer pavilion he intimated his desire to the officer in charge of the guard. "Which Prince?" said the officer curtly. "Why," answered the secretary, with a glad heart, "there is but one--he who won the prize yesterday at the tilting!" "God's truth!--And you say true!" ejaculated the guardsman, starting. "But who are you who dares blurt out on the steps of the palace of Courtland that which ordinary men--aye, even good soldiers--durst scarcely think in their own hearts?" "I am secretary of the noble Ambassador of Plassenburg, and I come to see the Prince!" "You are a limber slip to be so outspoken," said the man; "but remember that you could be right easily broken on the wheel. So have a care of those slender limbs of yours. Keep them for the maids of your Plassenburg!" And with the freedom of a soldier he put his hand about the neck of Johann Pyrmont, laying it upon his far shoulder with the easy familiarity of an elder, who has it in his power to do a kindness to a younger. Instinctively Johann slipped aside his shoulder, and the officer's hand after hanging a moment suspended in the air, fell to his side. The Courtlander laughed aloud. "What!" he cried, "is my young cock of Plassenburg so mightily particular that he cannot have an honest soldier's hand upon his shoulder?" "I am not accustomed," said Johann Pyrmont, with dignity, "to have men's hands upon my shoulder. It is not our Plassenburg custom!" The soldier laughed a huge earth-shaking laugh of merriment. "Faith!" he cried, "you are early begun, my lad, that men's hands are so debarred. 'Not our custom!' says he. Why, I warrant, by the fashion of your countenance, that the hands of ladies are not so unwelcome. Ha! you blush! Here, Paul Strelitz, come hither and see a young gallant that blushes at a word, and owns that he is more at home with ladies than with rough soldiers." A great bearded Bor-Russian came out of the guard-room, stretching himself and yawning like one whose night has been irregular. "What's ado?--what is't, that you fret a man in his beauty-sleep?" he said. "Oh, this young gentleman! Yes, I saw him yesterday, and the Princess Margaret saw him yesterday, too. Does he go to visit her so early this morning? He loses no time, i' faith! But he had better keep out of the way of the Wasp, if the Princess gives him many of those glances of hers, half over her shoulder--you know her way, Otto." At this the first officer reiterated his jest about his hand on Johann's shoulder, being of that mighty faction which cannot originate the smallest joke without immediately wearing it to the bone. The secretary began to be angry. His temper was not long at the longest. He had not thought of having to submit to this when he became a secretary. "I am quite willing, sir captain," he said, with haughty reserve, "that your hand should be--where it ought to be--on your sword handle. For in that case my hand will also be on mine, and very much at your service. But in my country such liberties are not taken between strangers!" "What?" cried Otto the guardsman, "do men not embrace one another when they meet, and kiss each other on either cheek at parting? How then, so mighty particular about hands on shoulders? Answer me that, my young secretary." "For me," said Johann, instantly losing his head in the hotness of his indignation, "I would have you know that I only kiss ladies, or permit them to kiss me!" The Courtlander and the Bor-Russian roared unanimously. "Is he not precious beyond words, this youngling, eh, Paul Strelitz?" cried the first. "I would we had him at our table of mess. What would our commander say to that? How he would gobble and glower? 'As for me, I only kiss ladies!' Can you imagine it, Paul?" But just then there came a clatter of horse's hoofs across the wide spaces of the palace front, into which the bright forenoon sun was now beating, and a lady of tall figure and a head all a-ripple with sunny, golden curls dashed up at a canter, the stones spraying forward and outward as she reined her horse sharply with her hands low. "The Princess Margaret!" said the first officer. "Stand to it, Paul. Be a man, secretary, and hold your tongue." The two officers saluted stiffly, and the lady looked about for some one to help her to descend. She observed Johann standing, still haughtily indignant, by the gate. "Come hither!" she said, beckoning with her finger. "Give me your hand!" she commanded. The secretary gave it awkwardly, and the Princess plumped rather sharply to the ground. "What! Do they not teach you how to help ladies to alight in Plassenburg?" queried the Princess. "You accompany the new ambassador, do you not?" "You are the first I ever helped in my life," said Johann simply. "Mostly----" "What! I am the first? You jest. It is not possible. There are many ladies in Plassenburg, and I doubt not they have noted and distinguished a handsome youth like you." The secretary shook his head. "Not so," he said, smiling; "I have never been so remarked by any lady in Plassenburg in my life." The Courtlander, standing stiff at the salute, turned his head the least fraction of an inch towards Paul Strelitz the Bor-Russian. "He sticks to it. Lord! I wish that I could lie like that! I would make my fortune in a trice," he muttered. "'As for me, I only kiss ladies!' Did you hear him, Paul?" "I hear him. He lies like an archbishop--a divine liar," muttered the Bor-Russian under his breath. "Well, at any rate," said the Princess, never taking her eyes off the young man's face, "you will be good enough to escort me to the Prince's room." "I am going there myself," said the secretary curtly. "Certainly they do not teach you to say pretty things to ladies," answered the Princess. "I know many that could have bettered that speech without stressing themselves. Yet, after all, I know not but I like your blunt way best!" she added, after a pause, again smiling upon him. As she took the young man's arm, a cavalier suddenly dashed up on a smoking horse, which had evidently been ridden to his limit. He was of middle size, of a figure exceedingly elegant, and dressed in the highest fashion. He wore a suit of black velvet with yellow points and narrow braidings also of yellow, a broad golden sash girt his waist, his face was handsome, and his mustachios long, fierce, and curling. His eye glittered like that of a snake, with a steady chill sheen, unpleasant to linger upon. He swung from his horse, casting the reins to the nearest soldier, who happened to be our Courtland officer Otto, and sprang up the steps after the Princess and her young escort. "Princess," he said hastily, "Princess Margaret, I beg your pardon most humbly that I have been so unfortunate as to be late in my attendance upon you. The Prince sent for me at the critical moment, and I was bound to obey. May I now have the honour of conducting you to the summer parlour?" The Princess turned carelessly, or rather, to tell it exactly, she turned her head a little back over her shoulder with a beautiful gesture peculiar to herself. "I thank you," she said coldly, "I have already requested this gentleman to escort me. I shall not need you, Prince Ivan." And she went in, bending graciously and even confidingly towards the secretary, on whose arm her hand reposed. The cavalier in banded yellow stood a moment with an expression on his face at once humorous and malevolent. He gazed after the pair till the door swung to and they disappeared. Then he turned bitterly towards the nearest officer. "Tell me," he said, "who is the lout in black, that looks like a priest-cub out for a holiday?" "He is the secretary of the embassy of Plassenburg," said Otto the guardsman, restraining a desire to put his information in another form. He did not love this imperious cavalier; he was a Courtlander and holding a Muscovite's horse. The conjunction brought something into his throat. "Ha," said the young man in black and yellow, still gazing at the closed door, "I think I shall go into the rose-garden; I may have something further to say to the most honourable the secretary of the embassy of Plassenburg!" And summoning the officer with a curt monosyllable to bring his horse, he mounted and rode off. "I wonder he did not give me a silver groat," said the Courtlander. "The secretary sparrow may be dainty and kiss only ladies, but this Prince of Muscovy has not pretty manners. I hope he does not marry the Princess after all." "Not with her goodwill, I warrant," said Paul Strelitz; "either you or I would have a better chance, unless our Prince Ludwig compel her to it for the good of the State!" "Prince Wasp seemed somewhat disturbed in his mind," said the Courtlander, chuckling. "I wish I were on guard in the rose-garden to see the meeting of Master Prettyman and his Royal Highness the Hornet of Muscovy!" [Illustration: "He gazed after the pair till the door swung to." [_Page 46_]] CHAPTER VII H.R.H. THE PRINCESS IMPETUOSITY The Princess Margaret spoke low and confidentially to the secretary of embassy as they paced along. Johann Pyrmont felt correspondingly awkward. For one thing, the pressure of the Princess's hand upon his arm distracted him. He longed to have her on his other side. "You are noble?" she said, with a look down at him. "Of course!" said the secretary quickly. The opposite had never occurred to him. He had not considered the pedigree of travelling merchants or Hamburg architects. The Princess thought it was not at all of course, but continued-- "I understand--you would learn diplomacy under a man so wise as the High Councillor von Dessauer. I have heard of such sacrifices. My brother, who is very learned, went to Italy, and they say (though he only laughs when I ask him) worked with his hands in one of the places where they print the new sort of books instead of writing them. Is it not wonderful?" "And he is so brave," said the secretary, whose interest suddenly increased; "he won the tournament yesterday, did he not? I saw you give him the crown of bay. I had not thought so brave a man could be learned also." "Oh, my brother has all the perfections, yet thinks more of every shaveling monk and unfledged chorister than of himself. I will introduce you to him now. I am a pet of his. You will love him, too--when you know him, that is!" "Devoutly do I hope so!" said the secretary under his breath. But the Princess heard him. "Of course you will," she said gaily; "I love him, therefore so will you!" "An agreeable princess--I shall get on well with her!" thought Johann Pyrmont. Then the attention of his companion flagged and she was silent and distrait for a little, as they paced through courts and colonnades which to the secretary seemed interminable. The Princess silently indicated the way by a pressure upon his arm which was almost more than friendly. "We walk well together," she said presently, rousing herself from her reverie. "Yes," answered the secretary, who was thinking that surely it was a long way to the summer parlour, where he was to meet the Prince. "I fear," said the Princess Margaret quaintly, "that you are often in the habit of walking with ladies! Your step agrees so well with mine!" "I never walk with any others," the secretary answered without thought. "What?" cried the Princess, quickly taking away her hand, "and you swore to me even now that you never helped a lady from her horse in your life!" It was an _impasse_, and the secretary, recalled to himself, blushed deeply. "I see so few ladies," he stammered, in a tremor lest he should have betrayed himself. "I live in the country--only my maid----" "Heaven's own sunshine!" cried the Princess. "Have the pretty young men of Plassenburg maids and tirewomen? Small wonder that so few of them ever visit us! No blame that you stay in that happy country!" The secretary recovered his presence of mind rapidly. "I mean," he explained, "the old woman Bette, my nurse, who, though now I am grown up, comes every night to see that I have all I want and to fold my clothes. I have no other women about me." "You are sure that Bette, who comes for your clothes and to see that you have all you want, is old?" persisted the Princess, keeping her eyes sharply upon her companion. "She is so old that I never remember her to have been any younger," replied the secretary, with an air of engaging candour. "I believe you," cried the outspoken Princess; "no one can lie with such eyes. Strange that I should have liked you from the first. Stranger that in an hour I should tell you so. Your arm!" The secretary immediately put his hand within the arm of the Princess Margaret, who turned upon him instantly in great astonishment. "Is that also a Plassenburg custom?" she said sharply. "Was it old Bette who taught you thus to take a lady's arm? It is otherwise thought of in our ignorant Courtland!" The young man blushed and looked down. "I am sorry," he said; "it is a common fashion with us. I crave your pardon if in aught I have offended." The Princess Margaret looked quizzically at her companion. "I' faith," she said, "I have ever had a curiosity about foreign customs. This one I find not amiss. Do it again!" And with her own princessly hand she took Johann's slender brown fingers and placed them upon her arm. "These are fitter for the pen than for the sword!" she said, a saying which pleased the owner of them but little. The Courtlander Otto, who had been on guard at the gate, had meantime been relieved, and now followed the pair through the corridors to the summer palace upon an errand which he had speciously invented. At this point he stood astonished. "I would that Prince Wasp were here. We should see his sting. He is indeed a marvel, this fellow of Plassenburg. Glad am I that he does not know little Lenchen up in the Kaiser Platz. No one of us would have a maid to his name, if this gamester abode in Courtland long and made the running in this style!" The Princess and her squire now went out into the open air. For she had led him by devious ways almost round the entire square of the palace buildings. They passed into a thick avenue of acacias and yews, through the arcades of which they walked silently. For the Princess was content, and the secretary afraid of making any more mistakes. So he let the foreign custom go at what it might be worth, knowing that if he tried to better it, ten to one a worse thing might befall. "I have changed my mind," said the Princess, suddenly stopping and turning upon her companion; "I shall not introduce you to my brother. If you come from the Ambassador, you must have matters of importance to speak of. I will rest me here in an arbour and come in later. Then, if you are good, you shall perhaps be permitted to reconduct me to my lodging, and as we go, teach me any other pleasant foreign customs!" The secretary bowed, but kept his eyes on the ground. "You do not say that you are glad," cried the Princess, coming impulsively a step nearer. "I tell you there is not one youth----but no matter. I see that it is your innocence, and I am not sure that I do not like you the better for it." Behind an evergreen, Otto the Courtlander nearly discovered himself at this declaration. "His innocence--magnificent Karl the Great! His Plassenburger's innocence--God wot! He will not die of it, but he may be the death of me. Oh, for the opinion of Prince Wasp of Muscovy upon such innocence." "Come," said the Princess, holding out her hands, "bid me goodbye as you do in your country. There is the Prince my brother's horse at the door. You must hasten, or he will be gone ere you do your message." At this the heart of the youth gave a great leap. "The Prince!" he cried, "he will be gone!" And would have bolted off without a word. "Never mind the Prince--think of me," commanded the Princess, stamping her foot. "Give me your hand. I am not accustomed to ask twice. Bid me goodbye." With his eyes on the white charger by the door the secretary hastily took the Princess by both hands. Then, with his mind still upon the departing Prince, he drew her impulsively towards him, kissed her swiftly upon both cheeks, and finished by imprinting his lips heartily upon her mouth! Then, still with swift impulse and an ardent glance upward at the palace front, he ran in the direction of the steps of the summer palace. The Princess Margaret stood rooted to the ground. A flush of shame, anger, or some other violent emotion rose to her brow and stayed there. Then she called to mind the straightforward unclouded eyes, the clear innocence of the youth's brow, and the smile came back to her lips. "After all, it is doubtless only his foreign custom," she mused. Then, after a pause, "I like foreign customs," she added, "they are interesting to learn!" Behind his tree the Courtlander stood gasping with astonishment, as well he might. "God never made such a fellow," he said to himself. "Well might he say he never kissed any but ladies. Such abilities were lost upon mere men. An hour's acquaintance--nay, less--and he hath kissed the Princess Margaret upon the mouth. And she, instead of shrieking and calling the guard to have the insulter thrust into the darkest dungeon, falls to musing and smiling. A devil of a secretary this! Of a certainty I must have little Lenchen out of town!" CHAPTER VIII JOHANN IN THE SUMMER PALACE At the door of the summer palace not a soul was on guard. A great quiet surrounded it. The secretary could hear the gentle lapping of the river over the parapet, for the little pavilion had been erected overhanging the water, and the leaves of the linden-trees rustled above. These last were still clamorous with the hum of bees, whose busy wings gave forth a sort of dull booming roar, comparable only to the distant noise of breakers when a roller curls slowly over and runs league-long down the sandy beach. It was with a beating heart that Johann Pyrmont knocked. "Enter!" said a voice within, with startling suddenness. And opening the door and grasping his papers, the secretary suddenly found himself in the presence of the hero of the tournament. The Prince was standing by a desk covered with books and papers. In his hand he held a quill, wherewith he had been writing in a great book which lay on a shelf at his elbow. For a moment the secretary could not reconcile this monkish occupation with his idea of the gallant white-plumed knight whom he had seen flash athwart the lists, driving a clean furrow through the hostile ranks with his single spear. But he remembered his sister's description, and looked at him with the reverence of the time for one to whom all knowledge was open. "You have business with me, young sir?" said the Prince courteously, turning upon the youth a regard full of dignity and condescension. The knees of Johann Pyrmont trembled. For a full score of moments his tongue refused its office. "I come," he said at last, "to convey these documents to the noble Prince of Courtland and Wilna." He gained courage as he spoke, for he had carefully rehearsed this speech to Dessauer. "I am acting as secretary to the Ambassador--in lieu of a better. These are the proposals concerning alliance between the realms proposed by our late master, the Prince Karl, before his death; and now, it is hoped, to be ratified and carried out between Courtland and Plassenburg under his successors, the Princess Helene and her husband." The tall fair-haired Prince listened carefully. His luminous and steady eyes seemed to pierce through every disguise and to read the truth in the heart of the young architect-secretary. He took the papers from the hand of Johann Pyrmont, and laid them on a desk beside him, without, however, breaking the seals. "I will gladly take charge of such proposals. They do as much credit, I doubt not, to the sagacity of the late Prince, your great master, as to the kindness and good-feeling of our present noble rulers. But where is the Ambassador? I had hoped to see High Councillor von Dessauer for my own sake, as well as because of the ancient kindliness and correspondence that there was between him and my brother." "His brother," thought the secretary. "I did not know he had a brother--a lad, I suppose, in whom Dessauer hath an interest. He is ever considerate to the young!" But aloud he answered, "I grieve to tell you, my lord, that the High Councillor von Dessauer is not able to leave his bed this morning. He caught a chill yesterday, either riding hither or at the tourney, and it hath induced an old trouble which no leech has hitherto been skilful enough to heal entirely. He will, I fear, be kept close in his room for several days." "I also am grieved," said the Prince, with grave regret, seeing the youth's agitation, and liking him for it. "I am glad he keeps the art to make himself so beloved. It is one as useful as it is unusual in a diplomatist!" Then with a quick change of subject habitual to the man, he said, "How found you your way hither? The corridors are both confusing and intricate, and the guards ordinarily somewhat exacting." The tall youth smiled. "I was in the best hands," he said. "Your sister, the Princess Margaret, was good enough to direct me, being on her way to her own apartment." "Ah!" muttered the Prince, smiling as if he knew his sister, "this is the way to the Princess's apartments, is it? The Moscow road to Rome, I wot!" He said no more, but stood regarding the youth, whose blushes came and went as he stood irresolute before him. "A modest lad," said the Prince to himself; "this ingenuousness is particularly charming in a secretary of legation. I must see more of him." Suddenly a thought crossed his mind. "Why, did I not hear that you came to us by way of Kernsberg?" he said. The blushes ceased and a certain pallor showed under the tan which overspread the young man's face as the Prince continued to gaze fixedly at him. He could only bow in assent. "Then, doubtless, you would see the Duchess Joan?" he continued. "Is she very beautiful? They say so." "I do not think so. I never thought about it at all!" answered the secretary. Suddenly he found himself plunged into deep waters, just as he had seen the port of safety before him. The Prince laughed, throwing back his head a little. "That is surely a strange story to bring here to Courtland," he said, "whither the lady is to come as a bride ere long! Especially strange to tell to me, who----" "I ask your pardon," said Johann Pyrmont; "your Highness must bear with me. I have never done an errand of such moment before, having mostly spent my life among soldiers and ("he was on his guard now") in a fortress. For diplomacy and word-play I have no skill--no, nor any liking!" "You have chosen your trade strangely, then," smiled the Prince, "to proclaim such tastes. Wherefore are you not a soldier?" "I am! I am!" cried Johann eagerly; "at least, as much as it is allowed to one of my--of my strength to be." "Can you fence?" asked the Prince, "or play with the broad blade?" "I can do both!" "Then," continued his inquisitor, "you must surely have tried yourself against the Duchess Joan. They say she has wonderful skill. Joan of the Sword Hand, I have heard her called. You have often fenced with her?" "No," said the secretary, truthfully, "I have never fenced with the Duchess Joan." "So," said the Prince, evidently in considerable surprise; "then you have certainly often seen her fence?" "I have never seen the Duchess fence, but I have often seen others fence with her." "You practise casuistry, surely," cried the Prince. "I do not quite follow the distinction." But, nevertheless, the secretary knew that the difference existed. He would have given all the proceeds and emoluments of his office to escape at this moment, but the eye of the Prince was too steady. "I doubt not, young sir," he continued, "that you were one of the army of admirers which, they say, continually surrounds the Duchess of Hohenstein!" "Indeed, you are in great error, my lord," said Johann Pyrmont, with much earnestness and obvious sincerity; "I never said one single word of love to the Lady Joan--no, nor to any other woman!" "No," said a new voice from the doorway, that of the Princess Margaret, "but doubtless you took great pleasure in teaching them foreign customs. And I am persuaded you did it very well, too!" The Prince left his desk for the first time and came smilingly towards his sister. As he stooped to kiss her hand, Johann observed that his hair seemed already to be thin upon the top of his head. "He is young to be growing bald," he said to himself; "but, after all" (with a sigh), "that does not matter in a man so noble of mien and in every way so great a prince." The impulsive Princess Margaret scarcely permitted her hand to be kissed. She threw her arms warmly about her brother's neck, and then as quickly releasing him, she turned to the secretary, who stood deferentially looking out at the window, that he might not observe the meeting of brother and sister. "I told you he was my favourite brother, and that you would love him, too," she said. "You must leave your dull Plassenburg and come to Courtland. I, the Princess, ask you. Do you promise?" "I think I shall come again to Courtland," answered the secretary very gravely. "This young man knows the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein," said the Prince, still smiling quietly; "but I do not think he admires her very greatly--an opinion he had better keep to himself if he would have a quiet life of it in Courtland!" "Indeed," said the Princess brusquely. "I wonder not at it. I hear she is a forward minx, and at any rate she shall never lord it over me. I will run away with a dog-whipper first." "Your husband would have occasion for the exercise of his art, sister mine!" said the Prince. "But, indeed, you must not begin by misliking the poor young maid that will find herself so far from home." "Oh," cried the Princess, laughing outright, "I mislike her not a whit. But there is no reason in the world why, because you are all ready to fall down and worship, this young man or any other should be compelled to do likewise." And right princess-like she looked as she pouted her proud little lips and with her foot patted the polished oak. "But," she went on again to her brother, "your poor beast out there hath almost fretted himself into ribands by this time. If you have done with this noble youth, I have a fancy to hear him tell of the countries wherein he has sojourned. And, in addition, I have promised to show him the carp in the ponds. You have surely given him a great enough dose of diplomatics and canon law by this time. You have, it seems to me, spent half the day in each other's society." "On the contrary," returned the Prince, smiling again, but going towards the desk to put away the papers which Dessauer's secretary had brought--"on the contrary, we talked almost solely about women--a subject not uncommon when man meets man." "But somewhat out of keeping with the dignity of your calling, my brother!" said the Princess pointedly. "And wherefore?" he said, turning quickly with the papers still in his hand. "If to guide, to advise, to rule, are of my profession, surely to speak of women, who are the more important half of the human race, cannot be foreign to my calling!" "Come," she said, hearing the words without attending to the sense, "I also like things foreign. The noble secretary has promised to teach me some more of them!" The tolerant Prince laughed. He was evidently accustomed to his sister's whims, and, knowing how perfectly harmless they were, he never interfered with them. "A good day to you," he said to the young man, by way of dismissal. "If I do not see you again before you leave, you must promise me to come back to the wedding of the Duchess Johanna. In that event you must do me the honour to be my guest on that occasion." The red flooded back to Johann's cheek. "I thank you," he said, bowing; "I _will_ come back to the wedding of the Duchess Joan." "And you promise to be my guest? I insist upon it," continued the kindly Prince, willing to gratify his sister, who was smiling approval, "I insist that you shall let me be your host." "I hope to be your guest, most noble Prince," said the secretary, looking up at him quickly as he went through the door. It was a singular look. For a moment it checked and astonished the Prince so much that he stood still on the threshold. "Where have I seen a look like that before?" he mused, as he cast his memory back into the past without success. "Surely never on any man's face?" Which, after all, was likely enough. Then putting the matter aside as curious, but of no consequence, the Prince rode away towards that part of the city from which the towers of the minster loomed up. A couple of priests bowed low before him as he passed, and the people standing still to watch his broad shoulders and erect carriage, said one to the other, "Alas! alas! the truest Prince of them all--to be thus thrown away!" And these were the words which the secretary heard from a couple of guards who talked at the gate of the rose-garden, as they, too, stood looking after the Prince. "Wait," said Johann Pyrmont to himself; "wait, I will yet show them whether he is thrown away or not." CHAPTER IX THE ROSE GARDEN The rose garden of the summer palace of Courtland was a paradise made for lovers' whisperings. Even now, when the chills of autumn had begun to blow through its bowers, it was over-clambered with late-blooming flowers. Its bowers were creeper-tangled. Trees met over paths bedded with fallen petals, making a shade in sunshine, a shelter in rain, and delightful in both. It was natural that so fair a Princess, taking such a sudden fancy to a young man, should find her way where the shade was deepest and the labyrinth most entangled. But this secretary Johann of ours, being creditably hard of heart, would far rather have hied him straight back to old Dessauer with his news. More than anything he desired to be alone, that he might think over the events of the morning. But the Princess Margaret had quite other intentions. "Do you know," she began, "that I might well have lodged you in a dungeon cell for that which in another had been dire insolence?" They were pacing a long dusky avenue of tall yew-trees. The secretary turned towards her the blank look of one whose thoughts have been far away. But the Princess rattled on, heedless of his mood. "Nevertheless, I forgive you," she said; "after all, I myself asked you to teach me your foreign customs. If any one be to blame, it is I. But one thing I would impress upon you, sir secretary: do not practise these outland peculiarities before my brothers. Either of them might look with prejudice upon such customs being observed generally throughout the city. I came back chiefly to warn you. We do not want that handsome head of yours (which I admit is well enough in its way, as, being a man, you are doubtless aware) to be taken off and stuck on a pole over the Strasburg Gate!" It was with an effort that the secretary detached himself sufficiently from his reveries upon the interview in the summer palace to understand what the Princess was driving at. "All this mighty pother, just because I kissed her on the cheek," he thought. "A Princess of Courtland is no such mighty thing--and why should I not?--Oh, of course, I had forgotten again. I am not now the person I was." But how can we tell with what infinite condescension the Princess took the young man's hand and read his fortune, dwelling frowningly on the lines of love and life? "You have too pretty a hand for a man," she said; "why is it hard here and here?" "That is from the sword grip," said the secretary, with no small pride. "Do you, then, fence well? I wish I could see you," she cried, clapping her hands. "How splendid it would be to see a bout between you and Prince Wasp--that is, the Prince Ivan of Muscovy, I mean. He is a great fencer, and also desires to be a great friend of mine. He would give something to be sitting here teaching me how they take hands and bid each other goodbye in Bearland. They rub noses, I have heard say, a custom which, to my thinking, would be more provocative than satisfactory. I like your Plassenburg fashion better." Whereat, of course there was nothing for it but that the secretary should arouse himself out of his reverie and do his part. If the Princess of Courtland chose to amuse herself with him, well, it was harmless on either side--even more so than she knew. Soon he would be far away. Meanwhile he must not comport himself like a puking fool. "I think in somewise it were possible to improve upon the customs even of Plassenburg," said the Princess Margaret, after certain experiments; "but tell me, since you say that we are to be friends, and I have admitted your plea, what is your fortune? Nay, do you know that I do not even know your name--at least, not from your own lips." For, headlong as she had proved herself in making love, yet a vein of Baltic practicality was hidden beneath the princess's impetuosity. "My father was the Count von Löen, and I am his heir!" said the secretary carefully; "but I do not usually call myself so. There are reasons why I should not." Which there were, indeed--grave reasons, too. "Then you are the Count von Löen?" said the Princess. "I seem to have heard that name somewhere before. Tell me, are you the Count von Löen?" "I am certainly the heir to that title," said the secretary, grilling within and wishing himself a thousand miles away. "I must go directly and tell my brother. He will be back from the cathedral by this time. I am sure he did not know. And the estates--a little involved, doubtless, like those of most well-born folk in these ill days? Are they in your sole right?" "The estates are extensive. They are not encumbered so far as I know. They are all in my own right," explained the newly styled Count with perfect truth. But within he was saying, "God help me! I get deeper and deeper. What a whirling chaos a single lie leads one into! Heaven give me speedy succour out of this!" And as he thought of his troubles, the noble count, the swordsman, the learned secretary, could scarce restrain a desire to break out into hysterical sobbing. A new thought seemed to strike the Princess as he was speaking. "But so young, so handsome," she murmured, "so apt a pupil at love!" Then aloud she said, "You are not deceiving me? You are not already betrothed?" "Not to any woman!" said the deceitful Count, picking his words with exactness. The gay laugh of the Princess rang out prompt as an echo. "I did not expect you to be engaged to a man!" she cried. "But now conduct me to the entrance of my chambers" (here she reached him her hand). "I like you," she added frankly, looking at him with unflinching eyes. "I am of the house of Courtland, and we are accustomed to say what we think--the women of us especially. And sooner than carry out this wretched contract and marry the Prince Wasp, I will do even as I said to my brother, I will run away and wed a dog-whipper! But perhaps I may do better than either!" she said in her heart, nodding determinedly as she looked at the handsome youth before her, who now stood with his eyes downcast upon the ground. They were almost out of the yew-tree walk, and the voice of the Princess carried far, like that of most very impulsive persons. It reached the ears of a gay young fashionable, who had just dismounted at the gate which led from the rose garden into the wing of the palace inhabited by the Princess Margaret and her suite. "Now," said the Princess, "I will show you how apt a pupil I make. Tell me whether this is according to the best traditions of Plassenburg!" And taking his face between her hands she kissed him rapidly upon either cheek and then upon the lips. "There!" she said, "I wonder what my noble brothers would say to that! I will show them that Margaret of Courtland can choose both whom she will kiss and whom she will marry!" And flashing away from him like a bright-winged bird she fled upward into her chambers. Then, somewhat dazed by the rapid succession of emotions, Johann the Secretary stepped out of the green gloom of the yew-tree walk into the broad glare of the September sun and found himself face to face with Prince Wasp. CHAPTER X PRINCE WASP Now Ivan, Prince of Muscovy, had business in Courtland very clear and distinct. He came to woo the Princess Margaret, which being done, he wished to be gone. There was on his side the certainty of an excellent fortune, a possible succession, and, in any case, a pretty and wilful wife. But as he thought on that last the Wasp smiled to himself. In Moscow there were many ways, once he had her there, of taming the most wilful of wives. As to the inheritance--well, it was true there were two lives between; but one of these, in Prince Ivan's mind, was as good as nought, and the other----In addition, the marriage had been arranged by their several fathers, though not under the same penalty as that which threatened the Prince of Courtland and Joan Duchess of Hohenstein. Prince Wasp had not favourably impressed the family at the palace. His manners had the strident edge and blatant self-assertion of one who, unlicensed at home, has been flattered abroad, deferred to everywhere, and accustomed to his own way in all things. Nevertheless, Ivan had managed to make himself popular with the townsfolk, on account of the largesse which he lavished and the custom which his numerous suite brought to the city. Specially, he had been successful in attaching the rabble of the place to his cause; and already he had headed off two other wooers who had come from the south to solicit the smiles of the Princess Margaret. "So," he said, as he faced the secretary, now somewhat compositely styled--Johann, Count von Löen, "so, young springald, you think to court a foolish princess. You play upon her with your pretty words and graceful compliments. That is an agreeable relaxation enough. It passes the time better than fumbling with papers in front of an escritoire. Only--you have in addition to reckon with me, Ivan, hereditary Prince of Muscovy." And with a sweep of his hand across his body he drew his sword from its sheath. The sword of the young secretary came into his hand with equal swiftness. But he answered nothing. A curious feeling of detachment crept over him. He had held the bare sword before in presence of an enemy, but never till now unsupported. "I do you the honour to suppose you noble," said Prince Wasp, "otherwise I should have you flogged by my lacqueys and thrown into the town ditch. I have informed you of my name and pretensions to the hand of the Princess Margaret, whom you have insulted. I pray you give me yours in return." "I am called Johann, Count von Löen," answered the secretary as curtly as possible. "Pardon the doubt which is in my mind," said the Prince of Muscovy, with a black sneering bitterness characteristic of him, "but though I am well versed in all the noble families of the north, and especially in those of Plassenburg, where I resided a full year in the late Prince's time, I am not acquainted with any such title." "Nevertheless, it is mine by right and by birthright," retorted the secretary, "as I am well prepared to maintain with my sword in the meantime. And, after, you can assure yourself from the mouth of the High State's Councillor Dessauer that the name and style are mine. Your ignorance, however, need not defer your chastisement." "Follow me, Count von Löen," said the Prince; "I am too anxious to deal with your insolence as it deserves to quarrel as to names or titles, legal or illegitimate. My quarrel is with your fascinating body and prettyish face, the beauty of which I will presently improve with some good Northland steel." And with his lithe and springy walk the Prince of Muscovy passed again along the alleys of the rose garden till he reached the first open space, where he turned upon the secretary. "We are arrived," he said; "our business is so pressing, and will be so quickly finished, that there is no need for the formality of seconds. Though I honour you by crossing my sword with yours, it is a mere formality. I have such skill of the weapon, as I daresay report has told you, that you may consider yourself dead already. I look upon your chastisement no more seriously than I might the killing of a fly that has vexed me with its buzzing. Guard!" But Johann Pyrmont had been trained in a school which permitted no such windy preludes, and with the fencer's smile on his face he kept his silence. His sword would answer all such boastings, and that in good time. And so it fell out. From the very first crossing of the swords Prince Wasp found himself opposed by a quicker eye, a firmer wrist, a method and science infinitely superior to his own. His most dashing attack was repelled with apparent ease, yet with a subtlety which interposed nothing but the most delicate of guards and parries between Prince Ivan and victory. This gradually infuriated the Prince, till suddenly losing his temper he stamped his foot in anger and rushed upon his foe with the true Muscovite fire. Then, indeed, had Johann need of all his most constant practice with the sword, for the sting of the Wasp flashed to kill as he struck straight at the heart of his foe. [Illustration: "The Prince staggered." [_Page 67_]] But lo! the blade was turned aside, the long-delayed answering thrust glittered out, and the secretary's sword stood a couple of handbreadths in the boaster's shoulder. With an effort Johann recovered his blade and stood ready for the ripost; but the wound was more than enough. The Prince staggered, cried out some unintelligible words in the Muscovite language, and pitched forward slowly on his face among the trampled leaves and blown rose petals of the palace garden. The secretary grew paler than his wont, and ran to lift his fallen enemy. But, all unseen, other eyes had watched the combat, and from the door by which they had entered, and from behind the trees of the surrounding glade, there came the noise of pounding footsteps and fierce cries of "Seize him! Kill him! Tear him to pieces! He has slain the good Prince, the friend of the people! The Prince Ivan is dead!" And ere the secretary could touch the body of his unconscious foe, or assure himself concerning his wound, he found himself surrounded by a yelling crowd of city loafers and gallows'-rats, many of them rag-clad, others habited in heterogeneous scraps of cast-off clothing, or articles snatched from clothes-lines and bleaching greens--long-mourned, doubtless, by the good wives of Courtland. The secretary eyed this unkempt horde with haughty scorn, and his fearless attitude, as he striped his stained sword through his handkerchief and threw the linen away, had something to do with the fact that the rabble halted at the distance of half-a-dozen yards and for many minutes contented themselves with hurling oaths and imprecations at him. Johann Pyrmont kept his sword in his hand and stood by the body of his fallen foe in disdainful silence till the arrival of fresh contingents through the gate aroused the halting spirit of the crowd. Knives and sword-blades began to gleam here and there in grimy hands where at first there had been only staves and chance-snatched gauds of iron. "At him! Down with him! He can only strike once!" These and similar cries inspirited the rabble of Courtland, great haters of the Plassenburg and the Teutonic west, to rush in and make an end. At last they did come on, not all together, but in irregular undisciplined rushes. Johann's sword streaked out this way and that. There was an answering cry of pain, a turmoil among the assailants as a wounded man whirled his way backward out of the press. But this could not last for long. The odds were too great. The droning roar of hate from the edges of the crowd grew louder as new and ever newer accretions joined themselves to its changing fringes. Then suddenly came a voice. "Back, on your lives, dogs and traitors! Germans to the rescue! Danes, Teuts, Northmen to the rescue!" Following the direction of the sound, Johann saw a young man drive through the press, his sword bare in his hand, his eyes glittering with excitement. It was the Danish prisoner of the guard-hall at Kernsberg, that same Sparhawk who had fought with Werner von Orseln. The crowd stared back and forth betwixt him and that other whom he came to succour. Far more than ever his extraordinary likeness to the secretary appeared. Apparent enough at any time, it was accentuated now by similarity of clothing. For, like Johann Pyrmont, the Sparhawk was attired in a black doublet and trunk hose of scholastic cut, and as they stood back to back, little difference could be noted between them, save that the newcomer was a trifle the taller. "Saint Michael and all holy angels!" cried the leader of the crowd, "can it be that there are scores of these Plassenburg black crows in Courtland, slaying whom they will? Here be two of them as like as two peas, or a couple of earthen pipkins from the same potter's wheel!" The Dane flung a word over his shoulder to his companion. "Pardon me, your grace," said the Sparhawk, "if I stand back to back with you. They are dangerous. We must watch well for any chance of escape." The secretary did not answer to this strange style of address, but placed himself back to back with his ally, and their two bright blades waved every way. Only that of Johann Pyrmont was already reddened well-nigh half its length. A second time the courage of the crowd worked itself up, and they came on. "Death to the Russ, to the lovers of Russians!" cried the Sparhawk, and his blade dealt thrusts right and left. But the pressure increased every moment. Those behind cried, "Kill them!" For they were out of reach of those two shining streaks of steel. Those before would gladly have fallen behind, but could not for the forward thrust of their friends. Still the ring narrowed, and the pair of gallant fighters would doubtlessly have been swept away had not a diversion come to alter the face of things. Out of the gate which led to the wing of the palace occupied by the Princess Margaret burst a little company of halberdiers, at sight of whom the crowd gave suddenly back. The Princess herself was with them. "Take all prisoners, and bring them within," she cried. "Well you know that my brother is from home, or you dare not thus brawl in the very precincts of the palace!" And at her words the soldiers advanced rapidly. A further diversion was caused by the Sparhawk suddenly cleaving a way through the crowd and setting off at full speed in the direction of the river. Whereupon the rabble, glad to combine personal safety with the pleasures of the chase, took to their heels after him. But, light and unexpected in motion as his namesake, the Sparhawk skimmed down the alleys, darted sideways through gates which he shut behind him with a clash of iron, and finally plunged into the green rush of the Alla, swimming safe and unhurt to the further shore, whither, in the absence of boats at this particular spot, none could pursue him. CHAPTER XI THE KISS OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET The Princess and her guard were left alone with the secretary and the unconscious body of the Prince of Muscovy. "Sirrah," she cried severely to the former, "is this the first use you make of our hospitality, thus to brawl in the street underneath my very windows with our noble guest the Prince Ivan? Take him to my brother's room, and keep him safely there to await our lord's return. We shall see what the Prince will say to this. And as for this wounded man, take him to his own apartments, and let a surgeon be sent to him. Only not in too great a hurry!" she added as an afterthought to the commander of her little company of palace guards. So, merely detailing half a dozen to carry the Prince to his chambers, the captain of the guard conducted the secretary to the very room in which an hour before he had met the brother of the Princess. Here he was confined, with a couple of guards at the door. Nor had he been long shut up before he heard the quick step of the Princess coming along the passage-way. He could distinguish it a long way off, for the summer palace was built mostly of wood, and every sound was clearly audible. "So," she said, as soon as the door was shut, "you have killed Prince Wasp!" "I trust not," said the secretary gravely; "I meant only to wound him. But as he attacked me I could not do otherwise than defend myself." "Tut," cried the Princess, "I hope you have killed him. It will be good riddance, and most like the Muscovites will send an army--which, with your Plassenburg to help us, will make a pretty fight. It serves him right, in any event, for Prince Wasp must always be thrusting his sting into honest folk. He will be none the worse for some of his own poison applied at a rapier's point to keep him quiet for some few days." But Johann was not in a mood to relish the jubilation of the Princess. He grew markedly uneasy in his mind. Every moment he anticipated that the Prince would return. A trial would take place, and he did not know what might not be discovered. The Princess Margaret delivered him from his anxiety. "The laws are strict against duelling," she continued. "The Prince Ivan is in high favour with my elder brother, and it will be well that you should be seen no more in Courtland--for the present, that is. But in a little the Prince Wasp will die or he will recover. In either case the affair will blow over. Then you will come back to teach me more foreign customs." She smiled and held out her hand. Johann kissed it, perhaps without the fervour which might have been expected from a brisk young man thus highly favoured by the fairest and sprightliest of princesses. "To-night," she went on, "there will be a boat beneath that window. It will be manned by those whom I can trust. A ladder of rope will be thrown to your casement. By it you will descend, and with a good horse and a sufficient escort you can ride either to Plassenburg--or to Kernsberg, which is nearer, and tell Joan of the Sword Hand that her sister the Princess Margaret sends you to her. I will give you a letter to the minx, though I am sure I shall not like her. She is so forward, they say. But be ready at the hour of midnight. Who was that youth who fled as we came up?" "A Danish knight who came hither in our train from Kernsberg," replied Johann. "But for him I should have been lost indeed!" "I must have a horse also for him!" cried the Princess. "He will surely be on the watch and join you, knowing that his danger is as great as yours. Hearken--they are mourning for their precious Prince Wasp. To-morrow they will howl louder if by good hap he goes home to--purgatory!" And through the open windows came a sound of distant shoutings as they carried the wounded Prince to his lodgings. "Now," said the Princess, "for the present fare you well--in the colder fashion of Courtland this time, for the sake of the guards at the door. But remember that you are more than ever plighted to me to be my instructor, dear Count von Löen!" She went to the door, and with her fingers on the handle she turned her about with a pretty vixenish expression. "I am so glad you stung the Wasp. I love you for it!" she said. But after she had vanished with these words the secretary grew more and more downcast in spirit. Even this naïve declaration of affection failed to cheer him. He sat down and gave himself up to the most melancholy anticipations. At six a servitor silently entered with a well-chosen and beautifully cooked meal, of which the secretary partook sparingly. At seven it grew dark, and at ten all was quiet in the city. The river rushed swiftly beneath, and the noise of it, as the water lapped against the foundations of the summer palace, helped to disguise the sound of oars, as the boat, a dark shadow upon greyish water, detached itself from the opposite shore and approached the window from whose open casement Johann Pyrmont looked out. [Illustration: "The Secretary found himself swaying over the dark water." [_Page 75_]] A low whistle came from underneath, and presently followed the soft reeving _whisk_ of a coil of rope as it passed through the window and fell at his feet. The secretary looked about for something to fasten it to, and finally decided upon the iron uprights of the great desk at which the Prince had stood earlier in the day. No sooner was this done than Johann set his foot on the top round and began to descend. It was with a sudden emptiness at the pit of the stomach and a great desire to cry out for some one to hold the ladder steady that the secretary found himself swaying over the dark water. The boat seemed very far away, a mere spot of blackness upon the river's face. But presently, and while making up his mind to practise the gymnastic of rope ladders quietly at home, he made out a man holding the ladder, while two others with grappled boat-hooks kept the boat steady fore and aft. A shrouded figure sat in the stern. The secretary seemed rather to find himself in a boat which rose swiftly to meet him than to descend into it. He was handed from one to the other of the rowers till he reached the shrouded figure in the stern, out of the folds of whose enveloping cloak a small warm hand shot forth and pulled him down upon the seat. "Draw this corner about you, Count," a low voice whispered; and in another moment Johann found himself under the shelter of one cloak with that daring slip of nobility, the Princess Margaret of Courtland. "I was obliged to come; there is no danger. These fellows are of my household and devoted to me. I did not dare to risk anything going wrong. Besides, I am a princess, and--why need not I say it?--I wanted to come. I wanted to see you again, though, indeed, there is small chance of that in such a night. And 'tis as well, for I am sure my hair is blown every way about my face." "The horses are over there," she added after a pause; "we are almost at the shore now--alas, too quickly! But I must not keep you. I want you to come back the sooner. And remember, if Prince Wasp gets better and worries me too much, or my brother is unkind and insists upon marrying me to the Bear, I will take one or two of these fellows and come to seek you at Plassenburg, so make your reckoning with that, Sir Count von Löen. As I said, what is the use of being a princess if you cannot marry whom you will? Most, I know, marry whom they are told; but then they have not the spirit of a Baltic weevil, let alone that of Margaret of Courtland." They touched the shore almost at the place where the Sparhawk had landed in the morning when he escaped from the city rabble, and a stone's-throw further up the bank they found the horses waiting, ready caparisoned for the journey. Two men were, by the Princess's orders, to accompany Johann. But with great thoughtfulness she had provided a fourth horse for the companion who, equally with himself, was under the ban of the law for wounding the lieges of the Prince of Courtland within the precincts of the palace. "He cannot have gone far," said the Princess. "He would certainly conceal himself till nightfall in the first convenient hiding-place. He will be on the look-out for any chance to release you." And the event proved the wisdom of her prophecy. For as soon as he had distinguished the slim figure of the secretary landing from the boat the Sparhawk appeared on the crest of the hill, though for the moment he was still unseen by those below. "Goodbye! For the present, goodbye, dear Princess," said Johann, with his heart in his voice. "God knows, I can never thank or repay you. My heart is heavy for that. I am unworthy of all your goodness. It is not as you think----" He paused for words which might warn without revealing his secret; but the Princess, never long silent, struck in. "Let there be no talk of parting except for the moment," she said. "Go, you are my knight. Perhaps one day, if you do not forget me, I may be yet far kinder to you!" And with a most tender kiss and a little sob the Princess sent her lover, more and more downcast and discouraged by reason of her very kindness, upon his way. So much did his obvious depression affect Margaret of Courtland, that after the secretary, with one of the men-at-arms leading the spare horse, had reached the top of the river bank, she suddenly bade the rowers wait a moment before casting loose from the land. "Your sword! Your sword!" she called aloud, risking any listener in her eagerness; "you have forgotten your sword." Now it chanced that the Sparhawk had already come up with the little party of travellers. He kissed the hand of Johann Pyrmont, placed him on his beast, and was preparing to mount his steed with a glad heart, when the voice from beneath startled him. "Do not trouble, I will bring the sword," said the Sparhawk to Johann, with his usual impetuosity, putting the reins into the secretary's hands. And without a moment's hesitation he flung himself down the bank. The Princess had leaped nimbly ashore, and was standing with the sheathed sword in her hand. When she saw the figure came bounding towards her down the pebbly bank, she gave a little cry, and dropping the scabbard, threw her arms impulsively about the Sparhawk's neck. "I could not let you go like that--without ever telling you that I loved you--really, I mean," she whispered, while the youth stood petrified with astonishment, without sound or motion. "I will marry none but you--neither Prince Ivan nor another. A woman should not tell a man that, I know, lest he despise her; but a princess may, if the man dare not tell her." * * * * * "And what answered you?" asked the secretary of his companion, as they rode together through the night out on their road to Kernsberg. "Why, I said nothing--speech was not needed," quoth the Dane coolly. "She kissed you?" "Well," said the Sparhawk, "I could not help that, could I?" "But what said you to that?" "Why, of course, I kissed her back again, as a man ought!" he made answer. "Poor Princess," mused the secretary; "it is more than I could ever have done for her!" Aloud he said, "But you do not love her--you had not seen her before! Why then did you kiss her?" For these things are hidden from women. The Dane shrugged his shoulders in the dark. "Well, I take what the gods send," he replied. "She was a pretty girl, and her Princess-ship made no difference in her kissing so far as I could see. I serve you to the death, my Lady Duchess; but if a princess loves me by the way--why, I am ready to indulge her to the limit of her desirings!" "You are indeed an accommodating youth," sighed the secretary, and forthwith returned to his own melancholy thoughts. And ever as they rode westward they heard all around them the rustle of corn in the night wind. Stacks of hay shed a sweet scent momently athwart their path, and more than once fruit-laden branches swept across their faces. For they were passing through the garden of the Baltic, and its fresh beauty was never fresher than on that September night when these four rode out of Courtland towards the distant blue hills on which was perched Kernsberg, built like an eagle's nest on a crag overfrowning the wealthier plain. At the first boundaries of the group of little hill principalities the two soldiers were dismissed, suitably rewarded by Johann, to carry the news of safety back to their wayward and impulsive mistress. And thence-forward the Sparhawk and the secretary rode on alone. At the little châlet among the hills where the Duchess Joan had so suddenly disappeared they found two of her tire-maidens and an aged nurse impatiently awaiting their mistress. To them entered that composite and puzzling youth the ex-architect and secretary of the embassy of Plassenburg, Johann, Count von Löen. And wonder of wonders, in an hour afterwards Joan of the Sword Hand was riding eagerly towards her capital city with her due retinue, as if she had merely been taking a little summer breathing space at a country seat. Her entrance created as little surprise as her exit. For as to her exits and entrances alike the Duchess consulted no man, much less any woman. Werner von Orseln saluted as impassively as if he had seen his mistress an hour before, and the acclamations of the guard rang out as cheerfully as ever. Joan felt her spirits rise to be once more in her own land and among her own folk. Nevertheless, there was a new feeling in her heart as she thought of the day of her marriage, when the long-planned bond of brotherhood-heritage should at last be carried out, and she should indeed become the mistress of that great land into which she had ventured so strangely, and the bride of the Prince--her Prince, the most noble man on whom her eyes had ever rested. Then her thoughts flew to the Princess who had delivered her out of peril so deadly, and her soul grew sick and sad within her, not at all lest her adventure should be known. She cared not so much about that now. (Perhaps some day she would even tell him herself when--well, _after_!) But since she had ridden to Courtland, Joan, all untouched before, had grown suddenly very tender to the smarting of another woman's heart. "It is in no wise my fault," she told herself, which in a sense was true. But conscience, being a thing not subject to reason, dealt not a whit the more easily with her on that account. It was six months afterwards that the Sparhawk, who had been given the command of a troop of good Hohenstein lancers, asked permission to go on a journey. He had been palpably restless and uneasy ever since his return, and in spite of immediate favour and the prospect of yet further promotion, he could not settle to his work. "Whither would you go?" asked his mistress. "To Courtland," he confessed, somewhat reluctantly, looking down at the peaked toe of his tanned leather riding-boot. "And what takes you to Courtland?" said Joan; "you are in danger there. Besides, even if you could, would you leave my service and engage with some other?" "Nay, my lady," he burst out, "that will not I, so long as life lasts. But--but the truth is"--he hesitated as he spoke--"I cannot get out of my mind the Princess who kissed me in the dark. The like never happened before to any man. I cannot forget her, do what I will. No, nor rest till I have looked upon her face." "Wait," said Joan. "Only wait till the spring and it is my hap to ride to Courtland for my marriage day. Then I promise you you shall see somewhat of her--the Lord send that it be not more than enough!" So through many bitter winter days the Sparhawk abode at the castle of Kernsberg, ill content. CHAPTER XII JOAN FORSWEARS THE SWORD It was not in accordance with etiquette that two such nobly born betrothed persons, to be allied for reasons of high State policy, should visit each other openly before the day of marriage; but many letters and presents had at various times come to Kernsberg, all bearing witness to the lover-like eagerness of the Prince of Courtland and of his desire to possess so fair a bride, especially one who was to bring him so coveted a possession as the hill provinces of Kernsberg and Hohenstein. Amongst other things he had forwarded portraits of himself, drawn with such skill as the artists of the Baltic at that time possessed, of a man in armour, with a countenance of such wooden severity that it might stand (as the Duchess openly declared) just as well for Werner, her chief captain, or any other man of war in full panoply. "But," said Joan within herself, "what care I for armour black or armour white? Mine eyes have seen--and my heart does not forget." Then she smiled and for a while forgot the coming inevitable disappointment of the Princess Margaret, which troubled her much at other times. The winter was unusually long and fierce in the mountains of Kernsberg that year, and even along the Baltic shores the ice packed thicker and the snow lay longer by a full month than usual. It was the end of May, and the full bursting glory of a northern spring, when at last the bridal cavalcade wound down from the towers of the Castle of Kernsberg. Four hundred riders there were, every man arrayed like a prince in the colours of Hohenstein--four fairest maids to be bridesmaids to their Duchess, and as many matrons of rank and years to bring their mistress with dignity and discretion to her new home. But the people and the rough soldiers openly mourned for Joan of the Sword Hand. "The Princess of Courtland will not be the same thing!" they said. And they were right, for since the last time she rode out Joan had thought many thoughts. Could it be that she was indeed that reckless maid who once had vowed that she would go and look once at the man her father had bidden her marry, and then, if she did not like him, would carry him off and clap him into a dungeon till he had paid a swinging ransom? But the knight of the white plume, and the interview she had had with a certain Prince in the summer palace of Courtland, had changed all that. Now she would be sober, grave--a fit mate for such a man. Almost she blushed to recall her madcap feats of only a year ago. As they approached the city, and each night brought them closer to the great day, Joan rode more by herself, or talked with the young Dane, Maurice von Lynar, of the Princess Margaret--without, however, telling him aught of the rose garden or the expositions of foreign customs which had preceded the duel with the Wasp. The heart of the Duchess beat yet faster when at last the day of their entry arrived. As they rode toward the gate of Courtland they were aware of a splendid cavalcade which came out to receive them in the name of the Prince, and to conduct them with honour to the palace prepared for them. In the centre of a brilliant company rode the Princess Margaret, in a well-fitting robe of pale blue broidered with crimson, while behind and about her was such a galaxy of the fashion and beauty of a court, that had not Joan remembered and thought on the summer parlour and the man who was waiting for her in the city, she had almost bidden her four hundred riders wheel to the right about, and gallop straight back to Kernsberg and the heights of rustic Hohenstein. At sight of the Duchess's party the Princess alighted from off her steed with the help of a cavalier. At the same moment Joan of the Sword Hand leaped down of her own accord and came forward to meet her new sister. The two women kissed, and then held each other at arm's length for the luxury of a long look. The face of the Princess showed a trace of emotion. She appeared to be struggling with some recollection she was unable to locate with precision. "I hope you will be very happy with my brother," she faltered; then after a moment she added, "Have you not perchance a brother of your own?" But before Joan could reply the representative of the Prince had come forward to conduct the bride-elect to her rooms, and the Princess gave place to him. But all the same she kept her eyes keenly about her, and presently they rested with a sudden brightness upon the young Dane, Maurice von Lynar, at the head of his troop of horse. He was near enough for her to see his face, and it was with a curious sense of strangeness that she saw his eyes fixed upon herself. "He is different--he is changed," she said to herself; "but how--wait till we get to the palace, and I shall soon find out!" And immediately she caused it to be intimated that all the captains of troops and the superior officers of the escort of the Duchess Joan were to be entertained at the palace of the Princess Margaret. So that at the moment when Joan was taking a first survey of her chambers, which occupied one entire wing of the Palace of the Princes of Courtland, Margaret the impetuous had already commanded the presence of the Count von Löen, one of the commanders of the bridal escort. The young officer entrusted with the message returned almost immediately, to find his mistress impatiently pacing up and down. "Well?" she said, halting at the upper end of the reception-room and looking at him. "Your Highness," he said, "there is no Count von Löen among the officers of Kernsberg!" Margaret of Courtland stamped her foot. "I expected as much," she said. "He shall pay for this. Why, man, I saw him with my own eyes an hour ago--a young man, slender, sits erect in his saddle, of a dark allure, and with eyes like those of an eagle." A flush came over the youth's face. "Does he look like the brother of the Duchess Joan?" he said. "That is the man--Count von Löen or no. That is the man, I tell you. Bring him immediately to me." The young officer smiled. "Methinks he will come readily enough. He started forward as if to follow me when first I told my message. But when I mentioned the name of the Count von Löen he stood aside in manifest disappointment." "At all events, bring him instantly!" commanded the Princess. The officer bowed low and retired. The Princess Margaret smiled to herself. "It is some more of their precious State secrets," she said. "Well--I love secrets, and I can keep them too; but only my own, or those that are told to me. And I will make my gentleman pay for playing off his Counts von Löen on me!" Presently she heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. "Come in--come in straightway," she said in a loud, clear voice; "I have a word to speak with you, Sir Count--who yet deny that you are a count. And, prithee, to how many silly girls have you taught the foreign fashions of linked arms, and all that most pleasant ceremony of leave-taking in Kernsberg and Plassenburg?" Then the Sparhawk had his long-desired view in full daylight of the woman whose lips, touched once under cloud of night, had dominated his fancy and enslaved his will during all the weary months of winter. Also he had before him, though he knew it not, a somewhat difficult and complicated explanation. CHAPTER XIII THE SPARHAWK IN THE TOILS The Princess Margaret was standing by the window as the young man entered. Her golden curls flashed in the late sunshine, which made a kind of haze of light about her head as she turned the resentful brilliance of her eyes upon Maurice von Lynar. "Is it a safe thing, think you, Sir Count, to jest with a princess in her own land and then come back to flout her for it?" Maurice understood her to refer to the kiss given and returned in the darkness of the night. He knew not of how many other indiscretions he was now to bear the brunt, or he had turned on the spot and fled once more across the river. "My lady," he said, "if I offended you once, it was not done intentionally, but by mistake." "By mistake, sir! Have a care. I may have been indiscreet, but I am not imbecile." "The darkness of the night----" faltered von Lynar, "let that be my excuse." "Pshaw!" flashed the Princess, suddenly firing up; "do you not see, man, that you cannot lie yourself out of this? And, indeed, what need? If _I_ were a secretary of embassy, and a princess distinguished me with her slightest favour, methinks when next I came I would not meanly deny her acquaintance!" Von Lynar was distressed, and fortunately for himself his distress showed in his face. "Princess," he said, standing humbly before her, "I did wrong. But consider the sudden temptation, the darkness of the night----" "The darkness of the night," she said, stamping her foot, and in an instinctively mocking tone; "you are indeed well inspired. You remind me of what I ventured that you should be free. The darkness of the night, indeed! I suppose that is all that sticks in your memory, because you gained something tangible by it. You have forgotten the walk through the corridors of the Palace, all you taught me in the rose garden, and--and--how apt a pupil you said I was. Pray, good Master Forgetfulness, who hath forgotten all these things, forgotten even his own name, tell me what you did in Courtland eight months ago?" "I came--I came," faltered the Sparhawk, fearful of yet further committing himself, "I came to find and save my dear mistress." "Your--dear--mistress?" The Princess spoke slowly, and the blue eyes hardened till they overtopped and beat down the bold black ones of Maurice von Lynar; "and you dare to tell me this--me, to whom you swore that you had never loved woman in the world before, never spoken to them word of wooing or compliment! Out of my sight, fellow! The Prince, my brother, shall deal with you." Then all suddenly her pride utterly gave way. The disappointment was too keen. She sank down on a silk-covered ottoman by the window side, sobbing. "Oh, that I could kill you now, with my hands--so," she said in little furious jerks, gripping at the pillow; "I hate you, thus to put a shame upon me--me, Margaret of Courtland. Could it have been for such a thing as you that I sent away the Prince of Muscovy--yes, and many others--because I could not forget you? And after all----!" Now Maurice von Lynar was not quick in discernment where woman was concerned, but on this occasion he recognised that he was blindly playing the hand of another--a hand, moreover, of which he could not hope to see the cards. He did the only thing which could have saved him with the Princess. He came near and sank on one knee before her. "Madam," he said humbly and in a moving voice, "I beseech you not to be angry--not to condemn me unheard. In the sense of being in love, I never loved any but yourself. I would rather die than put the least slight upon one so surpassingly fair, whose memory has never departed from me, sleeping or waking, whose image, dimly seen, has never for a moment been erased from my heart's tablets." The Princess paused and lifted her eyes till they dwelt searchingly upon him. His obvious sincerity touched her willing heart. "But you said just now that you came to Courtland to see 'your dear mistress?'" The young man put his hand to his head. "You must bear with me," he said, "if perchance for a little my words are wild. I had, indeed, no right to speak of you as my dear mistress." "Oh, it was of me that you spoke," said the Princess, smiling a little; "I begin to understand." "Of what other could I speak?" said the shameless Von Lynar, who now began to feel his way a little clearer. "I have indeed been very ill, and when I am in straits my head is still unsettled. Oftentimes I forget my very name, so sharp a pang striking through my forehead that I dote and stare and forget all else. It springs from a secret wound that at the time I knew nothing of." "Yes--yes, I remember. In the duel with the Wasp--in the yew-tree walk it happened. Tell me, is it dangerous? Did it well-nigh cost you your life?" The youth modestly hung down his head. This sudden spate of falsehood had come upon him, as it were, from the outside. "If the truth will not help me," he muttered, "why, I can lie with any man. Else wherefore was I born a Dane? But, by my faith, my mistress must have done some rare tall lying on her own account, and now I am reaping that which she hath sown." As he kneeled thus the Princess bent over him with a quizzical expression on her face. "You are sure that you speak the truth now? Your wound is not again causing you to dote?" "Nay," said the Sparhawk; "indeed, 'tis almost healed." "Where was the wound?" queried the Princess anxiously. "There were two," answered Von Lynar diplomatically; "one in my shoulder at the base of my neck, and the other, more dangerous because internal, on the head itself." "Let me see." She came and stood above him as he put his hand to the collar of his doublet, and, unfastening a tie, he slipped it down a little and showed her at the spring of his neck Werner von Orseln's thrust. "And the other," she said, covering it up with a little shudder, "that on the head, where is it?" The youth blushed, but answered valiantly enough. "It never was an open wound, and so is a little difficult to find. Here, where my hand is, above my brow." "Hold up your head," said the Princess. "On which side was it? On the right? Strange, I cannot find it. You are too far beneath me. The light falls not aright. Ah, that is better!" She kneeled down in front of him and examined each side of his head with interest, making as she did so, many little exclamations of pity and remorse. "I think it must be nearer the brow," she said at last; "hold up your head--look at me." Von Lynar looked at the Princess. Their position was one as charming as it was dangerous. They were kneeling opposite to one another, their faces, drawn together by the interest of the surgical examination, had approached very close. The dark eyes looked squarely into the blue. With stuff so inflammable, fire and tow in such immediate conjunction, who knows what conflagration might have ensued had Von Lynar's eyes continued thus to dwell on those of the Princess? But the young man's gaze passed over her shoulder. Behind Margaret of Courtland he saw a man standing at the door with his hand still on the latch. A dark frown overspread his face. The Princess, instantly conscious that the interest had gone out of the situation, followed the direction of Von Lynar's eyes. She rose to her feet as the young Dane also had done a moment before. Maurice recognised the man who stood by the door as the same whom he had seen on the ground in the yew-tree walk when he and Joan of the Sword Hand had faced the howling mob of the city. For the second time Prince Wasp had interfered with the amusements of the Princess Margaret. That lady looked haughtily at the intruder. "To what," she said, "am I so fortunate as to owe the unexpected honour of this visit?" "I came to pay my respects to your Highness," said Prince Wasp, bowing low. "I did not know that the Princess was amusing herself. It is my ill-fortune, not my fault, that I interrupted at a point so full of interest." It was the truth. The point was decidedly interesting, and therein lay the sting of the situation, as probably the Wasp knew full well. "You are at liberty to leave me now," said the Princess, falling back on a certain haughty dignity which she kept in reserve behind her headlong impulsiveness. "I obey, madam," he replied; "but first I have a message from the Prince your brother. He asks you to be good enough to accompany his bride to the minster to-morrow. He has been ill all day with his old trouble, and so cannot wait in person upon his betrothed. He must abide in solitude for this day at least. Your Highness is apparently more fortunate!" The purpose of the insult was plain; but the Princess Margaret restrained herself, not, however, hating the insulter less. [Illustration: "The lady looked haughtily at the intruder." [_Page 88_]] "I pray you, Prince Ivan," she said, "return to my brother and tell him that his commands are ever an honour, and shall be obeyed to the letter." She bowed in dignified dismissal. Prince Wasp swept his plumed hat along the floor with the profundity of his retiring salutation, and in the same moment he flashed out his sting. "I leave your Highness with less regret because I perceive that solitude has its compensations!" he said. The pair were left alone, but all things seemed altered now. Margaret of Courtland was silent and distrait. Von Lynar had a frown upon his brow, and his eyes were very dark and angry. "Next time I must kill the fellow!" he muttered. He took the hand of the Princess and respectfully kissed it. "I am your servant," he said; "I will do your bidding in all things, in life or in death. If I have forgotten anything, in aught been remiss, believe me that it was fate and not I. I will never presume, never count on your friendship past your desire, never recall your ancient goodness. I am but a poor soldier, yet at least I can faithfully keep my word." The Princess withdrew her hand as if she had been somewhat fatigued. "Do not be afraid," she said a little bitterly, "I shall not forget. _I_ have not been wounded in the head! _Only in the heart!_" she added, as she turned away. CHAPTER XIV AT THE HIGH ALTAR When Maurice von Lynar reached the open air he stood for full five minutes, light-headed in the rush of the city traffic. The loud iteration of rejoicing sounded heartless and even impertinent in his ear. The world had changed for the young Dane since the Count von Löen had been summoned by the Princess Margaret. He cast his mind back over the interview, but failed to disentangle anything definite. It was a maze of impressions out of which grew the certainty that, safely to play his difficult part, he must obtain the whole confidence of the Duchess Joan. He looked about for the Prince of Muscovy, but failed to see him. Though not anxious about the result, he was rather glad, for he did not want another quarrel on his hands till after the wedding. He would see the Princess Margaret there. If he played his cards well with the bride, he might even be sent for to escort her. So he made his way to the magnificent suite of apartments where the Duchess was lodged. The Prince had ordered everything with great consideration. Her own horsemen patrolled the front of the palace, and the Courtland guards were for the time being wholly withdrawn. [Illustration: "Joan of Hohenstein stood, looking out upon the river." [_Page 91_]] It seemed strange that Joan of the Sword Hand, who not so long ago had led many a dashing foray and been the foremost in many a brisk encounter, should be a bride! It could not be that once he had imagined her the fairest woman under the sun, and himself, for her sake, the most miserable of men. Thus do lovers deceive themselves when the new has come to obliterate the old. Some can even persuade themselves that the old never had any existence. The young Dane found the Duchess walking up and down on the noble promenade which faces the river to the west. For the water curved in a spacious elbow about the city of Courtland, and the summer palace was placed in the angle. Maurice von Lynar stood awhile respectfully waiting for the Duchess to recognise him. Werner, John of Thorn, or any of her Kernsberg captains would have gone directly up to her. But this youth had been trained in another school. Joan of Hohenstein stood a while without moving, looking out upon the river. She thought with a kind of troubled shyness of the morrow, oft dreamed of, long expected. She saw the man whom she was not known ever to have seen--the noble young man of the tournament, the gracious Prince of the summer parlour, courteous and dignified alike to the poor secretary of embassy and to his sister the Princess Margaret of Courtland. Surely there never was any one like him--proudly thought this girl, as she looked across the river at the rich plain studded with far-smiling farms and fields just waking to life after their long winter sleep. "Ah, Von Lynar, my brave Dane, what good wind blows you here?" she cried. "I declare I was longing for some one to talk to." A consciousness of need which had only just come to her. "I have seen the Princess Margaret," said the youth slowly, "and I think that she must mistake me for some other person. She spoke things most strange to me to hear. But fearing I might meddle with affairs wherewith I had no concern, I forebore to correct her." The eyes of the Duchess danced. A load seemed suddenly lifted off her mind. "Was she very angry?" she queried. "Very!" returned Von Lynar, smiling in recognition of her smile. "What said the Princess?" "First she would have it that my name and style were those of the Count Von Löen. Then she reproached me fiercely because I denied it. After that she spoke of certain foreign customs she had been taught, recalled walks through corridors and rose gardens with me, till my head swam and I knew not what to answer." Joan of the Sword Hand laughed a merry peal. "The Count von Löen, did she say?" she meditated. "Well, so you are the Count von Löen. I create you the Count von Löen now. I give you the title. It is mine to give. By to-morrow I shall have done with all these things. And since as the Count von Löen I drank the wine, it is fair that you, who have to pay the reckoning, should be the Count von Löen also." "My family is noble, and I am the sole heir--that is, alive," said Maurice, a little drily. To his mind the grandson of Count von Lynar, of the order of the Dannebrog, had no need of any other distinction. "But I give you also therewith the estates which pertain to the title. They are situated on the borders of Reichenau. I am so happy to-night that I would like to make all the world happy. I am sorry for all the folk I have injured!" "Love changes all things," said the Dane sententiously. The Duchess looked at him quickly. "You are in love--with the Princess Margaret?" she said. The youth blushed a deep crimson, which flooded his neck and dyed his dusky skin. "Poor Maurice!" she said, touching his bowed head with her hand, "your troubles will not be to seek." "My lady," said the youth, "I fear not trouble. I have promised to serve the Princess in all things. She has been very kind to me. She has forgiven me all." "So--you are anxious to change your allegiance," said the Duchess. "It is as well that I have already made you Count von Löen, and so in a manner bound you to me, or you would be going off into another's service with all my secrets in your keeping. Not that it will matter very much--after to-morrow!" she added, with a glance at the wing of the palace which held the summer parlour. "But how did you manage to appease her? That is no mean feat. She is an imperious lady and quick of understanding." Then Maurice von Lynar told his mistress of his most allowable falsehoods, and begged her not to undeceive the Princess, for that he would rather bear all that she might put upon him than that she should know he had lied to her. "Do not be afraid," said the Duchess, laughing, "it was I who tangled the skein. So far you have unravelled it very well. The least I can do is to leave you to unwind it to the end, my brave Count von Löen." So they parted, the Duchess to her apartment, and the young man to pace up and down the stone-flagged promenade all night, thinking of the distracting whimsies of the Princess Margaret, of the hopelessness of his love, and, most of all, of how daintily exquisite and altogether desirable was her beauty of face, of figure, of temper, of everything! For the Sparhawk was not a lover to make reservations. * * * * * The morning of the great day dawned cool and grey. A sunshade of misty cloud overspread the city and tempered the heat. It had come up with the morning wind from the Baltic, and by eight the ships at the quays, and the tall beflagged festal masts in the streets through which the procession was to pass, ran clear up into it and were lost, so that the standards and pennons on their tops could not be seen any more than if they had been amongst the stars. The streets were completely lined with the folk of the city of Courtland as the Princess Margaret, with the Sparhawk and his company of lances clattering behind her, rode to the entrance of the palace where abode the bride-elect. "Who is that youth?" asked Margaret of Courtland of Joan, as they came out together; she looked at the Dane--"he at the head of your first troops? He looks like your brother." "He has often been taken for such!" said the bride. "He is called the Count von Löen!" The Princess did not reply, and as the two fair women came out arm in arm, a sudden glint of sunlight broke through the leaden clouds and fell upon them, glorifying the white dress of the one, and the blue and gold apparel of the other. The bells of the minster clanged a changeful thunder of brazen acclaim as the bride set out for the first time (so they told each other on the streets) to see her promised husband. "'Twas well we did not so manage our affairs, Hans," said a fishmonger's wife, touching her husband's arm archly. "Yea, wife," returned the seller of fish; "whatever thou beest, at least I cannot deny that I took thee with my eyes open!" They reached the Rathhaus, and the clamour grew louder than ever. Presently they were at the cathedral and making them ready to dismount. The bells in the towers above burst forth into yet more frantic jubilation. The cannons roared from the ramparts. The Princess Margaret had delayed a little, either taking longer to her attiring, or, perhaps, gossiping with the bride. So that when the shouts in the wide Minster Place announced their arrival, all was in readiness within the crowded church, and the bridegroom had gone in well-nigh half an hour before them. But that was in accord with the best traditions. Very like a Princess and a great lady looked Joan of Hohenstein as she went up the aisle, with Margaret of Courtland by her side. She kept her eyes on the ground, for she meant to look at no one and behold nothing till she should see--that which she longed to look upon. Suddenly she was conscious that they had stopped in the middle of a vast silence. The candles upon the great altar threw down a golden lustre. Joan saw the irregular shining of them on her white bridal dress, and wondered that it should be so bright. There was a hush over all the assembly, the silence of a great multitude all intent upon one thing. "My brother, the Prince of Courtland!" said the voice of the Princess Margaret. Slowly Joan raised her eyes--pride and happiness at war with a kind of glorious shame upon her face. But that one look altered all things. She stood fixed, aghast, turned to stone as she gazed. She could neither speak nor think. That which she saw almost struck her dead with horror. The man whom his sister introduced as the Prince of Courtland was not the knight of the tournament. He was not the young prince of the summer palace. He was a man much older, more meagre of body, grey-headed, with an odd sidelong expression in his eyes. His shoulders were bent, and he carried himself like a man prematurely old. And there, behind the altar-railing, clad in the scarlet of a prince of the Church, and wearing the mitre of a bishop, stood the husband of her heart's deepest thoughts, the man who had never been out of her mind all these weary months. He held a service book in his hand, and stood ready to marry Joan of Hohenstein to another. The man who was called Prince of Courtland came forward to take her hand; but Joan stood with her arms firmly at her sides. The terrible nature of her mistake flashed upon her and grew in horror with every moment. Fate seemed to laugh suddenly and mockingly in her face. Destiny shut her in. "Are you the Prince of Courtland?" she asked; and at the sound of her voice, unwontedly clear in the great church, even the organ appeared to still itself. All listened intently, though only a few heard the conversation. "I have that honour," bowed the man with the bent shoulders. "Then, as God lives, I will never marry you!" cried Joan, all her soul in the disgust of her voice. "Be not disdainful, my lady," said the bridegroom mildly; "I will be your humble slave. You shall have a palace and an establishment of your own, an it like you. The marriage was your father's desire, and hath the sanction of the Emperor. It is as necessary for your State as for mine." Then, while the people waited in a kind of palpitating uncertainty, the Princess Margaret whispered to the bride, who stood with a face ashen pale as her own white dress. Sometimes she looked at the Prince of Courtland, and then immediately averted her eyes. But never, after the first glance, did Joan permit them to stray to the face of him who stood behind the altar railings with his service book in his hand. "Well," she said finally, "I _will_ marry this man, since it is my fate. Let the ceremony proceed!" "I thank you, gracious lady," said the Prince, taking her hand and leading his bride to the altar. "You will never regret it." "No, but you will!" muttered his groomsman, the Prince Ivan of Muscovy. The full rich tones of the prince bishop rose and fell through the crowded minster as Joan of Hohenstein was married to his elder brother, and with the closing words of the episcopal benediction an awe fell upon the multitude. They felt that they were in the presence of great unknown forces, the action and interaction of which might lead no man knew whither. At the close of the service, Joan, now Princess of Courtland, leaned over and whispered a word to her chosen captain, Maurice von Lynar, an action noticed by few. The young man started and gazed into her face; but, immediately commanding his emotion, he nodded and disappeared by a side door. The great organ swelled out. The marriage procession was re-formed. The prince-bishop had retired to his sacristy to change his robes. The new Princess of Courtland came down the aisle on the arm of her husband. Then the bells almost turned over in their fury of jubilation, and every cannon in the city bellowed out. The people shouted themselves hoarse, and the line of Courtland troops who kept the people back had great difficulty in restraining the enthusiasm which threatened to break all bounds and involve the married pair in a whirling tumult of acclaim. In the centre of the Minster Place the four hundred lances of the Kernsberg escort had formed up, a serried mass of beautiful well-groomed horses, stalwart men, and shining spears, from each of which the pennon of their mistress fluttered in the light wind. "Ha! there they come at last! See them on the steps!" The shouts rang out, and the people flung their headgear wildly into the air. The line of Courtland foot saluted, but no cheer came from the array of Kernsberg lances. "They are sorry to lose her--and small wonder. Well, she is ours now!" the people cried, congratulating one another as they shook hands and the wine gurgled out of the pigskins into innumerable thirsty mouths. On the steps of the minster, after they had descended more than half-way, the new Princess of Courtland turned upon her lord. Her hand slipped from his arm, which hung a moment crooked and empty before it dropped to his side. His mouth was a little open with surprise. Prince Louis knew that he was wedding a wilful dame, but he had not been prepared for this. "Now, my lord," said the Princess Joan, loud and clear. "I have married you. The bond of heritage-brotherhood is fulfilled. I have obeyed my father to the letter. I have obeyed the Emperor. I have done all. Now be it known to you and to all men that I will neither live with you nor yet in your city. I am your wife in name. You shall never be my husband in aught else. I bid you farewell, Prince of Courtland. Joan of Hohenstein may marry where she is bidden, but she loves where she will." The horse upon which she had come to the minster stood waiting. There was the Sparhawk ready to help her into the saddle. Ere one of the wedding guests could move to prevent her, before the Prince of Courtland could cry an order or decide what to do, Joan of the Sword Hand had placed herself at the head of her four hundred lances, and was riding through the shouting streets towards the Plassenburg gate. The people cheered as she went by, clearing the way that she might not be annoyed. They thought it part of the day's show, and voted the Kernsbergers a gallant band, well set up and right bravely arrayed. So they passed through the gate in safety. The noble portal was all aflutter with colour, the arms of Hohenstein and Courtland being quartered together on a great wooden plaque over the main entrance. As soon as they were clear the Princess Joan turned in her saddle and spake to the four hundred behind her. "We ride back to Kernsberg," she cried. "Joan of the Sword Hand is wed, but not yet won. If they would keep her they must first catch her. Are you with me, lads of the hills?" Then came back a unanimous shout of "Aye--to the death!" from four hundred throats. "Then give me a sword and put the horses to their speed. We ride for home. Let them catch us who can!" And this was the true fashion of the marrying of Joan of the Sword Hand, Duchess of Hohenstein, to the Prince Louis of Courtland, by his brother Conrad, Cardinal and Prince of Holy Church. CHAPTER XV WHAT JOAN LEFT BEHIND After the departure of his bride, the Prince of Courtland stood on the steps of the minster, dazed and foundered by the shame which had so suddenly befallen him. Beneath him the people seethed tumultuously, their holiday ribands and maypole dresses making as gay a swirl of colour as when one looks at the sun through the facets of a cut Venetian glass. Prince Louis's weak and fretful face worked with emotion. His bird-like hands clawed uncertainly at his sword-hilt, wandering off over the golden pouches that tasselled his baldric till they rested on the sheath of the poignard he wore. "Bid the gates be shut, Prince!" The whisper came over his shoulder from a young man who had been standing all the time twisting his moustache. "Bid your horsemen bit and bridle. The plain is fair before you. It is a long way to Kernsberg. I have a hundred Muscovites at your service, all well mounted--ten thousand behind them over the frontier if these are not enough! Let no wench in the world put this shame upon a reigning Prince of Courtland on his wedding-day!" Thus Ivan of Muscovy, attired in silk, banded of black and gold, counselled the disdained Prince Louis, who stood pushing upward with two fingers the point of his thin greyish beard and gnawing the straggling ends between his teeth. "I say, 'To horse and ride, man!' Will you dare tell this folk of yours that you are disdained, slighted at the very church door by your wedded wife, cast off and trodden in the mire like a bursten glove? Can you afford to proclaim yourself the scorn of Germany? How it will run, that news! To Plassenburg first, where the Executioner's Son will smile triumphantly to his witch woman, and straightway send off a messenger to tickle the well-larded ribs of his friend the Margraf George with the rare jest." The Prince Louis appeared to be moved by the Wasp's words. He turned about to the nearest knight-in-waiting. "Let us to horse--every man of us!" he said. "Bid that the steeds be brought instantly." The banded Wasp had further counsels to give. "Give out that you go to meet the Princess at a rendezvous. For a pleasantry between yourselves, you have resolved to spend the honeymoon at a distant hunting-lodge. Quick! Not half a dozen of all the company caught the true import of her words. You will tame her yet. She will founder her horses in a single day's ride, while you have relays along the road at every castle, at every farm-house, and your borders are fifty good miles away." Beneath, in the square, the court jesters leaped and laughed, turning somersaults and making a flying skirt, like that of a morrice dancer, out of the long, flapping points of their parti-coloured blouses. The streets in front of the cathedral were alive with musicians, mostly in little bands of three, a harper with his harp of fourteen strings, his companion playing industriously upon a Flute-English, and with these two their 'prentice or servitor, who accompanied them with shrill iterance of whistle, while both his hands busied themselves with the merry tuck of tabour. In this incessant merrymaking the people soon forgot their astonishment at the sudden disappearance of the bride. There was, indeed, no understanding these great folk. But it was a fine day for a feast--the pretext a good one. And so the lasses and lads joked as they danced in the lower vaults of the town house, from which the barrels had been cleared for the occasion. "If thou and I were thus wedded, Grete, would you ride one way and I the other? Nay, God wot, lass! I am but a tanner's 'prentice, but I'd abide beside thee, as close as bark by hide that lies three years in the same tan-pit--aye, an' that I would, lass!" Then Gretchen bridled. "I would not marry thee, nor yet lie near or far, Hans; thou art but a boy, feckless and skill-less save to pole about thy stinking skins--faugh!" "Nay, try me, Grete! Is not this kiss as sweet as any civet-scented fop could give?" At the command of the Prince the trumpets rang out again the call of "Boot-and-saddle!" from the steps of the cathedral. At the sound the grooms, who were here and there in the press, hasted to find and caparison the horses of their lords. Meanwhile, on the wide steps the Prince Louis fretted, dinting his nails restlessly into his palms and shaking with anger and disappointment till his deep sleeves vibrated like scarlet flames in a veering wind. Suddenly there passed a wave over the people who crowded the spacious Dom Platz of Courtland. The turmoil stilled itself unconsciously. The many-headed parti-coloured throng of women's tall coifs, gay fluttering ribands, men's velvet caps, gallants' white feathers that shifted like the permutations of a kaleidoscope, all at once fixed itself into a sea of white faces, from which presently arose a forest of arms flourishing kerchiefs and tossing caps. To this succeeded a deep mouth-roar of burgherish welcome such as the reigning Prince had never heard raised in his own honour. "Conrad--Prince Conrad! God bless our Prince-Cardinal!" The legitimate ruler of Courtland, standing where Joan had left him, with his slim-waisted Muscovite mentor behind him, half-turned to look. And there on the highest place stood his brother in the scarlet of his new dignity as it had come from the Pope himself, his red biretta held in his hand, and his fair and noble head erect as he looked over the folk to where on the slope above the city gates he could still see the sun glint and sparkle on the cuirasses and lanceheads of the four hundred riders of Kernsberg. But even as the Prince of Courtland looked back at his brother, the whisper of the tempter smote his ear. "Had Prince Conrad been in your place, and you behind the altar rails, think you that the Duchess Joan would have fled so cavalierly?" By this time the young Cardinal had descended till he stood on the other side of the Prince from Ivan of Muscovy. "You take horse to follow your bride?" he queried, smiling. "Is it a fashion of Kernsberg brides thus to steal away?" For he could see the grooms bringing horses into the square, and the guards beating the people back with the butts of their spears to make room for the mounting of the Prince's cavalcade. "Hark--he flouts you!" came the whisper over the bridegroom's shoulder; "I warrant he knew of this before." "You have done your priest's work, brother," said Louis coldly, "e'en permit me to go about that of a prince and a husband in my own way." The Cardinal bowed low, but with great self-command held his peace, whereat Louis of Courtland broke out in a sudden overboiling fury. "This is your doing!" he cried; "I know it well. From her first coming my bride had set herself to scorn me. My sister knew it. You knew it. You smile as at a jest. The Pope's favour has turned your head. You would have all--the love of my wife, the rule of my folk, as well as the acclaim of these city swine. Listen--'The good Prince Conrad! God save the noble Prince!' It is worth while living for favour such as this." "Brother of mine," said the young man gently, "as you know well, I never set eyes upon the noble Lady Joan before. Never spoke word to her, held no communication by word or pen." "Von Dessauer--his secretary!" whispered Ivan, dropping the suggestion carefully over his shoulder like poison distilled into a cup. "You were constantly with the old fox Dessauer, the envoy of Plassenburg--who came from Kernsberg, bringing with him that slim secretary. By my faith, now, when I think of it, Prince Ivan told me last night he was as like this madcap girl as pea to pea--some fly-blown base-born brother, doubtless!" Conrad shook his head. His brother had doubtless gone momentarily distract with his troubles. "Nay, deny it not! And smile not either--lest I spoil the symmetry of that face for your monkish mummery and processions. Aye, if I have to lie under ten years' interdict for it from your friend the most Holy Pope of Rome!" "Do not forget there is another Church in my country, which will lay no interdict upon you, Prince Louis," laughed Ivan of Muscovy. "But to horse--to horse--we lose time!" "Brother," said the Cardinal, laying his hand on Louis's arm, "on my word as a knight--as a Prince of the Church--I knew nothing of the matter. I cannot even guess what has led you thus to accuse me!" The Princess Margaret came at that moment out of the cathedral and ran impetuously to her favourite brother. He put out his hand. She took it, and instead of kissing his bishop's ring, as in strict etiquette she ought to have done, she cried out, "Conrad, do you know what that glorious wench has done? Dared her husband's authority at the church door, leaped into the saddle, whistled up her men, cried to all these Courtland gallants, 'Catch me who can!' And lo! at this moment she is riding straight for Kernsberg, and now our Louis must catch her. A glorious wedding! I would I were by her side. Brother Louis, you need not frown, I am nowise affrighted at your glooms! This is a bride worth fighting for. No puling cloister-maid this that dares not raise her eyes higher than her bridegroom's knee! Were I a man, by my faith, I would never eat or drink, neither pray nor sain me, till I had tamed the darling and brought her to my wrist like a falcon to a lure!" "So, then, madam, you knew of this?" said her elder brother, glowering upon her from beneath his heavy brows. "Nay!" trilled the gay Princess, "I only wish I had. Then I, too, would have been riding with them--such a jest as never was, it would have been. Goodbye, my poor forsaken brother! Joy be with you on this your bridal journey. Take Prince Ivan with you, and Conrad and I will keep the kingdom against your return, with your prize gentled on your wrist." So smiling and kissing her hand the Princess Margaret waved her brother and Prince Ivan off. The Prince of Courtland neither looked at her nor answered. But the Muscovite turned often in his saddle as if to carry with him the picture she made of saucy countenance and dainty figure as she stood looking up into the face of the Cardinal Prince Conrad. "What in Heaven's name is the meaning of all this--I do not understand in the least?" he was saying. "Haste you and unrobe, Brother Con," she said; "this grandeur of yours daunts me. Then, in the summer parlour, I will tell you all!" [Illustration: "They stood ... looking down at the rushing river." [_Page 105_]] CHAPTER XVI PRINCE WASP'S COMPACT "I cannot go back to Courtland dishonoured," said Prince Louis to Ivan of Muscovy, as they stood on the green bank looking down on the rushing river, broad and brown, which had so lately been the Fords of Alla. The river had risen almost as it seemed upon the very heels of the four hundred horsemen of Kernsberg, and the ironclad knights and men-at-arms who followed the Prince of Courtland could not face the yeasty swirl of the flood. Prince Ivan, left to himself, would have dared it. "What is a little brown water?" he cried. "Let the men leave their armour on this side and swim their horses through. We do it fifty times a month in Muscovy in the springtime. And what are your hill-fed brooks to the full-bosomed rivers of the Great Plain?" "It is just because they are hill-fed that we know them and will not risk our lives. The Alla has come down out of the mountains of Hohenstein. For four-and-twenty hours nothing without wing may pass and repass. Yet an hour earlier and our Duchess had been trapped on the hither side even as we. But now she will sit and laugh up there in Kernsberg. And--I cannot go back to Courtland without a bride!" Prince Ivan stood a moment silent. Then his eyes glanced over his companion with a certain severe and amused curiosity. From foot to head they scanned him, beginning at the shoes of red Cordovan leather, following upwards to the great tassel he wore at his poignard; then came the golden girdle about his waist, the flowered needlework at his wrists and neck, and the scrutiny ended with the flat red cap on his head, from which a white feather nodded over his left eye. Then the gaze of Prince Ivan returned again slowly to the pointed red shoes of Cordovan leather. If there was anything so contemptuous as that eye-blink in the open scorn of all the burghers of Courtland, Prince Louis was to be excused for any hesitation he might show in facing his subjects. The matter of Prince Wasp's meditation ran somewhat thuswise: "Thou man, fashioned from a scullion's nail-paring, and cocked upon a horse, what can I make of thee? Thou, to have a country, a crown, a wife! Gudgeon eats stickleback, jack-pike eats gudgeon and grows fat, till at last the sturgeon in his armour eats him. I will fatten this jack. I will feed him like the gudgeons of Kernsberg and Hohenstein, then take him with a dainty lure indeed, black-tipped, with sleeves gay as cranes' wings, and answering to the name of 'my lady Joan.' But wait--I must be wary, and have a care lest I shadow his water." So saying within his heart, Prince Wasp became exceedingly thoughtful and of a demure countenance. "My lord," he said, "this day's work will not go well down in Courtland, I fear me!" Prince Louis moved uneasily, keeping his regard steadily upon the brown turmoil of the Alla swirling beneath, whereas the eyes of Ivan were never removed from his friend's meagre face. "Your true Courtlander is more than half a Muscovite," mused Prince Wasp, as if thinking aloud; "he wishes not to be argued with. He wants a master, and he will not love one who permits himself to be choused of a wife upon his wedding-day!" Prince Louis started quickly as the Wasp's sting pricked him. "And pray, Prince Ivan," he said, "what could I have done that I left undone? Speak plainly, since you are so prodigal of smiles suppressed, so witty with covert words and shoulder-tappings!" "My Louis," said Prince Wasp, laying his hand upon the arm of his companion with an affectation of tenderness. "I flout you not--I mock you not. And if I speak harshly, it is only that I love not to see you in your turn flouted, mocked, scorned, made light of before your own people!" "I believe it, Ivan; pardon the heat of my hasty temper!" said the Prince of Courtland. The watchful Muscovite pursued his advantage, narrowing his eyes that he might the better note every change on the face of the man whom he held in his toils. He went on, with a certain resigned sadness in his voice-- "Ever since I came first to Courtland with the not dishonourable hope of carrying back to my father a princess of your house, none have been so amiable together as you and I. We have been even as David and Jonathan." The Prince Louis put out a hand, which apparently Ivan did not see, for he continued without taking it. "Yet what have I gained either of solid good or even of the lighter but not less agreeable matter of my lady's favour? So far as your sister is concerned, I have wasted my time. If I consider the union of our peoples, already one in heart, your brother works against us both; the Princess Margaret despises me, Prince Conrad thwarts us. He would bind us in chains and carry us tinkling to the feet of his pagan master in Rome!" "I think not so," answered Prince Louis--"I cannot think so of my brother, with all his faults. Conrad is a brave soldier, a good knight--though, as is the custom of our house, it is his lot to be no more than a prince-bishop!" The Wasp laughed a little hard laugh, clear and inhuman as the snap and rattle of Spanish castanets. "Louis, my good friend, your simplicity, your lack of guile, do you wrong most grievous! You judge others as you yourself are. Do you not see that Conrad your brother must pay for his red hat? He must earn his cardinalate. Papa Sixtus gives nothing for nothing. Courtland must pay Peter's pence, must become monkish land. On every flake of stockfish, every grain of sturgeon roe, every ounce of marled amber, your Holy Father must levy his sacred dues. And the clear ambition of your brother is to make you chief cat's-paw pontifical upon the Baltic shore. Consider it, good Louis." And the Prince of Muscovy twirled his moustache and smiled condescendingly between his fingers. Then, as if he thought suddenly of something else and made a new calculation, he laughed a laugh, quick and short as the barking of a dog. "Ha!" he cried, "truly we order things better in my country. I have brothers, one, two, three. They are grand dukes, highnesses very serene. One of them has this province, another this sinecure, yet another waits on my father. My father dies--and I--well, I am in my father's place. What will my brothers do with their serene highnesses then? They will take each one the clearest road and the shortest for the frontier, or by the Holy Icon of Moscow, there would very speedily be certain new tablets in the funeral vault of my fathers." The Prince of Courtland started. "This thing I could never imagine of Conrad my brother. He loves me. At heart he ever cared but for his books, and now that he is a priest he hath forsworn knighthood, and tournaments, and wars." "Poor Louis," said Ivan sadly, "not to see that once a soldier always a soldier. But 'tis a good fault, this generous blindness of the eyes. He hath already the love of your people. He has won already the voice that speaks from every altar and presbytery. The power to loose and bind men's consciences is in his hand. In a little, when he has bartered away your power for his cardinal's hat, he may be made a greater than yourself, an elector of the empire, the right-hand man of Papa Sixtus, as his uncle Adrian was before him. Then indeed your Courtland will underlie the tinkle of Peter's keys!" "I am sure that Conrad would do nothing against his fatherland or to the hurt of his prince and brother!" said Prince Louis, but he spoke in a wavering voice, like one more than half convinced. "Again," continued Ivan, without heeding him, "there is your wife. I am sure that if he had been the prince and you the priest--well, she had not slept this night in the Castle of Kernsberg!" "Ivan, if you love me, be silent," cried the tortured Prince of Courtland, setting his hand to his brow. "This is the mere idle dreaming of a fool. How learned you these things? I mean how did the thoughts enter into your mind?" "I learned the matter from the Princess Margaret, who in the brief space of a day became your wife's confidante!" "Did Margaret tell it you?" The Prince Ivan laughed a short, self-depreciatory laugh. "Nay, truly," he said, smiling sadly, "you and I are in one despite, Louis. Your wife scorns you--me, my sweetheart. Did Margaret tell me? Nay, verily! Yet I learned it, nevertheless, even more certainly because she denied it so vehemently. But, after all, I daresay all will end for the best." "How so?" demanded Prince Louis haughtily. "Why, I have heard that your Papa at Rome will do aught for money. Doubtless he will dissolve this marriage, which indeed is no more than one in name. He has done more than that already for his own nephews. He will absolve your brother from his vows. Then you can be the monk and he the king. There will be a new marriage, at which doubtless you shall hold the service book and he the lady's hand. Then we shall have no ridings back to Kernsberg, with four hundred lances, at a word from a girl's scornful mouth. And the Alla down there may rise or fall at its pleasure, and neither hurt nor hinder any!" The Prince of Courtland turned an angry countenance upon his friend, but the keen-witted Muscovite looked so kindly and yet so sadly upon him that after awhile the severity of his face relaxed as it had been against his will, and with a quick gesture he added, "I believe you love me, Ivan, though indeed your words are no better than red-hot pincers in my heart." "Love you, Louis?" cried Prince Ivan. "I love you better than any brother I have, though they will never live to thwart me as yours thwarts you--better even than my father, for you do not keep me out of my inheritance!" Then in a gayer tone he went on. "I love you so much that I will pledge my father's whole army to help you, first to win your wife, next to take Hohenstein, Kernsberg, and Marienfeld. And after that, if you are still ambitious, why--to Plassenburg and the Wolfmark, which now the Executioner's Son holds. That would make a noble kingdom to offer a fair and wilful queen." "And for this you ask?" "Only your love, Louis--only your love! And, if it please you, the alliance with that Princess of your honourable house, of whom we spoke just now!" "My sister Margaret, you mean? I will do what I can, Ivan, but she also is wilful. You know she is wilful! I cannot compel her love!" The Prince Ivan laughed. "I am not so complaisant as you, Louis, nor yet so modest. Give me my bride on the day Joan of the Sword Hand sleeps in the palace of Courtland as its princess, and I will take my chance of winning our Margaret's love!" CHAPTER XVII WOMAN'S WILFULNESS Joan rode on, silent, a furlong before her men. Behind her sulked Maurice von Lynar. Had any been there to note, their faces were now strangely alike in feature, and yet more curiously unlike in expression. Joan gazed forward into the distance like a soul dead and about to be reborn, planning a new life. Maurice von Lynar looked more like a naughty schoolboy whom some tyrant Fate, rod-wielding, has compelled to obey against his will. Yet, in spite of expression, it was Maurice von Lynar who was planning the future. Joan's heart was yet too sore. Her tree of life had, as it were, been cut off close to the ground. She could not go back to the old so soon after her blissful year of dreams. There was to be no new life for her. She could not take up the old. But Maurice--his thoughts were all for the Princess Margaret, of the ripple of her golden hair, of her pretty wilful words and ways, of that dimple on her chin, and, above all, of her threat to seek him out if--but it was not possible that she could mean that. And yet she looked as though she might make good her words. Was it possible? He posed himself with this question, and for half an hour rode on oblivious of all else. "Eh?" he said at last, half conscious that some one had been speaking to him from an infinite distance. "Eh? Did you speak, Captain von Orseln?" Von Orseln grunted out a little laugh, almost silently, indeed, and expressed more by a heave of his shoulders than by any alteration of his features. "Speak, indeed? As if I had not been speaking these five minutes. Well nigh had I stuck my poignard in your ribs to teach you to mind your superior officer. What think you of this business?" "Think?" the Sparhawk's disappointment burst out. "Think? Why, 'tis past all thinking. Courtland is shut to us for twenty years." "Well," laughed Von Orseln, "who cares for that? Castle Kernsberg is good enough for me, so we can hold it." "Hold it?" cried Maurice, with a kind of joy in his face; "do you think they will come after us?" Von Orseln nodded approval of his spirit. "Yes, little man, yes," he said; "if you have been fretting to come to blows with the Courtlanders you are in good case to be satisfied. I would we had only these lumpish Baltic jacks to fear." Even as they talked Castle Kernsberg floated up like a cloud before them above the blue and misty plain, long before they could distinguish the walls and hundred gables of the town beneath. But no word spoke Joan till that purple shadow had taken shape as stately stone and lime, and she could discern her own red lion flying abreast of the banner of Louis of Courtland upon the topmost pinnacle of the round tower. Then on a little mound without the town she halted and faced about. Von Orseln halted the troop with a backward wave of the hand. "Men of Hohenstein," said the Duchess, in a clear, far-reaching alto, "you have followed me, asking no word of why or wherefore. I have told you nothing, yet is an explanation due to you." There came the sound as of a hoarse unanimous muttering among the soldiers. Joan looked at Von Orseln as a sign for him to interpret it. "They say that they are Joan of the Sword Hand's men, and that they will disembowl any man who wants to know what it may please you to keep secret." "Aye, or question by so much as one lifted eyebrow aught that it may please your Highness to do," added Captain Peter Balta, from the right of the first troop. "I said that our Duchess could never live in such a dog's hole as their Courtland," quoth George the Hussite, who, before he took service with Henry the Lion, had been a heretic preacher. "In Bohemia, now, where the pines grow----" "Hold your prate, all of you," growled Von Orseln, "or you will find where hemp grows, and why! My lady," he added, altering his voice as he turned to her, "be assured, no dog in Kernsberg will bark an interrogative at you. Shall our young Duchess Joan be wived and bedded like some little burgheress that sells laces and tape all day long on the Axel-strasse? Shall the daughter of Henry the Lion be at the commandment of any Bor-Russian boor, an it like her not? Shall she get a burr in her throat with breathing the raw fogs of the Baltic? Not a word, most gracious lady! Explain nothing. Extenuate nothing. It is the will of Joan of the Sword Hand--that is enough; and, by the word of Werner von Orseln, it shall be enough!" "It is the will of Joan of the Sword Hand! It is enough!" repeated the four hundred lances, like a class that learns a lesson by rote. A lump rose in Joan's throat as she tried to shape into words the thoughts that surged within. She felt strangely weak. Her pride was not the same as of old, for the heart of a woman had grown up within her--a heart of flesh. Surely that could not be a tear in her eye? No; the wind blew shrewdly out of the west, to which they were riding. Von Orseln noted the struggle and took up his parable once more. "The pact is carried out. The lands united--the will of Henry the Lion done! What more? Shall the free Princess be the huswife of a yellow Baltic dwarf? When we go into the town and they ask us, we will say but this, 'Our Lady misliked the fashion of his beard!' That will be reason good and broad and deep, sufficient alike for grey-haired carl and prattling bairn!" "I thank you, noble gentlemen," said Joan. "Now, as you say, let us ride into Kernsberg." "And pull down that flag!" cried Maurice, pointing to the black Courtland Eagle which flew so steadily beside the coronated lion of Kernsberg and Hohenstein. "And pray, sir, why?" quoth Joan of the Sword Hand. "Am I not also Princess of Courtland?" * * * * * From woman's wilfulness all things somehow have their beginning. Yet of herself she is content with few things (so that she have what she wants), somewhat Spartan in fare if let alone, and no dinner-eating animal. Wine, tobacco, caviare, Strasburg goose-liver--Epicurus's choicest gifts to men of this world--are contemned by womankind. Left to their own devices, they prefer a drench of sweet mead or hydromel laced with water, or even of late the China brew that filters in black bricks through the country of the Muscovite. Nevertheless, to woman's wantings may be traced all restraints and judgments, from the sword flaming every way about Eden-gate to the last merchant declared bankrupt and "dyvour" upon the exchange flags of Hamburg town. Eve did not eat the apple when she got it. She hasted to give it away. She only wanted it because it had been forbidden. So also Joan of Hohenstein desired to go down with Dessauer that she might look upon the man betrothed to her from birth. She went. She looked, and, as the tale tells, within her there grew a heart of flesh. Then, when the stroke fell, that heart uprose in quick, intemperate revolt. And what might have issued in the dull compliance of a princess whose life was settled for her, became the imperious revolt of a woman against an intolerable and loathsome impossibility. So in her castle of Kernsberg Joan waited. But not idly. All day long and every day Maurice von Lynar rode on her service. The hillmen gathered to his word, and in the courtyard the stormy voices of George the Hussite and Peter Balta were never hushed. The shepherds from the hills went to and fro, marching and countermarching, wheeling and charging, porting musket and thrusting pike, till all Kernsberg was little better than a barracks, and the maidens sat wet-eyed at their knitting by the fire and thought, "Well for Her to please herself whom she shall marry--but how about us, with never a lad in the town to whistle us out in the gloaming, or to thumb a pebble against the window-lattice from the deep edges of the ripening corn?" But there were two, at least, within the realm of the Duchess Joan who knew no drawbacks to their joy, who rubbed palm on palm and nudged each other for pure gladness. These (it is sad to say) were the military _attachés_ of the neighbouring peaceful State of Plassenburg. Yet they had been specially cautioned by their Prince Hugo, in the presence of his wife Helene, the hereditary Princess, that they were most carefully to avoid all international complications. They were on no account to take sides in any quarrel. Above all they must do nothing prejudicial to the peace, neutrality, and universal amity of the State and Princedom of Plassenburg. Such were these instructions. They promised faithfully. But, their names being Captains Boris and Jorian, they now rubbed their hands and nudged each other. They ought to have been in their chamber in the Castle of Kernsberg, busily concocting despatches to their master and mistress, giving an account of these momentous events. Instead, how is it that we find them lying on that spur of the Jägernbergen which overlooks the passes of Alla, watching the gathering of the great storm which in the course of days must break over the domains of the Duchess Joan--who had refused and slighted her wedded husband, Louis, Prince of Courtland? Being both powerfully resourceful men, long lean Boris and rotund Jorian had found a way out of the apparent difficulty. There had come with them from Plassenburg a commission written upon an entire square of sheepskin by a secretary and sealed with the seal of Leopold von Dessauer, High Councillor of the United Princedom and Duchy, bearing that "In the name of Hugo and Helene our well-loved lieges Captains Boris and Jorian are empowered to act and treat," and so forth. This momentous deed was tied about the middle with a red string, and presented withal so courtly and respectable an appearance to the uncritical eyes of the ex-men-at-arms themselves, that they felt almost anything excusable which they might do in its name. Before leaving Kernsberg, therefore, Boris placed this great red-waisted parchment roll in his bed, leaning it angle-wise against his pillow. Jorian tossed a spare dagger with the arms of Plassenburg beside it. "There--let the civil power and the military for once lie down together!" he said. "We delegate our authority to these two during our absence!" To the silent Plassenburgers who had accompanied them, and who now kept their door with unswerving attention, Boris explained himself briefly. "Remember," he said, "when you are asked, that the envoys of Plassenburg are ill--ill of a dangerous and most contagious disease. Also, they are asleep. They must on no account be waked. The windows must be kept darkened. It is a great pity. You are desolated. You understand. The first time I have more money than I can spend you shall have ten marks!" The men-at-arms understood, which was no wonder, for Boris generally contrived to make himself very clear. But they thought within them that their chances of financial benefit from their captain's conditional generosity were worth about one sole stiver. So these two, being now free fighting-men, as it were, soldiers of fortune, lay waiting on the slopes of the Jägernbergen, talking over the situation. "A man surely has a right to his own wife!" said Jorian, taking for the sake of argument the conventional side. "_Narren-possen_, Jorian!" cried Boris, raising his voice to the indignation point. "Clotted nonsense! Who is going to keep a man's wife for him if he cannot do it himself? And he a prince, and within his own city and fortress, too. She boxed his ears, they say, and rode away, telling him that if he wanted her he might come and take her! A pretty spirit, i' faith! Too good for such a dried stockfish of the Baltic, with not so much soul as a speckled flounder on his own mud-flats! Faith! if I were a marrying man, I would run off with the lass myself. She ought at least to be a soldier's wife." "The trouble is that so far she feels no necessity to be any one's wife," said Jorian, shifting his ground. "That also is nonsense," said Boris, who, spite his defence of Joan, held the usual masculine views. "Every woman wishes to marry, if she can only have first choice." "There they come!" whispered Jorian, whose eyes had never wandered from the long wavering lines of willow and alder which marked the courses of the sluggish streams flowing east toward the Alla. Boris rose to his feet and looked long beneath his hand. Very far away there was a sort of white tremulousness in the atmosphere which after a while began to give off little luminous glints and sparkles, as the sea does when a shaft of moonlight touches it through a dark canopy of cloud. Then there arose from the level green plain first one tall column of dense black smoke and then another, till as far as they could see to the left the plain was full of them. "God's truth!" cried Jorian, "they are burning the farms and herds' houses. I thought they had been Christians in Courtland. But these are more like Duke Casimir's devil's tricks." Boris did not immediately answer. His eyes were busy seeing, his brain setting in order. "I tell you what," he said at last, in a tone of intense interest, "these are no fires lighted by Courtlanders. The heavy Baltic knights could never ride so fast nor spread so wide. The Muscovite is out! These are Cossack fires. Bravo, Jorian! we shall yet have our Hugo here with his axe! He will never suffer the Bear so near his borders." "Let us go down," said Jorian, "or we shall miss some of the fun. In two good hours they will be at the fords of the Alla!" So they looked to their arms and went down. "What do you here? Go back!" shouted Werner von Orseln, who with his men lay waiting behind the floodbanks of the Alla. "This is not your quarrel! Go back, Plassenburgers!" "We have for the time being demitted our office," Boris exclaimed. "The envoys of Plassenburg are at home in bed, sick of a most sanguinary fever. We offer you our swords as free fighting-men and good Teuts. The Muscovites are over yonder. Lord, to think that I have lived to forty-eight and never yet killed even one bearded Russ!" "You may mend that record shortly, to all appearance, if you have luck!" said Von Orseln grimly. "And this gentleman here," he added, looking at Jorian, "is he also in bed, sick?" "My sword is at your service," said the round one, "though I should prefer a musketoon, if it is all the same to you. It will be something to do till these firebrands come within arm's length of us." "I have here two which are very much at your service, if you know how to use them!" said Werner. The men-at-arms laughed. "We know their tricks better than those of our sweethearts!" they said, "and those we know well!" "Here they be, then," said Von Orseln. "I sent a couple of men spurring to warn my Lady Joan, and I bade them leave their muskets and bandoliers till they came back, that they might ride the lighter to and from Kernsberg." Boris and Jorian took the spare pieces with a glow of gratitude, which was, however, very considerably modified when they discovered the state in which their former owners had kept them. "Dirty Wendish pigs," they said (which was their favourite malediction, though they themselves were Wend of the Wends). "Were they but an hour in our camp they should ride the wooden horse with these very muskets tied to their soles to keep them firmly down. Faugh!" And Jorian withdrew his finger from the muzzle, black as soot with the grease of uncleansed powder. Looking up, they saw that the priest with the little army of Kernsberg was praying fervently (after the Hussite manner, without book) for the safety of the State and person of their lady Duchess, and that the men were listening bareheaded beneath the green slope of the water-dyke. "Go on cleaning," said Boris; "this is some heretic function, and might sap our morality. We are volunteers, at any rate, as well as the best of good Catholics. We do not need unlicensed prayers. If you have quite done with that rag stick, lend it to me, Jorian!" CHAPTER XVIII CAPTAINS BORIS AND JORIAN PROMOTE PEACE Now this is the report which Captains Boris and Jorian, envoys (very) extraordinary from the Prince and Princess of Plassenburg to the reigning Duchess of Hohenstein, made to their home government upon their return from the fords of the Alla. They wrote it in collaboration, on the usual plan of one working and the other assisting him with advice. Jorian, being of the rotund and complaisant faction, acquiesced in the proposal that he should do the writing. But as he never got beyond "To our honoured Lord and Lady, Hugo and Helene, these----" there needs not to be any particularity as to his manner of acting the scribe. He mended at a pen till it looked like a brush worn to the straggling point. He squared his elbows suddenly and overset the inkhorn. He daubed an entire folio of paper with a completeness which left nothing to the imagination. Then he remembered that he knew where a secretary was in waiting. He would go and borrow him. Jorian re-entered their bedroom with a beaming smile, and the secretary held by the sleeve to prevent his escape. Both felt that already the report was as good as written. It began thus:-- "With great assiduity (a word suggested by the secretary) your envoys remembered your Highnesses' princely advice and command that we should involve ourselves in no warfare or other local disagreement. So when we heard that Hohenstein was to be invaded by the troops of the Prince of Courtland we were deeply grieved. "Nevertheless, judging it to be for the good of our country that we should have a near view of the fighting, we left worthy and assured substitutes in our place and room----" "The parchment commission with a string round his belly!" explained Jorian, in answer to the young secretary's lifted eyebrow; "there he is, hiding behind the faggot-chest." "Get on, Boris," quoth Jorian, from the settee on which he had thrown himself; "it is your turn to lie." "Good!" says Boris. And did it as followeth:-- "We left our arms behind us----" "Such as we could not carry," added Jorian under his breath. The secretary, a wise youth--full of the new learning and of talk concerning certain books printed on paper and bound all with one _druck_ of a great machine like a cheese-press--held his pen suspended over the paper in doubt what to write. "Do not mind him," said Boris. "_I_ am dictating this report." "Yes, my lord!" replied the secretary from behind his hand. "We left our arms and armour behind us, and went out to make observations in the interest of your Highnesses' armies. Going down through the woods we saw many wild swine, exceeding fierce. But having no means of hunting these, we evaded them, all save one, which misfortunately met its death by falling against a spear in the hands of Captain Boris, and another, also of the male sex, shot dead by Jorian's pistol, which went off by accident as it was passing." "I have already written that your arms were left at home, according to your direction," said the secretary, who was accustomed to criticise the composition of diplomatic reports. "Pshaw!" growled Boris, bending his brow upon such superfluity of virtue; "a little thing like that will never be noticed. Besides, a man must carry something. We had no cannon or battering rams with us, therefore we were unarmed--to all intents and purposes, that is." The secretary sighed. Verily life (as Von Orseln averred) must be easy in Plassenburg, if such stories would pass with the Prince. And now it seemed as if they would. "We found the soldiers of the Duchess Joan waiting at the fords of the Alla, which is the eastern border of their province. There were not many of them, but all good soldiers. The Courtlanders came on in myriads, with Muscovites without number. These last burned and slew all in their path. Now the men of Hohenstein are good to attack, but their fault is that they are not patient to defend. So it came to pass that not long after we arrived at the fords of the Alla, one Werner von Orseln, commander of the soldiers of the Duchess, ordered that his men should attack the Courtlanders in front. Whereupon they crossed the ford, when they should have stayed behind their shelter. It was bravely done, but had better have been left undone. "Remembering, however, your orders and our duty, we advanced with him, hoping that by some means we might be able to promote peace. "This we did. For (wonderful as it may appear) we convinced no fewer than ten Muscovites whom we found sacking a farm, and their companions, four sutlers of Courtland, that it was wrong to slay and ravish in a peaceful country. In the heat of the argument Captain Boris received a bullet through his shoulder which caused us for the time being to cease our appeal and fall back. The Muscovites, however, made no attempt to follow us. Our arguments had been sufficient to convince them of the wickedness of their deed. We hope to receive your princely approval of this our action--peace being, in our opinion, the greatest blessing which any nation can enjoy. For without flattery we may say that if others had argued with equal persuasiveness, the end would have been happier. "Then, being once more behind the flood-dykes of the Alla, Captain Jorian examined the hurt of Captain Boris which he had received in the peace negotiations with the Muscovites. It was but a flesh wound, happily, and was soon bound up. But the pain of it acted upon both your envoys as an additional incentive to put a stop to the horrors of war. "So when a company of the infantry of Courtland, with whom we had hitherto had no opportunity of wrestling persuasively, attacked the fords, wading as deep as mid-thigh, we took upon us to rebuke them for their forwardness. And accordingly they desisted, some retreating to the further shore, while others, finding the water pleasant, remained, and floated peacefully down with the current. "This also, in some measure, made for peace, and we humbly hope for the further approval of your Highnesses, when you have remarked our careful observance of all your instructions. "If only we had had with us our several companies of the Regiment of Karl the Miller's Son to aid us in the discussion, more Cossacks and Strelits might have been convinced, and the final result have been different. Nevertheless, we did what we could, and were successful with many beyond our hopes. "But the men of Hohenstein being so few, and those of Courtland with their allies so many, the river was overpassed both above and below the fords. Whereupon I pressed it upon Werner von Orseln that he should retreat to a place of greater hope and safety, being thus in danger on both flanks. "For your envoys have a respect for Werner von Orseln, though we grieve to report that, being a man of war from his youth up, he does not display that desire for peace which your good counsels have so deeply implanted in our breasts, and which alone animates the hearts of Boris and Jorian, captains in the princely guard of Plassenburg." "Put that in, till I have time to think what is to come next!" said Boris, waving his hand to the secretary. "We are doing pretty well, I think!" he added, turning to his companion with all the self-conscious pride of an amateur in words. "Let us now tell more about Von Orseln, and how he would in no wise listen to us!" suggested Jorian. "But let us not mix the mead too strong! Our Hugo is shrewd!" "This Werner von Orseln (be it known to your High Graciousnesses) was the chief obstacle in the way of our making peace--except, perhaps, those Muscovites with whom we were unable to argue, having no opportunity. This Werner had fought all the day, and, though most recklessly exposing himself, was still unhurt. His armour was covered with blood and black with powder after the fashion of these wild hot-bloods. His face also was stained, and when he spoke it was in a hoarse whisper. The matter of his discourse to us was this:-- "'I can do no more. My people are dead, my powder spent. They are more numerous than the sea-sands. They are behind us and before, also outflanking us on either side.' "Then we advised him to set his face to Hohenstein and with those who were left to him to retreat in that direction. We accompanied him, bearing in mind your royal commands, and eager to do all that in us lay to advance the interests of amity. The enemy fetched a compass to close us in on every side. "Whereupon we argued with them again to the best of our ability. There ensued some slight noise and confusion, so that Captain Boris forgot his wound, and Captain Jorian admits that in his haste he may have spoken uncivilly to several Bor-Russian gentry who thrust themselves in his way. And for this unseemly conduct he craves the pardon of their Highnesses Hugo and Helene, his beloved master and mistress. However, as no complaint has been received from the enemy's headquarters, no breach of friendly relations may be apprehended. Captain Boris is of opinion that the Muscovite boors did not understand Captain Jorian's Teuton language. At least they were not observed to resent his words. "In this manner were the invaders of Hohenstein broken through, and the remnant of the soldiers of the Duchess Joan reached Kernsberg in safety--a result which, we flatter ourselves, was as much due to the zeal and amicable persuasiveness of your envoys as to the skill and bravery of Werner von Orseln and the soldiers of the Duchess. "And your humble servants will ever pray for the speedy triumph of peace and concord, and also for an undisturbed reign to your Highnesses through countless years. In token whereof we append our signatures and seals. "BORIS "JORIAN." "Is not that last somewhat overstrained about peace and concord and so forth?" asked Jorian anxiously. "Not a whit--not a whit!" cried Boris, who, having finished his composition, was wholly satisfied with himself, after the manner of the beginner in letters. "Our desire to promote peace needs to be put strongly, in order to carry persuasion to their Highnesses in Plassenburg. In fact, I am not sure that it has been put strongly enough!" "I am troubled with some few doubts myself!" said Jorian, under his breath. And as the secretary jerked the ink from his pen he smiled. CHAPTER XIX JOAN STANDS WITHIN HER DANGER So soon as Werner von Orseln returned to Castle Kernsberg with news of the forcing of the Alla and the overwhelming numbers of the Muscovite hordes, the sad-eyed Duchess of Hohenstein became once more Joan of the Sword Hand. Hitherto she had doubted and feared. But now the thought of Prince Wasp and his Muscovite savages steadied her, and she was here and there, in every bastion of the Castle, looking especially to the gates which commanded the roads to Courtland and Plassenburg. Her one thought was, "Will _he_ be here?" And again she saw the knight of the white plume storm through the lists of Courtland, and the enemy go down before him. Ah, if only----! [Illustration: "Captain Boris was telling a story." [_Page 127_]] The invading army must have numbered thirty thousand, at least. There were, all told, about two thousand spears in Kernsberg. Von Orseln, indeed, could easily have raised more. Nay, they would have come in of themselves by hundreds to fight for their Duchess, but the little hill town could not feed more. Yet Joan was not discouraged. She joked with Peter Balta upon the louts of Courtlanders taking the Castle which Henry the Lion had fortified. The Courtlanders, indeed! Had not Duke Casimir assaulted Kernsberg in vain, and even the great Margraf George threatened it? Yet still it remained a virgin fortress, looking out over the fertile and populous plain. But now what were left of the shepherds had fled to the deep-bosomed mountains with their flocks. The cattle were hidden in the thickest woods; only the white farm-houses remained tenantless, silently waiting the coming of the spoiler. And, stripped for combat, Castle Kernsberg looked out towards the invader, the rolling plain in front of it, and behind the grim intricate hill country of Hohenstein. When Werner von Orseln and Peter Balta met the invader at the fords of the Alla, Maurice von Lynar and Alt Pikker had remained with Joan, nominally to assist her dispositions, but really to form a check upon the impetuosity of her temper. Now Von Orseln was back again. The fords of the Alla were forced, and the fighting strength of Kernsberg united itself in the Eagle's Nest to make its final stand. Aloft on the highest ramparts there was a terrace walk which the Sparhawk much affected, especially when he was on guard at night. It looked towards the east, and from it the first glimpse of the Courtlanders would be obtained. In the great hall of the guard they were drinking their nightly toast. The shouting might have been heard in the town, where at street corners were groups of youths exercising late with wooden spears and mimic armour, crying "Hurrah, Kernsberg!" They changed it, however, in imitation of their betters in the Castle above. "_Joan of the Sword Hand! Hoch!_" The shout went far into the night. Again and yet again it was repeated from about the crowded board in the hall of the men-at-arms and from the gloomy streets beneath. When all was over, the Sparhawk rose, belted his sword a hole or two tighter, set a steel cap without a visor upon his head, glanced at Werner von Orseln, and withdrew, leaving the other captains to their free-running jest and laughter. Captain Boris of Plassenburg was telling a story with a countenance more than ordinarily grave and earnest, while the table round rang with contagious mirth. The Sparhawk found the high terrace of the Lion Tower guarded by a sentry. Him he removed to the foot of the turret-stair, with orders to permit no one save Werner von Orseln to pass on any pretext. Presently the chief captain's step was heard on the stone turnpike. "Ha, Sparhawk," he cried, "this is cold cheer! Why could we not have talked comfortably in hall, with a beaker of mead at one's elbow?" "The enemy are not in sight," said the Sparhawk gloomily. "Well, that is bad luck," said Werner; "but do not be afraid, you will have your chance yet--indeed, all you want and a little over--in the way of killing of Muscovites." "I wanted to speak with you on a matter we cannot mention elsewhere," said Maurice von Lynar. The chief captain stopped in his stride, drew his cloak about him, rested his thigh on a square battlement, and resigned himself. "Well," he said, "youth has ever yeasty brains. Go on." "I would speak of my lady!" said the youth. "So would most mooncalves of your age!" growled Werner; "but they do not usually bring their commanding officers up to the housetops to do it!" "I mean our lady, the Duchess Joan!" "Ah," said Werner, with the persiflage gone out of his tone, "that is altogether another matter!" And the two men were silent for a minute, both looking out into the blackness where no stars shone or any light twinkled beyond the walls of the little fortified hill town. At last Maurice von Lynar spoke. "How long can we hold out if they besiege us?" "Two months, certainly--with luck, three!" "And then?" Werner von Orseln shrugged his shoulders, but only said, "A soldier never anticipates disaster!" "And what of the Duchess Joan?" persisted the young man. "Why, in the same space of time she will be dead or wed!" said Von Orseln, with an affectation of carelessness easily seen through. The young man burst out, "Dead she may be! I know she will never be wife to that Courtland Death's-head. I saw it in her eyes that day in their cathedral, when she bade me slip out and bring up our four hundred lances of Kernsberg." "Like enough," said Werner shortly. "I, for one, set no bounds to any woman's likings or mislikings!" "We must get her away to a place of safety," said the young man. Von Orseln laughed. "Get her? Who would persuade or compel our lady? Whither would she go? Would she be safer there than here? Would the Courtlander not find out in twenty-four hours that there was no Joan of the Sword Hand in Kernsberg, and follow on her trail? And lastly--question most pertinent of all--what had you to drink down there in hall, young fellow?" The Sparhawk did not notice the last question, nor did he reply in a similarly jeering tone. "We must persuade her--capture her, compel her, if necessary. Kernsberg cannot for long hold out against both the Muscovite and the Courtlander. Save good Jorian and Boris, who will lie manfully about their fighting, there is no help for us in mortal man. So this is what we must do to save our lady!" "What? Capture Joan of the Sword Hand and carry her off? The mead buzzes in the boy's head. He grows dotty with anxiety and too much hard ale. 'Ware, Maurice--these battlements are not over high. I will relieve you, lad! Go to bed and sleep it off!" "Von Orseln," said the youth, with simple earnestness, not heeding his taunts, "I have thought deeply. I see no way out of it but this. Our lady will eagerly go on reconnaissance if you represent it as necessary. You must take ten good men and ride north, far north, even to the edges of the Baltic, to a place I know of, which none but I and one other can find. There, with a few trusty fellows to guard her, she will be safe till the push of the times is over." The chief captain was silent. He had wholly dropped his jeering mood. "There is nothing else that I can see for it," the young Dane went on, finding that Werner did not speak. "Our Joan will never go to Courtland alive. She will not be carried off on Prince Louis' saddle-bow, as a Cossack might carry off a Circassian slave!" "But how," said Von Orseln, meditating, "will you prevent her absence being known? The passage of so large a party may easily be traced and remembered. Though our folk are true enough and loyal enough, sooner or later what is known in the Castle is known in the town, and what is known in the town becomes known to the enemy!" Maurice von Lynar leaned forward towards his chief captain and whispered a few words in his ear. "Ah!" he said, and nodded. Then, after a pause for thought, he added, "That is none so ill thought on for a beardless younker! I will think it over, sleep on it, and tell you my opinion to-morrow!" The youth tramped to and fro on the terrace, muttering to himself. "Good-night, Sparhawk!" said Von Orseln, from the top of the corkscrew stair, as he prepared to descend; "go to bed. I will send Alt Pikker to command the house-guard to-night. Do you get straightway between the sheets as soon as maybe. If this mad scheme comes off you will need your beauty-sleep with a vengeance! So take it now!" "At any rate," the chief captain growled to himself, "you have set a pretty part for me. I may forthwith order my shroud. I shall never be able to face my lady again!" CHAPTER XX THE CHIEF CAPTAIN'S TREACHERY The Duchess Joan was in high spirits. It had been judged necessary, in consultation with her chief officers, to ride a reconnaissance in person in order to ascertain whether the advancing enemy had cut Kernsberg off towards the north. On this matter Von Orseln thought that her Highness had better judge for herself. Here at last was something definite to be done. It was almost like the old foraying days, but now in a more desperate cause. Ten days before, Joan's maidens and her aged nurse had been sent for safety into Plassenburg, under escort of Captains Boris and Jorian as far as the frontier--who had, however, returned in time to accompany the party of observation on their ride northward. No one in all Castle Kernsberg was to know of the departure of this cavalcade. Shortly before midnight the horses were to be ready under the Castle wall. The Sparhawk was appointed to command the town during Von Orseln's absence. Ten men only were to go, and these picked and sifted riders--chosen because of their powers of silence--and because, being unmarried, they had no wives to worm secrets out of them. Sweethearts they might have, but then, in Kernsberg at least, that is a very different thing. Finally, having written to their princely master in Plassenburg, that they were leaving on account of the war--in which, as envoys extraordinary, they did not desire to be further mixed up--Captains Boris and Jorian made them ready to accompany the reconnaissance. It proved to be a dark and desperate night of storm and rain. The stars were ever and anon concealed by the thick pall of cloud which the wind from the south drove hurtling athwart them. Joan herself was in the highest spirits. She wore a long blue cloak, which completely concealed the firmly knit slender figure, clad in forester's dress, from prying eyes. As for Werner von Orseln, that high captain was calm and grave as usual, but the rest of the ten men were plainly nervous, as they fingered their bridle-reins and avoided looking at each other while they waited in readiness to mount. With a clatter of hoofs they were off, none in the Castle knowing more than that Werner the chief captain rode out on his occasions. A townsman or two huddled closer among his blankets as the clatter and jingle of the horses mingled with the sharp volleying of the rain upon his wind-beaten lattice, while the long _whoo_ of the wind sang of troublous times in the twisted chimneys overhead. Joan, as the historian has already said, was in high spirits. "Werner," she cried, as soon as they were clear of the town, "if we strike the enemy to-night, I declare we will draw sword and ride through them." "_If_ we strike them to-night, right so, my lady!" returned Werner promptly. But he had the best of reasons for knowing that they would not strike any enemy that night. His last spy from the north had arrived not half an hour before they started, having ridden completely round the enemy's host. Joan and her chief captain rode on ahead, Von Orseln glancing keenly about him, and Joan riding free and careless, as in the old days when she overpassed the hills to drive a prey from the lands of her father's enemies. It was grey morning when they came to a goatherd's hut at the top of the green valley. Already they had passed the bounds of Hohenstein by half a dozen miles. The goatherd had led his light-skipping train to the hills for the day, and the rude and chaotic remains of his breakfast were still on the table. Boris and Jorian cleared these away, and, with the trained alacrity of seasoned men-at-arms, they placed before the party a breakfast prepared with speed out of what they had brought with them and those things which they had found to their hand by foraging in the larder of the goatherd--to wit, sliced neat's-tongue dried in the smoke, and bread of fine wheat which Jorian had carried all the way in a net at his saddle-bow. Boris had charge of the wine-skins, and upon a shelf above the door they found a great butter-pot full of freshly made curded goats' milk, very delicious both to taste and smell. Of these things they ate and drank largely, Joan and Von Orseln being together at the upper end of the table. Boris and Jorian had to sit with them, though much against their wills, being (spite of their sweethearts) more accustomed to the company of honest men-at-arms than to the practice of dainty eating in ladies' society. Joan undertook to rally them upon their loves, for whose fair fingers, as it has been related in an earlier chapter, she had given them rings. "And how took your Katrin the ring, Boris?" she said, looking at him past the side of her glass. For Jorian had bethought him to bring one for the Duchess, the which he cleansed and cooled at the spring without. As for the others, they all drank out of one wooden whey-cog, as was most fitting. "Why, she took it rarely," said honest Boris, "and swore to love me more than ever for it. We are to be married upon my first return to Plassenburg." "Which, perhaps, is the reason why you are in no hurry to return thither, seeing that you stopped short at the frontier last week?" said the Duchess shrewdly. "Nay, my lady, that grieved me sore--for, indeed, we love each other dearly, Katrin and I," persisted Captain Boris, thinking, as was his custom, to lie himself out of it by dint of the mere avoirdupois of asseveration. "That is the greater marvel," returned the lady, smiling upon him, "because when last I spoke with you concerning the matter, her name was not Katrin, but Gretchen!" Boris was silent, as well he might be, for even as he lied he had had some lurking suspicion of this himself. He felt that he could hope to get no further by this avenue. The lady now turned to Jorian, who, having digested the defeat and shame of Boris, was ready to be very indignant at his companion for having claimed his sweetheart. "And you, Captain Jorian," she said, "how went it with you? Was your ring well received?" "Aye, marry," said that gallant captain, "better than well. Much better! Never did I see woman so grateful. Katrin, whom this long, wire-drawn, splenetic fool hath lyingly claimed as his (by some trick of tongue born of his carrying the malmsey at his saddle-bow)--Katrin, I say, did kiss and clip me so that my very soul fainted within me. She could not make enough of the giver of such a precious thing as your Highness's ring?" Jorian in his own estimation was doing very well. He thought he could yet better it. "Her eyes sparkled with joy. Her hands twitched--she could not keep them from turning the pretty jewel about upon her finger. She swore never to part with it while life lasted----" "Then," said Joan, smiling, "have no more to do with her. She is a false wench and mansworn. For do not I see it upon the little finger of your left hand at this moment? Nay, do not turn the stone within. I know my gift, and will own it even if your Katrin (was it not?) hath despised it. What say you now to that, Jorian?" "My lady," faltered Jorian, striving manfully to recover himself, "when I came again in the honourable guise of an ambassador to Kernsberg, Katrin gave it back again to me, saying, 'You have no signet ring. Take this, so that you be not ashamed among those others. Keep it for me. I myself will place it on your finger with a loving kiss.'" "Well done, Captain Jorian, you are a somewhat better liar than your friend. But still your excuses should accord better. The ring I gave you is not a signet ring. That Katrin of yours must have been ignorant indeed." With these words Joan of the Sword Hand rose to her feet, for the ex-men-at-arms had not so much as a word to say. "Let us now mount and ride homeward," she said; "there are no enemy to be found on this northerly road. We shall be more fortunate upon another occasion." Then Werner Von Orseln nerved himself for a battle more serious than any he had ever fought at the elbow of Henry the Lion of Hohenstein. "My lady," he said, standing up and bowing gravely before her, "you see here eleven men who love you far above their lives, of whom I am the chief. Two others also there are, who, though not of our nation, are in heart joined to us, especially in this thing that we have done. With all respect, your Highness cannot go back. We have come out, not to make a reconnaissance, but to put your Grace in a place of safety till the storm blows over." The Duchess had slowly risen to her feet, with her hand on the sword which swung at her belt. "You have suddenly gone mad, Werner!" she said; "let us have no more of this. I bid you mount and ride. Back to Kernsberg, I say! Ye are not such fools and traitors as to deliver the maiden castle, the Eagle's Nest of Hohenstein, into the hands of our enemies?" "Nay," said Von Orseln, looking steadily upon the ground, "that will we not do. Kernsberg is in good hands, and will fight bravely. But we cannot hold out with our few folk and scanty provender against the leaguer of thirty thousand. Nevertheless we will not permit you to sacrifice yourself for our sakes or for the sake of the women and children of the city." Joan drew her sword. "Werner von Orseln, will you obey me, or must I slay you with my hand?" she cried. The chief captain yet further bowed his head and abased his eyes. "We have thought also of this," he made answer. "Me you may kill, but these that are with me will defend themselves, though they will not strike one they love more than their lives. But man by man we have sworn to do this thing. At all hazards you must abide in our hands till the danger is overpast. For me (this he added in a deeper tone), I am your immediate officer. There is none to come between us. It is your right to slay me if you will. Mine is the responsibility for this deed, though the design was not mine. Here is my sword. Slay your chief captain with it if you will. He has faithfully served your house for five-and-thirty years. 'Tis perhaps time he rested now." And with these words Werner von Orseln took his sword by the point and offered the hilt to his mistress. Joan of the Sword Hand shook with mingled passion and helplessness, and her eyes were dark and troublous. "Put up your blade," she said, striking aside the hilt with her hand; "if you have not deserved death, no more have I deserved this! But you said that the design was not yours. Who, then, has dared to plot against the liberty of Joan of Hohenstein?" "I would I could claim the honour," said Werner the chief captain; "but truly the matter came from Maurice von Lynar the Dane. It is to his mother, who after the death of her brother, the Count von Lynar, continued to dwell in a secret strength on the Baltic shore, that we are conducting your Grace!" "Maurice von Lynar?" exclaimed Joan, astonished. "He remains in Castle Kernsberg, then?" "Aye," said Werner, relieved by her tone, "he will take your place when danger comes. In morning twilight or at dusk he makes none so ill a Lady Duchess, and, i' faith, his 'sword hand' is brisk enough. If the town be taken, better that he than you be found in Castle Kernsberg. Is the thing not well invented, my lady?" Werner looked up hopefully. He thought he had pleaded his cause well. "Traitor! Supplanter!" cried Joan indignantly; "this Dane in my place! I will hang him from the highest window in the Castle of Kernsberg if ever I win back to mine own again!" "My lady," said Werner, gently and respectfully, "your servant Von Lynar bade me tell you that he would as faithfully and loyally take your place now as he did on a former occasion!" "Ah," said Joan, smiling wanly with a quick change of mood, "I hope he will be more ready to give up his privileges on this occasion than on that!" She was thinking of the Princess Margaret and the heritage of trouble upon which, as the Count von Löen, she had caused the Sparhawk to enter. Then a new thought seemed to strike her. "But my nurse and my women--how can he keep the imposture secret? He may pass before the stupid eyes of men. But they----" "If your Highness will recollect, they have been sent out of harm's way into Plassenburg. There is not a woman born of woman in all the Castle of Kernsberg!" "Yes," mused Joan, "I have indeed been fairly cozened. I gave that order also by the Dane's advice. Well, let him have his run. We will reeve him a firm collar of hemp at the end of it, and maybe for Werner von Orseln also, as a traitor alike to his bread and his mistress. Till then I hope you will both enjoy playing your parts." The chief captain bowed. "I am content, my lady," he said respectfully. "Now, good jailers all," cried Joan, "lead on. I will follow. Or would you prefer to carry me with you handcuffed and chained? I will go with you in whatsoever fashion seemeth good to my masters!" She paused and looked round the little goatherd's hut. "Only," she said, nodding her head, "I warn you I will take my own time and manner of coming back!" There was a deep silence as the men drew their belts tighter and prepared to mount and depart. "About that time, Jorian," whispered Boris as they went out, "you and I will be better in Plassenburg than within the bounds of Kernsberg--for our health's sake and our sweethearts', that is!" "Good!" said Jorian, dropping the bars of his visor; "but for all that she is a glorious wench, and looks her bravest when she is angry!" CHAPTER XXI ISLE RUGEN They had travelled for six hours through high arched pines, their fallen needles making a carpet green and springy underfoot. Then succeeded oaks, stricken a little at top with the frosts of years. Alternating with these came marshy tracts where alder and white birch gleamed from the banks of shallow runnels and the margins of black peaty lakes. Anon the broom and the gorse began to flourish sparsely above wide sand-hills, heaved this way and that like the waves of a mountainous sea. The party was approaching that no-man's-land which stretches for upwards of a hundred miles along the southern shores of the Baltic. It is a land of vast brackish backwaters connected with the outer sea by devious channels often half silted up, but still feeling the pulse of the outer green water in the winds which blow over the sandy "bills," bars, and spits, and bring with them sweet scents of heather and wild thyme, and, most of all, of the southernwood which grows wild on the scantily pastured braes. It was at that time a beautiful but lonely country--the 'batable land of half a dozen princedoms, its only inhabitant a stray hunter setting up his gipsy booth of wattled boughs, heaping with stones a rude fireplace, or fixing a tripod over it whereon a pottinger was presently a-swing, in some sunny curve of the shore. At eventide of the third day of their journeying the party came to a great morass. Black decaying trunks of trees stood up at various angles, often bristling with dead branches like _chevaux-de-frise_. The horses picked their path warily through this tangle, the rotten sticks yielding as readily and silently as wet mud beneath their hoofs. Finally all dismounted except Joan, while Werner von Orseln, with a rough map in his hand, traced out the way. Pools of stagnant black water had to be evaded, treacherous yellow sands tested, bridges constructed of the firmer logs, till all suddenly they came out upon a fairylike little half-moon of sand and tiny shells. Here was a large flat-bottomed boat, drawn up against the shore. In the stern a strange figure was seated, a man, tall and angular, clad in jerkin and trunks of brown tanned leather, cross-gartered hose of grey cloth, and home-made shoon of hide with the hair outside. He wore a black skull cap, and his head had the strange, uncanny look of a wild animal. It was not at the first glance nor yet at the second that Boris and Jorian found out the cause of this curious appearance. Meanwhile Werner von Orseln was putting into his hand some pledge or sign which he scrutinised carefully, when Jorian suddenly gripped his companion's arm. "Look," he whispered, "he's got no ears!" "Nor any tongue!" responded Boris, staring with all his eyes at the prodigy. And, indeed, the strange man was pointing to his mouth with the index finger of his right hand and signing that they were to follow him into the boat which had been waiting for them. Joan of the Sword Hand had never spoken since she knew that her men were taking her to a place of safety. Nor did her face show any trace of emotion now that Werner von Orseln, approaching cap in hand, humbly begged her to permit him to conduct her to the boat. But the Duchess leapt from her horse, and without accepting his hand she stepped from the little pier of stone beside which the boat lay. Then walking firmly from seat to seat she reached the stern, where she sat down without seeming to have glanced at any of the company. Werner von Orseln then motioned Captains Boris and Jorian to take their places in the bow, and having bared his head he seated himself beside his mistress. The wordless earless man took the oars and pushed off. The boat slid over a little belt of still water through a wilderness of tall reeds. Then all suddenly the wavelets lapped crisp and clean beneath her bottom, and the wide levels of a lake opened out before them. The ten men left on the shore set about building a fire and making shelters of brushwood, as if they expected to stay here some time. The tiny harbour was fenced in on every side with an unbroken wall of lofty green pines. The lower part of their trunks shot up tall and straight and opened long vistas into the black depths of the forest. The sun was setting and threw slant rays far underneath, touching with gold the rank marish growths, and reddening the mouldering boles of the fallen pines. The boat passed almost noiselessly along, the strange man rowing strongly and the boat drawing steadily away across the widest part of the still inland sea. As they thus coasted along the gloomy shores the sun went down and darkness came upon them at a bound. Then at the far end of the long tunnel, which an hour agone had been sunny glades, they saw strange flickering lights dancing and vanishing, waving and leaping upward--will-o'-the-wisps kindled doubtless from the stagnant boglands and the rotting vegetation of that ancient northern forest. The breeze freshened. The water clappered louder under the boat's quarter. Breaths born of the wide sea unfiltered through forest dankness visited more keenly the nostrils of the voyagers. They heard ahead of them the distant roar of breakers. Now and then there came a long and gradual roll underneath their quarter, quite distinct from the little chopping waves of the fresh-water _haff_, as the surface of the mere heaved itself in a great slope of water upon which the boat swung sideways. After a space tall trees again shot up overhead, and with a quick turn the boat passed between walls of trembling reeds that rustled against the oars like silk, emerged on a black circle of water, and then, gliding smoothly forward, took ground in the blank dark. As the broad keel grated on the sand, the Wordless Man leapt out, and, standing on the shore, put his hands to his mouth and emitted a long shout like a blast blown on a conch shell. Again and again that melancholy ululation, with never a consonantal sound to break it, went forth into the night. Yet it was so modulated that it had obviously a meaning for some one, and to put the matter beyond a doubt it was answered by three shrill whistles from behind the rampart of trees. Joan sat still in the boat where she had placed herself. She asked no question, and even these strange experiences did not alter her resolution. Presently a light gleamed uncertainly through the trees, now lost behind brushwood and again breaking waveringly out. A tall figure moved forward with a step quick and firm. It was that of a woman who carried a swinging lantern in her hand, from which wheeling lights gleamed through a score of variously coloured little plates of horn. She wore about her shoulders a great crimson cloak which masked her shape. A hood of the same material, attached at the back of the neck to the cloak, concealed her head and dropped about her face, partially hiding her features. Standing still on a little wooden pier she held the lantern high, so that the light fell directly on those in the boat, and their faces looked strangely white in that illumined circle, surrounded as it was by a pent-house of tense blackness--black pines, black water, black sky. "Follow me!" said the woman, in a deep rich voice--a voice whose tones thrilled those who heard them to their hearts, so full and low were some of the notes. Joan of the Sword Hand rose to her feet. "I am the Duchess of Hohenstein, and I do not leave this boat till I know in what place I am, and who this may be that cries 'Follow!' to the daughter of Henry the Lion!" The tall woman turned without bowing and looked at the girl. "I am the mother of Maurice von Lynar, and this is the Isle Rugen!" she said simply, as if the answer were all sufficient. CHAPTER XXII THE HOUSE ON THE DUNES The woman in the crimson cloak waited for Joan to be assisted from the boat, and then, without a word of greeting, led the way up a little sanded path to a gate which opened in a high stone wall. Through this she admitted her guests, whereupon they found themselves in an enclosure with towers and battlements rising dimly all round. It was planted with fragrant bushes and fruit trees whose leaves brushed pleasantly against their faces as they walked in single file following their guide. Then came a long grey building, another door, small and creaking heavily on unaccustomed hinges, a sudden burst of light, and lo! the wanderers found themselves within a lighted hall, wherein were many stands of arms and armour, mingled with skins of wild animals, wide-spreading many-tined antlers, and other records of the chase. The woman who had been their guide now set down her lantern and allowed the hood of her cloak to slide from her head. Werner and his two male companions the captains of Plassenburg, fell back a little at the apparition. They had expected to see some hag or crone, fit companion of their wordless guide. Instead, a woman stood before them, not girlish certainly, nor yet in the first bloom of her youth, but glorious even among fair women by reason of the very ripeness of her beauty. Her hair shone full auburn with shadows of heavy burnt-gold upon its coils. It clustered about the broad low brow in a few simple locks, then, sweeping back round her head in loose natural waves, it was caught in a broad flat coil at the back, giving a certain statuesque and classic dignity to her head. The mother of that young paladin, their Sparhawk? It seemed impossible. This woman was too youthful, too fair, too bountiful in her gracious beauty to be the mother of such a tense young yew-bow as Maurice von Lynar. Yet she had said it, and women do not lie (affirmatively) about such a matter. So, indeed, at heart thought Werner von Orseln. "My lady Joan," she said, in the same thrilling voice, "my son has sent me word that till a certain great danger is overpast you are to abide with me here on the Isle Rugen. I live alone, save for this one man, dumb Max Ulrich, long since cruelly maimed at the hands of his enemies. I can offer you no suite of attendants beyond those you bring with you. Our safety depends on the secrecy of our abode, as for many years my own life has done. I ask you, therefore, to respect our privacy, as also to impose the same upon your soldiers." The Duchess Joan bowed slightly. "As you doubtless know, I have not come hither of my own free will," she answered haughtily; "but I thank you, madam, for your hospitality. Rest assured that the amenity of your dwelling shall not be endangered by me!" The two looked at each other with that unyielding "at-arm's-length" eyeshot which signifies instinctive antipathy between women of strong wills. Then with a large gesture the elder indicated the way up the broad staircase, and throwing her own cloak completely off she caught it across her arm as it dropped, and so followed Joan out of sight. Werner von Orseln stood looking after them a little bewildered. But the more experienced Boris and Jorian exchanged significant glances with each other. Then Boris shook his head at Jorian, and Jorian shook his head at Boris. And for once they did not designate the outlook by their favourite adjective. * * * * * Nevertheless, instinct was so strong that, as soon as the women had withdrawn themselves upstairs, the three captains seized the lantern and started towards the door to make the round of the defences. The Wordless Man accompanied them unasked. The square enclosure in which they found themselves seemed liker an old fortified farmhouse or grange than a regular castle, though the walls were thick as those of any fortress, being loopholed for musketry, and (in those days of bombards few and heavy) capable of standing a siege in good earnest against a small army. The doors were of thick oak crossed in all directions with strengthening iron. The three captains examined every barred window with keen professional curiosity, and, coming to another staircase in a distant part of the house, Von Orseln intimated to the dumb man that they wished to examine it. In rapid pantomime he indicated to them that there was an ascending flight of steps leading round and round a tower till a platform was reached, from which (gazing out under his hand and making with his finger the shape of battlements) he gave them to understand that an extensive prospect was to be enjoyed. With an inward resolve to ascend that stair and look upon that prospect at an early hour on the morrow, the three captains returned through the hall into a long dining-room vaulted above with beams of solid oak. Curtains were drawn close all about the walls. In the recesses were many stands of arms of good and recent construction, and opening a cupboard with the freedom of a man-at-arms, Boris saw ramrods, powder and shot horns arranged in order, as neatly as though he had done it himself, than which no better could be said. In a little while the sound of footsteps descending the nearer staircase was heard. The Wordless Man moved to the door and held it open as Joan came in with a proud high look on her face. She was still pale, partly with travel and partly from the seething indignant angers of her heart. Von Lynar's mother entered immediately after her guest, and it needed nothing more subtle than Werner von Orseln's masculine acumen to discern that no word had been spoken between them while they were alone. With a queenly gesture the hostess motioned her guest to the place of honour at her right hand, and indicated that the three soldiers were to take their places at the other side of the table. Werner von Orseln moved automatically to obey, but Jorian and Boris were already at the sideboard, dusting platters and making them ready to serve the meal. "I thank you, madam," said Jorian. "Were we here as envoys of our master, Prince Hugo of Plassenburg, we would gladly and proudly sit at meat with you. But we are volunteers, and have all our lives been men-at-arms. We will therefore assist this good gentleman to serve, an it please you to permit us!" The lady bowed slightly and for the first time smiled. "You have, then, accompanied the Lady Duchess hither for pleasure, gentlemen? I fear Isle Rugen is a poor place for that!" she said, looking across at them. "Aye and no!" said Jorian; "Kernsberg is, indeed, no fit dwelling-place for great ladies just now. The Duchess Joan will indeed be safer here than elsewhere till the Muscovites have gone home, and the hill-folk of Hohenstein have only the Courtlanders to deal with. All the same, we could have wished to have been permitted to speak with the Muscovite in the gate!" "My son remains in Castle Kernsberg?" she asked, with an upward inflection, an indescribable softness at the same time overspreading her face, and a warmth coming into the grey eyes which showed what this woman might be to those whom she really loved. "He keeps the Castle, indeed--in his mistress's absence and mine," said Werner. "He will make a good soldier. Our lady has already made him Count von Löen, that he may be the equal of those who care for such titles." A strange flash as of remembrance and emotion passed over the face of their hostess. "And your own title, my lord?" she asked after a little pause. "I am plain Werner von Orseln, free ritter and faithful servant of my mistress the Duchess Joan, as I was also of her father, Henry the Lion of Hohenstein!" He bowed as he spoke and continued, "I do not love titles, and, indeed, they would be wasted on an ancient grizzle-pate like me. But your son is young, and deserves this fortune, madam. He will doubtless do great honour to my lady's favour." The eyes of the elder lady turned inquiringly to those of Joan. "I have now no faithful servants," said the young Duchess at last, breaking her cold silence; "I have only traitors and jailers about me." With that she became once more silent. A painful restraint fell upon the three who sat at table, and though their hostess and Werner von Orseln partook of the fish and brawn and fruit which their three servitors set before them in silver platters, it was but sparingly and without appetite. All were glad when the meal was over and they could rise from the table. As soon as possible Boris and Jorian got outside into the long passage which led to the kitchen. "Ha!" cried Boris, "I declare I would have burst if I had stayed in there another quarter hour! It was solemn as serving Karl the Great and his longbeards in their cellar under the Hartz. I wonder if they are going to keep it up all the time after this fashion!" "And this is pleasure," rejoined Jorian gloomily; "not even a good rousing fight on the way. And then--why, prayers for the dead are cheerful as dance-gardens in July to that festal board. Good Lord! give me the Lady Ysolinde and the gnomes we fought so long ago at Erdberg. This stiff sword-handed Joan of theirs freezes a man's internals like Baltic ice." "Jorian," said Boris, solemnly lowering his voice to a whisper, "if that Courtland fellow had known what we know, he would have been none so eager to get her home to bed and board!" "Ice will melt--even Baltic ice!" said Jorian sententiously. "Yes, but greybeard Louis of Courtland is not the man to do the melting!" retorted Boris. "But I know who could!" said Jorian, nodding his head with an air of immense sagacity. Boris went on cutting brawn upon a wooden platter with a swift and careful hand. The old servitor moved noiselessly about behind them, with feet that made no more noise than those of a cat walking on velvet. "Who?" said Boris, shortly. The door of the kitchen opened slightly and the tall woman stood a moment with the latch in her hand, ready to enter. "Our Sparhawk could melt the Baltic ice!" said Jorian, and winked at Boris with his left eye in a sly manner. Whereupon Boris dropped his knife and, seizing Jorian by the shoulders, he thrust him down upon a broad stool. Then he dragged the platter of brawn before him and dumped the mustard pot beside it upon the deal table with a resounding clap. "There!" he cried, "fill your silly mouth with that, Fatsides! 'Tis all you are good for. I have stood a deal of fine larded ignorance from you in my time, but nothing like this. You will be saying next that my Lady Duchess is taking a fancy to you!" "She might do worse!" said Jorian philosophically, as he stirred the mustard with his knife and looked about for the ale tankard. CHAPTER XXIII THE FACE THAT LOOKED INTO JOAN'S The chamber to which the Duchess Joan was conducted by her hostess had evidently been carefully prepared for her reception. It was a large low room, with a vaulted roof of carven wood. The work was of great merit and evidently old. The devices upon it were mostly coats-of-arms, which originally had been gilded and painted in heraldic colours, though neglect through long generations had tarnished the gold leaf and caused the colours to peel off in places. Here and there, however, were shields of more recent design, but in every case the motto and scutcheon of these had been defaced. At both ends of the room were windows, through whose stained glass Joan peered without result into blank darkness. Then she opened a little square of panes just large enough to put her head through and saw a walk of lofty poplars silhouetted against the sky, dark towers of leaves all a-rustle and a-shiver from the zenith to the ground, as a moaning and sobbing wind drew inward and whispered to them of the coming storm. Then Joan shut the window and looked about her. A table with a little _prie-Dieu_ stood in the corner, screened by a curtain which ran on a brazen rod. A Roman Breviary lay open on a velvet-covered table before the crucifix. Joan lifted it up and her eyes fell on the words: "_By a woman he overcame. By a woman he was overcome. A woman was once his weapon. A woman is now become the instrument of his defeat. He findeth that the weak vessel cannot be broken._" "Nor shall it!" said Joan, looking at the cross before her; "by the strength of Mary the Mother, the weak vessel shall not be broken!" She turned her about and examined with interest the rest of the room which for many days was to be her own. The bed was low and wide, with sheets of fine linen folded back, and over all a richly embroidered coverlet. At the further end of the chamber was a fireplace, with a projecting hood of enamelled brick, looking fresh and new amid so much that was centuries old. Oaken panels covered the walls, opening mostly into deep cupboards. The girl tried one or two of these. They proved to be unlocked and were filled with ancient parchments, giving forth a faintly aromatic smell, but without a particle of dust upon their leaves. The cleanliness of everything within the chamber had been scrupulously attended to. For a full hour Joan walked the chamber with her hands clasped behind her back, thinking how she was to return to her well-beloved Kernsberg. Her pride was slowly abating, and with it her anger against those faithful servants who had risked her favour to convey her beyond the reach of danger. But none the less she was resolved to go back. This conflict must not take place without her. If Kernsberg were captured, and Maurice von Lynar found personating his mistress, he would surely be put to death. If he fell into Muscovite hands that death would be by torture. At all hazards she would return. And to this problem she turned her thoughts, knitting her brows and working her fingers nervously through each other. She had it. There was a way. She would wait till the morrow and in the meantime--sleep. As she stooped to blow out the last candle, a motto on the stem caught her eye. It ran round the massive silver base of the candelabra in the thick Gothic characters of a hundred years before. Joan took the candle out of its socket and read the inscription word by word-- "DA PACEM, DOMINE, IN DIEBUS NOSTRIS." It was her own scroll, the motto of the reigning dukes of Hohenstein--a strange one, doubtless, to be that of a fighting race, but, nevertheless, her father's and her own. Joan held the candle in her hand a long time, looking at it, heedless of the wax that dripped on the floor. What did her father's motto, the device of her house, upon this Baltic island, far from the highlands of Kernsberg? Had these wastes once belonged to men of her race? And this woman, who so regally played the mistress of this strange heritage, who was she? And what was the secret of the residence of one in this wilderness who, by her manner, might in her time have queened it in royal courts? And as Joan of Hohenstein blew out the candle she mused in her heart concerning these things. * * * * * The Duchess Joan slept soundly, her dark boyish head pillowed on the full rounded curves of an arm thrown behind her. On the little velvet-covered table beside the bed lay her belt and its dependent sword, a faithful companion in its sheath of plain black leather. Under the pillow, and within instant reach of her right hand, was her father's dagger. With it, they said, Henry the Lion had more than once removed an enemy who stood in his way, or more honourably given the _coup de grâce_ to a would-be assassin. Without, the mood of the night had changed. The sky, which had hitherto been of favourable aspect, save for the green light in the north as they rowed across the waters of the Haff, was now overflowed by thin wisps of cloud tacking up against the wind. Towards the sea a steely blue smother had settled down along the horizon, while the thunder growled nearer like a roll of drums beaten continuously. The wind, however, was not regular, but came in little puffs and bursts, now warm, now cold, from every point of the compass. But still Joan slept on, being tired with her journey. In their chamber in the wing which looks towards the north the three captains lay wrapped in their several mantles, Jorian and Boris answering each other nasally, in alternate trumpet blasts, like Alp calling to Alp. Werner von Orseln alone could not sleep, and after he had sworn and kicked his noisy companions in the ribs till he was weary of the task, he rose and went to the window to cast open the lattice. The air within felt thick and hot. He fumbled long at the catch, and in the unwholesome silence of the strange house the chief captain seemed to hear muffled feet going to and fro on the floor above him. But of this he thought little. For strange places were familiar to him, and any sense of danger made but an added spice in his cup of life. At last he worried the catch loose, the lattice pane fell sagging inwards on its double hinge of skin. As Werner set his face to the opening quick flashes of summer lightning flamed alternately white and lilac across the horizon, and he felt the keen spit of hailstones in his face, driving level like so many musket balls when the infantry fires by platoons. * * * * * Above, in the vaulted chamber, Joan turned over on her bed, murmuring uneasily in her sleep. A white face, which for a quarter of an hour had been bent down to her dark head as it lay on the pillow, was suddenly retracted into the blackness at the girl's slight movement. Again, apparently reassured, the shadowy visage approached as the young Duchess lay without further motion. Without the storm broke in a burst of appalling fury. The pale blue forks of the lightning flamed just outside the casement in flash on continuous flash. The thunder shook the house like an earthquake. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Joan's eyes opened, and she found herself looking with bewilderment into a face that bent down upon her, a white face which somehow seemed to hang suspended in the dark above her. The features were lit up by the pulsing lightning which shone in the wild eyes and glittered on a knife-blade about the handle of which were clenched the tense white fingers of a hand equally detached. A quick icy thrill chilled the girl's marrow, darting like a spear through her body. But Joan of Hohenstein was the true seed of Henry the Lion. In a moment her right hand had grasped the sword beside her pillow. Her left, shooting upward, closed on the arm which held the threatening steel. At the same time she flung herself forward, and with the roaring turmoils of the storm dinning in her ears she grappled something that withstood her in the interspace of darkness that had followed the flashes. Joan's spring had been that of the couchant young wild cat. Almost without rising from her bed she had projected herself upon her enemy. Her left hand grasped the wrist so tightly that the blade fell to the ground, whereupon Joan of the Sword Hand shifted her grasp upwards fiercely till she felt her fingers sink deep in the soft curves of a woman's throat. Then a shriek, long and terrible, inhuman and threatening, rang through the house. A light began to burn yellow and steady through the cracks of the chamber door, not pulsing and blue like the lightning without. Presently, as Joan overbore her assailant upon the floor, the door opened, and glancing upwards she saw the Wordless Man stand on the threshold, a candle in one hand and a naked sword in the other. The terrible cry which had rung in her ears had been his. At sight of him Joan unclasped her fingers from the throat of the woman and rose slowly to her feet. The old man rushed forward and knelt beside the prostrate body of his mistress. At the same moment there came the sound of quick footsteps running up the stairway. The door flew open and Werner von Orseln burst in, also sword in hand. "What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who has dared to harm my lady?" Joan did not answer, but remained standing tall and straight by the hooded mantel of the fireplace. As was her custom, before lying down she had clad herself in a loose gown of white silk which on all her journeys she carried in a roll at her saddle-bow. She pointed to the mother of Maurice von Lynar, who lay on the floor, still unconscious, with the dumb man kneeling over her, chafing her hands and murmuring unintelligible tendernesses, like a mother crooning over a sick child. But the face of the chief captain grew stern and terrible as he saw on the floor a knife of curious design. He stooped and lifted it. It was a Danish _tolle knife_, the edge a little curved outward and keen as a razor. CHAPTER XXIV THE SECRET OF THERESA VON LYNAR "Go down and bring a cup of wine!" commanded Joan as soon as he appeared. And Werner von Orseln, having glanced once at his mistress where she stood with the point of her sword to the ground and her elbow on the corner of the mantel, turned on his heel and departed without a word to do her bidding. Meanwhile the Wordless Man had raised his mistress up from the ground. Her eyes slowly opened and began to wander vaguely round the room, taking in the objects one by one. When they fell on Joan, standing erect by the fireplace, a spasm seemed to pass across her face and she strove fiercely but ineffectually to rise. "Carry your mistress to that couch!" said the young Duchess, pointing to the tumbled bed from which a few minutes before she had so hastily launched herself. The dumb man understood either the words or the significant action of Joan's hand, for he stooped and lifted Von Lynar's mother in his arms. Whilst he was thus engaged Werner came in quickly with a silver cup in his hand. Joan took it instantly and going forward she put it to the lips of the woman on the bed. Her hair had escaped from its gathered coils and now flowed in luxuriant masses of red-gold over her shoulders and showered itself on either side of the pillow before falling in a shining cataract to the floor. Putting out her hands the woman took the cup and drank of it slowly, pausing between the draughts to draw long breaths. "I must have strength," she said. "I have much to say. Then, Joan of Hohenstein, yourself shall judge between thee and me!" The fluttering of the lightning at the window seemed to disturb her, for as Joan bowed her assent slightly and sternly, the tall woman kept looking towards the lattice as if the pulsing flame fretted her. Joan moved her hand slightly without taking her eyes away, and the chief captain, used to such silent orders from his mistress, strode over to the window and pulled the curtains close. The storm had by this time subsided to a rumble, and only round the edges of the arras could a faint occasional glow be seen, telling of the turmoil without. But a certain faint tremulousness pervaded all the house, which was the Baltic thundering on the pebbly beaches and shaking the walls to their sandy foundations. The colour came slowly back to the woman's pale face, and, after a little, she raised herself on the pillows. Joan stood motionless and uncompromising by the great iron dogs of the chimney. "You are waiting for me to speak, and I will speak," said the woman. "You have a double right to know all. Shall it be told to yourself alone or in the presence of this man?" She looked at Von Orseln as she spoke. "I have no secrets in my life," said Joan; "there is nothing that I would hide from him. _Save one thing!_" She added the last words in her heart. "I warn you that the matter concerns yourself very closely," answered the woman somewhat urgently. "Werner von Orseln is my chief captain!" answered Joan. "It concerns also your father's honour!" "He was my father's chief captain before he was mine, and had charge of his honour on twenty fields." Gratefully and silently Von Orseln lifted his mistress's hand to his lips. The tall woman on the bed smiled faintly. "It is well that your Highness is so happy in her servants. I also have one who can hold his peace." She pointed to the Wordless Man, who now stood with the candelabra in his hand, mute and immutable by his mistress's bedhead, as if watching that none should do her harm. There was an interval of silence in the room, filled up by the hoarse persistent booming of the storm without and the shuddering shocks of the wind on the lonely house. Then the woman spoke again in a low, distinct voice. "Since it is your right to know my name, I am Theresa von Lynar--who have also a right to call myself 'of Hohenstein'--and your dead father's widow!" In an instant the reserve of Joan's sternly equal mind was broken up. She dropped her sword clattering on the floor and started angrily forward towards the bed. "It is a lie most foul," she cried; "my father lived unwed for many years--nay, ever since my mother's death, who died in giving me life, he never so much as looked on woman. It is a thing well known in the Duchy!" The woman did not answer directly. "Max Ulrich, bring the silver casket," she said, taking from her neck a little silver key. The Wordless Man, seeing her action, came forward and took the key. He went out of the room, and after an interval which seemed interminable he returned with a peculiarly shaped casket. It was formed like a heart, and upon it, curiously worked in gold and precious stones, Joan saw her father's motto and the armorial bearings of Hohenstein. The woman touched a spring with well-practised hand, the silver heart divided, and a roll of parchment fell upon the bed. With a strange smile she gave it to Joan, beckoning her with an upward nod to approach. "I give this precious document without fear into your hands. It is my very soul. But it is safe with the daughter of Henry the Lion." Joan took the crackling parchment. It had three seals attached to it and the first part was in her father's own handwriting. "_I declare by these presents that I have married, according to the customs of Hohenstein and the laws of the Empire, Theresa von Lynar, daughter of the Count von Lynar of Jutland. But this marriage shall not, by any of its occasions or consequents, affect the succession of my daughter Joanna to the Duchy of Hohenstein and the Principalities of Kernsberg and Marienfeld. To which we subscribe our names as conjointly agreeing thereto in the presence of his High Eminence the Cardinal Adrian, Archbishop of Cologne and Elector of the Holy Roman Empire._" Then followed the three signatures, and beneath, in another handwriting, Joan read the following:-- "_These persons, Henry Duke of Hohenstein and Theresa von Lynar, were married by me subject to the above conditions mutually agreed upon in the Church of Olsen near to the Kurische Haff, in the presence of Julius Count von Lynar and his sons Wolf and Mark, in the year 14--, the day being the eve of St. John.--Adrian, Archiepiscop. et Elector._" After her first shock of surprise was over Joan noted carefully the date. It was one year after her own birth, and therefore the like period after the death of her mother, the openly acknowledged Duchess of Hohenstein. The quick eyes of the woman on the bed had followed hers as they read carefully down the parchment, eagerly and also apprehensively, like those of a mother who for some weighty reason has placed her child in peril. Joan folded the parchment and handed it back. Then she stood silent waiting for an explanation. The woman took up her parable calmly, like one who has long comprehended that such a crisis must one day arrive, and who knows her part thoroughly. "I, who speak to you, am Theresa von Lynar. Your father saw me first at the coronation of our late sovereign, Christian, King of Denmark. And we loved one another. For this cause I moved my brother and his sons to build Castle Lynar on the shores of the Northern Sea. For this cause I accompanied him thither. For many years at Castle Lynar, and also at this place, called the Hermitage of the Dunes, Henry of Kernsberg and I dwelt in such happiness as mortals seldom know. I loved your father, obeyed him, adored him, lived only for him. But there came a spring when my brother, being like your father a hot and passionate man, quarrelled with Duke Henry, threatening to go before the Diet of the Empire if I were not immediately acknowledged Duchess and my son Maurice von Lynar made the heir of Hohenstein. But I, being true to my oath and promise, left my brother and abode here alone with my husband when he could escape from his Dukedom, living like a simple squire and his dame. Those were happy days and made up for much. Then in an evil day I sent my son to my brother to train as his own son in arms and the arts of war. But he, being at enmity with my husband, made ready to carry the lad before the Diet of the Empire, that he might be declared heir to his father. Then, in his anger, Henry the Lion rose and swept Castle Lynar with fire and sword, leaving none alive but this boy only, whom he meant to take back and train with his captains. But on the way home, even as he rode southward through the forest towards Kernsberg, he reeled in the saddle and passed ere he could speak a word, even the name of those he loved. So the boy remained a captive at Kernsberg, called by my brother's name, and knowing even to this day nothing of his father." [Illustration: "I bid you slay me for the evil deed my heart was willing to do." [_Page 161_]] And as the woman ceased speaking Werner von Orseln nodded gravely and sadly. "This thing concerning my lord's death is true," he said; "I was present. These arms received him as he fell. He was dead ere we laid him on the ground!" Theresa von Lynar raised herself. She had spoken thus far reclining on the bed from which Joan had risen. Now she sat up and for a little space rested her hands on her lap ere she went on. "Then my son, whom, not knowing, you had taken pity upon and raised to honour, and who is now your faithful servant, sent a secret messenger that you would come to abide secretly with me till a certain dark day had overpassed in Kernsberg. And then there sprang up in my heart a dreadful conceit that he loved you, knowing young blood and hearing the fame of your beauty, and I was afraid for the greatness of the sin--that one should love his sister." Joan made a quick gesture of dissent, but the woman went on. "I thought, being a woman alone, and one also, who had given all freely up for love's sake, that he would certainly love you even as I had loved. And when I saw you in my house, so cold and so proud, and when I thought within me that but for you my son would have been a mighty prince, a strange terrible anger and madness came over me, darkening my soul. For a moment I would have slain you. But I could not, because you were asleep. And, even as you stirred, I heard you speak the name of a man, as only one who loves can speak it. I know right well how that is, having listened to it with a glad heart in the night. The name was----" "Hold!" cried Joan of the Sword Hand. "I believe you--I forgive you!" "The name," continued Theresa von Lynar, "was _not that of my son_! And now," she went on, slowly rising from the couch to her height, "I am ready. I bid you slay me for the evil deed my heart was willing for a moment to do!" Joan looked at her full in the eyes for the space of a breath. Then suddenly she held out her hand and answered like her father's daughter. "Nay," she said, "I only marvel that you did not strike me to the heart, because of your son's loss and my father's sin!" CHAPTER XXV BORNE ON THE GREAT WAVE It chanced that in the chamber from which Werner von Orseln had come so swiftly at the cry of the Wordless Man, Boris and Jorian, after sleeping through the disturbances above them and the first burst of the storm, were waked by the blowing open of the lattice as the wind reached its height. Jorian lay still on his pallet and slily kicked Boris, hoping that he would rise and take upon him the task of shutting it. Then to Boris, struggling upward to the surface of the ocean of sleep, came the same charitable thought with regard to Jorian. So, both kicking out at the same time, their feet encountered with clash of iron footgear, and then with surly snarls they hent them on their feet, abusing each other in voices which could be heard above the humming of the storm without. It was tall Boris who, having cursed himself empty, first made his way to the window. The lattice hung by one leathern thong. The other had been torn away, and indeed it was a wonder that the whole framework had not been blown bodily into the room. For the tempest pressed against it straight from the north, and the sticky spray from the waves which broke on the shingle drove stingingly into the eyes of the man-at-arms. Nevertheless he thrust his head out, looked a moment through half-closed eyelids, and then cried, "Jorian, we are surely lost! The sea is breaking in upon us. It has passed the beach of shingle out there!" And seizing Jorian by the arm Boris made his way to the door by which they had entered, and, undoing the bolts, they reached the walled courtyard, where, however, they found themselves in the open air, but sheltered from the utmost violence of the tempest. There was a momentary difficulty here, because neither could find the key of the heavy door in the boundary wall. But Boris, ever fertile in expedient, discovered a ladder under a kind of shed, and setting it against the northern wall he climbed to the top. While he remained under the shelter of the wall his body was comfortably warm; only an occasional veering flaw sent a purl downwards of what he was to meet. But the instant his head was above the copestone, and the ice-cold northerly blast met him like a wall, he fairly gasped, for the furious onslaught of the storm seemed to blow every particle of breath clean out of his body. The spindrift flew smoking past, momentarily white in the constant lightning flashes, and before him, and apparently almost at the foot of the wall, Boris saw a wonderful sight. The sea appeared to be climbing, climbing, climbing upwards over a narrow belt of sand and shingle which separated the scarcely fretted Haff from the tumbling milk of the outer Baltic. In another moment Jorian was beside him, crouching on the top of the wall to save himself from being carried away. And there, in the steamy smother of the sea, backed by the blue electric flame of the lightning, they saw the slant masts of a vessel labouring to beat against the wind. "Poor souls, they are gone!" said Boris, trying to shield his eyes with his palm, as the black hull disappeared bodily, and the masts seemed to lurch forward into the milky turmoil. "We shall never see her again." For one moment all was dark as pitch, and the next a dozen flashes of lightning burst every way, as many appearing to rise upwards as could be seen to fall downwards. A black speck poised itself on the crest of a wave. "It is a boat! It can never live!" cried the two men together, and dropping from the top of the wall they ran down to the shore, going as near as they dared to the surf which arched and fell with ponderous roar on the narrow strip of shingle. Here Jorian and Boris ran this way and that, trying to pierce the blackness of the sky with their spray-blinded eyes, but nothing more, either of the ship or of the boat which had put out from it, did they see. The mountainous roll and ceaseless iterance of the oncoming breakers hid the surface of the sea from their sight, while the sky, changing with each pulse of the lightning from densest black to green shot with violet, told nothing of the men's lives which were being riven from their bodies beneath it. "Back, Boris, back!" cried Jorian suddenly, as after a succession of smaller waves a gigantic and majestic roller arched along the whole seaward front, stood for a moment black and imminent above them, and then fell like a whole mountain-range in a snowy avalanche of troubled water which rushed savagely up the beach. The two soldiers, who would have faced unblanched any line of living enemies in the world, fled terror-stricken at that clutching onrush of that sea of milk. The wet sand seemed to catch and hold their feet as they ran, so that they felt in their hearts the terrible sensation of one who flees in dreams from some hideous imagined terror and who finds his powers fail him as his pursuer approaches. Upward and still upward the wave swept with a soft universal hiss which drowned and dominated the rataplan of the thunder-peals above and the sonorous diapason of the surf around them. It rushed in a creaming smother about their ankles, plucked at their knees, but could rise no higher. Yet so fierce was the back draught, that when the water retreated, dragging the pebbles with it down the shingly shore with the rattle of a million castanets, the two stout captains of Plassenburg were thrown on their faces and lay as dead on the wet and sticky stones, each clutching a double handful of broken shells and oozy sand which streamed through his numbed fingers. Boris was the first to rise, and finding Jorian still on his face he caught the collar of his doublet and pulled him with little ceremony up the sloping bank out of tide-reach, throwing him down on the shingly summit with as little tenderness or compunction as if he had been a bag of wet salt. By this time the morning was advancing and the storm growing somewhat less continuous. Instead of the wind bearing a dead weight upon the face, it came now in furious gusts. Instead of one grand roar, multitudinous in voice yet uniform in tone, it hooted and piped overhead as if a whole brood of evil spirits were riding headlong down the tempest-track. Instead of coming on in one solid bank of blackness, the clouds were broken into a wrack of wild and fantastic fragments, the interspaces of which showed alternately paly green and pearly grey. The thunder retreated growling behind the horizon. The violet lightning grew less continuous, and only occasionally rose and fell in vague distant flickerings towards the north, as if some one were lifting a lantern almost to the sea-line and dropping it again before reaching it. Looking back from the summit of the mound, Boris saw something dark lying high up on the beach amid a wrack of seaweed and broken timber which marked where the great wave had stopped. Something odd about the shape took his eye. A moment later he was leaping down again towards the shore, taking his longest strides, and sending the pebbles spraying out in front and on all sides of him. He stooped and found the body of a man, tall, well formed, and of manly figure. He was bareheaded and stripped to his breeches and underwear. Boris stooped and laid his hand upon his heart. Yes, so much was certain. He was not dead. Whereupon the ex-man-at-arms lifted him as well as he could and dragged him by the elbows out of reach of the waves. Then he went back to Jorian and kicked him in the ribs. The rotund man sat up with an execration. "Come!" cried Boris, "don't lie there like Reynard the Fox waiting for Kayward the Hare. We want no malingering here. There's a man at death's door down on the shingle. Come and help me to carry him to the house." It was a heavy task, and Jorian's head spun with the shock of the wave and the weight of their burden long before they reached the point where the boundary wall approached nearest to the house. "We can never hope to get him up that ladder and down the other side," said Boris, shaking his head. "Even if we had the ladder!" answered Jorian, glad of a chance to grumble; "but, thanks to your stupidity, it is on the other side of the wall." Without noticing his companion's words, Boris took a handful of small pebbles and threw them up at a lighted window. The head of Werner von Orseln immediately appeared, his grizzled hair blown out like a misty aureole about his temples. "Come down!" shouted Boris, making a trumpet of his hands to fight the wind withal. "We have found a drowned man on the beach!" And indeed it seemed literally so, as they carried their burden round the walls to the wicket door and waited. It seemed an interminable time before Werner von Orseln arrived with the dumb man's lantern in his hand. They carried the body into the great hall, where the Duchess and the old servitor met them. There they laid him on a table. Joan herself lifted the lantern and held it to his face. His fair hair clustered about his head in wet knots and shining twists. The features of his face were white as death and carven like those of a statue. But at the sight the heart of the Duchess leaped wildly within her. "Conrad!" she cried--that word and no more. And the lantern fell to the floor from her nerveless hand. There was no doubt in her mind. She could make no mistake. The regular features, the pillar-like neck, the massive shoulders, the strong clean-cut mouth, the broad white brow--and--yes, the slight tonsure of the priest. It was the White Knight of the Courtland lists, the noble Prince of the summer parlour, the red-robed prelate of her marriage-day, Conrad of Courtland, Prince and Cardinal, but to her--"_he_"--the only "he." CHAPTER XXVI THE GIRL BENEATH THE LAMP When Conrad, Cardinal-designate of the Holy Roman Church and Archbishop of Courtland, opened his eyes, it seemed to him that he had passed through warring waters into the serenity of the Life Beyond. His hand, on which still glittered his episcopal ring, lay on a counterpane of faded rose silk, soft as down. Did he dream that another hand had been holding it, that gentlest fingers had rested caressingly on his brow? A girl, sweet and stately, sat by his bedside. By the door, to which alone he could raise his eyes, stood a tall gaunt man, clad in grey from head to foot, his hands clasped in front of him, and his chin sunk upon his breast. The Prince-Bishop's eyes rested languidly on the girl's face, on which fell the light of a shaded silver lamp. There was a book in her lap, written upon sheets of thin parchment, bound in gold-embossed leather. But she did not read it. Instead she breathed softly and regularly. She was asleep, with her hand on the coverlet of rosy silk. Strange fancies passed through the humming brain of the rescued man--as it had been, hunting each other across a stage--visions of perilous endeavour, of fights with wild beasts in shut-in places from which there was no escape, of brutal fisticuffs with savage men. All these again merged into the sense of falling from immense heights only to find that the air upheld him and that, instead of breaking himself to pieces at the bottom, he alighted soft as thistledown on couches of flowers. Strange rich heady scents seemed to rise about him like something palpable. His brain wavered behind his brow like a summer landscape when the sun is hot after a shower. Perfumes, strange and haunting, dwelt in his nostrils. The scent, at once sour and sweet, of bee-hives at night, the richness of honey in the comb, the delicacy of wet banks of violets, full-odoured musk, and the luxury of sun-warmed afternoon beanfields dreamily sweet--these made his very soul swoon within him. Then followed odours of rose gardens, of cool walks drenched in shadow and random scents blown in at open windows. Yes, he knew now; surely he was again in his own chamber in the summer pavilion of the palace in Courtland. He could hear the cool wash of the Alla under its walls, and with the assurance there came somehow a memory of a slim lad with clear-cut features who brought him a message from--was it his sister Margaret, or Louis his brother? He could not remember which. Of what had he been dreaming? In the endeavour to recall something he harked back on the terrors of the night in which, of all on board the ship, his soul alone had remained serene. He remembered the fury of the storm, the helpless impotence and blank cowardice of the sailor folk, the desertion of the officers in the only seaworthy boat. Slowly the drifting mists steadied themselves athwart his brain. The actual recomposed itself out of the shreds of dreams. Conrad found himself in a long low room such as he had seen many times in the houses of well-to-do ritters along the Baltic shores. The beams of the roof-tree above were carven and ancient. Arras went everywhere about the halls. Silver candlesticks, with princely crests graven upon them, stood by his bedhead. After each survey his eyes settled on the sleeping girl. She was very young and very beautiful. It was--yet it could not be--the Duchess Joan, whom he himself had married to his brother Louis in the cathedral church of his own archiepiscopal city. Conrad of Courtland had not been trained a priest, yet, as was common at that age, birth and circumstance had made him early a Prince of the Roman Church. He had been thrust into the hierarchy solely because of his name, for he had succeeded his uncle Adrian in his ecclesiastical posts and emoluments as a legal heir succeeds to an undisputed property. In due time he received his red hat from a pontiff who distributed these among his favourites (or those whom he thought might aggrandise his temporal power) as freely as a groomsman distributes favours at a wedding. Nevertheless, Conrad of Courtland had all the warm life and imperious impulses of a young man within his breast. Yet he was no Borgia or Della Rovere, cloaking scarlet sins with scarlet vestments. For with the high dignities of his position and the solemn work which lay to his hand in his northern province there had come the resolve to be not less, but more faithful than those martyrs and confessors of whom he read daily in his Breviary. And while, in Rome herself, vice-proud princes, consorting in the foulest alliance with pagan popes, blasphemed the sanctuary and openly scoffed at religion, this finest and most chivalrous of young northern knights had laid down the weapons of his warfare to take up the crucifix, and now had set out joyfully for Rome to receive his cardinal's hat on his knees as the last and greatest gift of the Vicar of Christ. He had begun his pilgrimage by express command of the Holy Father, who desired to make the youthful Archbishop his Papal assessor among the Electors of the Empire. But scarcely was he clear of the Courtland shores when there had come the storm, the shipwreck, the wild struggle among the white and foaming breakers--and then, wondrously emergent, like heaven after purgatory, the quiet of this sheltered room and this sleeping girl, with her white hand lying lax and delicate on the rosy silk. The book slipped suddenly from her fingers, falling on the polished wood of the floor with a startling sound. The eyes of the gaunt man by the door were lifted from the ground, glittered beadily for a moment, and again dropped as before. The girl did not start, but rather passed immediately into full consciousness with a little shudder and a quick gesture of the hand, as if she pushed something or some one from her. Then, from the pillow on which his head lay, Joan of Hohenstein saw the eyes of the Prince Conrad gazing at her, dark and solemn, from within the purplish rings of recent peril. "You are my brother's wife!" he said softly, but yet in the same rich and thrilling voice she had listened to with so many heart-stirrings in the summer palace, and had last heard ring through the cathedral church of Courtland on that day when her life had ended. A chill came over the girl's face at his words. "I am indeed the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein," she answered. "My father willed that I should wed Prince Louis of Courtland. Well, I married him and rode away. In so much I am your brother's wife." It was a strange awaking for a man who had passed from death to life, but at least her very impetuosity convinced him that the girl was flesh and blood. He smiled wanly. The light of the lamp seemed to waver again before his eyes. He saw his companion as it had been transformed and glorified. He heard the rolling of drums in his ears, and merry pipes played sweetly far away. Then came the hush of many waters flowing softly, and last, thrumming on the parched earth, and drunk down gladly by tired flowers, the sound of abundance of rain. The world grew full of sleep and rest and refreshment. There was no longer need to care about anything. His eyes closed. He seemed about to sink back into unconsciousness, when Joan rose, and with a few drops from Dessauer's phial, which she kept by her in case of need, she called him back from the misty verges of the Things which are Without. As he struggled painfully upward he seemed to hear Joan's last words repeated and re-repeated to the music of a chime of fairy bells, "_In so much--in so much--I am your brother's wife--your brother's wife!_" He came to himself with a start. "Will you tell me how I came here, and to whom I am indebted for my life?" he said, as Joan stood up beside him, her shapely head dim and retired in the misty dusk above the lamp, only her chin and the shapely curves of her throat being illumined by the warm lamplight. "You were picked up for dead on the beach in the midst of the storm," she answered, "and were brought hither by two captains in the service of the Prince of Plassenburg!" "And where is this place, and when can I leave it to proceed upon my journey?" The girl's head was turned away from him a trifle more haughtily than before, and she answered coldly, "You are in a certain fortified grange somewhere on the Baltic shore. As to when you can proceed on your journey, that depends neither on you nor on me. I am a prisoner here. And so I fear must you also consider yourself!" "A prisoner! Then has my brother----?" cried the Prince-Bishop, starting up on his elbow and instantly dropping back again upon the pillow with a groan of mingled pain and weakness. Joan looked at him a moment and then, compressing her lips with quick resolution, went to the bedside and with one hand under his head rearranged the pillow and laid him back in an easier posture. "You must lie still," she said in a commanding tone, and yet softly; "you are too weak to move. Also you must obey me. I have some skill in leechcraft." "I am content to be your prisoner," said the Prince-Bishop smiling--"that is, till I am well enough to proceed on my journey to Rome, whither the Holy Father Pope Sixtus hath summoned me by a special messenger." "I fear me much," answered Joan, "that, spite of the Holy Father, we may be fellow-prisoners of long standing. Those of my own folk who hold me here against my will are hardly likely to let the brother of Prince Louis of Courtland escape with news of my hiding-place and present hermitage!" The young man seemed as if he would again have started up, but with a gesture smilingly imperious Joan forbade him. "To-morrow," she said, "perhaps if you are patient I will tell you more. Here comes our hostess. It is time that I should leave you." Theresa von Lynar came softly to the side of the bed and stood beside Joan. The young Cardinal thought that he had never seen a more queenly pair--Joan resplendent in her girlish strength and beauty, Theresa still in the ripest glory of womanhood. There was a gentler light than before in the elder woman's eyes, and she cast an almost deprecating glance upon Joan. For at the first sound of her approach the girl had stiffened visibly, and now, with only a formal word as to the sick man's condition, and a cold bow to Conrad, she moved away. Theresa watched her a little sadly as she passed behind the deep curtain. Then she sighed, and turning again to the bedside she looked long at the young man without speaking. CHAPTER XXVII WIFE AND PRIEST "I have a right to call myself the widow of the Duke Henry of Kernsberg and Hohenstein," said Theresa von Lynar, in reply to Conrad's question as to whom he might thank for rescue and shelter. "And therefore the mother of the Duchess Joan?" he continued. Theresa shook her head. "No," she said sadly; "I am not her mother, but--and even that only in a sense--her stepmother. A promise to a dead man has kept me from claiming any privileges save that of living unknown on this desolate isle of sand and mist. My son is an officer in the service of the Duchess Joan." The face of the Prince-Bishop lighted up instantaneously. "Most surely, then, I know him. Did he not come to Courtland with my Lord Dessauer, the Ambassador of Plassenburg?" The lady of Isle Rugen nodded indifferently. "Yes," she said; "I believe he went to Courtland with the embassy from Plassenburg." "Indeed, I was much drawn to him," said the Prince eagerly; "I remember him most vividly. He was of an olive complexion, his features without colour, but graven even as the Greeks cut those of a young god on a gem." "Yes," said Theresa von Lynar serenely, "he has his father's face and carriage, which are those also of the Duchess Joan." "And why," said the young man, "if I may ask without offence, is your son not the heir to the Dukedom?" There was a downcast sadness in the woman's voice and eye as she replied, "Because when I wedded Duke Henry it was agreed between us that aught which might be thereafter should never stand between his daughter and her heritage; and, in spite of deadly wrong done to those of my house, I have kept my word." The Prince-Cardinal thought long with knitted brow. "The Duchess is my brother Louis's wife," he said slowly. "In name!" retorted Theresa, quickly and breathlessly, like one called on unexpectedly to defend an absent friend. "She is his wife--I married them. I am a priest," he made answer. A gleam, sharp and quick as lightning jetted from a thunder cloud, sprang into the woman's eye. "In this matter I, Theresa von Lynar, am wiser than all the priests in the world. Joan of Hohenstein is no more his wife than I am!" "Holy Church, the mother of us all, made them one!" said the Cardinal sententiously. For such words come easily to dignitaries even when they are young. She bent towards him and looked long into his eyes. "No," she said; "you do not know. How indeed is it possible? You are too young to have learned the deep things--too certain of your own righteousness. But you will learn some day. I, Theresa von Lynar, know--aye, though I bear the name of my father and not that of my husband!" And at this imperious word the Prince was silent and thought with gravity upon these things. Theresa sat motionless and silent by his bed till the day rose cool and untroubled out of the east, softly aglow with the sheen of clouded silk, pearl-grey and delicate. Prince Conrad, being greatly wearied and bruised inwardly with the buffeting of the waves and the stones of the shore, slumbered restlessly, with many tossings and turnings. But as oft as he moved, the hands of the woman who had been a wife were upon him, ordering his bruised limbs with swift knowledgeable tenderness, so that he did not wake, but gradually fell back again into dreamless and refreshing sleep. This was easy to her, because the secret of pain was not hid from Theresa, the widow of the Duke of Hohenstein--though Henry the Lion's daughter, as yet, knew it not. In the morning Joan came to bid the patient good-morrow, while Werner von Orseln stood in the doorway with his steel cap doffed in his hand, and Boris and Jorian bent the knee for a priestly blessing. But Theresa did not again appear till night and darkness had wrapped the earth. So being all alone he listened to the heavy plunge of the breakers on the beach among which his life had been so nearly sped. The sound grew slower and slower after the storm, until at last only the wavelets of the sheltered sea lapsed on the shingle in a sort of breathing whisper. "Peace! Peace! Great peace!" they seemed to say hour after hour as they fell on his ear. And so day passed and came again. Long nights, too, at first with hourly tendance and then presently without. But Joan sat no more with the young man after that first watch, though his soul longed for her, that he might again tell the girl that she was his brother's wife, and urge her to do her duty by him who was her wedded husband. So in her absence Conrad contented himself and salved his conscience by thinking austere thoughts of his mission and high place in the hierarchy of the only Catholic and Apostolic Church. So that presently he would rise up and seek Werner von Orseln in order to persuade him to let him go, that he might proceed to Rome at the command of the Holy Father, whose servant he was. But Werner only laughed and put him off. "When we have sure word of what your brother does at Kernsberg, then we will talk of this matter. Till then it cannot be hid from you that no hostage half so valuable can we keep in hold. For if your brother loves my Lord Cardinal, then he will desire to ransom him. On the other hand, if he fear him, then we will keep your Highness alive to threaten him, as the Pope did with Djem, the Sultan's brother!" So after many days it was permitted to the Prince to walk abroad within the narrow bounds of the Isle Rugen, the Wordless Man guarding him at fifty paces distance, impassive and inevitable as an ambulant rock of the seaboard. As he went Prince Conrad's eyes glanced this way and that, looking for a means of escape. Yet they saw none, for Werner von Orseln with his ten men of Kernsberg and the two Captains of Plassenburg were not soldiers to make mistakes. There was but one boat on the island, and that was locked in a strong house by the inner shore, and over against it a sentry paced night and day. It chanced, however, upon a warm and gracious afternoon, when the breezes played wanderingly among the garden trees before losing themselves in the solemn aisles of the pines as in a pillared temple, that Conrad, stepping painfully westwards along the beach, arrived at the place of his rescue, and, descending the steep bank of shingle to look for any traces of the disaster, came suddenly upon the Duchess Joan gazing thoughtfully out to sea. She turned quickly, hearing the sound of footsteps, and at sight of the Prince-Bishop glanced east and west along the shore as if meditating retreat. But the proximity of Max Ulrich and the encompassing banks of water-worn pebbles convinced her of the awkwardness, if not the impossibility, of escape. [Illustration: "Joan looked steadily across the steel-grey sea." [_Page 179_]] Conrad the prisoner greeted Joan with the sweet gravity which had been characteristic of him as Conrad the prince, and his eyes shone upon her with the same affectionate kindliness that had dwelt in them in the pavilion of the rose garden. But after one glance Joan looked steadily away across the steel-grey sea. Her feet turned instinctively to walk back towards the house, and the Prince turned with her. "If we are two fellow-prisoners," said Conrad, "we ought to see more of each other. Is it not so?" "That we may concert plans of escape?" said Joan. "You desire to continue your pilgrimage--I to return to my people, who, alas, think themselves better off without me!" "I do, indeed, greatly desire to see Rome," replied the Prince. "The Holy Father Sixtus has sent me the red biretta, and has commanded me to come to Rome within a year to exchange it for the Cardinal's hat, and also to visit the tombs of the Apostles." But Joan was not listening. She went on to speak of the matters which occupied her own mind. "If you were a priest, why did you ride in the great tournament of the Blacks and the Whites at Courtland not a year ago?" The Prince-Cardinal smiled indulgently. "I was not then fledged full priest; hardly am I one now, though they have made me a Prince of Holy Church. Yet the tournaying was in a manner, perhaps, what her bridal dress is to a nun ere she takes the veil. But, my Lady Joan, what know you of the strife of Blacks and Whites at Courtland?" "Your sister, the Princess Margaret, spoke of it, and also the Count von Löen, an officer of mine," answered Joan disingenuously. "I am indeed a soldier by training and desire," continued the young man. "In Italy I have played at stratagem and countermarch with the Orsini and Colonna. But in this matter the younger son of the house of Courtland has no choice. We are the bulwark of the Church alike against heretic Muscovite to the north and furious Hussite to the south. We of Courtland must stand for the Holy See along all the Baltic edges; and for this reason the Pope has always chosen from amongst us his representative upon the Diet of the Empire, till the office has become almost hereditary." "Then you are not really a priest?" said Joan, woman-like fixing upon that part of the young man's reply, which somehow had the greatest interest for her. "In a sense, yes--in truth, no. They say that the Pope, in order to forward the Church's polity, makes and unmakes cardinals every day, some even for money payments; but these are doubtless Hussite lies. Yet though by prescript right and the command of the head of the Church I am both priest and bishop, in my heart I am but Prince Conrad of Courtland and a simple knight, even as I was before." They paced along together with their eyes on the ground, the Wordless Man keeping a uniform distance behind them. Then the Prince laughed a strange grating laugh, like one who mocks at himself. "By this time I ought to have been well on my way to the tombs of the Apostles; yet in my heart I cannot be sorry, for--God forgive me!--I had liefer be walking this northern shore, a young man along with a fair maiden." "A priest walking with his brother's wife!" said Joan, turning quickly upon him and flashing a look into the eyes that regarded her with some wonder at her imperiousness. "That is true, in a sense," he answered; "yet I am a priest with no consent of my desire--you a wife without love. We are, at least, alike in this--that we are wife and priest chiefly in name." "Save that you are on your way to take on you the duties of your office, while I am more concerned in evading mine." The Cardinal meditated deeply. "The world is ill arranged," he said slowly; "my brother Louis would have made a far better Churchman than I. And strange it is to think that but a year ago the knights and chief councillors of Courtland came to me to propose that, because of his bodily weakness, my brother should be deposed and that I should take over the government and direction of affairs." He went on without noticing the colour rising in Joan's cheek, smiling a little to himself and talking with more animation. "Then, had I assented, my brother might have been walking here with tonsured head by your side, while I would doubtless have been knocking at the gates of Kernsberg, seeking at the spear's point for a runaway bride." "Nay!" cried Joan, with sudden vehemence; "that would you not----" And as suddenly she stopped, stricken dumb by the sound of her own words. The Prince turned his head full upon her. He saw a face all suffused with hot blushes, haughtiest pride struggling with angry tears in eyes that fairly blazed upon him, and a slender figure drawn up into an attitude of defiance--at sight of all which something took him instantly by the throat. "You mean--you mean----" he stammered, and for a moment was silent. "For God's sake, tell me what you mean!" "I mean nothing at all!" said Joan, stamping her foot in anger. And turning upon her heel she left him standing fixed in wonder and doubt upon the margin of the sea. Then the wife of Louis, Prince of Courtland, walked eastward to the house upon the Isle Rugen with her face set as sternly as for battle, but her nether lip quivering--while Conrad, Cardinal and Prince of Holy Church, paced slowly to the west with a bitter and downcast look upon his ordinarily so sunny countenance. For Fate had been exceeding cruel to these two. CHAPTER XXVIII THE RED LION FLIES AT KERNSBERG And meanwhile right haughtily flew the red lion upon the citadel of Kernsberg. Never had the Lady Duchess, Joan of the Sword Hand, approven herself so brave and determined. In her forester's dress of green velvet, with the links of chain body-armour glinting beneath its frogs and taches, she went everywhere on foot. At all times of the day she was to be seen at the half-moons wherein the cannon were fixed, or on horseback scouring the defenced posts along the city wall. She seemed to know neither fear nor fatigue, and the noise of cheering followed her about the little hill city like her shadow. Three only there were who knew the truth--Peter Balta, Alt Pikker, and George the Hussite. And when the guards were set, the lamps lit, and the bars drawn, a stupid faithful Hohensteiner set on watch at the turnpike foot with command to let none pass upon his life--then at last the lithe young Sparhawk would undo his belt with huge refreshful gusting of air into his lungs, amid the scarcely subdued laughter of the captains of the host. "Lord Peter of the Keys!" Von Lynar would cry, "what it is to unbutton and untruss! 'Tis very well to admire it in our pretty Joan, but 'fore the Lord, I would give a thousand crowns if she were not so slender. It cuts a man in two to get within such a girdle. Only Prince Wasp could make a shift to fit it. Give me a goblet of ale, fellows." "Nay, lad--mead! Mead of ten years alone must thou have, and little enough of that! Ale will make thee fat as mast-fed pigs." "Or stay," amended George the Hussite; "mead is not comely drink for a maid--I will get thee a little canary and water, scented with millefleurs and rosemary." "Check your fooling and help to unlace me, all of you," quoth the Sparhawk. "Now there is but a silken cord betwixt me and Paradise. But it prisons me like iron bars. Ah, there"--he blew a great breath, filling and emptying his lungs with huge content--"I wonder why we men breathe with our stomachs and women with their chests?" "Know you not that much?" cried Alt Pikker. "'Tis because a man's life is in his stomach; and as for women, most part have neither heart, stomach, nor bowels of mercy--and so breathe with whatever it liketh them!" "No ribaldry in a lady's presence, or in a trice thou shalt have none of these, either!" quoth the false Joan; "help me off with this thrice-accursed chain-mail. I am pocked from head to heel like a Swiss mercenary late come from Venice. Every ring in this foul devil's jerkin is imprinted an inch deep on my hide, and itches worse than a hundred beggars at a church door. Ah! better, better. Yet not well! I had thought our Joan of the Sword Hand a strapping wench, but now a hop-pole is an abbot to her when one comes to wear her _carapace_ and _justaucorps_!" "How went matters to-day on your side?" he went on, speaking to Balta, all the while chafing the calves of his legs and rubbing his pinched feet, having first enwrapped himself in a great loose mantle of red and gold which erstwhile had belonged to Henry the Lion. "On the whole, not ill," said Peter Balta. "The Muscovites, indeed, drove in our outposts, but could not come nearer than a bowshot from the northern gate, we galled them so with our culverins and bombardels." "Duke George's famous Fat Peg herself could not have done better than our little leathern vixens," said Alt Pikker, rubbing his grey badger's brush contentedly. "Gott, if we had only provender and water we might keep them out of the city for ever! But in a week they will certainly have cut off our river and sent it down the new channel, and the wells are not enough for half the citizens, to say nothing of the cattle and horses. This is a great fuss to make about a graceless young jackanapes of a Jutlander like you, Master Maurice von Lynar, Count von Löen--wedded wife of his Highness Prince Louis of Courtland. Ha! ha! ha!" "I would have you know, sirrah," cried the Sparhawk, "that if you do not treat me as your liege lady ought to be treated, I will order you to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat! Come and kiss my hand this instant, both of you!" "Promise not to box our ears, and we will," said Alt Pikker and George the Hussite together. "Well, I will let you off this time," said Maurice royally, stretching his limbs luxuriously and putting one hosened foot on the mantel-shelf as high as his head. "Heigh-ho! I wonder how long it will last, and when we must surrender." "Prince Louis must send his Muscovites back beyond the Alla first, and then we will speak with him concerning giving him up his wife!" quoth Peter Balta. "I wonder what the craven loon will do with her when he gets her," said Alt Pikker. "You must not surrender in your girdle-brace and ring-mail, my liege lady, or you will have to sleep with them on. It would not be seemly to have to call up half a dozen lusty men-at-arms to help untruss her ladyship the Princess of Courtland!" "Perhaps your goodman will kiss you upon the threshold of the palace as a token of reconciliation!" cackled Hussite George. "If he does, I will rip him up!" growled Maurice, aghast at the suggestion. "But there is no doubt that at the best I shall be between the thills when they get me once safe in Courtland. To ride the wooden horse all day were a pleasure to it!" But presently his face lighted up and he murmured some words to himself-- "Yet, after all, there is always the Princess Margaret there. I can confide in her when the worst comes. She will help me in my need--and, what is better still, she may even kiss me!" And, spite of gloomy anticipations, his ears tingled with happy expectancy, when he thought of opportunities of intimate speech with the lady of his heart. * * * * * Nevertheless, in the face of brave words and braver deeds, provisions waxed scarce and dear in Castle Kernsberg, and in the town below women grew gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Then the children acquired eyes that seemed to stand out of hollow purple sockets. Last of all, the stout burghers grew thin. And all three began to dream of the days when the good farm-folk of the blackened country down below them, where now stood the leafy lodges of the Muscovites and the white tents of the Courtlanders, used to come into Kernsberg to market, the great solemn-eyed oxen drawing carts full of country sausages, and brown meal fresh ground from the mill to bake the wholesome bread--or better still when the stout market women brought in the lappered milk and the butter and curds. So the starving folk dreamed and dreamed and woke, and cried out curses on them that had waked them, saying, "Plague take the hands that pulled me back to this gutter-dog's life! For I was just a-sitting down to dinner with a haunch of venison for company, and such a lordly trout, buttered, with green sauce all over him, a loaf of white bread, crisp and crusty, at my elbow, and--Holy Saint Matthew!--such a noble flagon of Rhenish, holding ten pints at the least." About this time the Sparhawk began to take counsel with himself, and the issue of his meditations the historian must now relate. It was in the outer chamber of the Duchess Joan, which looks to the north, that the three captains usually sat--burly Peter Balta, stiff-haired, dry-faced, keen-eyed--Alt Pikker, lean and leathery, the life humour within him all gone to fighting juice, his limbs mere bone and muscle, a certain acrid and caustic wit keeping the corners of his lips on the wicker, and, a little back from these two, George the Hussite, a smaller man, very solemn even when he was making others laugh, but nevertheless with a proud high look, a stiff upper lip, and a moustache so huge that he could tie the ends behind his head on a windy day. These three had been speaking together at the wide, low window from which one can see the tight little red-roofed town of Kernsberg and the green Kernswater lying like a bright many-looped ribbon at the foot of the hills. To them entered the Sparhawk, a settled frown of gloom upon his brow, and the hunger which he shared equally with the others already sharpening the falcon hook of his nose and whitening his thin nostrils. At sight of him the three heads drew apart, and Alt Pikker began to speak of the stars that were rising in the eastern dusk. "The dog-star is white," he said didactically. "In my schooldays I used to read in the Latin tongue that it was red!" But by their interest in such a matter the Sparhawk knew that they had been speaking of far other things than stars before he burst open the door. For little George the Hussite pulled his pandour moustaches and muttered, "A plague on the dog-star and the foul Latin tongue. They are only fit for the gabble of fat-fed monks. Moreover, you do not see it now, at any rate. For me, I would I were back under the Bohemian pinetrees, where the very wine smacks of resin, and where there is a sheep (your own or another's, it matters not greatly) tied at every true Hussite's door." [Illustration: "These three had been speaking together." [_Page 186_]] "What is this?" cried the Sparhawk. "Do not deceive me. You were none of you talking of stars when I came up the stairs. For I heard Peter Balta's voice say, 'By Heaven! it must come to it, and soon!' And you Hussite George, answered him, 'Six days will settle it.' What do you keep from me? Out with it? Speak up, like three good little men!" It was Alt Pikker who first found words to answer. "We spoke indeed of the stars, and said it was six days till the moon should be gone, and that the time would then be ripe for a sally by the--by the--Plassenburg Gate!" "Pshaw!" cried the Sparhawk. "Lie to your father confessor, not to me. I am not a purblind fool. I have ears, long enough, it is true, but at least they answer to hear withal. You spoke of the wells, I tell you; I saw your heads move apart as I entered; and then, forsooth, that dotard Alt Pikker (who ran away in his youth from a monk's cloister-school with the nun that taught them stocking-mending) must needs furbish up some scraps of Latin and begin to prate about dog-stars red and dog-stars white. Faugh! Open your mouths like men, set truthful hearts behind them, and let me hear the worst!" Nevertheless the three captains of Kernsberg were silent awhile, for heaviness was upon their souls. Then Peter Balta blurted out, "God help us! There is but ten days more provender in the city, the river is turned, and the wells are almost dried up!" After this the Sparhawk sat awhile on the low window seat, watching the twinkling fires of the Muscovites and listening to the hum of the town beneath the Castle--all now sullen and subdued, no merry hucksters chaffering about the church porches, no loitering lads and lasses linking arms and bartering kisses in the dusky corners of the linen market, no clattering of hammers in the armourers' bazaar--a muffled buzzing only, as of men talking low to themselves of bitter memories and yet dismaller expectations. "I have it!" said the Sparhawk at last, his eyes on the misty plain of night, with its twinkling pin-points of fire which were the watch-fires of the enemy. The three men stirred a little to indicate attention, but did not speak. "Listen," he said, "and do not interrupt. You must deliver me up. I am the cause of war--I, the Duchess Joan. Hear you? I have a husband who makes war upon me because I contemn his bed and board. He has summoned the Muscovite to help him to woo me. Well, if I am to be given up, it is for us to stipulate that the armies be withdrawn, first beyond the Alla, and then as far as Courtland. I will go with them; they will not find me out--at least, not till they are back in their own land." "What matter?" cried Balta. "They would return as soon as they discovered the cheat." "Let us sink or swim together," said Hussite George. "We want no talk of surrender!" But grey dry Alt Pikker said nothing, weighing all with a judicial mind. "No, they would not come back," said the Sparhawk; "or, at worst, we would have time--that is, you would have time--to revictual Kernsberg, to fill the tanks and reservoirs, to summon in the hillmen. They would soon learn that there had been no Joan within the city but the one they had carried back with them to Courtland. Plassenburg, slow to move, would have time to bring up its men to protect its borders from the Muscovite. All good chances are possible if only I am out of the way. Surrender me--but by private treaty, and not till you have seen them safe across the fords of the Alla!" "Nay, God's truth;" cried the three, "that we will not do! They would kill you by slow torture as soon as they found out that they had been tricked." "Well," said the Sparhawk slowly, "but by that time they _would_ have been tricked." Then Alt Pikker spoke in his turn. "Men," he said, "this Dane is a man--a better than any of us. There is wisdom in what he says. Ye have heard in church how priests preach concerning One who died for the people. Here is one ready to die--if no better may be--for the people!" "And for our Duchess Joan!" said the Sparhawk, taking his hat from his head at the name of his mistress. "Our Lady Joan! Aye, that is it!" said the old man. "We would all gladly die in battle for our lady. We have done more--we have risked our own honour and her favour in order to convey her away from these dangers. Let the boy be given up; and that he go not alone without fit attendance, I will go with him as his chamberlain." The other two men, Peter Balta and George the Hussite, did not answer for a space, but sat pondering Alt Pikker's counsel. It was George the Hussite who took up the parable. "I do not see why you, Alt Pikker, and you, Maurice the Dane, should hold such a pother about what you are ready to do for our Lady Joan. So are we all every whit as ready and willing as you can be; and I think, if any are to be given up, we ought to draw lots for who it shall be. You fancy yourselves overmuch, both of you!" The Sparhawk laughed. "Great tun-barrelled dolt," he said, clapping Peter on the back, "how sweet and convincing it would be to see you, or that canting ale-faced knave George there, dressed up in the girdle-brace and steel corset of Joan of the Sword Hand! And how would you do as to your beard? Are you smooth as an egg on both cheeks as I am? It would be rare to have a Duchess Joan with an inch of blue-black stubble on her chin by the time she neared the gates of Courtland! Nay, lads, whoever stays--I must go. In this matter of brides I have qualities (how I got them I know not) that the best of you cannot lay claim to. Do you draw lots with Alt Pikker there, an you will, as to who shall accompany me, but leave this present Joan of the Sword Hand to settle her own little differences with him who is her husband by the blessing of Holy Church." And he threw up his heels upon the table and plaited his knees one above the other. Then it was Alt Pikker's time. "Peter Balta, and you, George the Heretic, listen," he cried, vehemently emphasising the points on the palm of his hand. "You, Peter, have a wife that loves you--so, at least, we understand--and your Marion, how would she fare in this hard world without you? Have you laid by a stocking-foot full of gold? Does it hang inside your chimney? I trow not. Well, you at least must bide and earn your pay, for Marion's sake. I have neither kith nor kin, neither sweetheart nor wife, covenanted or uncovenanted. And for you, George, you are a heretic, and if they burn you alive or let out the red sap at your neck, you will go straight to hell-fire. Think of it, George! I, on the other hand, am a true man, and after a paltry year or two in purgatory (just for the experience) will enter straightway into the bosom of patriarchs and apostles, along with our Holy Father the Pope, and our elder brothers the Cardinals Borgia and Delia Rovere!" "You talk a deal of nothings with your mouth," said George the Hussite. "It is true that I hold not, as you do, that every dishclout in a church is the holy veil, and every old snag of wood with a nail in't a veritable piece of the true cross. But I would have you know that I can do as much for my lady as any one of you--nay, and more, too, Alt Pikker. For a good Hussite is afraid neither of purgatory nor yet of hell-fire, because, if he should chance to die, he will go, without troubling either, straight to the abode of the martyrs and confessors who have been judged worthy to withstand and to conquer." "And as to what you said concerning Marion," nodded Peter Balta truculently, "she is a soldier's wife and would cut her pretty throat rather than stand in the way of a man's advancement!" "Specially knowing that so pretty a wench as she is could get a better husband to-morrow an it liked her!" commented Alt Pikker drily. "Well," cried the Sparhawk, "still your quarrel, gentlemen. At all events, the thing is settled. The only question is _when_? How many days' water is there in the wells?" Said Peter Balta, "I will go and see." CHAPTER XXIX THE GREETING OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET They were making terms concerning treaty of delivering thus:-- "When the last Muscovite has crossed the Alla, when the men of Courtland stand ready to follow--then, and not sooner, we will deliver up our Lady Joan. For this we shall receive from you, Louis, Prince of Courtland, fifty hogsheads of wine, six hundred wagon-loads of good wheat, and the four great iron cannon now standing before the Stralsund Gate. This all to be completed before we of Kernsberg hand our Lady over." "It is a thing agreed!" answered Louis of Courtland, who longed to be gone, and, above all, to get his Muscovite allies out of his country. For not only did they take all the best of everything in the field, but, like locusts, they spread themselves over the rear, carrying plunder and rapine through the territories of Courtland itself--treating it, indeed, as so much conquered country, so that men were daily deserting his colours in order to go back to protect their wives and daughters from the Cossacks of the Don and the Strelits of Little Russia. Moreover, above all, Prince Louis wanted that proud wench, his wife. Without her as his prisoner, he dared not go back to his capital city. He had sworn an oath before the people. For the rest, Kernsberg itself could wait. Without a head it would soon fall in, and, besides, he flattered himself that he would so sway and influence the Duchess, when once he had her safe in his palace by the mouth of Alla, that she would repent her folly, and at no distant day sit knee by knee with him on his throne of state in the audience hall when the suitors came to plead concerning the law. And even his guest Prince Ivan was complaisant, standing behind Louis's chair and smiling subtly to himself. "Brother of mine," he would say, "I came to help you to your wife. It is your own affair how you take her and what you do with her when you get her. For me, as soon as you have her safe within the summer palace, and have given me, according to promise, my heart's desire your sister Margaret, so soon will I depart for Moscow. My father, indeed, sends daily posts praying my instant despatch, for he only waits my return to launch a host upon his enemy the King of Polognia." And Prince Louis, reaching over the arm of his chair, patted his friend's small sweet-scented hand, and thanked him for his most unselfish and generous assistance. Thus the leaguer of Hohenstein attained its object. Prince Louis had not, it is true, stormed the heights of Kernsberg as he had sworn to do. He had, in fact, left behind him to the traitors who delivered their Duchess a large portion of his stores and munitions of war. Nevertheless, he returned proud in heart to his capital city. For in the midst of his most faithful body of cavalry rode the young Duchess Joan, Princess of Courtland, on a white Neapolitan barb, with reins that jingled like silver bells and rosettes of ribbon on the bosses of her harness. The beautiful prisoner appeared, as was natural, somewhat wan and anxious. She was clad in a close-fitting gown of pale blue, with inch-wide broidering of gold, laced in front, and with a train which drooped almost to the ground. Over this a cloak of deeper blue was worn, with a hood in which the dark, proud head of the Princess nestled half hidden and half revealed. The folk who crowded to see her go by took this for coquetry. She rode with only the one councillor by her who had dared to share her captivity--one Alt Pikker, a favourite veteran of her little army, and the master-swordsman (they said) who had instructed her in the use of arms. No indignity had been offered to her. Indeed, as great honour was done her as was possible in the circumstances. Prince Louis had approached and led her by the hand to the steed which awaited her at the fords of the Alla. The soldiers of Courtland elevated their spears and the trumpets of both hosts brayed a salute. Then, without a word spoken, her husband had bowed and withdrawn as a gentleman should. Prince Ivan then approached, and on one knee begged the privilege of kissing her fair hand. The traitors of Kernsberg, who had bartered their mistress for several tuns of Rhenish, could not meet her eye, but stood gloomily apart with faces sad and downcast, and from within the town came the sound of women weeping. Only George the Hussite stood by with a smile on his face and his thumbs stuck in his waistband. The captive Princess spoke not at all, as was indeed natural and fitting. A woman conquered does not easily forgive those who have humbled her pride. She talked little even to Alt Pikker, and then only apart. The nearest guide, who had been chosen because of his knowledge of German, could not hear a murmur. With bowed head and eyes that dwelt steadily on the undulating mane of her white barb, Joan swayed her graceful body and compressed her lips like one captured but in nowise vanquished. And the soldiers of the army of Courtland (those of them who were married) whispered one to another, noting her demeanour, "Our good Prince is but at the beginning of his troubles; for, by Brunhild, did you ever see such a wench? They say she can engage any two fencers of her army at one time!" "Her eye itself is like a rapier thrust," whispered another. "Just now I went near her to look, and she arched an eyebrow at me, no more--and lo! I went cold at my marrow as if I felt the blue steel stand out at my backbone." "It is the hunger and the anger that have done it," said another; "and, indeed, small wonder! She looked not so pale when I saw her ride along Courtland Street that day to the Dom--the day she was to be married. Then her eyes did not pierce you through, but instead they shone with their own proper light and were very gracious." "A strange wench, a most strange wench," responded the first, "so soon to change her mind." "Ha!" laughed his companion, "little do you know if you say so! She is a woman--small doubt of that! Besides, is she not a princess? and wherefore should our Prince's wife not change her mind?" They entered Courtland, and the flags flew gaily as on the day of wedding. The drums beat, and the populace drank from spigots that foamed red wine. Then Louis the Prince came, with hat in hand, and begged that the Princess Joan would graciously allow him to ride beside her through the streets. He spoke respectfully, and Joan could only bow her head in acquiescence. Thus they came to the courtyard of the palace, the people shouting behind them. There, on the steps, gowned in white and gold, with bare head overrun with ringlets, stood the Princess Margaret among her women. And at sight of her the heart of the false Princess gave a mighty bound, as Joan of the Sword Hand drew her hood closer about her face and tried to remember in what fashion a lady dismounted from her horse. "My lady," said Prince Louis, standing hat in hand before her barb, "I commit you to the care of my sister, the Princess Margaret, knowing the ancient friendship that there is between you two. She will speak for me, knowing all my will, and being also herself shortly contracted in marriage to my good friend, Prince Ivan of Muscovy. Open your hearts to each other, I pray you, and be assured that no evil or indignity shall befall one whom I admire as the fairest of women and honour as my wedded wife!" Joan made no answer, but leaped from her horse without waiting for the hand of Alt Pikker, which many thought strange. In another moment the arms of the Princess Margaret were about her neck, and that impulsive Princess was kissing her heartily on cheek and lips, talking all the while through her tears. "Quick! Let us get in from all these staring stupid men. You are to lodge in my palace so long as it lists you. My brother hath promised it. Where are your women?" "I have no women," said Joan, in a low voice, blushing meanwhile; "they would not accompany a poor betrayed prisoner from Kernsberg to a prison cell!" "Prison cell, indeed! You will find that I have a very comfortable dungeon ready for you! Come--my maidens will assist you. Hasten--pray do make haste!" cried the impetuous little lady, her arm close about the tall Joan. "I thank you," said the false bride, with some reluctance, "but I am well accustomed to wait on myself." "Indeed, I do not wonder," cried the ready Princess; "maids are vexatious creatures, well called 'tirewomen.' But come--see the beautiful rooms I have chosen for you! Make haste and take off your cloak, and then I will come to you; I am fairly dying to talk. Ah, why did you not tell me that day? That was ill done. I would have ridden so gladly with you. It was a glorious thing to do, and has made you famous all over the world, they say. I have been thinking ever since what I can do to be upsides with you and make them talk about me. I will give them a surprise one day that shall be great as yours. But perhaps I may not wait till I am married to do it." And she took her friend by the hand and with a light-hearted skipping motion convoyed her to her summer palace, kissed her again at the door, and shut her in with another imperious adjuration to be speedy. "I will give you a quarter of an hour," she cried, as she lingered a moment; "then I will come to hear all your story, every word." Then the false Princess staggered rather than walked to a chair, for brain and eye were reeling. "God wot," she murmured; "strange things to hear, indeed! Sweet lady, you little know how strange! This is ten thousand times a straiter place to be in than when I played the Count von Löen. Ah, women, women, what you bring a poor innocent man to!" So, without unhooking her cloak or even throwing back the hood, this sadly bewildered bride sat down and tried to select any hopeful line of action out of the whirling chaos of her thoughts. And even as she sat there a knock came sharply at the door. CHAPTER XXX LOVE'S CLEAR EYE "And now," cried Princess Margaret, clapping her hands together impulsively, "now at last I shall hear everything. Why you went away, and who gave you up, and about the fighting. Ugh! the traitors, to betray you after all! I would have their heads off--and all to save their wretched town and the lives of some score of fat burghers!" So far the Princess Margaret had never once looked at the Sparhawk in his borrowed plumage, as he stood uneasily enough by the fireplace of the summer palace, leaning an elbow on the mantelshelf. But now she turned quickly to her guest. "Oh, I love you!" she cried, running to Maurice and throwing her arms about her false sister-in-law in an impulsive little hug. "I think you are so brave. Is my hair sadly tangled? Tell me truly, Joan. The wind hath tumbled it about mine eyes. Not that it matters--with you!" She said the last words with a little sigh. Then the Princess Margaret tripped across the polished floor to a dressing-table which had been set out in the angle between the two windows. She turned the combs and brushes over with a contumelious hand. "Where is your hand-glass?" she cried. "Do not tell me that you have never looked in it since you came to Courtland, or that you can put up with that squinting falsifier up there." She pointed to the oval-framed Venetian mirror which was hung opposite her. "It twists your face all awry, this way and that, like a monkey cracking a nut. 'Twas well enough for our good Conrad, but the Princess Joan is another matter." "I have never even looked in either!" said the Sparhawk. Some subtle difference in tone of voice caused the Princess to stop her work of patting into temporary docility her fair clustering ringlets, winding them about her fingers and rearranging to greater advantage the little golden combs which held her sadly rebellious tresses in place. She looked keenly at the Sparhawk, standing with both her shapely arms at the back of her head and holding a long ivory pin with a head of bright green malachite between her small white teeth. "Your voice is hoarse--somehow you are different," she said, taking the pin from her lips and slipping it through the rebellious plaits with a swift vindictive motion. "I have caught a cold riding into the city," quoth the Sparhawk hastily, blushing uneasily under her eyes. But for the time being his disguise was safe. Already Margaret of Courtland was thinking of something else. "Tell me," she began, going to the window and gazing pensively out upon the green white-flecked pour of the Alla, swirling under the beams of the Summer Palace, "how many of your suite have followed you hither?" "Only Alt Pikker, my second captain!" said the Sparhawk. Again the tones of his voice seemed to touch her woman's ear with some subtile perplexity even in the midst of her abstraction. Margaret turned her eyes again upon Maurice, and kept them there till he shivered in the flowing, golden-belted dress of velvet which sat so handsomely upon his splendid figure. "And your chief captain, Von Orseln?" The Princess seemed to be meditating again, her thoughts far from the rush of the Alla beneath and from the throat voice of the false Princess before her. "Von Orseln has gone to the Baltic Edge to raise on my behalf the folk of the marshes!" answered the Sparhawk warily. "Then there was----" the Princess hesitated, and her own voice grew a trifle lower--"the young man who came hither as Dessauer's secretary--what of him? The Count von Löen, if I mistake not--that was his name?" "He is a traitor!" The Princess turned quickly. "Nay," she said, "you do not think so. Your voice is kind when you speak of him. Besides, I am sure he is no traitor. Where is he?" "He is in the place where he most wishes to be--with the woman he loves!" The light died out of the bright face of the Princess Margaret at the answer, even as a dun snow-cloud wipes the sunshine off a landscape. "The woman he loves?" she stammered, as if she could not have heard aright. "Aye," said the false bride, loosening her cloak and casting it behind her. "I swear it. He is with the woman he loves." But in his heart the Sparhawk was saying, "Steady, Master Maurice von Lynar--or all will be out in five minutes." The Princess Margaret walked determinedly from the window to the fireplace. She was not so tall by half a head as her guest, but to the eyes of the Sparhawk she towered above him like a young poplar tree. He shrank from her searching glance. The Princess laid her hand upon the sleeve of the velvet gown. A flush of anger crimsoned her fair face. "Ah!" she cried, "I see it all now, madam the Princess. You love the Count and you think to blind me. This is the reason of your riding off with him on your wedding day. I saw you go by his side. You sent Count Maurice to bring to you the four hundred lances of Kernsberg. It was for his sake that you left my brother Prince Louis at the church door. Like draws to like, they say, and your eyes even now are as like as peas to those of the Count von Löen." And this, indeed, could the Sparhawk in no wise deny. The Princess went her angry way. "There have been many lies told," she cried, raising the pitch of her voice, "but I am not blind. I can see through them. I am a woman and can gauge a woman's pretext. You yourself are in love with the Count von Löen, and yet you tell me that he is with the woman he loves. Bah! he loves you--you, his mistress--next, that is, to his selfish self-seeking self. If he is with the woman he loves, as you say, tell me her name!" There came a knocking at the door. "Who is there?" demanded imperiously the Princess Margaret. "The Prince of Muscovy, to present his duty to the Princess of Courtland!" "I do not wish to see him--I will not see him!" said the Sparhawk hastily, who felt that one inquisitor at a time was as much as he could hope to deal with. "Enter!" said the Princess Margaret haughtily. The Prince opened the door and stood on the threshold bowing to the ladies. "Well?" queried Margaret of Courtland, without further acknowledgment of his salutation than the slightest and chillest nod. "My service to both, noble Princesses," the answer came with suave deference. "The Prince Louis sent me to beg of his noble spouse, the Princess Joan, that she would deign to receive him." "Tell Louis that the Princess will receive him at her own time. He ought to have better manners than to trouble a lady yet weary from a long journey. And as for you, Prince Ivan, you have our leave to go!" Whilst Margaret was speaking the Prince had fixed his piercing eyes upon the Sparhawk, as if already he had penetrated his secret. But because he was a man Maurice sustained the searching gaze with haughty indifference. The Prince of Muscovy turned upon the Princess Margaret with a bright smile. "All this makes an ill lesson for you, my fair betrothed," he said, bowing to her; "but--there will be no riding home once we have you in Moscow!" "True, I shall not need to return, for I shall never ride thither!" retorted the Princess. "Moreover, I would have you remember that I am not your betrothed. The Prince Louis is your betrothed, if you have any in Courtland. You can carry him to Moscow an you will, and comfort each other there." "That also I may do some day, madam!" flashed Prince Wasp, stirred to quick irritation. "But in the meantime, Princess Joan, does it please you to signify when you will receive your husband?" "No! no! no!" whispered the Sparhawk in great perturbation. The Princess Margaret pointed to the door. "Go!" she said. "I myself will signify to my brother when he can wait upon the Princess." "My Lady Margaret," the Muscovite purred in answer, "think you it is wise thus to encourage rebellion in the most sacred relations of life?" The Princess Margaret trilled into merriest laughter and reached back a hand to take Joan's fingers in hers protectingly. "The homily of the most reverend churchman, Prince Ivan of Muscovy, upon matrimony; Judas condemning treachery, Satan rebuking sin, were nothing to this!" With all his faults the Prince had humour, the humour of a torture scene in some painted monkish Inferno. "Agreed," he said, smiling; "and what does the Princess Margaret protecting that pale shrinking flower, Joan of the Sword Hand, remind you of?" "That the room of Prince Ivan is more welcome to ladies than his company!" retorted Margaret of Courtland, still holding the Sparhawk's hand between both of hers, and keeping her angry eyes and petulant flower face indignantly upon the intruder. Had Prince Ivan been looking at her companion at that moment he might have penetrated the disguise, so tender and devoted a light of love dwelt on the Sparhawk's countenance and beaconed from his eyes. But he only bowed deferentially and withdrew. Margaret and the Sparhawk were left once more alone. The two stood thus while the brisk footsteps of Prince Wasp thinned out down the corridor. Then Margaret turned swiftly upon her tall companion and, still keeping her hand, she pulled Maurice over to the window. Then in the fuller light she scanned the Sparhawk's features with a kindling eye and paling lips. "God in heaven!" she palpitated, holding him at a greater distance, "you are not the Lady Joan; you are--you are----" "The man who loves you!" said the Sparhawk, who was very pale. "The Count von Löen. Oh! Maurice, why did you risk it?" she gasped. "They will kill you, tear you to pieces without remorse, when they find out. And it is a thing that cannot be kept secret. Why did you do it?" "For your sake, beloved," said the Sparhawk, coming nearer to her; "to look once more on your face--to behold once, if no more, the lips that kissed me in the dark by the river brink!" "But--but--you may forfeit your life!" "And a thousand lives!" cried the Sparhawk, nervously pulling at his woman's dress as if ashamed that he must wear it at such a time. "Life without you is naught to Maurice von Lynar!" A glow of conscious happiness rose warm and pink upon the cheeks of the Princess Margaret. "Besides," added Maurice, "the captains of Kernsberg considered that thus alone could their mistress be saved." The glow paled a little. "What! by sacrificing you? But perhaps you did it for her sake, and not wholly, as you say, for mine!" There was no such thought in her heart, but she wished to hear him deny it. "Nay, my one lady," he answered; "I was, indeed, more than ready to come to Courtland, but it was because of the hope that surged through my heart, as flame leaps through tow, that I should see you and hear your voice!" The Princess held out her hands impulsively and then retracted them as suddenly. "Now, we must not waste time," she said; "I must save you. They would slay you on the least suspicion. But I will match them. Would to God that Conrad were here. To him I could speak. I could trust him. He would help us. Let me see! Let me see!" She bent her head and walked slowly to the window. Like every true Courtlander she thought best when she could watch the swirl of the green Alla against its banks. The Sparhawk took a step as if to follow, but instead stood still where he was, drinking in her proud and girlish beauty. To the eye of any spy they were no more than two noble ladies who had quarrelled, the smaller and slighter of whom had turned her back upon the taller! They were in the same position still, and the white foam-fleck which Margaret was following with her eyes had not vanished from her sight, when the door of the summer palace was rudely thrown open and an officer announced in a loud and strident tone, "The Prince Louis to visit his Princess!" CHAPTER XXXI THE ROYAL MINX Prince Louis entered, flushed and excited. His eyes had lost their furtive meanness and blazed with a kind of reckless fury quite foreign to his nature, for anger affected him as wine might another man. He spoke first to the Princess Margaret. "And so, my fair sister," he said, "you would foment rebellion even in my palace and concoct conspiracy with my own married wife. Make ready, madam, for to-morrow you shall find your master. I will marry you to the Prince Ivan of Muscovy. He will carry you to Moscow, where ladies of your breed are taught to obey. And if they will not--why, their delicate skins may chance to be caressed with instruments less tender than lovers' fingers. Go--make you ready. You shall be wed and that immediately. And leave me alone with my wife." "I will not marry the Prince of Muscovy," his sister answered calmly. "I would rather die by the axe of your public executioner. I would wed with the vilest scullion that squabbles with the swine for gobbets in the gutters of Courtland, rather than sit on a throne with such a man!" The Prince nodded sagely. "A pretty spirit--a true Courtland spirit," he said mockingly. "I had the same within my heart when I was young. Conrad hath it now--priest though he be. Nevertheless, he is off to Rome to kiss the Pope's toe. By my faith, Gretchen lass, you show a very pretty spirit!" He wheeled about and looked towards the false Joan, who was standing gripping nails into palms by the chimney-mantel. "And you, my lady," he said, "you have had your turn of rebellion. But once is enough. You are conquered now. You are a wedded wife. Your place is with your husband. You sleep in my palace to-night!" "If I do," muttered the Sparhawk, "I know who will wake in hell to-morrow!" "My brother Louis," cried the Princess Margaret, running up to him and taking his arm coaxingly, "do not be so hasty with two poor women. Neither of us desire aught but to do your will. But give us time. Spare us, for you are strong. 'A woman's way is the wind's way'--you know our Courtland proverb. You cannot harness the Northern Lights to your chariot-wheels. Woo us--coax us--aye, even deceive us; but do not force us. Louis, Louis, I thought you were wise, and yet I see that you know not the alphabet of love. Here is your lady. Have you ever said a loving word to her, bent the knee, kissed her hand--which, being persisted in, is the true way to kiss the mouth?" ("If he does either," growled the Sparhawk, "my sword will kiss his midriff!") Prince Louis smiled. He was not used to women's flatteries, and in his present state of exaltation the cajoleries of the Princess suited his mood. He swelled with self-importance, puffing his cheeks and twirling his grey moustache upwards with the finger and thumb of his left hand. "I know more of women than you think, sister," he made answer. "I have had experiences--in my youth, that is; I am no puppet princeling. By Saint Mark! once on a day I strutted it with the boldest; and to-day--well, now that I have humbled this proud madam and brought her to my own city, why, I will show you that I am no Wendish boor. I can sue a lady's favour as courteously as any man--and, Margaret, if you will promise me to be a good girl and get you ready to be married to-morrow, I promise you that Louis of Courtland will solicit his lady's favour with all grace and observance." "Gladly will I be married to-morrow," said the Princess, caressing her brother's sleeve--"that is, if I cannot be married to-day!" she added under her breath. But she paused a few moments as if embarrassed. Then she went on. "Brother Louis, I have spoken with my sister here--your wife, the Lady Joan. She hath a scruple concerning matrimony. She would have it resolved before she hath speech with you again. Permit our good Father Clement to advise with her." "Father Clement--our Conrad's tutor, why he more than another?" "Well, do you not understand? He is old," pleaded Margaret, "and there are things one can say easiest to an old man. You understand, brother Louis." The Prince nodded, well pleased. This was pleasant. His mentor, Prince Wasp, did not usually flatter him. Rather he made him chafe on a tight rein. "And if I send Father Clement to you, chit," he said patting his sister's softly rounded cheek, "will he both persuade you and ease the scruples of my Lady Joan? I am as delicate and understanding as any man. I will not drive a woman when she desires to be led. But led or driven she must be. For to my will she must come at last." "I knew it, I knew it!" she cried joyously. "Again you are mine own Louis, my dear sweet brother! When will Father Clement come?" "As soon as he can be sent for," the Prince answered. "He will come directly here to the Summer Palace. And till then you two fair maids can abide together. Princess, my wife, I kiss your noble hand. Margaret, your cheek. Till to-morrow--till to-morrow!" He went out with an awkward attempt at airy grace curiously grafted on his usually saturnine manners. The door closed behind him. Margaret of Courtland listened a moment with bated breath and finger on lip. A shouted order reached her ear from beneath. Then came the tramp of disciplined feet, and again they heard only the swirl of the Alla fretting about the piles of the Summer Palace. Then, quickly dropping her lover's fingers, Margaret took hold of her own dress at either side daintily and circled about the Sparhawk in a light-tripping dance. "Ah, Louis--we will be so good and bidable--to-morrow. To-morrow you will see me a loving and obedient wife. To-morrow I will wed Prince Wasp. Meantime--to-day you and I, Maurice, will consult Father Clement, mine ancient confessor, who will do anything I ask him. To-day we will dance--put your arm about my waist--firmly--so! There, we will dance at a wedding to-day, you and I. For in that brave velvet robe you shall be married!" "What?" cried the Sparhawk, stopping suddenly. His impulsive sweetheart caught him again into the dance as she swept by in her impetuous career. "Yes," she nodded, minueting before him. "It is as I say--you are to be married all over again. And when you ride off I will ride with you--no slipping your marriage engagements this time, good sir. I know your Kernsberg manners now. You will not find me so slack as my brother!" "Margaret!" cried the Sparhawk. And with one bound he had her against his breast. "Oh!" she cried, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, as she submitted to his embrace, "I don't love you half as much in that dress. Why, it is like kissing another girl at the convent. Ugh, the cats!" She was not permitted to say any more. The Alla was heard very clearly in the Summer Palace as it swept the too swift moments with it away towards the sea which is oblivion. Then after a time, and a time and half a time, the Princess Margaret slowly emerged. "No," she said retrospectively, "it is not like the convent, after all--not a bit." * * * * * "Affection is ever seemly, especially between great ladies--also unusual!" said a bass voice, speaking grave and kindly behind them. The Sparhawk turned quickly round, the crimson rushing instant to his cheek. "Father--dear Father Clement!" cried Margaret, running to the noble old man who stood by the door and kneeling down for his blessing. He gave it simply and benignantly, and laid his hand a moment on the rippling masses of her fair hair. Then he turned his eyes upon the Sparhawk. The confusion of his beautiful penitent, the flush which mounted to her neck even as she kneeled, added to a certain level defiance in the glance of her taller companion, told him almost at a glance that which had been so carefully concealed. For the Father was a man of much experience. A man who hears a dozen confessions every day of his life through a wicket in a box grows accustomed to distinguishing the finer differences of sex. His glance travelled back and forth, from the Sparhawk to Margaret, and from Margaret to the Sparhawk. "Ah!" he said at last, for all comment. The Princess rose to her feet and approached the priest. "My Father," she said swiftly, "this is not the Lady Joan, my brother's wife, but a youth marvellously like her, who hath offered himself in her place that she might escape----" "Nay," said the Sparhawk, "it was to see you once again, Lady Margaret, that I came to Courtland!" "Hush! you must not interrupt," she went on, putting him aside with her hand. "He is the Count von Löen, a lord of Kernsberg. And I love him. We want you to marry us now, dear Father--now, without a moment's delay; for if you do not, they will kill him, and I shall have to marry Prince Wasp!" She clasped her hands about his arm. "Will you?" she said, looking up beseechingly at him. The Princess Margaret was a lady who knew her mind and so bent other minds to her own. The Father stood smiling a little down upon her, more with his eyes than with his lips. "They will kill him and marry you, if I do. And, moreover, pray tell me, little one, what will they do to me?" he said. "Father, they would not dare to meddle with you. Your office--your sanctity--Holy Mother Church herself would protect you. If Conrad were here, he would do it for me. I am sure he would marry us. I could tell him everything. But he is far, far away, on his knees at the shrine of Holy Saint Peter, most like." "And you, young masquerader," said Father Clement, turning to the Sparhawk, "what say you to all this? Is this your wish, as well as that of the Princess Margaret? I must know all before I consent to put my old neck into the halter!" "I will do whatever the Princess wishes. Her will is mine." "Do not make a virtue of that, young man," said the priest smiling; "the will of the Princess is also that of most people with whom she comes in contact. Submission is no distinction where our Lady Margaret is concerned. Why, ever since she was so high" (he indicated with his hand), "I declare the minx hath set her own penances and dictated her own absolutions." "You have indeed been a sweet confessor," murmured Margaret of Courtland, still clasping the Father's arm and looking up fondly into his face. "And you will do as I ask you this once. I will not ask for such a long time again." The priest laughed a short laugh. "Nay, if I do marry you to this gentleman, I hope it will serve for a while. I cannot marry Princesses of the Empire to carnival mummers more than once a week!" A quick frown formed on the brow of Maurice von Lynar. He took a step nearer. The priest put up his hand, with the palm outspread in a sort of counterfeit alarm. "Nay, I know not if it will last even a week if bride and groom are both so much of the same temper. Gently, good sir, gently and softly. I must go carefully myself. I am bringing my grey hairs unpleasantly near the gallows. I must consider my duty, and you must respect my office." The Sparhawk dropped on one knee and bent his head. "Ah, that is better," said the priest, making the sign of benediction above the clustered raven locks. "Rise, sir, I would speak with you a moment apart. My Lady Margaret, will you please to walk on the terrace there while I confer with--the Lady Joan upon obedience, according to the commandment of the Prince." As he spoke the last words he made a little movement towards the corridor with his hand, at the same moment elevating his voice. The Princess caught his meaning and, before either of her companions could stop her, she tiptoed to the door, set her hand softly to the latch, and suddenly flung it open. Prince Louis stood without, with head bowed to listen. The Princess shrilled into a little peal of laughter. "Brother Louis!" she cried, clapping her hands, "we have caught you. You must restrain your youthful, your too ardent affections. Your bride is about to confess. This is no time for mandolins and serenades. You should have tried those beneath her windows in Kernsberg. They might have wooed her better than arbalist and mangonel." The Prince glared at his _débonnaire_ sister as if he could have slain her on the spot. "I returned," he said formally, speaking to the disguised Maurice, "to inform the Princess that her rooms in the main palace were ready for her whenever she deigns to occupy them." "I thank you, Prince Louis," returned the false Princess, bowing. In his character of a woman betrayed and led prisoner the Sparhawk was sparing of his words--and for other reasons as well. "Come, brother, your arm," said the Princess. "You and I must not intrude. We will leave the good Father and his fair penitent. Will you walk with me on the terrace? I, on my part, will listen to your lover's confessions and give you plenary absolution--even for listening at keyholes. Come, dear brother, come!" And with one gay glance shot backward at the Sparhawk, half over her shoulder, the Lady Margaret took the unwilling arm of her brother and swept out. Verily, as Father Clement had said, she was a royal minx. CHAPTER XXXII THE PRINCESS MARGARET IS IN A HURRY The priest waited till their footsteps died away down the corridor before going to the door to shut it. Then he turned and faced the Sparhawk with a very different countenance to that which he had bent upon the Princess Margaret. Generally, when women leave a room the thermometer drops suddenly many degrees nearer the zero of verity. There is all the difference between velvet sheath and bare blade, between the courtesies of seconds and the first clash of the steel in the hands of principals. There are, let us say, two men and one woman. The woman is in the midst. Smile answers smile. Masks are up. The sun shines in. She goes--and before the smile of parting has fluttered from her lips, lo! iron answers iron on the faces of the men. Off, ye lendings! Salute! Engage! To the death! There was nothing, however, very deadly in the encounter of the Sparhawk and Father Clement. It was only as if a couple of carnival maskers had stepped aside out of the whirl of a dance to talk a little business in some quiet alcove. The Father foresaw the difficulty of his task. The Sparhawk was conscious of the awkwardness of maintaining a manly dignity in a woman's gown. He felt, as it were, choked about the legs in another man's presence. "And now, sir," said the priest abruptly, "who may you be?" "Father, I am a servant to the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein and Kernsberg. Maurice von Lynar is my name." "And pray, how came you so like the Duchess that you can pass muster for her?" "That I know not. It is an affair upon which I was not consulted. But, indeed, I do it but poorly, and succeed only with those who know her little, and who are in addition men without observation. Both the Princess and yourself saw through me easily enough, and I am in fear every moment I am near Prince Ivan." "How came the Princess to love you?" "Well, for one thing, I loved her. For another, I told her so!" "The points are well taken, but of themselves insufficient," smiled the priest. "So also have others better equipped by fortune to win her favour than you. What else?" Then, with a certain shamefaced and sulky pride, the Sparhawk told Father Clement all the tale of the mission of the Duchess Joan of Courtland, of the liking the Princess had taken to that lady in her secretary's attire, of the kiss exchanged upon the dark river's bank, the fragrant memory of which had drawn him back to Courtland against his will. And the priest listened like a man of many counsels who knows that the strangest things are the truest, and that the naked truth is always incredible. "It is a pretty tangle you have made between you," said Father Clement when Maurice finished. "I know not how you could more completely have twisted the skein. Every one is somebody else, and the devil is hard upon the hindmost--or Prince Ivan, which is apparently the same thing." The priest now withdrew in his turn to where he could watch the Alla curving its back a little in mid-stream as the summer floods rushed seaward from the hills. To true Courtland folk its very bubbles brought counsel as they floated down towards the Baltic. "Let me see! Let me see!" he murmured, stroking his chin. Then after a long pause he turned again to the Sparhawk. "You are of sufficient fortune to maintain the Princess as becomes her rank?" "I am not a rich man," answered Von Lynar, "but by the grace of the Duchess Joan neither am I a poor one. She hath bestowed on me one of her father's titles, with lands to match." "So," said the priest; "but will Prince Louis and the Muscovites give you leave to enjoy them?" "The estates are on the borders of Plassenburg," said Maurice, "and I think the Prince of Plassenburg for his own security will provide against any Muscovite invasion." "Princes are but princes, though I grant you the Executioner's Son is a good one," answered the priest. "Well, better to marry than to burn, sayeth Holy Writ. It is touch and go, in any event. I will marry you and thereafter betake me to the Abbey of Wolgast, where dwells my very good friend the Abbot Tobias. For old sake's sake he will keep me safe there till this thing blows over." "With my heart I thank you, my Father," said the Sparhawk, kneeling. "Nay, do not thank me. Rather thank the pretty insistency of your mistress. Yet it is only bringing you both one step nearer destruction. Walking upon egg-shells is child's play to this. But I never could refuse your sweetheart either a comfit or an absolution all my days. To my shame as a servant of God I say it. I will go and call her in." He went to the door with a curious smile on his face. He opened it, and there, close by the threshold, was the Princess Margaret, her eyes full of a bright mischief. "Yes, I was listening," she cried, shaking her head defiantly. "I do not care. So would you, Father, if you had been a woman and in love----" "God forbid!" said Father Clement, crossing himself. "You may well make sure of heavenly happiness, my Father, for you will never know what the happiness of earth is!" cried Margaret. "I would rather be a woman and in love, than--than the Pope himself and sit in the chair of St. Peter." "My daughter, do not be irreverent." "Father Clement, were you ever in love? No, of course you cannot tell me; but I think you must have been. Your eyes are kind when you look at us. You are going to do what we wish--I know you are. I heard you say so to Maurice. Now begin." "You speak as if the Holy Sacrament of matrimony were no more than saying 'Abracadabra' over a toadstool to cure warts," said the priest, smiling. "Consider your danger, the evil case in which you will put me when the thing is discovered----" "I will consider anything, dear Father, if you will only make haste," said the Princess, with a smiling natural vivacity that killed any verbal disrespect. "Nay, madcap, be patient. We must have a witness whose head sits on his shoulders beyond the risk of Prince Louis's halter or Prince Ivan's Muscovite dagger. What say you to the High Councillor of Plassenburg, Von Dessauer? He is here on an embassy." The Princess clapped her hands. "Yes, yes. He will do it. He will keep our secret. He also likes pretty girls." "Also?" queried Father Clement, with a grave and demure countenance. "Yes, Father, you know you do----" "It is a thing most strictly forbidden by Holy Church that in fulfilling the duties of sacred office one should be swayed by any merely human considerations," began the priest, the wrinkles puckering about his eyes, though his lips continued grave. "Oh, please, save the homily till after sacrament, dear Father!" cried the Princess. "You know you like me, and that you cannot help it." The priest lifted up his hand and glanced upward, as if deprecating the anger of Heaven. "Alas, it is too true!" he said, and dropped his hand again swiftly to his side. "I will go and summon Dessauer myself," she went on. "I will run so quick. I cannot bear to wait." "Abide ye--abide ye, my daughter," said Father Clement; "let us do even this folly decently and in order. The day is far spent. Let us wait till darkness comes. Then when you are rested--and" (he looked towards the Sparhawk) "the Lady Joan also--I will return with High Councillor Dessauer, who, without observance or suspicion, may pay his respects to the Princesses upon their arrival." "But, Father, I cannot wait," cried the impetuous bride. "Something might happen long before then. My brother might come. Prince Wasp might find out. The Palace itself might fall--and then I should never be married at all!" And the very impulsive and high-strung daughter of the reigning house of Courtland put a kerchief to her eyes and tapped the floor with the silken point of her slipper. The holy Father looked at her a moment and turned his eyes to Maurice von Lynar. Then he shook his head gravely at that proximate bridegroom as one who would say, "If you be neither hanged nor yet burnt here in Courtland--if you get safely out of this with your bride--why, then, Heaven have mercy on your soul!" CHAPTER XXXIII A WEDDING WITHOUT A BRIDEGROOM It was very quiet in the river parlour of the Summer Palace. A shaded lamp burned in its niche over the desk of Prince Conrad. Another swung from the ceiling and filled the whole room with dim, rich light. The window was a little open, and the Alla murmured beneath with a soothing sound, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. There was no one in the great chamber save the youth whose masquerading was now well nigh over. The Sparhawk listened intently. Footsteps were approaching. Quick as thought he threw himself upon a couch, and drew about him a light cloak or woollen cloth lined with silk. The footsteps stopped at his door. A hand knocked lightly. The Sparhawk did not answer. There was a long pause, and then footsteps retreated as they had come. The Sparhawk remained motionless. Again the Alla, outside in the mild autumnal gloaming, said, "Hush!" Tired with anxiety and the strain of the day, the youth passed from musing to real sleep and the stream of unconsciousness, with a long soothing swirl like that of the green water outside among the piles of the Summer Palace, bore him away. He took longer breaths, sighing in his slumbers like a happy tired child. Again there came footsteps, quicker and lighter this time; then the crisp rustle of silken skirts, a warm breath of scented air, and the door was closed again. No knocking this time. It was some one who entered as of right. Then the Princess Margaret, with clasped hands and parted lips, stood still and watched the slumber of the man she loved. Though she knew it not, it was one of the crucial moments in the chronicle of love. If a woman's heart melts from tolerant friendship to a kind of motherhood at the sight of a man asleep; if something draws tight about her heart like the strings of an old-fashioned purse; if there is a pulse beating where no pulse should be, a pleasurable lump in the throat, then it is come--the not-to-be-denied, the long-expected, the inevitable. It is a simple test, and one not always to be applied (as it were) without a doctor's prescription; but, when fairly tried, it is infallible. If a woman is happier listening to a man's quiet breathing than she has ever been hearkening to any other's flattery, it is no longer an affair--it is a passion. The Princess Margaret sat down by the couch of Maurice von Lynar, and, after this manner of which I have told, her heart was moved within her. As she bent a little over the youth and looked into his sleeping face, the likeness to Joan the Duchess came out more strongly than ever, emerging almost startlingly, as a race stamp stands out on the features of the dead. She bent her head still nearer the slightly parted lips. Then she drew back. "No," she murmured, smiling at her intent, "I will not--at least, not now. I will wait till I hear them coming." She stole her hand under the cloak which covered the sleeper till her cool fingers rested on Maurice's hand. He stirred a little, and his lips moved. Then his eyelids quivered to the lifting. But they did not rise. The ear of the Princess was very near them now. "Margaret!" she heard him say, and as the low whisper reached her she sat erect in her chair with a happy sigh. So wonderful is love and so utterly indifferent to time or place, to circumstance or reason. [Illustration: "Maurice stood ... holding Margaret's hand." [_Page 219_]] The Alla also sighed a sigh to think that their hour would pass so swiftly. So Margaret of Courtland, princess and lover, sat contentedly by the pillow of him who had once been a prisoner in the dungeon of Castle Kernsberg. But in the palace of the Prince of Courtland time ran even more swiftly than the Alla beneath its walls. Margaret caught a faint sound far away--footsteps, firm footfalls of men who paced slowly together. And as these came nearer, she could distinguish, mixed with them, the sharp tapping of one who leans upon a staff. She did not hesitate a moment now. She bent down upon the sleeper. Her arm glided under his neck. Her lips met his. "Maurice," she whispered, "wake, dearest. They are coming." "Margaret!" he would have answered--but could not. * * * * * The greetings were soon over. The tale had already been told to Von Dessauer by Father Clement. The pair stood up under the golden glow of the swinging silver lamps. It was a strange scene. For surely never was marriage more wonderfully celebrated on earth than this of two fair maidens (for so they still appeared) taking hands at the bidding of God's priest and vowing the solemn vows, in the presence of a prince's chancellor, to live only for each other in all the world. Maurice, tall and dark, a red mantle thrown back from his shoulders, confined at the waist and falling again to the feet, stood holding Margaret's hand, while she, younger and slighter, her skin creamily white, her cheek rose-flushed, her eyes brilliant as with fever, watched Father Clement as if she feared he would omit some essential of the service. Von Dessauer, High Councillor of Plassenburg, stood leaning on the head of his staff and watching with a certain gravity of sympathy, mixed with apprehension, the simple ceremonial. Presently the solemn "Let no man put asunder" was said, the blessing pronounced, and Leopold von Dessauer came forward with his usual courtly grace to salute the newly made Countess von Löen. He would have kissed her hand, but with a swift gesture she offered her cheek. "Not hands to-day, good friend," she said. "I am no more a princess, but my husband's wife. They cannot part us now, can they, High Councillor? I have gotten my wish!" "Dear lady," the Chancellor of Plassenburg answered gently. "I am an old man, and I have observed that Hymen is the most tricksome of the divinities. His omens go mostly by contraries. Where much is expected, little is obtained. When all men speak well of a wedding, and all the prophets prophesy smooth things--my fear is great. Therefore be of good cheer. Though you have chosen the rough road, the perilous venture, the dark night, the deep and untried ford, you will yet come out upon a plain of gladness, into a day of sunshine, and at the eventide reach a home of content." "So good a fortune from so wise a soothsayer deserves--this!" And she kissed the Chancellor frankly on the mouth. "Father Clement," she said, turning about to the priest with a provocative look on her face, "have you a prophecy for us worthy a like guerdon?" "Avaunt, witch! Get thee behind me, pretty impling! Tempt not an old man to forget his office, or I will set thee such a penance as will take months to perform." Nevertheless his face softened as he spoke. He saw too plainly the perils which encompassed Maurice von Lynar and his wife. Yet he held out his hand benignantly and they sank on their knees. "God bring you well through, beloveds!" he said. "May He send His angels to succour the faithful and punish the guilty!" "I bid you fair good-night!" said Leopold von Dessauer at the threshold. But he added in his heart, "But alas for the to-morrow that must come to you twain!" "I care for nothing now--I have gotten my will!" said the Princess Margaret, nodding her head to the Father as he went out. She was standing on the threshold with her husband's hand in hers, and her eyes were full of that which no words can express. "May that which is so sweet in the mouth now, never prove bitter in the belly!" That was the Father's last prayer for them. But neither Margaret nor Maurice von Lynar so much as heard him, for they had turned to one another. For the golden lamp was burning itself out, and without in the dark the Alla still said, "Hush!" like a mother who soothes her children to sleep. CHAPTER XXXIV LITTLE JOHANNES RODE "But this one day, beloved," the Sparhawk was saying. "What is one day among our enemies? Be brave, and then we will ride away together under cloud of night. Von Dessauer will help us. For love and pity Prince Hugo of Plassenburg will give us an asylum. Or if he will not, by my faith! Helene the Princess will--or her kind heart is sore belied! Fear not!" "I am not afraid--I have never feared anything in my life," answered the Princess Margaret. "But now I fear for you, Maurice. I would give all I possess a hundred times over--nay, ten years of my life--if only you were safe out of this Courtland!" "It will not be long," said the Sparhawk soothingly. "To-morrow Von Dessauer goes with all his train. He cannot, indeed, openly give us his protection till we are past the boundaries of the State. But at the Fords of the Alla we must await him. Then, after that, it is but a short and safe journey. A few days will bring us to the borderlands of Plassenburg and the Mark, where we are safe alike from prince brother and prince wooer." "Maurice--I would it were so, indeed. Do you know I think being married makes one's soul frightened. The one you love grows so terrifyingly precious. It seems such a long time since I was a wild and reckless girl, flouting those who spoke of love, and boasting (oh, so vainly!) that love would never touch me. I used to, not so long ago--though you would not think it now, knowing how weak and foolish I am." The Sparhawk laughed a little and glanced fondly at his wife. It was a strange look, full of the peculiar joy of man--and that, where the essence of love dwells in him, is his sense of unique possession. "Do keep still," said the Princess suddenly, stamping her foot. "How can I finish the arraying of your locks, if you twist about thus in your seat? It is fortunate for you, sir, that the Duchess Joan wears her hair short, like a Northman or a bantling troubadour. Otherwise you could not have gone masquerading till yours had grown to be something of this length." And, with the innocent vanity of a woman preferred, she shook her own head backward till the rich golden tresses, each hair distinct and crisp as a golden wire of infinite thinness, fell over her back and hung down as low as the hollows of her knees. "Joan could not do that!" she cried triumphantly. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world," said the Sparhawk, with appreciative reverence, trying to rise from the low stool in front of the Venice mirror upon which he was submitting to having his toilet superintended--for the first time by a thoroughly competent person. The Princess Margaret bit her lip vixenishly in a pretty way she had when making a pretext of being angry, at the same time sticking the little curved golden comb she was using upon his raven locks viciously into his head. "Oh, you hurt!" he cried, making a grimace and pretending in his turn. "And so I will, and much worse," she retorted, "if you do not be still and do as I bid you. How can a self-respecting tire-woman attend to her business under such circumstances? I warn you that you may engage a new maid." "Wickedest one!" he murmured, gazing fondly up at Margaret, "there is no one like you!" "Well," she drolled, "I am glad of your opinion, though sorry for your taste. For me, I prefer the Lady Joan." "And why?" "Because she is like you, of course!" * * * * * So, on the verge perilous, lightly and foolishly they jested as all those who love each other do (which folly is the only wisdom), while the green Alla sped swiftly on to the sea, and the city in which Death waited for Maurice von Lynar began to hum about them. As yet, however, there fell no suspicion. For Margaret had warned her bowermaidens that the Princess Joan would need no assistance from them. Her own waiting-women were on their way from Castle Kernsberg. In any case she, Margaret of Courtland, would help her sister in person, as well for love as because such service was the guest's right. And the Courtland maidens, accustomed to the whims and sudden likings of their impetuous mistress, glad also to escape extra duty, hastened their task of arraying Margaret. Never had she been so restless and exacting. Her toilet was not half finished when she rose from her ebony stool, told her favourite Thora of Bornholm that she was too ignorant to be trusted to array so much as the tow-head of a Swedish puppet, endued herself without assistance with a long loose gown of velvet lined with pale blue silk, and flashed out again to revisit her sister-in-law. "And do you, Thora, and the others, wait my pleasure in the anteroom," she commanded her handmaidens as she swept through the doorway. "Go barter love-compliments with the men-at-arms. It is all such fumblers are good for!" Behind her back the tiring maids shrugged shoulders and glanced at each other secretly with lifted eyebrow, as they put gowns and broidered slippers back in their places, to signify that if it began thus they were in for a day of it. Nevertheless they obeyed, and, finding certain young gentlemen of Prince Louis's guard waiting for just such an opportunity without, Thora and the others proceeded to carry out to the letter the second part of the instructions of their mistress. "How now, sweet Thora of the Flaxen Locks?" cried Justus of Grätz, a slender young man who carried the Prince's bannerstaff on saints' days, and practised fencing and the art of love professionally at other times; "has the Princess boxed all your ears this morning, that you come trembling forth, pell-mell, like a flock of geese out of a barn when the farmer's dog is after them?" There were three under-officers of the guard in the little courtyard. Slim Justus of Grätz, his friend and boon companion Seydelmann, a man of fine presence and empty head, who on wet days could curl the wings of his moustaches round his ears, and, sitting a little apart from these, little Johannes Rode, the only very brave man of the three, a swordsman and a poet, yet one who passed for a ninny and a greenhorn because he chose mostly to be silent. Nevertheless, Thora of Bornholm preferred him to all others in the palace. For the eyes of a woman are quick to discern manhood--so long, that is, as she is not in love. After that, God wot, there is no eyeless fish so blind in all the caverns of the Hartz. With the Northwoman Thora in her tendance of the Princess there were joined Anna and Martha Pappenheim, two maids quicker of speech and more restless in demeanour--Franconians, like all their name, of their persons little and lithe and gay. The Princess had brought them back with her when at the last Diet she visited Ratisbon with her brother. "Ah, Thora, fairest of maids! Hath an east wind made you sulky this morning, that you will not answer?" languished Justus. "Then I warrant so are not Anna and Martha. My service to you, noble dames!" "Noble 'dames' indeed--and to us!" they answered in alternate jets of speech. "As if we were apple-women or the fat house-frows of Courtlandish burghers. Get away--you have no manners! You sop your wits in sour beer. You eat frogs-meat out of your Baltic marshes. A dozen dozen of you were not worth one lively lad out of sweet Franconia!" "Swe-e-et Franconia!" mocked Justus; "why, then, did you not stop there? Of a verity no lover carried you off to Courtland across his saddle-bow, that I warrant! He had repented his pains and killed his horse long ere he smelt the Baltic brine." "The most that such louts as you Courtlanders could carry off would be a screeching pullet from a farmyard, when the goodman is from home. There is no spirit in the North--save, I grant, among the women. There is our Princess and her new sister the Lady Joan of the Sword Hand. Where will you see their match? Small wonder they will have nothing to say to such men as they can find hereabouts! But how they love each other! 'Tis as good as a love tale to see them----" "Aye, and a very miracle to boot!" interjected Thora of Bornholm. The Pappenheims, as before, went on antiphonally, each answering and anticipating the other. "The Princesses need not any man to make them happy! Their affection for each other is past telling," said Martha. "How their eyes shine when they look at each other!" sighed Anna, while Thora said nothing for a little, but watched Johannes Rode keenly. She saw he had something on his mind. The Northwoman was not of the opinion which Anna Pappenheim attributed to the Princesses. For the fair-skinned daughters of the Goth, being wise, hold that there is but one kind of love, as there is but one kind of gold. Also they believe that they carry with them the philosopher's stone wherewith to procure that fine ore. After a while Thora spoke. "This morning it was 'The Princess needs not your help--I myself will be her tire-woman!' I wot Margaret is as jealous of any other serving the Lady Joan----" "As you would be if we made love to Johannes Rode there!" laughed Martha Pappenheim, getting behind a pillar and peeping roguishly round in order that the poet might have an opportunity of seeing the pretty turn of her ankle. But little Johannes, who with a nail was scratching a line or two of a catch on a smooth stone, hardly even smiled. He minded maids of honour, their gabble and their ankles, no more than jackdaws crying in the crevices of the gable--that is, all except Thora, who was so large and fair and white that he could not get her quite out of his mind. But even with Thora of Bornholm he did his best. "That is all very well _now_," put in vain Fritz Seydelmann, stroking his handsome beard and smiling vacantly; "but wait till these same Princesses have had husbands of their own for a year. Then they will spit at each other and scratch--like cats. All women are cats, and maids of honour the worst of all!" "How so, Sir Wiseman--because they do not like puppies? You have found out that?" Anna Pappenheim struck back demurely. "You ask me why maids of honour are like cats," returned Seydelmann complacently (he had been making up this speech all night). "Do they not arch their backs when they are stroked? Do they not purr? Have you not seen them lie about the house all day, doing nothing and looking as saintly as so many abbots at High Mass? But at night and on the tiles--phew! 'tis another matter then." And having thus said vain moustached Seydelmann, who plumed himself upon his wit, dragged at his moustache horns and simpered bovinely down upon the girls. Anna Pappenheim turned to Thora, who was looking steadily through the self-satisfied Fritz, much as if she could see a spider crawling on the wall behind him. "Do they let things like that run about loose here in Courtland?" she asked, with some anxiety on her face. "We have sties built for them at home in Franconia!" But Thora was in no mood for the rough jesting of officers-in-waiting and princesses' tirewomen. She continued to watch the spider. Then little Johannes Rode spoke for the first time. "I wager," he said slowly, "that the Princesses will be less inseparable by this time to-morrow." "What do you mean, Johannes Rode?" said Thora, with instant challenge in her voice, turning the wide-eyed directness of her gaze full upon him. The young man did not look at her. He merely continued the carving of his couplet upon the lower stone of the sundial, whistling the air as he did so. "Well," he answered slowly, "the Muscovite guard of Prince Ivan have packed their own baggage (together with a good deal that is not their own), and the minster priests are warned to hold themselves at the Prince's bidding all day. That means a wedding, and I warrant you our noble Louis does not mean to marry his Princess all over again in the Dom-Kirch of Courtland. They are going to marry the Russ to our Princess Margaret!" Blonde Fritz laughed loud and long and tugged at his moustache. "Out, you fool!" he cried; "this is a saint's day! I saw it in the chaplain's Breviary. The Prince goes to shrive himself, and right wisely he judges. I would not only confess, but receive extreme unction as well, before I attempted to come nigh Joan of the Sword Hand in the way of love! What say you, Justus?" But before his companion could reply, Thora of Bornholm had risen and stolen quietly within. CHAPTER XXXV A PERILOUS HONEYMOON Never was day so largely and gloriously blue since Courtland was a city as the first morning of the married life of Maurice and Margaret von Lynar, Count and Countess von Löen. The summer floods had subsided, and the tawny dye had gone clean out of the Alla, which was now as clear as aquamarine, and laved rather than fretted the dark green piles of the Summer Palace. The Princesses (so they said without) were more than ever inseparable. They were constantly talking confidentially together, for all the world like schoolgirls with a secret. Doubtless Prince Louis's fair sister was persuading the unruly wife to return to her duty. Doubtless it was so--ah, yes, doubtless! "Better that Prince Louis should do his own embassage in such a matter in his proper person," said the good-wives of Thorn. "For me, I would not listen to any sister if my man came not to my feet himself. The Lady Joan is in the right of it--a feckless lover, no true man!" "Aye," said the men, agreeing for once, "a paper-backed princeling! God wot, were it our Conrad we should soon hear other of it! There would be none of this shilly-shallying back-and-forth work then! We would give half a year's income in golden gulden for a good lusty heir to the Principalities--with that foul Muscovite Ivan yearning to lay the knout across our backs!" "There is something toward to-day," said a decent widow woman who lived in the Königstrasse to her neighbour. "My son, who as you know is a chorister, is gone to practise the Wedding Hymn in the cathedral. I am going thither to get a good place. I will not miss it, whatever it is. Perhaps they are going to make the Princess Joan do penance for her fault, in a white sheet with a candle in her hand a yard long! That would be rare sport. I would not miss it for so much as four farthings!" And with that the chorister's mother hobbled off, telling everybody she met the same story. And so in half an hour the news had spread all over the city, and there began to be the makings of quite a respectable crowd in the Dom Platz of Courtland. It was half-past eleven when the archers of the guard appeared at the entrance of the square which leads from the palace. Behind them, rank upon rank, could be seen the lances of the wild Cossacks of Prince Ivan's escort who had remained behind when the Muscovite army went back to the Russian plains. Their dusky goat-hair tents, which had long covered the banks of the Alla, had now been struck and were laded upon baggage-horses and sumpter mules. "The Prince of Muscovy delays only for the ceremony, whatever it may be!" the people said, admiring at their own prevision. And the better sort added privately, "We shall be well rid of him!" But the baser grieved for the loss of the largesse which he scattered abroad in good Muscovite silver, unclipped and unalloyed, with the mint-master's hammer-stroke clean and clear to the margin. For with such Prince Ivan knew how to make himself beloved, holding man's honour and woman's love at the price of so few and so many gold pieces, and thinking well or ill of them according to their own valuation. The rabble of Courtland, whose price was only silver, he counted as no better than the trodden dirt of the highway. Meanwhile, in the river parlour of the Summer Palace, the two Princesses were talking together even as the people had said. The Princess Margaret sat on a low stool, leaning her elbow on her companion's knee and gazing up at him. And though she sometimes looked away, it was not for long, and Maurice, meeting her ever-recurrent regard, found that a new thing had come into her eyes. Presently a low tapping was heard at the inner door, from which a passage communicated with the rooms of the Princess Margaret. The Sparhawk would have risen, for the moment forgetful of his disguise, but with a slight pressure of her arm upon his knee the Princess restrained him. "Enter!" she called aloud in her clear imperious voice. Thora entered hurriedly, and, closing the door behind her, she stood with the latch in her hand. "My Princess," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "I have heard ill news. They are making the cathedral ready for a wedding. The Cossacks have struck their tents. I think a plot is on foot to marry you this day to Prince Ivan, and to carry you off with him to Moscow." The Sparhawk sprang to his feet and laid his hand on the place where his sword-hilt should have been. "Never," he cried; "it is impossible! The Princess is----" He was about to add, "She is married already," but with a quick gesture of warning Margaret stopped him. "Who told you this?" she queried, turning again to Thora of Bornholm. "Johannes Rode of the Prince's guard told me a moment ago," she answered. "He has just returned from the Muscovite camp." "I thank you, Thora--I shall not forget this faithfulness," said Margaret. "Now you have my leave to go!" The Princess spoke calmly, and to the ear even a little coldly. The door closed upon the Swedish maiden. Margaret and Maurice turned to each other with one pregnant instinct and took hands. "Already!" said Margaret faintly, going back into the woman; "they might have left us alone a little longer. How shall we meet this? What shall we do? I had counted on this one day." "Margaret," answered the Sparhawk impulsively, "this shall not daunt us. We would have told your brother Louis one day. We will tell him now. Duchess Joan is safe out of his reach, Kernsberg is revictualled, the Muscovite army returned. There is no need to keep up the masquerade any longer. Whatever may come of it, let us go to your brother. That will end it swiftly, at all events." The Princess put away his restraining clasp and came closer to him. "No--no," she cried: "you must not. You do not know my brother. He is wholly under the influence of Ivan of Muscovy. Louis would slay you for having cheated him of his bride--Ivan for having forestalled him with me." "But you cannot marry Ivan. That were an outrage against the laws of God and man!" "Marry Ivan!" she cried, to the full as impulsively as her lover; "not though they set ravens to pick the live flesh off my bones! But it is the thought of torture and death for you--that I cannot abide. We must continue to deceive them. Let me think!--let me think!" Hastily she barred the door which led out upon the corridor. Then taking Maurice's hand once more she led him over to the window, from which she could see the green Alla cutting its way through the city bounds and presently escaping into the yet greener corn lands on its way to the sea. "It is for this one day's delay that we must plan. To-night we will certainly escape. I can trust certain of those of my household. I have tried them before.... I have it. Maurice, you must be taken ill--lie down on this couch away from the light. There is a rumour of the Black Death in the city--we must build on that. They say an Astrakhan trader is dead of it already. For one day we may stave it off with this. It is the poor best we can do. Lie down, I will call Thora. She is staunch and fully to be trusted." The Princess Margaret went to the inner door and clapped her hands sharply. The fair-haired Swedish maiden came running to her. She had been waiting for such a signal. "Thora," said her mistress in a quick whisper, "we must put off this marriage. I would sooner die than marry Ivan. You have that drug you spoke of--that which gives the appearance of sickness unto death without the reality. The Lady Joan must be ill, very ill. You understand, we must deceive even the Prince's physicians." The girl nodded with quick understanding, and, turning, she sped away up the inner stair to her own sleeping-chamber, the key of which (as was the custom in Courtland) she carried in her pocket. "This will keep you from being suspected--as in public places you would have been," whispered Margaret to her young husband. "What Thora thinks or knows does not matter. I can trust Thora with my life--nay, what is far more, with yours." A light tap and the girl re-entered, a tall phial in her hand. With a swift look at her mistress to obtain permission, she went up to the couch upon which the Sparhawk had lain down. Then with a deft hand she opened the bottle, and pouring a little of a colourless liquid into a cup she gave it him to drink. In a few minutes a sickly pallor slowly overspread Maurice von Lynar's brow. His eyes appeared injected, the lips paled to a grey white, beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, and his whole countenance took on the hue and expression of mortal sickness. "Now," said Thora, when she had finished, "will the noble lady deign to swallow one of these pellicles, and in ten minutes not a leech in the country will be able to pronounce that she is not suffering from a dangerous disease." "You are sure, Thora," said the Princess Margaret almost fiercely, laying her hand on her tirewoman's wrist, "that there is no harm in all this? Remember, on your life be it!" The placid, flaxen-haired woman turned with the little silver box in her hand. "Danger there is, dear mistress," she said softly, "but not, I think, so great danger as we are already in. But I will prove my honesty----" She took first a little of the liquid, and immediately after swallowed one of the white pellicles she had given Maurice. "It will be as well," she said, "when the Prince's wiseacre physicians come, that they should find another sickening of the same disease." Thora of Bornholm passed about the couch and took up a waiting-maid's station some way behind. "All is ready," she said softly. "We will forestall them," answered the Princess. "Thora, send and bid Prince Louis come hither quickly." "And shall I also ask him to send hither his most skilled doctors of healing?" added the girl. "I will despatch Johannes Rode. He will go quickly and answer as I bid him with discretion--and without asking questions." And with the noiseless tread peculiar to most blonde women of large physique, Thora disappeared through the private door by which she had entered. The Princess Margaret kneeled down by the couch and looked into the face of the Sparhawk. Even she who had seen the wonder was amazed and almost frightened by the ghastly effect the drug had wrought in such short space. "You are sure that you do not feel any ill effects--you are perfectly well?" she said, with tremulous anxiety in her voice. The Sparhawk smiled and nodded reassuringly up at her. "Never better," he said. "My nerves are iron, my muscles steel. I feel as if, for my Margaret's sake, I could vanquish an army of Prince Ivan's single-handed!" The Princess rose from her place and unlocked the main door. "We will be ready for them," she said. "All must appear as though we had no motive for concealment." And, having drawn the curtains somewhat closer, she kneeled down again by the couch. There was no sound in the room as the youthful husband and wife thus waited their fate hand in hand, save only the soft continuous sibilance of their whispered converse, and from without the deeper note of the Alla sapping the Palace walls. CHAPTER XXXVI THE BLACK DEATH The Princes of Courtland and Muscovy, inseparable as the Princesses, were on the pleasant creeper-shaded terrace which looks over the rose garden of the palace of Courtland down upon the sea plain of the Baltic, now stretching blue black from verge to verge under the imminent sun of noon. Prince Louis moved restlessly to and fro, now biting his lip, now frowning and fumbling with his sword-hilt, and anon half drawing his jewelled dagger from its sheath and allowing it to slip back again with the faintly musical click of perfectly fitting steel. Ivan of Muscovy, on the other hand, lounged listlessly in the angle of an embrasure, alternately contemplating his red-pointed toes shod in Cordovan leather, and glancing keenly from under his eyelids at his nervous companion as often as his back was turned in the course of his ceaseless perambulations. "You would desert me, Ivan," Prince Louis was saying in a tone at once appealing and childishly aggressive: "you would leave me in the hour of my need. You would take away from me my sister Margaret, who alone has influence with the Princess, my wife!" "But you do not try to court the lady with any proper fervour," objected Ivan, half humouring and half irritating his companion; "you observe none of the rules. Speak her soft, praise her eyelashes--surely they are worthy of all praise; give her a pet lamb for a playmate. Feed her with conserves of honey and spice. Surely such comfits would mollify even Joan of the Sword Hand!" "Tush!--you flout me, Ivan--even you. Every one despises me since--since she flouted me. The woman is a tigress, I tell you. Every time she looks at me her eyes flick across me like a whip-lash!" "That is but her maiden modesty. How often is it assumed to cover love!" murmured Ivan, demurely smiling at his shoe point, which nodded automatically before him. "So doth the glance of my sweet bride of to-day, your own sister Margaret. To all seeming she loves me as little as the Lady Joan does you. Yet I am not afraid. I know women. Before I have her a month in Moscow she will run that she may be allowed to pull my shoes off and on. She will be out of breath with hasting to fetch my slippers--together with other little domestic offices of that sort, all very profitable for women's souls to perform. Take pattern by me, Louis, and teach the tigress to bring your shoes and tie your hose points. In a little while she will like it and hold up her cheek to be kissed for a sufficient reward." At this point an officer came swiftly across the parterre and stood with uncovered head by the steps of the terrace, waiting permission to ascend. The Prince summoned him with a movement of his hand. "What news?" he said; "have the ladies yet left the Summer Palace?" "No, my lord," answered the officer earnestly; "but Johannes Rode of the Princess Margaret's household has come with a message that the plague has broken out there, and that the Lady Princess is the first stricken!" "Which Princess?" demanded Ivan, with an instant incision of tone. "The Lady Joan, Princess of Courtland, your Highness," replied the man, without, however, looking at the Prince of Muscovy. "The Lady Joan?" cried the Prince Louis. "She is ill? She has brought the Black Death with her from Kernsberg! She is stricken with the plague? How fortunate that, so far, I----" He clapped his hand upon his brow and shut his eyes as if giving thanks. "I see it all now!" he cried. "This is the reason the Kernsberg traitors were so willing to give her up. It is all a plot against my life. I will not go near. Let the court physicians be sent! Cause the doors of the Summer Palace to be sealed! Set double guards! Permit none to pass either way, save the doctors only! And let them change their clothes and perfume themselves with the smoke of sulphur before they come out!" His voice mounted higher and higher as he spoke, and Ivan of Muscovy watched him without speaking, as with hands thrust out and distended nostrils he screamed and gesticulated. Prince Ivan had never seen a thorough coward before, and the breed interested him. But when he had let the Prince run on far enough to shame him before his own officer, he rose quietly and stood in front of him. "Louis," he said, in a low voice, "listen to me--this is but a report. It is like enough to be false; it is certain to be exaggerated. Let us go at once and find out." Prince Louis threw out his hands with a gesture of despair. "Not I--not I!" he cried. "You may go if you like, if you do not value your life. But I--I do not feel well even now. Yesterday I kissed her hand. Ah, would to God that I had not! That is it. I wondered what ailed me this morning. Go--stop the court physicians! Do not let them go to the Summer Palace; bring them here to me first. Your arm, officer; I think I will go to my room--I am not well." Prince Ivan's countenance grew mottled and greyish, and his teeth showed in the sun like a thin line of dazzling white. He grasped the poltroon by the wrist with a hand of steel. "Listen," he said--"no more of this; I will not have it! I will not waste my own time and the blood of my father's soldiers for naught. This is but some woman's trick to delay the marriage--I know it. Hearken! I fear neither Black Death nor black devil; I will have the Lady Margaret to-day if I have to wed her on her death-bed! Now, I cannot enter your wife's chamber alone. Yet go I must, if only to see what all this means, and you shall accompany me. Do you hear, Prince Louis? I swear you shall go with me to the Summer Palace if I have to drag you there step by step!" His grasp lay like a tightening circle of iron about the wrist of Prince Louis; his steady glance dominated the weaker man. Louis drew in his breath with a choking noise. "I will," he gasped; "if it must--I will go. But the Death--the Black Death! I am sick--truly, Ivan, I am very sick!" "So am I!" said Prince Ivan, smiling grimly. "But bring his Highness a cup of wine, and send hither Alexis the Deacon, my own physician." The officer went out cursing the Muscovite ears that had listened to such things, and also high Heaven for giving such a Prince to his true German fatherland. * * * * * Prince Ivan and Prince Louis stood at the door of the river parlour. The peculiar moving hush and tepidly stagnant air of a sick-room penetrated even through the panels. Ivan still kept hold of his friend, but now by the hand, not compulsively, but rather like one who in time of trouble comforts another's sorrow. At either end of the corridor could be seen a guard of Cossacks keeping it against all intrusion from without or exodus from within. So Prince Ivan had ordered it. His fellows were used to the plague, he said. At the Princess's door Prince Ivan tapped gently and inclined his ear to listen. Louis fumbled with his golden crucifix, and as the Muscovite turned away his head he pressed it furtively to his lips. Ever since he set foot in the Summer Palace he had been muttering the prayers of the Church in a rapid undertone. "The Prince Louis to see the Princess Joan!" Ivan answered the low-voiced challenge from within. The door opened slightly and then more widely. Ivan pushed his friend forward and they entered, Louis dragging one foot after the other towards the shaded couch by which knelt the Princess Margaret. Thora of Bornholm, pallid and blue-lipped, stood beside her, swaying a little, but still holding, half unconsciously, as it seemed, a silver basin, into which Margaret dipped a fine linen cloth, before touching with it the foam-flecked lips of the sufferer. Prince Ivan remained a little back, near to where the court physicians were conferring together in stage whispers. As he passed, a tall grey-skirted long-bearded man, girt about the middle with a silver chain, detached himself from the official group and approached Prince Ivan. After an instinctive cringing movement of homage and salutation, he bent to the young man's ear and whispered half a dozen words. Prince Ivan nodded very slightly and the man stole away as he had come. No one in the room had noticed the incident. Meanwhile Louis of Courtland, almost as pale as Thora herself, his lips blue, his teeth chattering, his fingers clammy with perspiration, stood by the bedside clutching the crucifix. Presently a hand was laid upon his arm. He started violently at the touch. "It is true--a bad case," said Ivan in his ear. "Let us get away; I must speak with you at once. The physicians have given their verdict. They can do nothing!" With a gasp of relief Prince Louis faced about, and as he turned he tottered. "Steady, friend Louis!" said Prince Ivan in his ear, and passed his arm about his waist. He began to fear lest he should have frightened his dupe too thoroughly. "See how he loves her!" murmured the doctors of healing, still conferring with their heads together. "Who would have believed it possible?" "Nay, he is only much afraid," said Alexis the Deacon, the Muscovite doctor; "and small blame to him, now that the Black Death has come to Courtland. In half an hour we shall hear the death-rattle!" "Then there is no need of us staying," said more than one learned doctor, and they moved softly towards the door. But Ivan had possessed himself of the key, and even as the hand of the first was on the latchet bar the bolt was shot in his face. And the eyes of Alexis the Deacon glowed between his narrow red lids like sparks in tinder as he glanced at the whitening faces of the learned men of Courtland. Without the door Ivan fixed Prince Louis with his will. "Now," he said, speaking in low trenchant tones, "if this be indeed the Black Death (and it is like it), there is no safety for us here. We must get without the walls. In an hour there will be such a panic in the city as has not been for centuries. I offer you a way of escape. My Cossacks stand horsed and ready without. Let us go with them. But the Princess Margaret must come also!" "She cannot--she cannot. I will not permit it. She may already be infected!" gasped Prince Louis. "There is no infection till the crisis of the disease is passed," said Prince Ivan firmly. "We have had many plagues in Holy Russia, and know the symptoms." ("Indeed," he added to himself, "my physician, Alexis the Deacon, can produce them!") "But--but--but----" Louis still objected, "the Princess Joan--she may die. It will reflect upon my honour if we all desert her. My sister must continue to attend her. They are friends. I will go with you.... Margaret can remain and nurse her!" A light like a spear point glittered momentarily under the dark brows of the Muscovite. "Listen, Prince Louis," he said. "Your honour is your honour. Joan of the Sword Hand and her Black Plagues are your own affair. She is your wife, not mine. I have helped you to get her back--no more. But the Princess Margaret is my business. I have bought her with a price. And look you, sir, I will not ride back to Russia empty-handed, that every petty boyar and starveling serf may scoff at me, saying, 'He helped the Prince of Courtland to win his wife, but he could not bring back one himself.' The whole city, the whole country from here to Moscow know for what cause I have so long sojourned in your capital. No, Prince Louis, will you have me go as your friend or as your enemy?" "Ivan--Ivan, you are my friend. Do not speak to me so! Who else is my friend if you desert me?" "Then give me your sister!" The Prince cast up his hand with a little gesture of despair. "Ah," he sighed, "you do not know Margaret! She is not in my gift, or you should have had her long ago! Oh, these troubles, these troubles! When will they be at an end?" "They are at an end now," said Prince Ivan consolingly. "Call your sister out of the chamber on a pretext. In ten minutes we shall be at the cathedral gates. In another ten she and I can be wedded according to your Roman custom. In half an hour we shall all be outside the walls. If you fear the infection you need not once come near her. I will do all that is necessary. And what more natural? We will be gone before the panic breaks--you to one of your hill castles--if you do not wish to come with us to Moscow." "And the Princess Joan----?" faltered the coward. "She is in good hands," said the Prince, truthfully for once. "I pledge you my word of honour she is in no danger. Call your sister!" Even as he spoke he tapped lightly, turned the key in the lock and whispered, "Now!" to the Prince of Courtland. "Tell the Princess Margaret I would speak with her!" said Prince Louis. "For a moment only!" he added, fearing that otherwise she might not come. There was a stir in the sick chamber and then quick steps were heard coming lightly across the floor. The face of the Princess appeared at the door. "Well?" she said haughtily to her brother. Prince Ivan she did not see, for he had stepped back into the dusk of the corridor. Louis beckoned his sister without. "I must speak a word with you," he said. "I would not have these fellows hear us!" She stepped out unsuspectingly. Instantly the door was closed behind her. A dark figure slid between. Prince Ivan turned the key and laid his hand upon her arm. "Help!" she cried, struggling; "help me! For God's grace, let me go!" But from behind came four Cossacks of the Prince's retinue who half-carried, half-forced her along towards the gates at which the Muscovite horses stood ready saddled. And as Margaret was carried down the passage the alarmed servitors stood aloof from her cries, seeing that Prince Louis himself was with her. Yet she cried out unceasingly in her anger and fear, "To me, men of Courtland! The Cossacks carry me off--I will not go! O God, that Conrad were here! I will not be silent! Maurice, save me!" But the people only shrugged their shoulders even when they heard--as did also the guards and the gentlemen-in-waiting, the underlings and the very porters at the Palace gates. For they said, "They are strange folk, these Courtland princes and princesses of ours, with their marriages and givings in marriage. They can neither wed nor bed like other people, but must make all this fuss about it. Well--happily it is no business of ours!" Then at the stair foot she sank suddenly down by the sundial, almost fainting with the sudden alarm and fear, crying for the last time and yet more piercingly, "Maurice! Maurice! Come to me, Maurice!" Then above them in the Palace there began a mighty clamour, the noise of blows stricken and the roar of many voices. But Ivan of Muscovy was neither to be hurried nor flurried. Impassive and determined, he swung himself into the saddle. His black charger changed his feet to take his weight and looked about to welcome him--for he, too, knew his master. "Give the Princess to me," he commanded. "Now assist Prince Louis into his saddle. To the cathedral, all of you!" CHAPTER XXXVII THE DROPPING OF A CLOAK And so, with the mounted guard of his own Cossacks before him and behind, Prince Ivan carried his bride to church through the streets of her native city. And the folk thronged and marvelled at this new custom of marrying. But none interfered by word or sign, and the obsequious rabble shouted, "Long live Prince Ivan!" Even some of the better disposed, who had no liking for the Muscovite alliance, said within their hearts, looking at the calm set face of the Prince, "He is a man! Would to God that our own Prince were more like him!" Also many women nodded their heads and ran to find their dearest gossips. "You will see," they said, "this one will have no ridings away. He takes his wife before him upon his saddle-bow as a man should. And she will pretend that she does not like it. But secretly--ah, we know!" And they smiled at each other. For there is that in most women which will never be civilised. They love not men who walk softly, and still in their heart of hearts they prefer to be wooed by the primitive method of capture. For if a woman be not afraid of a man she will never love him truly. And that is a true word among all peoples. So they came at last to the Dom and the groups of wondering folks, thinly scattered here and there--women mostly. For there had been such long delay at the Summer Palace that the men had gone back to their shavings and cooperage tubs or were quaffing tankards in the city ale-cellars. The great doors of the cathedral had been thrown wide open and the leathern curtains withdrawn. The sun was checkering the vast tesselated pavement with blurs of purple and red and glorious blue shot through the western window of the nave. In gloomy chapel and recessed nook marble princes and battered Crusaders of the line of Courtland seemed to blink and turn their faces to the wall away from the unaccustomed glare. The altar candles and the lamps a-swing in the choir winked no brighter than yellow willow leaves seen through an autumnal fog. But as the _cortège_ dismounted the organ began to roll, and the people within rose with a hush like that which follows the opening of a window at night above the Alla. The sonorous diapason of the great instrument disgorged itself through the doorway in wave upon wave of sound. The Princess Margaret found herself again on her feet, upheld on either side by brother and lover. She was at first somewhat dazed with the rush of accumulate disasters. Slowly her mind came back. The Dom Platz whirled more slowly about her. With a fresh-dawning surprise she heard the choir sing within. She began to understand the speech of men. The great black square of the open doorway slowed and finally stopped before her. She was on the steps of the cathedral. What had come to her? Was it the Duchess Joan's wedding day? Surely no! Then what was the matter? Had she fainted? Maurice--where was Maurice? She turned about. The small glittering eyes of Prince Ivan, black as sloes, were looking into hers. She remembered now. It was her own wedding. These two, her brother and her enemy, were carrying out their threat. They had brought her to the cathedral to wed her, against her will, to the man she hated. But they could not. She would tell them. Already she was a--but then, if she told them that, they would ride back and kill him. Better that she should perjure herself, condemn herself to hell, than that. Better anything than that. But what was she to do? Was ever a poor girl so driven? And there, in the hour of her extremity, her eye fell upon a young man in the crowd beneath, a youth in a 'prentice's blue jerkin. He was passing his arm softly about a girl's waist--slily also, lest her mother should see. And the maid, first starting with a pretence of not knowing whence came the pressure, presently looked up and smiled at him, nestling a moment closer to his shoulder before removing his hand, only to hold it covertly under her apron till her mother showed signs of turning round. "Ah! why was I born a princess?" moaned the poor driven girl. "Margaret, you must come with us into the cathedral." It was the voice of her brother. "It is necessary that the Prince should wed you now. It has too long been promised, and now he can delay no longer. Besides, the Black Death is in the city, and this is the only hope of escape. Come!" It was on the tip of Margaret's tongue to cry out with wild words even as she had done at the door at the river parlour. But the thought of Maurice, of the torture and the death, silenced her. She lifted her eyes, and there, at the top of the steps, were the dignitaries of the cathedral waiting to lead the solemn procession. "I will go!" she said. And at her words the Prince Ivan smiled under his thin moustache. She laid her hand on her brother's arm and began the ascent of the long flight of stairs. But even as she did so, behind her there broke a wave of sound--the crying of many people, confused and multitudinous like the warning which runs along a crowded thoroughfare when a wild charger escaped from bonds threshes along with frantic flying harness. Then came the clatter of horses' hoofs, the clang of doors shut in haste as decent burghers got them in out of harm's way! And lo! at the foot of the steps, clad from head to foot in a cloak, the sick Princess Joan, she whom the Black Death had stricken, leaped from her foaming steed, and drawing sword followed fiercely up the stairway after the marriage procession. The Cossacks of the Muscovite guard looked at each other, not knowing whether to stand in her way or no. "The Princess Joan!" they said from one to the other. "Joan of the Sword Hand!" whispered the burghers of Courtland. "The disease has gone to her brain. Look at the madness in her eye!" And their lips parted a little as is the wont of those who, having come to view a comedy, find themselves unexpectedly in the midst of high tragedy. "Hold, there!" the pursuer shouted, as she set foot on the lowest step. "Lord! Surely that is no woman's voice!" whispered the people who stood nearest, and their lower jaws dropped a little further in sheer wonderment. The Princes turned on the threshold of the cathedral, with Margaret still between them, the belly of the church black behind them, and the processional priests first halting and then peering over each other's shoulders in their eagerness to see. Up the wide steps of the Dom flew the tall woman in the flowing cloak. Her face was pallid as death, but her eyes were brilliant and her lips red. At the sight of the naked sword Prince Ivan plucked the blade from his side and Louis shrank a little behind his sister. "Treason!" he faltered. "What is this? Is it sudden madness or the frenzy of the Black Death?" "The Princess Margaret cannot be married!" cried the seeming Princess. "To me, Margaret! I will slay the man who lays a hand on you!" Obedient to that word, Margaret of Courtland broke from between her brother and Prince Ivan and ran to the tall woman, laying her brow on her breast. The Prince of Muscovy continued calm and immovable. "And why?" he asked in a tone full of contempt. "Why cannot the Princess Margaret be married?" "Because," said the woman in the long cloak, fingering a string at her neck, "she is married already. _I am her husband!_" The long blue cloak fell to the ground, and the Sparhawk, clad in close-fitting squire's dress, stood before their astonished eyes. A long low murmur, gathering and sinking, surged about the square. Prince Louis gasped. Margaret clung to her lover's arm, and for the space of a score of seconds the whole world stopped breathing. Prince Ivan twisted his moustache as if he would pull it out by the roots. "So," he said, "the Princess is married, is she? And you are her husband? 'Whom God hath joined'--and the rest of it. Well, we shall see, we shall see!" He spoke gently, meditatively, almost caressingly. "Yes," cried the Sparhawk defiantly, "we were married yesterday by Father Clement, the Prince's chaplain, in the presence of the most noble Leopold von Dessauer, High Councillor of Plassenburg!" "And my wife--the Princess Joan, where is she?" gasped Prince Louis, so greatly bewildered that he had not yet begun to be angry. Ivan of Muscovy put out his hand. "Gently, friend," he said; "I will unmask this play-acting springald. This is not your wife, not the woman you wedded and fought for, not the Lady Joan of Hohenstein, but some baseborn brother, who, having her face, hath played her part, in order to mock and cheat and deceive us both!" He turned again to Maurice von Lynar. "I think we have met before, Sir Masquer," he said with his usual suave courtesy; "I have, therefore, a double debt to pay. Hither!" He beckoned to the guards who lined the approaches. "I presume, sir, so true a courtier will not brawl before ladies. You recognise that you are in our power. Your sword, sir!" The Sparhawk looked all about the crowded square. Then he snapped his sword over his knee and threw the pieces down on the stone steps. "You are right; I will not fight vainly here," he said. "I know well it is useless. But"--he raised his voice--"be it known to all men that my name is Maurice, Count von Löen, and that the Princess Margaret is my lawfully wedded wife. She cannot then marry Ivan of Muscovy!" The Prince laughed easily and spread his hand with gentle deprecation, as the guards seized the Sparhawk and forced him a little space away from the clinging hands of the Princess. "I am an easy man," he said gently, as he clicked his dagger to and fro in its sheath. "When I like a woman, I would as lief marry her widow as maid!" CHAPTER XXXVIII THE RETURN OF THE BRIDE "Prince Louis," continued Ivan, turning to the Prince, "we are keeping these holy men needlessly, as well as disappointing the good folk of Courtland of their spectacle. There is no need that we should stand here any longer. We have matters to discuss with this gentleman and--his wife. Have I your leave to bring them together in the Palace? We may have something to say to them more at leisure." But the Prince of Courtland made no answer. His late fears of the Black Death, the astonishing turn affairs had taken, the discovery that his wife was not his wife, the slowly percolating thought that his invasion of Kernsberg, his victories there, and his triumphal re-entry into his capital, had all been in vain, united with his absorbing fear of ridicule to deprive him of speech. He moved his hand angrily and began to descend the stairs towards the waiting horses. Prince Ivan turned towards Maurice von Lynar. "You will come with me to the Palace under escort of these gentlemen of my staff," he said, with smiling equality of courtesy; "there is no need to discuss intimate family affairs before half the rabble of Courtland." He bowed to Maurice as if he had been inviting him to a feast. Maurice looked about the crowded square, and over the pennons of the Cossacks. He knew there was no hope either in flight or in resistance. All the approaches to the square had been filled up with armed men. "I will follow!" he answered briefly. The Prince swept his plumed hat to the ground. "Nay," he said; "lead, not follow. You must go with your wife. The Prince of Muscovy does not precede a lady, a princess,--and a bride!" So it came about that Margaret, after all, descended the cathedral steps on her husband's arm. And as the cavalcade rode back to the Palace the Princess was in the midst between the Sparhawk and Prince Wasp, Louis of Courtland pacing moodily ahead, his bridle reins loose upon his horse's neck, his chin sunk on his breast, while the rabble cried ever, "Largesse! largesse!" and ran before them casting brightly coloured silken scarves in the way. Then Prince Ivan, summoning his almoner to his side, took from him a bag of coin. He dipped his fingers deeply in and scattered the coins with a free hand, crying loudly, "To the health and long life of the Princess Margaret and her husband! Health and riches and offspring!" And the mob taking the word from him shouted all along the narrow streets, "To the Princess and her husband!" But from the hooded dormers of the city, from the lofty gable spy-holes, from the narrow windows of Baltic staircase-towers the good wives of Courtland looked down to see the great folk pass. And their comment was not that of the rabble. "Married, is she?" they said among themselves. "Well, God bless her comely face! It minds me of my own wedding. But, by my faith, I looked more at my Fritz than she doth at the Muscovite. I declare all her eyes are for that handsome lad who rides at her left elbow----" "Nay, he is not handsome--look at his face. It is as white as a new-washen clout hung on a drying line. Who can he be?" "Minds me o' the Prince's wife, the proud lady that flouted him, mightily he doth--I should not wonder if he were her brother." "Yes, by my faith, dame--hast hit it! So he doth. And here was I racking my brains to think where I had seen him before, and then, after all, I never _had_ seen him before!" "A miracle it is, gossip, and right pale he looks! Yet I should not wonder if our Margaret loves him the most. Her eyes seek to him. Women among the great are not like us. They say they never like their own husbands the best. What wouldst thou do, good neighbour Bette, if I loved your Hans better than mine own stupid old Fritz! Pull the strings off my cap, dame, sayst thou? That shows thee no great lady. For if thou wast of the great, thou wouldst no more than wave thy hand and say, 'A good riddance and a heartsome change!'--and with that begin to make love to the next young lad that came by with his thumbs in his armholes and a feather in his cap!" "And what o' the childer--the house-bairns--what o' them? With all this mixing about, what comes o' them--answer me that, good dame!" "What, Gossip Bette--have you never heard? The childer of the great, they suck not their own mothers' milk--they are not dandled in their own mothers' arms. They learn not their Duty from their mothers' lips. When they are fractious, a stranger beats them till they be good----" "Ah," cried the court of matrons all in unison, "I would like to catch one of the fremit lay a hand on my Karl--my Kirsten--that I would! I would comb their hair for them, tear the pinner off their backs--that I would!" "And I!" "And I!" "Nay, good gossips all," out of the chorus the voice of the dame learned in the ways of the great asserted itself; "that, again, proves you all no better than burgherish town-folk--not truly of the noble of the land. For a right great lady, when she meets a foster-nurse with a baby at the breast, will go near and say--I have heard 'em--'La! the pretty thing--a poppet! Well-a-well, 'tis pretty, for sure! And whose baby may this be?' "'Thine own, lady, thine own!'" At this long and loud echoed the derision of the good wives of Courtland. Their gossip laughed and reasserted. But no, they would not hear a word more. She had overstepped the limit of their belief. "What, not to know her child--her own flesh and blood? Out on her!" cried every mother who had felt about her neck the clasp of tiny hands, or upon her breast the easing pressure of little blind lips. "Good dame, no; you shall not hoodwink us. Were she deaf and dumb and doting, a mother would yet know her child. 'Tis not in nature else! Well, thanks be to Mary Mother--she who knew both wife-pain and mother-joy, we, at least, are not of the great. We may hush our own bairns to sleep, dance with them when they frolic, and correct them when they be naughty-minded. Nevertheless, a good luck go with our noble lady this day! May she have many fair children and a husband to love her even as if she were a common woman and no princess!" So in little jerks of blessing and with much head-shaking the good wives of Courtland continued their congress, long after the last Cossack lance with its fluttering pennon had been lost to view down the winding street. For, indeed, well might the gossips thank the Virgin and their patron saints that they were not as the poor Princess Margaret, and that their worst troubles concerned only whether Hans or Fritz tarried a little over-long in the town wine-cellars, or wagered the fraction of a penny too much on a neighbour's cock-fight, and so returned home somewhat crusty because the wrong bird had won the main. * * * * * But in the Prince's palace other things were going forward. Hitherto we have had to do with the Summer Palace by the river, a building of no strength, and built more as a pleasure house for the princely family than as a place of permanent habitation. But the Castle of Courtland was a structure of another sort. Set on a low rock in the centre of the town, its walls rose continuous with its foundations, equally massive and impregnable, to the height of over seventy feet. For the first twenty-five neither window nor grating broke the grim uniformity of those mighty walls of mortared rock. Above that line only a few small openings half-closed with iron bars evidenced the fact that a great prince had his dwelling within. The main entrance to the Castle was through a gateway closed by a grim iron-toothed portcullis. Then a short tunnel led to another and yet stronger defence--a deep natural fosse which surrounded the rock on all sides, and over which a drawbridge conducted into the courtyard of the fortress. The Sparhawk knew very well that he was going to his death as he rode through the streets of the city of Courtland, but none would have discovered from his bearing that there was aught upon his mind of graver concern than the fit of a doublet or, perhaps, the favour of a pretty maid-of-honour. But with the Princess Margaret it was different. In these last crowded hours she had quite lost her old gay defiance. Her whole heart was fixed on Maurice, and the tears would not be bitten back when she thought of the fate to which he was going with so manly a courage and so fine an air. They dismounted in the gloomy courtyard, and Maurice, slipping quickly from his saddle, caught Margaret in his arms before the Muscovite could interfere. She clung to him closely, knowing that it might be for the last time. "Maurice, Maurice," she murmured, "can you forgive me? I have brought you to this!" "Hush, sweetheart," he answered in her ear; "be my own dear princess. Do not let them see. Be my brave girl. They cannot divide our love!" "Come, I beg of you," came the dulcet voice of Prince Ivan behind them; "I would not for all Courtland break in upon the billing and cooing of such turtle-doves, were it not that their affection blinds them to the fact that the men-at-arms and scullions are witnesses to these pretty demonstrations. Tarry a little, sweet valentines--time and place wait for all things." The Princess commanded herself quickly. In another moment she was once more Margaret of Courtland. "Even the Prince of Muscovy might spare a lady his insults at such a time!" she said. The Prince bared his head and bowed low. "Nay," he said very courteously; "you mistake, Princess Margaret. I insult you not. I may regret your taste--but that is a different matter. Yet even that may in time amend. My quarrel is with this gentleman, and it is one of some standing, I believe." "My sword is at your service, sir!" said Maurice von Lynar firmly. "Again you mistake," returned the Prince more suavely than ever; "you have no sword. A prisoner, and (if I may say so without offence) a spy taken red-hand, cannot fight duels. The Prince of Courtland must settle this matter. When his Justiciar is satisfied, I shall most willingly take up my quarrel with--whatever is left of the most noble Count Maurice von Lynar." To this Maurice did not reply, but with Margaret still beside him he followed Prince Louis up the narrow ancient stairway called from its shape the couch, into the gloomy audience chamber of the Castle of Courtland. They reached the hall, and then at last, as though restored to power by his surroundings, Prince Louis found his tongue. "A guard!" he cried; "hither Berghoff, Kampenfeldt! Conduct the Princess to her privy chamber and do not permit her to leave it without my permission. I would speak with this fellow alone." Ivan hastily crossed over to Prince Louis and whispered in his ear. In the meantime, ere the soldiers of the guard could approach, Margaret cried out in a loud clear voice, "I take you all to witness that I, Margaret of Courtland, am the wife of this man, Maurice von Lynar, Count von Löen. He is my wedded husband, and I love him with all my heart! According to God's holy ordinance he is mine!" "You have forgotten the rest, fair Princess," suggested Prince Ivan subtly--"_till death you do part!_" CHAPTER XXXIX PRINCE WASP STINGS Margaret did not answer her tormentor's taunt. Her arms went about Maurice's neck, and her lips, salt with the overflowing of tears, sought his in a last kiss. The officer of the Prince's guard touched her on the shoulder. She shook him haughtily off, and then, having completed her farewells, she loosened her hands and went slowly backward towards the further end of the hall with her eyes still upon the man she loved. "Stay, Berghoff," said Prince Louis suddenly; "let the Princess remain where she is. Cross your swords in front of her. I desire that she shall hear what I have to say to this young gentleman." "And also," added Prince Ivan, "I desire the noble Princess to remember that this has been granted by the Prince upon my intercession. In the future, it may gain me more of her favour than I have had the good fortune to enjoy in the past!" Maurice stood alone, his tall slender figure supple and erect. One hand rested easily upon his swordless thigh, while the other still held the plumed hat he snatched up as in frantic haste he had followed Margaret from the Summer Palace. There ensued a long silence in which the Sparhawk eyed his captors haughtily, while Prince Louis watched him from under the grey penthouse of his eyebrows. Then three several times the Prince essayed to speak, and as often utterance was choked within him. His feelings could only find vent in muttered imprecations, half smothered by a consuming rage. Then Prince Ivan crossed over and laid his hand restrainingly on his arm. The touch seemed to calm his friend, and, after swallowing several times as there had been a knot in his throat, at last he spoke. For the second time in his life Maurice von Lynar stood alone among his enemies; but this time in peril far deadlier than among the roisterous pleasantries of Castle Kernsberg. Yet he was as little daunted now as then. Once on a time a duchess had saved him. Now a princess loved him. And even if she could not save him, still that was better. "So," cried Prince Louis, in the curiously uneven voice of a coward lashing himself into a fury, "you have played out your treachery upon a reigning Prince of Courtland. You cheated me at Castle Kernsberg. Now you have made me a laughing-stock throughout the Empire. You have shamed a maiden of my house, my sister, the daughter of my father. What have you to say ere I order you to be flung out from the battlements of the western tower?" "Ere it comes to that I shall have something to say, Prince Louis," interrupted Prince Wasp, smiling. "We must not waste such dainty powers of masquerade on anything so vulgar as the hangman's rope." "Gentlemen and princes," Maurice von Lynar answered, "that which I have done I have done for the sake of my mistress, the Lady Joan, and I am not afraid. Prince Louis, it was her will and intent never to come to Courtland as your wife. She would not have been taken alive. It was therefore the duty of her servants to preserve her life, and I offered myself in her stead. My life was hers already, for she had preserved it. She had given. It was hers to take. With the chief captains of Kernsberg I plotted that she should be seized and carried to a place of refuge wherein no foe could even find her. There she abides with chosen men to guard her. I took her place and was delivered up that Kernsberg might be cleared of its enemies. Gladly I came that I might pay a little of my debt to my sovran lady and liege mistress, Joan Duchess of Kernsberg and Hohenstein." "Nobly perorated!" cried Prince Ivan, clapping his hands. "Right sonorously ended. Faith, a paladin, a deliverer of oppressed damsels, a very carnival masquerader! He will play you the dragon, this fellow, or he will act Saint George with a sword of lath! He will amble you the hobby-horse, or be the Holy Virgin in a miracle play. Well, he shall play in one more good scene ere I have done with him. But, listen, Sir Mummer, in all this there is no word of the Princess Margaret. How comes it that you so loudly proclaim having given yourself a noble sacrifice for one fair lady, when at the same time you are secretly married to another? Are you a deliverer of ladies by wholesale? Speak to this point. Let us have another noble period--its subject my affianced bride. Already we have heard of your high devotion to Prince Louis's wife. Well--next!" But it was the Princess who spoke from where she stood behind the crossed swords of her guards. "That _I_ will answer. I am a woman, and weak in your hands, princes both. You have set the grasp of rude men-at-arms upon the wrist of a Princess of Courtland. But you can never compel her soul. Brother Louis, my father committed me to you as a little child--have I not been a loving and a faithful sister to you? And till this Muscovite came between, were you not good to me? Wherefore have you changed? Why has he made you cruel to your little Margaret?" Prince Louis turned towards his sister, moving his hands uncertainly and even deprecatingly. Ivan moved quickly to his side and whispered something which instantly rekindled the light of anger in the weakling's eyes. "You are no sister of mine," he said; "you have disgraced your family and yourself. Whether it be true or no that you are married to this man matters little!" "It is true; I do not lie!" said Margaret recovering herself. "So much the worse, then, and he shall suffer for it. At least I can hide, if I cannot prevent, your shame!" "I will never give him up; nothing on earth shall part our love!" Prince Ivan smiled delicately, turning to where she stood at the end of the hall. "Sweet Princess," he said, "divorce is, I understand, contrary to your holy Roman faith. But in my land we have discovered a readier way than any papal bull. Be good enough to observe this"--he held a dagger in his hand. "It is a little blade of steel, but a span long, and narrow as one of your dainty fingers, yet it will divorce the best married pair in the world." "But neither dagger nor the hate of enemies can sever love," Margaret answered proudly. "You may slay my husband, but he is mine still. You cannot twain our souls." The Prince shrugged his shoulder and opened his palms deprecatingly. "Madam," he said, "I shall be satisfied with twaining your bodies. In holy Russia we are plain men. We have a saying, 'No one hath ever seen a soul. Let the body content you!' When this gentleman is--what I shall make him, he is welcome to any communion of souls with you to which he can attain. I promise you that, so far as he is concerned, you shall find me neither exigent lover nor jealous husband!" The Princess looked at Maurice. Her eyes had dwelt defiantly on the Prince of Muscovy whilst he was speaking, but now a softer light, gentle yet brave, crept into them. "Fear not, my husband," she said. "If the steel divide us, the steel can also unite. They cannot watch so close, or bind so tight, but that I can find a way. Or, if iron will not pierce, fire burn, or water drown, I have a drug that will open the door which leads to you. Fear not, dearest, I shall yet meet you unashamed, and as your loyal wife, without soil or stain, look into your true eyes." "I declare you have taught your mistress the trick of words!" cried the Prince delightedly. "Count von Löen, the Lady Margaret has quite your manner. She speaks to slow music." But even the sneers of Prince Ivan could not filch the greatness out of their loves, and Prince Louis was obviously wavering. Ivan's quick eye noted this and he instantly administered a fillip. "Are you not moved, Louis?" he said. "How shamelessly hard is your heart! This handsome youth, whom any part sets like a wedding favour and fits like his own delicate skin, condescends to become your relative. Where is your welcome, your kinsmanlike manners? Go, fall upon his neck! Kiss him on either cheek. Is he not your heir? He hath only sequestrated your wife, married your sister. Your only brother is a childless priest. There needs only your decease to set him on the throne of the Princedom. Give him time. How easily he has compassed all this! He will manage the rest as easily. And then--listen to the shouting in the streets. I can hear it already. 'Long live Maurice the Bastard, Prince of Courtland!'" And the Prince of Muscovy laughed loud and long. But Prince Louis did not laugh. His eyes glared upon the prisoner like those of a wild beast caught in a corner whence it wishes to flee but cannot. "He shall die--this day shall be his last. I swear it!" he cried. "He hath mocked me, and I will slay him with my hand." He drew the dagger from his belt. But in the centre of the hall the Sparhawk stood so still and quiet that Prince Louis hesitated. Ivan laid a soft hand upon his wrist and as gently drew the dagger out of his grasp. "Nay, my Prince, we will give him a worthier passing than that. So noble a knight-errant must die no common death. What say you to the Ukraine Cross, the Cross of Steeds? I have here four horses, all wild from the steppes. This squire of dames, this woman-mummer, hath, as now we know, four several limbs. By a strange coincidence I have a wild horse for each of these. Let limbs and steeds be severally attached, my Cossacks know how. Upon each flank let the lash be laid--and--well, the Princess Margaret is welcome to her liege lord's soul. I warrant she will not desire his fair body any more." At this Margaret tottered, her knees giving way beneath her, so that her guards stood nearer to catch her if she should fall. "Louis--my brother," she cried, "do not listen to the monster. Kill my husband if you must--because I love him. But do not torture him. By the last words of our mother, by the memory of our father, by your faith in the Most Pitiful Son of God, I charge you--do not this devilry." Prince Ivan did not give Louis of Courtland time to reply to his sister's appeal. "The most noble Princess mistakes," he murmured suavely. "Death by the Cross of Steeds is no torture. It is the easiest and swiftest of deaths. I have witnessed it often. In my country it is reserved for the greatest and the most distinguished. No common felon dies by the Cross of Steeds, but men whose pride it is to die greatly. Ere long we will show you on the plain across the river that I speak the truth. It is a noble sight, and all Courtland shall be there. What say you, Louis? Shall this springald seat himself in your princely chair, or--shall we try the Cross of the Ukraine?" "Have it your own way, Prince Ivan!" said Louis, and went out without another word. The Muscovite stood a moment looking from Maurice to Margaret and back again. He was smiling his inscrutable Oriental smile. "The Prince has given me discretion," he said at last. "I might order you both to separate dungeons, but I am an easy man and delight in the domestic affections. I would see the parting of two such faithful lovers. I may learn somewhat that shall stand me in good stead in the future. It is my ill-fortune that till now I have had little experience of the gentler emotions." He raised his hand. "Let the Princess pass," he cried. The guards dropped their swords to their sides. They had been restraining her with as much gentleness as their duty would permit. Instantly the Princess Margaret ran forward with eager appeal on her face. She dropped on her knees before the Prince of Muscovy and clasped her hands in supplication. "Prince Ivan," she said, "I pray you for the love of God to spare him, to let him go. I promise never to see him more. I will go to a nunnery. I will look no more upon the face of day." "That, above all things, I cannot allow," said the Prince. "So fair a face must see many suns--soon, I trust, in Moscow city, and by my side." "Margaret," said the Sparhawk, "it is useless to plead. Do not abase yourself in the presence of our enemy. You cannot touch a man's heart when his breast covers a stone. Bid me goodbye and be brave. The time will not be long." From the place where Margaret the loving woman had kneeled Margaret the Princess rose to her feet at the word of her husband. Without deigning even to glance at Ivan, who had stooped to assist her, she passed him by and went to Von Lynar. He held out both his hands and took her little trembling ones in a strong assured clasp. The Prince watched the pair with a chill smile. "Margaret," said Maurice, "this will not be for long. What matters the ford, so that we both pass over the river. Be brave, little wife. The crossing will not be wide, nor the water deep. They cannot take from us that which is ours. And He who joined us, whose priest blessed us, will unite us anew when and where it seemeth good to Him!" "Maurice, I cannot let you die--and by such a terrible death!" "Dearest, what does it matter? I am yours. Wherever my spirit may wander, I am yours alone. I will think of you when the Black Water shallows to the brink. On the further side I will wait a day and then you will meet me there. To you it may seem years. It will be but a day to me. And I shall be there. So, little Margaret, good-night. Do not forget that I love you. I would have made you very happy, if I had had time--ah, if I had had time!" Like a child after its bedside prayer she lifted up her face to be kissed. "Good-night, Maurice," she said simply. "Wait for me; I shall not be long after!" She laid her brow a moment on his breast. Then she lifted her head and walked slowly and proudly out of the hall. The guard fell in behind her, and Maurice von Lynar was left alone with the Prince of Muscovy. As the door closed upon the Princess a sudden devilish grimace of fury distorted the countenance of Prince Ivan. Hitherto he had been studiously and even caressingly courteous. But now he strode swiftly up to his captive and smote him across the mouth with the back of his gauntleted hand. "That!" he said furiously, "that for the lips which have kissed hers! Soon, soon I shall pay the rest of my debt. Yes, by the most high God, I will pay it--with usury thereto!" A thin thread of scarlet showed upon the white of Maurice von Lynar's chin and trickled slowly downwards. But he uttered no word. Only he looked his enemy very straightly in the eyes, and those of the Muscovite dropped before that defiant fierce regard. CHAPTER XL THE LOVES OF PRIEST AND WIFE It remains to tell briefly how certain great things came to pass. We must return to Isle Rugen and to the lonely grange on the spit of sand which separates the Baltic from the waters of the Freshwater Haff. Many things have happened there since Conrad of Courtland, Cardinal and Archbishop, awaked to find by his bedside the sleeping girl who was his brother's wife. On Isle Rugen, where the pines grew dense and green, gripping and settling the thin sandy soil with their prehensile roots, Joan and Conrad found themselves much alone. The lady of the grange was seldom to be seen, save when all were gathered together at meals. Werner von Orseln and the Plassenburg captains, Jorian and Boris, played cards and flung harmless dice for white stones of a certain size picked from the beach. Dumb Max Ulrich went about his work like a shadow. The ten soldiers mounted guard and looked out to sea with their elbows on their knees in the intervals. Three times a week the solitary boat, with Max Ulrich at the oars, crossed to the landing-place on the mainland and returned laden with provisions. The outer sea was empty before their eyes, generally deep blue and restless with foam caps. Behind them the Haff lay vacant and still as oil in a kitchen basin. But it was not dull on Isle Rugen. The osprey flashed and fell in the clear waters of the Haff, presently to re-emerge with a fish in his beak, the drops running like a broken string of pearls from his scales. Rough-legged buzzards screamed their harsh and melancholy cry as on slanted wings they glided down inclines of sunshine or lay out motionless upon the viewless glorious air. Wild geese swept overhead out of the north in V-shaped flocks. The sea-gulls tacked and balanced. All-graceful terns swung thwartways the blue sky, or plunged headlong into the long green swells with the curve and speed of falling stars. It was a place of forgetting, and in the autumn time it is good to forget. For winter is nigh, when there will be time and enough to think all manner of sad thoughts. So in the September weather Joan and Conrad walked much together. And as Joan forgat Kernsberg and her revenge, Rome and his mission receded into the background of the young man's thoughts. Soon they met undisguisedly without fear or shame. This Isle Rugen was a place apart--a haven of refuge not of their seeking. Mars had driven one there, Neptune the other. Yet when Conrad woke in his little north-looking room in the lucid pearl-grey dawn he had some bad moments. His vows, his priesthood, his princedom of Holy Church were written in fire before his eyes. His heart weighed heavy as if cinctured with lead. And, deeper yet, a rat seemed to gnaw sharp-toothed at the springs of his life. Also, when the falling seas, combing the pebbly beaches with foamy teeth, rattled the wet shingle, Joan would ofttimes wake from sleep and lie staring wide-eyed at the casement. Black reproach of self brooded upon her spirit, as if a foul bird of night had fluttered through the open window and settled upon her breast. The poor folk of Kernsberg--her fatherland invaded and desolate, the Sparhawk, the man who ought to have been the ruler she was not worthy to be, the leader in war, the lawgiver in peace--these reproachful shapes filled her mind so that sleep fled and she lay pondering plans of escape and deliverance. But of one thing she never thought--of the cathedral of Courtland and the husband to whose face she had but once lifted her eyes. The sun looked through between the red cloud bars. These he soon left behind, turning them from fiery islands to banks of fleecy wool. The shadows shot swiftly westward and then began slowly to shorten. In his chamber Prince Conrad rose and went to the window. A rose-coloured light lay along the sea horizon, darting between the dark pine stems and transmuting the bare sand-dunes into dreamy marvels, till they touched the heart like glimpses of a lost Eden seen in dreams. The black bird of night flapped its way behind the belting trees. There was not such a thing as a ghostly rat to gnaw unseen the heart of man. The blue dome of sky overhead was better than the holy shrine of Peter across the tawny flood of Tiber, and Isle Rugen more to be desired than the seven-hilled city itself. Yea, better than lifted chalice and wafted incense, Joan's hand in his---- And Conrad the lover turned from the window with a defiant heart. * * * * * At her casement, which opened to the east, stood at the same moment the young Duchess of Hohenstein. Her lips were parted and the mystery of the new day dwelt in her eyes like the memory of a benediction. Southward lay the world, striving, warring, sinning, repenting, elevating the Host, slaying the living, and burying the dead. But between her and that world stretched a wide water not to be crossed, a fixed gulf not to be passed over. It was the new day, and there beneath her was the strip of silver sand where he and she had walked yestereven, when the moon was full and the wavelets of that sheltered sea crisped in silver at their feet. An hour afterwards these two met and gave each other a hand silently. Then, facing the sunrise, they walked eastward along the shore, while from the dusk of the garden gate Theresa von Lynar watched them with a sad smile upon her face. "She is learning the lesson even as I learned it," she murmured, unconsciously thinking aloud. "Well, that which the father taught it is meet that the daughter should learn. Let her eat the fruit, the bitter fruit of love--even as I have eaten it!" She watched a little longer, standing there with the pruning-knife in her hand. She saw Conrad turn towards Joan as they descended a little dell among the eastern sand-hills. And though she could not see, she knew that two hands met, and that they stood still for a moment, ere their feet climbed the opposite slope of dew-drenched sand. A swift sob took her unexpectedly by the throat. "And yet," she said, "were all to do over, would not Theresa von Lynar again learn that lesson from Alpha to Omega, eat the Dead Sea fruit to its bitterest kernel, in order that once more the bud might open and love's flower be hers?" Theresa von Lynar at her garden door spoke truth. For even then among the sand-hills the bud was opening, though the year was on the wane and the winter nigh. "Happy Isle Rugen!" said Joan, drawing a breath like a sigh. "Why were we born to princedoms, Conrad, you and I?" "I at least was not," answered her companion. "Dumb Max's jerkin of blue fits me better than any robe royal." They stood on the highest part of the island. Joan was leaning on the crumbling wall of an ancient fort, which, being set on a promontory from which the pinetrees drew back a little, formed at once a place of observation and a point objective for their walks. She turned at his words and looked at him. Conrad, indeed, never looked better or more princely than in that rough jerkin of blue, together with the corded forester's breeches and knitted hose which he had borrowed from Theresa's dumb servitor. "Conrad," said Joan, suddenly standing erect and looking directly at the young man, "if I were to tell you that I had resolved never to return to Kernsberg, but to remain here on Isle Rugen, what would you answer?" "I should ask to be your companion--or, if not, your bailiff!" said the Prince-Bishop promptly. "That would be to forget your holy office!" A certain gentle sadness passed over the features of the young man. "I leave many things undone for the sake of mine office," he said; "but the canons of the Church do not forbid poverty, or yet manual labour." "But you have told me a hundred times," urged Joan, smiling in spite of herself, "that necessity and not choice made you a Churchman. Does that necessity no longer exist?" "Nay," answered Conrad readily as before; "but smaller necessities yield to greater?" "And the greater?" "Why," he answered, "what say you to the tempest that drove me hither--the thews and stout hearts of Werner von Orseln and his men, not to speak of Captains Boris and Jorian there? Are they not sufficient reasons for my remaining here?" He paused as if he had more to say. "Well?" said Joan, and waited for him to continue. "There is something else," he said. "It is--it is--that I cannot bear to leave you! God knows I could not leave you if I would!" Joan of Hohenstein started. The words had been spoken in a low tone, yet with suppressed vehemence, as though driven from the young man's lips against his will. But there was no mistaking their purport. Yet they were spoken so hopelessly, and withal so gently, that she could not be angry. "Conrad--Conrad," she murmured reproachfully, "I thought I could have trusted you. You promised never again to forget what we must both remember!" "In so thinking you did well," he replied; "you may trust me to the end. But the privilege of speech and testimony is not denied even to the criminal upon the scaffold." A wave of pity passed over Joan. A month before she would have withdrawn herself in hot anger. But Isle Rugen had gentled all her ways. The peace of that ancient fortalice, the wash of its ambient waters, the very lack of incident, the sense of the mysteries of tragic life which surrounded her on all sides, the deep thoughts she had been thinking alone with herself, the companionship of this man whom she loved--all these had wrought a new spirit in Joan of the Sword Hand. Women who cannot be pitiful are but half women. They have never yet entered upon their inheritance. But now Joan was coming to her own again. For to pity of Theresa von Lynar she was adding pity for Conrad of Courtland and--Joan of Hohenstein. "Speak," she said very gently. "Do not be afraid; tell me all that is in your heart." Joan was not disinclined to hear any words that the young man might speak. She believed that she could listen unmoved even to his most passionate declarations of love. Like the wise physician, she would listen, understand, prescribe--and administer the remedy. But the pines of Isle Rugen stood between this woman and the girl who had ridden away so proudly from the doors of the Kernsberg minster at the head of her four hundred lances. Besides, she had not forgotten the tournament and the slim secretary who had once stood before this man in the river parlour of the Summer Palace. Then Conrad spoke in a low voice, very distinct and even in its modulation. "Joan," he said, "once on a time I dreamed of being loved--dreamed that among all the world of women there might be one woman for me. Such things must come when deep sleep falleth upon a young man. Waking I put them from me, even as I put arms and warfare aside. I believed that I had conquered the lust of the eye. Now I know that I can never again be true priest, never serve the altar with a clean heart. "Listen, my Lady Joan! I love you--there is no use in hiding it. Doubtless you yourself have already seen it. I love you so greatly that vows, promises, priesthoods, cardinalates are no more to me than the crying of the seabirds out yonder. Let a worthier than I receive and hold them. They are not for a weak and sinful man. My bishopric let another take. I would rather be your groom, your servitor, your lacquey, than reign on the Seven Hills and sit in Holy Peter's chair!" Joan leaned against the crumbling battlement, and the words of Conrad were very sweet in her ear. They filled her with pity, while at the same time her heart was strong within her. None had dared to speak such things to her before in all her life, and she was a woman. The Princess Margaret, had she loved a man as Joan did this man, would have given back vow for vow, renunciation for renunciation, and, it might be, have bartered kiss for kiss. But Joan of the Sword Hand was never stronger, never more serene, never surer of herself than when she listened to the words she loved best to hear, from the lips of the man whom of all others she desired to speak them. At first she had been looking out upon the sea, but now she permitted her eyes to rest with a great kindliness upon the young man. Even as he spoke Conrad divined the thing that was in her heart. "Mark you," he said, "do me the justice to remember that I ask for nothing. I expect nothing. I hope for nothing in return. I thought once that I could love Divine things wholly. Now I know that my heart is too earthly. But instead I love the noblest and most gracious woman in all the world. And I love her, too, with a love not wholly unworthy of her." "You do me overmuch honour," said Joan quietly. "I, too, am weak and sinful. Or how else would I, your brother's wife, listen to such words from any man--least of all from you?" "Nay," said Conrad; "you only listen out of your great pitifulness. But I am no worthy priest. I will not take upon me the yet greater things for which I am so manifestly unfitted. I will not sully the holy garments with my earthliness. Conrad of Courtland, Bishop and Cardinal, died out there among the breakers. "He will never go to Rome, never kneel at the tombs of the Apostles. From this day forth he is a servitor, a servant of servants in the train of the Duchess Joan. Save those with us here, our hostess and the three captains (who for your sake will hold their peace), none know that Conrad of Courtland escaped the waters that swallowed up his companions. They and you will keep the secret. This shaven crown will speedily thatch itself again, a beard grow upon these shaveling cheeks. A dash of walnut juice, and who will guess that under the tan of Conrad the serf there is concealed a prince of Holy Church?" He paused, almost smiling. The picture of his renunciation had grown real to him even as he spoke. But Joan did not smile. She waited a space to see if he had aught further to say. But he was silent, waiting for her answer. "Conrad," she said very gently, "that I have listened to you, and that I have not been angry, may be deadly sin for us both. Yet I cannot be angry. God forgive me! I have tried and I cannot be angry. And why should I? Even as I lay a babe in the cradle, I was wedded. If a woman must suffer, she ought at least to be permitted to choose the instrument of her torture." "It is verity," he replied; "you are no more true wife than I am true priest." "Yet because you have dispensed holy bread, and I knelt before the altar as a bride, we must keep faith, you and I. We are bound by our nobility. If we sin, let it be the greater and rarer sin--the sin of the spirit only. Conrad, I love you. Nay, stand still where you are and listen to me--to me, Joan, your brother's wife. For I, too, once for all will clear my soul. I loved you long ere your eyes fell on me. I came as Dessauer's secretary to the city of Courtland. I determined to see the man I was to wed. I saw the prince--my prince as I thought--storm through the lists on his white horse. I saw him bare his head and receive the crown of victory. I stood before him, ashamed yet glad, hosed and doubleted like a boy, in the Summer Pavilion. I heard his gracious words. I loved my prince, who so soon was to be wholly mine. The months slipped past, and I was ever the gladder the faster they sped. The woman stirred within the stripling girl. In half a year, in twenty weeks--in five--in one--in a day--an hour, I would put my hand, my life, myself into his keeping! Then came the glad tumult of the rejoicing folk, the hush of the crowded cathedral. I said, 'Oh, not yet--I will not lift my eyes to my prince until----' We stopped. I lifted my eyes. And lo! the prince was not my prince!" There was a long and solemn pause between these two on the old watchtower. Never was declaration of love so given and so taken. Conrad remained still as a statue, only his eyes growing great and full of light. Joan stood looking at him, unashamed and fearless. Yet neither moved an inch toward either. A brave woman's will, to do right greatly, stood between them. She went on. "Now you know all, my Conrad," she said. "Isle Rugen can never more be the isle of peace to us. You and I have shivered the cup of our happiness. We must part. We can never be merely friends. I must abide because I am a prisoner. You will keep my counsel, promising me to be silent, and together we will contrive a way of escape." When Conrad answered her again his voice was hoarse and broken, almost like one rheumed with sleeping out on a winter's night. His words whistled in his windpipe, flying from treble to bass and back again. "Joan, Joan!" he said, and the third time "Joan!" And for the moment he could say no more. "True love," she said, and her voice was almost caressing, "you and I are barriered from each other. Yet we belong--you to me--I to you! I will not touch your hand, nor you mine. Not even as we have hitherto done. Let ours be the higher, perhaps deadlier sin--the sin of soul and soul. Do you go back to your office, your electorate, while I stay here to do my duty." "And why not you to your duchy?" said Conrad, who had begun to recover himself. "Because," she answered, "if I refuse to abide by one of my father's bargains, I have no right to hold by the other. He would have made me your brother's wife. That I have refused. He disinherited his lawful son that I might take the dukedom with me as my dowry. Can I keep that which was only given me in trust for another? Maurice von Lynar shall be Duke Maurice, and Theresa von Lynar shall have her true place as the widow of Henry the Lion!" And she stood up tall and straight, like a princess indeed. "And you?" he said very low. "What will you do, Joan?" "For me, I will abide on Isle Rugen. Nunneries are not for me. There are doubtless one or two who will abide with me for the sake of old days--Werner von Orseln for one, Peter Balta for another. I shall not be lonely." She smiled upon him with a peculiar trustful sweetness and continued-- "And once a year, in the autumn, you will come from your high office. You will lay aside the princely scarlet, and don the curt hose and blue jerkin, even as now you stand. You will gather blackberries and help me to preserve them. You will split wood and carry water. Then, when the day is well spent, you and I shall walk hither in the high afternoon and tell each other how we stand and all the things that have filled our hearts in the year's interspace. Thus will we keep tryst, you and I--not priest and wedded wife, but man and woman speaking the truth eye to eye without fear and without stain. Do you promise?" And for all answer the Prince-Cardinal kneeled down, and taking the hem of her dress he kissed it humbly and reverently. CHAPTER XLI THERESA KEEPS TROTH But they had reckoned without Theresa von Lynar. Conrad and Joan came back from the ruined fortification, silent mostly, but thrilled with the thoughts of that which their eyes had seen, their ears heard. Each had listened to the beating of the other's heart. Both knew they were beloved. Nothing could alter _that_ any more for ever. As they had gone out with Theresa watching them from the dusk of the garden arcades, their hands had drawn together. Eyes had sought answering eyes at each dip of the path. They had listened for the finest shades of meaning in one another's voices, and taken courage or lost hope from the droop of an eyelid or the quiver of a syllable. Now all was changed. They knew that which they knew. The orchard of the lonely grange on Isle Rugen was curiously out of keeping with its barren surroundings. Enclosed within the same wall as the dwelling-house, it was the special care of the Wordless Man, whose many years of pruning and digging and watering, undertaken each at its proper season, had resulted in a golden harvest of September fruit. When Joan and Conrad came to the portal which gave entrance from without, lo! it stood open. The sun had been shining in their eyes, and the place looked very slumberous in the white hazy glory of a northern day. The path which led out of the orchard was splashed with cool shade. Green leaves shrined fair globes of fruitage fast ripening in the blowing airs and steadfast sun. Up the path towards them as they stood together came Theresa von Lynar. There was a smile on her face, a large and kindly graciousness in her splendid eyes. Her hair was piled and circled about her head, and drawn back in ruddy golden masses from the broad white forehead. Autumn was Theresa's season, and in such surroundings she might well have stood for Ceres or Pomona, with apron full enough of fruit for many a horn of plenty. Such large-limbed simple-natured women as Theresa von Lynar appear to greatest advantage in autumn. It is their time when the day of apple-blossom and spring-flourish is overpast, and when that which these foreshadowed is at length fulfilled. Then to see such an one emerge from an orchard close, and approach softly smiling out of the shadow of fruit trees, is to catch a glimpse of the elder gods. Spring, on the other hand, is for merry maidens, slips of unripe grace, buds from the schools. Summer is the season of languorous dryads at rest in the green gloom of forests, fanning sunburnt cheeks with leafy boughs, their dark eyes full of the height of living. Winter is the time of swift lithe-limbed girls with heads proudly set, who through the white weather carry them like Dian the Huntress, their dainty chins dimpling out of softening furs. To each is her time and supremacy, though a certain favoured few are the mistresses of all. They move like a part of the spring when cherry blossoms are set against a sky of changeful April blue. They rejoice when dark-eyed summer wears scarlet flowers in her hair, shaded by green leaves and fanned by soft airs. Well-bosomed Ceres herself, smiling luxuriant with ripe lips, is not fairer than they at the time of apple-gathering, nor yet dainty Winter, footing it lightly over the frozen snow. Joan, an it liked her, could have triumphed in all these, but her nature was too simple to care about the impression she made, while Conrad was too deep in love to notice any difference in her perfections. And now Theresa von Lynar, the woman who had given her beauty and her life like a little Saint Valentine's gift into the hand of the man she loved, content that he should take or throw away as pleased him best--Theresa von Lynar met these two, who in their new glory of renunciation thought that they had plumbed the abysses of love, when as yet they had taken no more than a single sounding in the narrow seas. She stood looking at them as they came towards her, with a sympathy that was deeper far than mere tolerance. "Our Joan of the Sword Hand is growing into a woman," she murmured; and something she had thought buried deep heaved in her breast, shaking her as Enceladus the Giant shakes Etna when he turns in his sleep. For she saw in the girl her father's likeness more strongly than she had ever seen it in her own son. "You have faced the sunshine!" Thus she greeted them as they came. "Sit awhile with me in the shade. I have here a bower where Maurice loved to play--before he left me. None save I hath entered it since that day." So saying, she led the way along an alley of pleached green, at the far end of which they could see the solitary figure of Max Ulrich, in the full sun, bending his back to his gardening tasks, yet at the same time, as was his custom, keeping so near his mistress that a fluttering kerchief or a lifted hand would bring him instantly to her side. It was a small rustic eight-sided lodge, thatched with heather, its latticed windows wide open and creeper-grown, to which Theresa led them. It had been well kept; and when Joan found herself within, a sudden access of tenderness for this lonely mother, who for love's sake had offered herself like a sacrifice upon an altar, took possession of her. For about the walls was fastened a child's pitiful armoury. Home-made swords of lath, arrows winged with the cast feathers of the woodland, crooked bows, the broken crockery of a hundred imagined banquets--these, and many more, were carefully kept in place with immediate and loving care. Maurice would be back again presently, they seemed to say, and would take up his play just where he left it. No cobwebs hung from the roof; the bows were duly unstrung; and though wooden platters and rough kitchen equipage were mingled with warlike accoutrements upon the floor, there was not a particle of dust to be seen anywhere. As they sat down at the mother's bidding, it was hard to persuade themselves that Maurice von Lynar was far off, enduring the hardships of war or in deadly peril for his mistress. He might have been even then in hiding in the brushwood, ready to cry bo-peep at them through the open door. There was silence in the arbour for a space, a silence which no one of the three was anxious to break. For Joan thought of her promise, Conrad of Joan, and Theresa of her son. It was the last who spoke. "Somehow to-day it is borne in upon me that Kernsberg has fallen, and that my son is in his enemy's hands!" Joan started to her feet and thrust her hands a little out in front of her as if to ward off a blow. "How can you know that?" she cried. "Who----No; it cannot be. Kernsberg was victualled for a year. It was filled with brave men. My captains are staunch. The thing is impossible." Theresa von Lynar, with her eyes on the waving foliage which alternately revealed and eclipsed the ruddy globes of the apples on the orchard trees, slowly shook her head. "I cannot tell you how I know," she said; "nevertheless I know. Here is something which tells me." She laid her hand upon her heart. "Those who are long alone beside the sea hear voices and see visions." "But it is impossible," urged Joan; "or, if it be true, why am I kept here? I will go and die with my people!" "It is my son's will," said Theresa--"the will of the son of Henry the Lion. He is like his father--therefore women do his will!" The words were not spoken bitterly, but as a simple statement of fact. Joan looked at this woman and understood for the first time that she was the strongest spirit of all--greater than her father, better than herself. And perhaps because of this, nobility and sacrifice stirred emulously in her own breast. "Madam," she said, looking directly at Theresa von Lynar, "it is time that you and I understood each other. I hold myself no true Duchess of Hohenstein so long as your son lives. My father's compact and condition are of no effect. The Diet of the Empire would cancel them in a moment. I will therefore take no rest till this thing is made clear. I swear that your son shall be Duke Maurice and sit in his father's place, as is right and fitting. For me, I ask nothing but the daughter's portion--a grange such as this, as solitary and as peaceful, a garden to delve and a beach to wander upon at eve!" As she spoke, Theresa's eyes suddenly brightened. A proud high look sat on the fulness of her lips, which gradually faded as some other thought asserted its supremacy. She rose, and going straight to Joan, for the first time she kissed her on the brow. "Now do I know," she said, "that you are Henry the Lion's daughter. That is spoken as he would have spoken it. It is greatly thought. Yet it cannot be." "It shall be!" cried Joan imperiously. "Nay," returned Theresa von Lynar. "Once on a time I would have given my right hand that for half a day, for one hour, men might have said of me that I was Henry the Lion's wife, and my son his son! It would have been right sweet. Ah God, how sweet it would have been!" She paused a moment as if consulting some unseen presence. "No, I have vowed my vow. Here was I bidden to stay and here will I abide. For me there was no sorrow in any hard condition, so long as _he_ laid it upon me. For have I not tasted with him the glory of life, and with him plucked out the heart of the mystery? That for which I paid, I received. My lips have tasted both of the Tree of Knowledge and of the Tree of Life--for these two grow very close together, the one to the other, upon the banks of the River of Death. But for my son, this thing is harder to give up. For on him lies the stain, though the joy and the sin were mine alone." "Maurice of Hohenstein shall sit in his father's seat," said Joan firmly. "I have sworn it. If I live I will see him settled there with my captains about him. Werner von Orseln is an honest man. He will do him justice. Von Dessauer shall get him recognised, and Hugo of Plassenburg shall stand his sponsor before the Diet of the Empire." "I would it could be so," said Theresa wistfully. "If my death could cause this thing righteously to come to pass, how gladly would I end life! But I am bound by an oath, and my son is bound because I am bound. The tribunal is not the Diet of Ratisbon, but the faithfulness of a woman's heart. Have I been loyal to my prince these many years, so that now shame itself sits on my brow as gladly as a crown of bay, that I should fail him now? Low he lies, and I may never stand beside his sepulchre. No son of mine shall sit in his high chair. But if in any sphere of sinful or imperfect spirits, be it hell or purgatory, he and I shall encounter, think you that for an empire I would meet him shamed. And when he says, 'Woman of my love, hast thou kept thy troth?' shall I be compelled to answer 'No?'" "But," urged Joan, "this thing is your son's birthright. My father, for purposes of state, bound my happiness to a man I loathe. I have cast that band to the winds. The fathers cannot bind the children, no more can you disinherit your son." Theresa von Lynar smiled a sad wise smile, infinitely patient, infinitely remote. "Ah," she said, "you think so? You are young. You have never loved. You are his daughter, not his wife. One day you shall know, if God is good to you!" At this Joan smiled in her turn. She knew what she knew. "You may think you know," returned Theresa, her calm eyes on the girl's face, "but what _I_ mean by loving is another matter. The band you broke you did not make. I keep the vow I made. With clear eye, undulled brain, willing hand I made it--because he willed it. Let my son Maurice break it, if he can, if he will--as you have broken yours. Only let him never more call Theresa von Lynar mother!" Joan rose to depart. Her intent had not been shaken, though she was impressed by the noble heart of the woman who had been her father's wife. But she also had vowed a vow, and that vow she would keep. The Sparhawk should yet be the Eagle of Kernsberg, and she, Joan, a home-keeping housewife nested in quietness, a barn-door fowl about the orchards of Isle Rugen. "Madam," she said, "your word is your word. But so is that of Joan of Kernsberg. It may be that out of the unseen there may leap a chance which shall bring all to pass, the things which we both desire--without breaking of vows or loosing of the bands of obligation. For me, being no more than a daughter, I will keep Duke Henry's will only in that which is just!" "And I," said Theresa von Lynar, "will keep it, just or unjust!" Yet Joan smiled as she went out. For she had been countered and checkmated in sacrifice. She had met a nature greater than her own, and that with the truly noble is the pleasure of pleasures. In such things only the small are small, only the worms of the earth delight to crawl upon the earth. The great and the wise look up and worship the sun above them. And if by chance their special sun prove after all to be but a star, they say, "Ah, if we had only been near enough it would have been a sun!" All the while Conrad sat very still, listening with full heart to that which it did not concern him to interrupt. But within his heart he said, "Woman, when she is true woman, is greater, worthier, fuller than any man--aye, were it the Holy Father himself. Perhaps because they draw near Christ the Son through Mary the Mother!" But Theresa von Lynar sat silent, and watched the girl as she went down the long path, the leafy branches spattering alternate light and shadow upon her slender figure. Then she turned sharply upon Conrad. "And now, my Lord Cardinal," she said, "what have you been saying to my husband's daughter?" "I have been telling her that I love her!" answered Conrad simply. He felt that what he had listened to gave this woman a right to be answered. "And what, I pray you, have princes of Holy Church to do with love? They seek after heavenly things, do they not? Like the angels, they neither marry nor are given in marriage." "I know," said Conrad humbly, and without taking the least offence. "I know it well. But I have put off the armour I had not proven. The burden is too great for me. I am a soldier--I was trained a soldier--yet because I was born after my brother Louis, I must perforce become both priest and cardinal. Rather a thousand times would I be a man-at-arms and carry a pike!" "Then am I to understand that as a soldier you told the Duchess Joan that you loved her, and that as a priest you forbade the banns? Or did you wholly forget the little circumstance that once on a time you yourself married her to your brother?" "I did indeed forget," said Conrad, with sincere penitence; "yet you must not blame me too sorely. I was carried out of myself----" "The Duchess, then, rejected your suit with contumely?" Conrad was silent. "How should a great lady listen to her husband's brother--and he a priest?" Theresa went on remorseless. "What said the Lady Joan when you told her that you loved her?" "The words she spoke I cannot repeat, but when she ended I set my lips to her garment's hem as reverently as ever to holy bread." The slow smile came again over the face of Theresa von Lynar, the smile of a warworn veteran who watches the children at their drill. "You do not need to tell me what she answered, my lord," she said, for the first time leaving out the ecclesiastic title. "I know!" Conrad stared at the woman. "She told you that she loved you from the first." "How know you that?" he faltered. "None must hear that secret--none must guess it!" Theresa von Lynar laughed a little mellow laugh, in which a keen ear might have detected how richly and pleasantly her laugh must once have sounded to her lover when all her pulses beat to the tune of gladness and the unbound heart. "Do you think to deceive me, Theresa, whom Henry the Lion loved? Have I been these many weeks with you two in the house and not seen this? Prince Conrad, I knew it that night of the storm when she bent her over the couch on which you lay. 'I love,' you say boldly, and you think great things of your love. But she loved first as she will love most, and your boasted love will never overtake hers--no, not though you love her all your life.... Well, what do you propose to do?" Conrad stood a moment mutely wrestling with himself. He had never felt Joan's first instinctive aversion to this woman, a dislike even yet scarcely overcome--for women distrust women till they have proven themselves innocent, and often even then. "My lady," he said, "the Duchess Joan has showed me the better way. Like a man, I knew not what I asked, nor dared to express all that I desired. But I have learned how souls can be united, though bodies are separated. I will not touch her hand; I will not kiss her lips. Once a year only will I see her in the flesh. I shall carry out my duty, made at least less unworthy by her example----" "And think you," said Theresa, "that in the night watches you will keep this charge? Will not her face come between you and the altar? Will not her image float before you as you kneel at the shrine? Will it not blot out the lines as you read your daily office?" "I know it--I know it too well!" said Conrad, sinking his head on his breast. "I am not worthy." "What, then, will you do? Can you serve two masters?" persisted the inquisitor. "Your Scripture says not." A larger self seemed to flame and dilate within the young man. "One thing I can do," he said--"like you, I can obey. She bade me go back and do my duty. I cannot bind my thought; I cannot change my heart; I cannot cast my love out. I have heard that which I have heard, and I cannot forget; but at least with the body I can obey. I will perform my vow; I will keep my charge to the letter, every jot and tittle. And if God condemn me for a hypocrite--well, let Him! He, and not I, put this love into my heart. My body may be my priesthood's--I will strive to keep it clean--but my soul is my lady's. For that let Him cast both soul and body into hell-fire if He will!" Theresa von Lynar did not smile any more. She held out her hand to Conrad of Courtland, priest and prince. "Yes," she said, "you do know what love is. In so far as I can I will help you to your heart's desire." And in her turn she rose and passed down through the leafy avenues of the orchard, over which the westering sun was already casting rood-long shadows. CHAPTER XLII THE WORDLESS MAN TAKES A PRISONER It was the hour of the evening meal at Isle Rugen. The September day piped on to its melancholy close, and the wild geese overhead called down unseen from the upper air a warning that the storm followed hard upon their backs. At the table-head sat Theresa von Lynar, her largely moulded and beautiful face showing no sign of emotion. Only great quiet dwelt upon it, with knowledge and the sympathy of the proven for the untried. On either side of her were Joan and Prince Conrad--not sad, neither avoiding nor seeking the contingence of eye and eye, but yet, in spite of all, so strange a thing is love once declared, consciously happy within their heart of hearts. Then, after a space dutifully left unoccupied, came Captains Boris and Jorian; while at the table-foot, opposite to their hostess, towered Werner von Orseln, whose grey beard had wagged at the more riotous board of Henry the Lion of Hohenstein. Werner was telling an interminable story of the old wars, with many a "Thus said I" and "So did he," ending thus: "There lay I on my back, with thirty pagan Wends ready to slit my hals as soon as they could get their knives between my gorget and headpiece. Gott! but I said every prayer that I knew--they were not many in those days--all in two minutes' space, as I lay looking at the sky through my visor bars and waiting for the first prick of the Wendish knife-points. "But even as I looked up, lo! some one bestrode me, and the voice I loved best in all the world--no, not a woman's, God send him rest" ("Amen!" interjected the Lady Joan)--"cried, 'To me, Hohenstein! To me, Kernsberg!' And though my head was ringing with the shock of falling, and my body weak from many wounds, I strove to answer that call, as I saw my master's sword flicker this way and that over my head. I rose half from the ground, my hilt still in my hand--I had no more left after the fight I had fought. But Henry the Lion gave me a stamp down with his foot. 'Lie still, man,' he said; 'do not interfere in a little business of this kind!' And with his one point he kept a score at bay, crying all the time, 'To me, Hohenstein! To me, Kernsbergers all!' "And when the enemy fled, did he wait till the bearers came? Well I wot, hardly! Instead, he caught me over his shoulder like an empty sack when one goes a-foraging--me, Werner von Orseln, that am built like a donjon tower. And with his sword still red in his right hand he bore me in, only turning aside a little to threaten a Wendish archer who would have sent an arrow through me on the way. By the knights who sit round Karl's table, he was a man!" And then to their feet sprang Boris and Jorian, who were judges of men. "To Prince Henry the Lion--_hoch!_" they cried. "Drink it deep to his memory!" And with tankard and wreathed wine-cup they quaffed to the great dead. Standing up, they drank--his daughter also--all save Theresa von Lynar. She sat unmoved, as if the toast had been her own and in a moment more she must rise to give them thanks. For the look on her face said, "After all, what is there so strange in that? Was he not Henry the Lion--and mine?" For there is no joy like that which you may see on a woman's face when a great deed is told of the man she loves. The Kernsberg soldiers who had been trained to serve at table, had stopped and stood fixed, their duties in complete oblivion during the tale, but now they resumed them and the simple feast continued. Meanwhile it had been growing wilder and wilder without, and the shrill lament of the wind was distinctly heard in the wide chimney-top. Now and then in a lull, broad splashes of rain fell solidly into the red embers with a sound like musket balls "spatting" on a wall. Then Theresa von Lynar looked up. "Where is Max Ulrich?" she said; "why does he delay?" "My lady," one of the men of Kernsberg answered, saluting; "he is gone across the Haff in the boat, and has not yet returned." "I will go and look for him--nay, do not rise, my lord. I would go forth alone!" So, snatching a cloak from the prong of an antler in the hall, Theresa went out into the irregular hooting of the storm. It was not yet the deepest gloaming, but dull grey clouds like hunted cattle scoured across the sky, and the rising thunder of the waves on the shingle prophesied a night of storm. Theresa stood a long time bare-headed, enjoying the thresh of the broad drops as they struck against her face and cooled her throbbing eyes. Then she pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. The dead was conquering the quick within her. "I have known a _man_!" she said; "what need I more with life now? The man I loved is dead. I thank God that I served him--aye, as his dog served him. And shall I grow disobedient now? No, not that my son might sit on the throne of the Kaiser!" Theresa stood upon the inner curve of the Haff at the place where Max Ulrich was wont to pull his boat ashore. The wind was behind her, and though the waves increased as the distance widened from the pebbly bank on which she stood, the water at her feet was only ruffled and pitted with little dimples under the shocks of the wind. Theresa looked long southward under her hand, but for the moment could see nothing. Then she settled herself to keep watch, with the storm riding slack-rein overhead. Towards the mainland the whoop and roar with which it assaulted the pine forests deafened her ears. But her face was younger than we have ever seen it, for Werner's story had moved her strongly. Once more she was by a great man's side. She moved her hand swiftly, first out of the shelter of the cloak as if seeking furtively to nestle it in another's, and then, as the raindrops plashed cold upon it, she drew it slowly back to her again. And though Theresa von Lynar was yet in the prime of her glorious beauty, one could see what she must have been in the days of her girlhood. And as memory caused her eyes to grow misty, and the smile of love and trust eternal came upon her lips, twenty years were shorn away; and the woman's face which had looked anxiously across the darkening Haff changed to that of the girl who from the gate of Castle Lynar had watched for the coming of Duke Henry. She was gazing steadfastly southward, but it was not for Max the Wordless that she waited. Towards Kernsberg, where he whose sleep she had so often watched, rested all alone, she looked and kissed a hand. "Dear," she murmured, "you have not forgotten Theresa! You know she keeps troth! Aye, and will keep it till God grows kind, and your true wife can follow--to tell you how well she hath kept her charge!" Awhile she was silent, and then she went on in the low even voice of self-communing. "What to me is it to become a princess? Did not he, for whose words alone I cared, call me his queen? And I was his queen. In the black blank day of my uttermost need he made me his wife. And I am his wife. What want I more with dignities?" Theresa von Lynar was silent awhile and then she added-- "Yet the young Duchess, his daughter, means well. She has her father's spirit. And my son--why should my vow bind him? Let him be Duke, if so the Fates direct and Providence allow. But for me, I will not stir finger or utter word to help him. There shall be neither anger nor sadness in my husband's eyes when I tell him how I have observed the bond!" Again she kissed a hand towards the dead man who lay so deep under the ponderous marble at Kernsberg. Then with a gracious gesture, lingeringly and with the misty eyes of loving womanhood, she said her lonely farewells. "To you, beloved," she murmured, and her voice was low and very rich, "to you, beloved, where far off you lie! Sleep sound, nor think the time long till Theresa comes to you!" She turned and walked back facing the storm. Her hood had long ago been blown from her head by the furious gusts of wind. But she heeded not. She had forgotten poor Max Ulrich and Joan, and even herself. She had forgotten her son. Her hand was out in the storm now. She did not draw it back, though the water ran from her fingertips. For it was clasped in an unseen grasp and in an ear that surely heard she was whispering her heart's troth. "God give it to me to do one deed--one only before I die--that, worthy and unashamed, I may meet my King." When Theresa re-entered the hall of the grange the company still sat as she had left them. Only at the lower end of the board the three captains conferred together in low voices, while at the upper Joan and Prince Conrad sat gazing full at each other as if souls could be drunk in through the eyes. With a certain reluctance which yet had no shame in it, they plucked glance from glance as she entered, as it were with difficulty detaching spirits which had been joined. At which Theresa, recalled to herself, smiled. "In all that touches not my vow I will help you two!" she thought, as she looked at them. For true love came closer to her than anything else in the world. "There is no sign of Max," she said aloud, to break the first silence of constraint; "perhaps he has waited at the landing-place on the mainland till the storm should abate--though that were scarce like him, either." She sat down, with one large movement of her arm casting her wet cloak over the back of a wooden settle, which fronted a fireplace where green pine knots crackled and explosive jets of steam rushed spitefully outwards into the hall with a hissing sound. "You have been down at the landing-place--on such a night?" said Joan, with some remains of that curious awkwardness which marks the interruption of a more interesting conversation. "Yes," said Theresa, smiling indulgently (for she had been in like case--such a great while ago, when her brothers used to intrude). "Yes, I have been at the landing-place. But as yet the storm is nothing, though the waves will be fierce enough if Max Ulrich is coming home with a laden boat to pull in the wind's eye." It mattered little what she said. She had helped them to pass the bar, and the conversation could now proceed over smooth waters. Yet there is no need to report it. Joan and Conrad remained and spoke they scarce knew what, all for the pleasure of eye answering eye, and the subtle flattery of voices that altered by the millionth of a tone each time they answered each other. Theresa spoke vaguely but sufficiently, and allowed herself to dream, till to her yearning gaze honest, sturdy Werner grew misty and his bluff figure resolved itself into that one nobler and more kingly which for years had fronted her at the table's end where now the chief captain sat. Meanwhile Jorian and Boris exchanged meaning and covert glances, asking each other when this dull dinner parade would be over, so that they might loosen leathern points, undo buttons, and stretch legs on benches with a tankard of ale at each right elbow, according to the wont of stout war-captains not quite so young as they once were. Thus they were sitting when there came a clamour at the outer door, the noise of voices, then a soldier's challenge, and, on the back of that, Max Ulrich's weird answer--a sound almost like the howl of a wolf cut off short in his throat by the hand that strangles him. "There he is at last!" cried all in the dining-hall of the grange. "Thank God!" murmured Theresa. For the man wanting words had known Henry the Lion. They waited a long moment of suspense till the door behind Werner was thrust open and the dumb man came in, drenched and dripping. He was holding one by the arm, a man as tall as himself, grey and gaunt, who fronted the company with eyes bandaged and hands tied behind his back. Max Ulrich had a sharp knife in his hand with a thin and slightly curved blade, and as he thrust the pinioned man before him into the full light of the candles, he made signs that, if his lady wished it, he was prepared to despatch his prisoner on the spot. His lips moved rapidly and he seemed to be forming words and sentences. His mistress followed these movements with the closest attention. "He says," she began to translate, "that he met this man on the further side. He said that he had a message for Isle Rugen, and refused to turn back on any condition. So Max blindfolded, bound, and gagged him, he being willing to be bound. And now he waits our pleasure." "Let him be unloosed," said Joan, gazing eagerly at the prisoner, and Theresa made the sign. Stolidly Ulrich unbound the broad bandage from the man's eyes, and a grey badger's brush of upright stubble rose slowly erect above a high narrow brow, like laid corn that dries in the sun. "Alt Pikker!" said Joan of the Sword Hand, starting to her feet. "Alt Pikker!" cried in varied tones of wonderment Werner von Orseln and the two captains of Plassenburg, Jorian and Boris. And Alt Pikker it surely was. CHAPTER XLIII TO THE RESCUE But the late prisoner did not speak at once, though his captor stood back as though to permit him to explain himself. He was still bound and gagged. Discovering which, Max in a very philosophical and leisurely manner assisted him to relieve himself of a rolled kerchief which had been placed in his mouth. Even then his throat refused its office till Werner von Orseln handed him a great cup of wine from which he drank deeply. "Speak!" said Joan. "What disaster has brought you here? Is Kernsberg taken?" "The Eagle's Nest is harried, my lady, but that is not what hath brought me hither!" "Have they found out this my--prison? Are they coming to capture me?" "Neither," returned Alt Pikker. "Maurice von Lynar is in the hands of his cruel enemies, and on the day after to-morrow, at sunrise, he is to be torn to pieces by wild horses." "Why?" "Wherefore?" "In what place?" "Who would dare?" came from all about the table; but the mother of the young man sat silent as if she had not heard. "To save Kernsberg from sack by the Muscovites, Maurice von Lynar went to Courtland in the guise of the Lady Joan. At the fords of the Alla we delivered him up!" "You delivered him up?" cried Theresa suddenly. "Then you shall die! Max Ulrich, your knife!" The dumb man gave the knife in a moment, but Theresa had not time to approach. "I went with him," said Alt Pikker calmly. "You went with him," repeated his mother after a moment, not understanding. "Could I let the young man go alone into the midst of his enemies?" "He went for my sake!" moaned Joan. "He is to die for me!" "Nay," corrected Alt Pikker, "he is to die for wedding the Princess Margaret of Courtland!" Again they cried out upon him in utmost astonishment--that is, all the men. "Maurice von Lynar has married the Princess Margaret of Courtland? Impossible!" "And why should he not?" his mother cried out. "I expected it from the first!" quoth Joan of the Sword Hand, disdainful of their masculine ignorance. "Well," put in Alt Pikker, "at all events, he hath married the Princess. Or she has married him, which is the same thing!" "But why? We knew nothing of this! He told us nothing. We thought he went for our lady's sake to Courtland! Why did he marry her?" cried severally Von Orseln and the Plassenburg captains. "Why?" said Theresa the mother, with assurance. "Because he loved her doubtless. How? Because he was his father's son!" And Theresa being calm and stilling the others, Alt Pikker got time to tell his tale. There was silence in the grange of Isle Rugen while it was being told, and even when it was ended for a space none spoke. But Theresa smiled well pleased and said in her heart, "I thank God! My son also shall meet Henry the Lion face to face and not be ashamed." After that they made their plans. "I will go," said Conrad, "for I have influence with my brother--or, if not with him, at least with the folk of Courtland. We will stop this heathenish abomination." "I will go," said Theresa, "because he is my son. God will show me a way to help him." "We will all go," chorussed the captains; "that is--all save Werner----" "All except Boris----!" "All except Jorian----!" "Who will remain here on Isle Rugen with the Duchess Joan?" They looked at each other as they spoke. "You need not trouble yourselves! I will not remain on Isle Rugen--not an hour," said Joan. "Whoever stays, I go. Think you that I will permit this man to die in my stead? We will all go to Courtland. We will tell Prince Louis that I am no duchess, but only the sister of a duke. We will prove to him that my father's bond of heritage-brotherhood is null and void. And then we will see whether he is willing to turn the princedom upside down for such a dowerless wife as I!" "For such a wife," thought Conrad, "I would turn the universe upside down, though she stood in a beggar's kirtle!" But being loyally bound by his promise he said nothing. It was Theresa von Lynar who put the matter practically. "At a farm on the mainland, hidden among the salt marshes, there are horses--those you brought with you and others. They are in waiting for such an emergency. Max will bring them to the landing-place. Three or four of your guard must accompany him. The rest will make ready, and at the first hint of dawn we will set out. There is yet time to save my son!" She added in her heart, "Or, if not, then to avenge him." Strangely enough, Theresa was the least downcast of the party. Death seemed a thing so little to her, even so desirable, that though the matter concerned her son's life, she commanded herself and laid her plans as coolly as if she had been preparing a dinner in the grange of Isle Rugen. But her heart was proud within her with a great pride. "He is Henry the Lion's son. He was born a duke. He has married a princess. He has tasted love and known sacrifice. If he dies it will be for the sake of his sister's honour. 'Tis no bad record for twenty years. These things _he_ will count high above fame and length of days!" * * * * * The little company which set out from Isle Rugen to ride to Courtland had no thought or intention of rescuing Maurice von Lynar by force of arms. They knew their own impotence far too exactly. Yet each of the leaders had a plan of action thought out, to be pursued when the city was reached. If her renunciation of her dignities were laughed at, as she feared, there was nothing for Joan but to deliver herself to Prince Louis. She had resolved to promise to be his wife and princess in all that it concerned the outer world to see. Their provinces would be united, Kernsberg and Hohenstein delivered unconditionally into his hand. On his part, Werner von Orseln was prepared to point out to the Prince of Courtland that with Joan as his wife and the armies and levies of Hohenstein added to his own under the Sparhawk's leadership, he would be in a position to do without the aid of the Prince of Muscovy altogether. Further, that in case of attack from the north, not only Plassenburg and the Mark, but all the Teutonic Bond must rally to his side. Boris and Jorian, being stout-hearted captains of men-at-arms, were ready for anything. But though their swords were loosened in their sheaths to be prepared for any assault, they were resolved also to give what official dignity they could to their mission by a free use of the names of their master and mistress, the Prince Hugo and Princess Helene of Plassenburg. They were sorry now that they had left their credentials behind them, at Kernsberg, but they meant to make confidence and assured countenances go as far as they would. Conrad, who was intimately acquainted with the character of his brother, and who knew how entirely he was under the dominion of Prince Ivan, had resolved to use all powers, ecclesiastical and secular, which his position as titular Prince of the Church put within his reach. To save the Sparhawk from a bloody and disgraceful death he would invoke upon Courtland even the dread curse of the Greater Excommunication. With his faithful priests around him he would seek his brother, and, if necessary, on the very execution place itself, or from the high altar of the cathedral, pronounce the dread "Anathema sit." He knew his brother well enough to be sure that this threat would shake his soul with terror, and that such a curse laid on a city like Courtland, not too subservient at any time, would provoke a rebellion which would shake the power of princes far more securely seated than Prince Louis. The only one of the party wholly without a settled plan was the woman most deeply interested. Theresa von Lynar simply rode to Courtland to save her son or to die with him. She alone had no influence with Prince Ivan, no weapon to use against him except her woman's wit. As the cavalcade rode on, though few, they made a not ungallant show. For Theresa had clad Prince Conrad in a coat of mail which had once belonged to Henry the Lion. Joan glittered by his side in a corselet of steel rings, while Werner von Orseln and the two captains of Plassenburg followed fully armed, their accoutrements shining with the burnishing of many idle weeks. These, with the men-at-arms behind them, made up such an equipage as few princes could ride abroad with. But to all of them the journey was naught, a mere race against time--so neither horse nor man was spared. And the two women held out best of all. But when in the morning light of the second day they came in sight of Courtland, and saw on the green plain of the Alla a great concourse, it did not need Alt Pikker's shout to urge them forward at a gallop, lest after all they should arrive too late. "They have brought him out to die," cried Joan. "Ride, for the young man's life!" CHAPTER XLIV THE UKRAINE CROSS Upon the green plain beside the Alla a great multitude was assembled. They had come together to witness a sight never seen in Courtland before--the dread punishment of the Ukraine Cross. It was to be done, they said, upon the body of the handsome youth with whom the Princess Margaret was secretly in love--some even whispered married to him. The townsfolk murmured among themselves. This was certainly the beginning of the end. Who knew what would come next? If the barbarous Muscovite punishments began in Courtland, it would end in all of them being made slaves, liable at any moment to knout and plet. Ivan had bewitched the Prince. That was clear, and for a certainty the Princess Margaret wept night and day. In this fashion ran the bruit of that which was to be. "Torn to pieces by wild horses!" It was a thing often talked about, but one which none had seen in a civilised country for a thousand years. Where was it to be done? It was shocking, terrible; but--it would be worth seeing. So all the city went out, the men with weapons under their cloaks pressing as near as the soldiers would allow them, while the women, being more pitiful, stood afar off and wept into their aprons--only putting aside the corners that they might see clearly and miss nothing. At ten a great green square of riverside grass was held by the archers of Courtland. The people extended as far back as the shrine of the Virgin, where at the city entrance travellers are wont to give thanks for a favourable journey. At eleven the lances of Prince Ivan's Cossacks were seen topping the city wall. On the high bank of the Alla the people were craning their necks and looking over each other's shoulders. The wild music of the Cossacks came nearer, each man with the butt of his lance set upon his thigh, and the pennon of blue and white waving above. Then a long pitying "A--a--h!" went up from the people. For now the Sparhawk was in sight, and at the first glimpse of him they swayed from the Riga Gate to the shrine of John Evangelist, like a willow copse stricken by a squall from off the Baltic, so that it shows the under-grey of its leaves. "The poor lad! So handsome, so young!" The first soft universal hush of pity broke presently into a myriad exclamations of anger and deprecation. "How high he holds his head! See! They have opened his shirt at the neck. Poor Princess, how she must love him! His hands are tied behind his back. He rides in that jolting cart as if he were a conqueror in a triumphal procession, instead of a victim going to his doom." "Pity, pity that one so young should die such a death! They say she is to be carried up to the top of the Castle wall that she may see. Ah, here he comes! He is smiling! God forgive the butchers, who by strength of brute beasts would tear asunder those comely limbs that are fitted to be a woman's joy! Down with all false and cruel princes, say I! Nay, mistress, I will not be silent. And there are many here who will back me, if I be called in question. Who is the Muscovite, that he should bring his abominations into Courtland? If I had my way, Prince Conrad----" "Hush, hush! Here they come! Side by side, as usual, the devil and his dupe. Aha! there is no sound of cheering! Let but a man shout, 'Long live the Prince!' and I will slit his wizzand. I, Henry the coppersmith, will do it! He shall sleep with pennies on his eyes this night!" So through the lane by which the city gate communicated with the tapestried stand set apart for the greater spectators, the Princes Louis and Ivan, fool and knave, servant and master, took their way. And they had scarce passed when the people, mutinous and muttering, surged black behind the archers' guard. "Back there--stand back! Way for their Excellencies--way!" "Stand back yourselves," came the growling answer. "We be free men of Courtland. You will find we are no Muscovite serfs, and that or the day be done. Karl Wendelin, think shame--thou that art my sister's son--to be aiding and abetting such heathen cruelty to a Christen man, all that you may eat a great man's meat and wear a jerkin purfled with gold." Such cries and others worse pursued the Princes' train as it went. "Cossack--Cossack! You are no Courtlanders, you archers! Not a girl in the city will look at you after this! Butchers' slaughtermen every one? Whipped hounds that are afraid of ten score Muscovites! Down, dogs, knock your foreheads on the ground! Here comes a Muscovite!" * * * * * Thus angrily ran taunt and jeer, till the Courtland guard, mostly young fellows with relatives and sweethearts among the crowd, grew well-nigh frantic with rage and shame. The rabble, which had hung on the Prince of Muscovy so long as he scattered his largesse, had now wheeled about with characteristic fickleness. "See yonder! What are they doing? Peter Altmaar, what are they doing? Tell us, thou long man! Of what use is your great fathom of pump-water? Can you do nothing for your meat but reach down black puddings from the rafters?" At this all eyes turned to Peter, a lanky overgrown lad with a keen eye, a weak mouth, and the gift of words. "Speak up, Peter! Aye, listen to Peter--a good lad, Peter, as ever was!" "Strong Jan the smith, take him up on your back so that he may see the better!" "Hush, there! Stop that woman weeping. We cannot hear for her noise. She says he is like her son, does she? Well then, there will be time enough to weep for him afterwards." "They are bringing up four horses from the Muscovite camp. The folk are getting as far off as they can from their heels," began Peter Altmaar, looking under his hand over the people's heads. "Half a score of men are at each brute's head. How they plunge! They will never stand still a moment. Ah, they are tethering them to the great posts of stone in the middle of the green square. Between, there is a table--no, a kind of square wooden stand like a priest's platform in Lent when he tells us our sins outside the church." * * * * * "The Princes are sitting their horses, watching. Bravo, that was well done. We came near to seeing the colour of the Muscovite brains that time. One of the wild horses spread his hoofs on either side of Prince Ivan's head!" "God send him a better aim next time! Tell on, Peter! Aye, get on, good Peter!" "The Princes have gone up into their balcony. They are laughing and talking as if it were a raree-show!" "What of him, good Peter? How takes he all this?" "What of whom?" queried Peter, who, like all great talkers, was rapidly growing testy under questioning. "There is but one 'he' to-day, man. The young lad, the Princess Margaret's sweetheart." "They have brought him down from the cart. The Cossacks are close about him. They have put all the Courtland men far back." [Illustration: "Maurice was set on high." [_Page 305_]] "Aye, aye; they dare not trust them. Oh, for an hour of Prince Conrad! If we of the city trades had but a leader, this shame should not blot our name throughout all Christendom! What now, Peter?" "The Muscovites are binding the lad to a wooden frame like the empty lintels of a door. He stands erect, his hands in the corners above, and his feet in the corners below. They have stripped him to the waist." "Hold me higher up, Jan the smith! I would see this out, that you may tell your children and your children's children. Aye--ah, so it is. It is true. Sainted Virgin! I can see his body white in the sunshine. It shines slender as a peeled willow wand." Then the woman who had wept began again. Her wailing angered the people. "He is like my son--save him! He is the very make and image of my Kaspar. Slender as a young willow, supple as an ash, eyes like the berries of the sloe-thorn. Give me a sword! Give an old woman a sword, and I will deliver him myself, for my Kaspar's sake. God's grace--Is there never a man amongst you?" And as her voice rose into a shriek there ran through all the multitude the strange shiver of fear with which a great crowd expects a horror. A hush fell broad and equal as dew out of a clear sky. A mighty silence lay on all the folk. Peter Altmaar's lips moved, but no sound came from them. For now Maurice was set on high, so that all could see for themselves. White against the sky of noon, making the cross of Saint Andrew within the oblong framework to which he was lashed, they could discern the slim body of the young man who was about to be torn in sunder. The executioners held him up thus a minute or two for a spectacle, and then, their arrangements completed, they lowered that living crucifix till it lay flat upon its little platform, with the limbs extended stark and tense towards the heels of the wild plunging horses of the Ukraine. Then again the voice of Peter Altmaar was heard, now ringing false like an untuned fiddle. "They are welding the manacles upon his ankles and wrists. Listen to the strokes of the hammer." And in the hush which followed, faintly and musically they could hear iron ring on iron, like anvil strokes in some village smithy heard in the hush of a summer's afternoon. "Blessed Virgin! they are casting loose the horses! A Cossack with a cruel whip stands by each to lash him to fury! They are slipping the platform from under him. God in heaven! What is this?" * * * * * Hitherto the eyes of the great multitude, which on three sides surrounded the place of execution, had been turned inward. But now with one accord they were gazing, not on the terrible preparations which were coming so near their bloody consummation, but over the green tree-studded Alla meads towards a group of horsemen who were approaching at a swift hand-gallop. Whereupon immediately Peter, the lank giant, was in greater request than ever. "What do they look at, good Peter--tell us quickly? Will the horses not pull? Will the irons not hold? Have the ropes broken? Is it a miracle? Is it a rescue? Thunder-weather, man! Do not stand and gape. Speak--tell us what you see, or we will prod you behind with our daggers!" "Half a dozen riding fast towards the Princes' stand, and holding up their hands--nay, there are a dozen. The Princes are standing up to look. The men have stopped casting loose the wild horses. The man on the frame is lying very still, but the chains from his ankles and arms are not yet fastened to the traces." "Go on, Peter! How slow you are, Peter! Stupid Peter!" "There is a woman among those who ride--no, two of them! They are getting near the skirts of the crowd. Men are shouting and throwing up their hands in the air. I cannot tell what for. The soldiers have their hats on the tops of their pikes. They, too, are shouting!" As Peter paused the confused noise of a multitude crying out, every man for himself, was borne across the crowd on the wind. As when a great stone is cast into a little hill-set tarn, and the wavelet runs round, swamping the margin's pebbles and swaying the reeds, so there ran a shiver, and then a mighty tidal wave of excitement through all that ring which surrounded the crucified man, the deadly platform, and the tethered horses. Men shouted sympathetically without knowing why, and the noise they made was half a suppressed groan, so eager were they to take part in that which should be done next. They thrust their womenkind behind them, shouldering their way into the thick of the press that they might see the more clearly. Instinctively every weaponed man fingered that which he chanced to carry. Yet none in all that mighty assembly had the least conception of what was really about to happen. By this time there was no more need of Peter Altmaar. The ring was rapidly closing now all about, save upon the meadow side, where a lane was kept open. Through this living alley came a knight and a lady--the latter in riding habit and broad velvet cap, the knight with his visor up, but armed from head to foot, a dozen squires and men-at-arms following in a compact little cloud; and as they came they were greeted with the enthusiastic acclaim of all that mighty concourse. About them eddied the people, overflowing and sweeping away the Cossacks, carrying the Courtland archers with them in a mad frenzy of fraternisation. In the stand above Prince Louis could be seen shrilling commands, yet dumb show was all he could achieve, so universal the clamour beneath him. But the Princess Margaret heard the shouting and her heart leaped. "Prince Conrad--our own Prince Conrad, he has come back, our true Prince? We knew he was no priest! Courtland for ever! Down with Louis of the craven heart! Down with the Muscovite! The young man shall not die! The Princess shall have her sweetheart!" And as soon as the cavalcade had come within the square the living wave broke black over all. The riders could not dismount, so thick the press. The halters of the wild horses were cut, and right speedily they made a way for themselves, the people falling back and closing again so soon as they had passed out across the plain with necks arched to their knees and a wild flourish of unanimous hoofs. Then the cries began again. Swords and bare fists were shaken at the grand stand, where, white as death, Prince Louis still kept his place. "Prince Conrad and the Lady Joan!" "Kill the Muscovite, the torturer!" "Death to Prince Louis, the traitor and coward!" "We will save the lad alive!" About the centre platform whereon the living cross was extended the crush grew first oppressive and then dangerous. "Back there--you are killing him! Back, I say!" Then strong men took staves and halberts out of the hands of dazed soldiermen, and by force of brawny arms and sharp pricking steel pressed the people back breast high. The smiths who had riveted the wristlets and ankle-rings were already busy with their files. The lashings were cast loose from the frames. A hundred palms chafed the white swollen limbs. A burgher back in the crowd slipped his cloak. It was passed overhead on a thousand eager hands and thrown across the young man's body. At last all was done, and dazed and blinded, but unshaken in his soul, Maurice von Lynar stood totteringly upon his feet. "Lift him up! Lift him up! Let us see him! If he be dead, we will slay Prince Louis and crucify the Muscovite in his place!" "Bah!" another would cry, "Louis is no longer ruler! Conrad is the true Prince!" "Down with the Russ, the Cossack! Where are they? Pursue them! Kill them!" * * * * * So ran the fierce shouts, and as the rescuers raised the Sparhawk high on their plaited hands that all men might see, on the far skirts of the crowd Ivan of Muscovy, with a bitter smile on his face, gathered together his scattered horsemen. One by one they had struggled out of the press while all men's eyes were fixed upon the vivid centrepiece of that mighty whirlpool. "Set Prince Louis in your midst and ride for your lives!" he cried. "To the frontier, where bides the army of the Czar!" With a flash of pennons and a tossing of horses' heads they obeyed, but Prince Ivan himself paused upon the top of a little swelling rise and looked back towards the Alla bank. The delivered prisoner was being held high upon men's arms. The burgher's cloak was wrapped about him like a royal robe. Prince Ivan gnashed his teeth in impotent anger. "It is your day. Make the most of it," he muttered. "In three weeks I will come back! And then, by Michael the Archangel, I will crucify one of you at every street corner and cross-road through all the land of Courtland! And that which I would have done to my lady's lover shall not be named beside that which I shall yet do to those who rescued him!" And he turned and rode after his men, in the midst of whom was Prince Louis, his head twisted in fear and apprehension over his shoulder, and his slack hands scarce able to hold the reins. After this manner was the Sparhawk brought out from the jaws of death, and thus came Joan of the Sword Hand the second time to Courtland. But the end was not yet. CHAPTER XLV THE TRUTH-SPEAKING OF BORIS AND JORIAN This is the report verbal of Captains Boris and Jorian, which they gave in face of their sovereigns in the garden pleasaunce of the palace of Plassenburg. Hugo and Helene sat at opposite ends of a seat of twisted branches. Hugo crossed his legs and whistled low with his thumbs in the slashing of his doublet, a habit of which Helene had long striven in vain to cure him. The Princess was busy broidering the coronated double eagle of a new banner, but occasionally she raised her eyes to where on the green slope beneath, under the wing of a sage woman of experience, the youthful hope of Plassenburg led his mimic armies to battle against the lilies by the orchard wall, or laid lance in rest to storm the too easy fortress of his nurse's lap. "Boris," whispered Jorian, "remember! Do not lie, Boris. 'Tis too dangerous. You remember the last time?" "Aye," growled Boris. "I have good cause to remember! What a liar our Hugo must have been in his time, so readily to suspect two honest soldiers!" "Speak out your minds, good lads!" said Hugo, leaning a little further back. "Aye, tell us all," assented Helene, pausing to shake her head at the antics of the young Prince Karl; "tell us how you delivered the Sparhawk, as you call him, the officer of the Duchess Joan!" So Boris saluted and began. "The tale is a long one, Prince and Princess," he said. "Of our many and difficult endeavours to keep the peace and prevent quarrelling I will say nothing----" "Better so!" interjected Hugo, with a gleam in his eye. Jorian coughed and growled to himself, "That long fool will make a mess of it!" "I will pass on to our entry into Courtland. It was like the home-coming of a long-lost true prince. There was no fighting--alack, not so much as a stroke after all that pother of shouting!" "Boris!" said the Princess warningly. "Give him rope!" muttered Prince Hugo. "He will tangle himself rarely or all be done!" "I mean by the blessing of Heaven there was no bloodshed," Boris corrected himself. "There was, as I say, no fighting. There was none to fight with. Prince Louis had not a friend in his own capital city, saving the Muscovite. And at that moment Prince Ivan the Wasp was glad enough to win clear off to the frontier with his Cossacks at his tail. It was a God's pity we could not ride them down. But though Jorian and I did all that men could----" "Ahem!" said Jorian, as if a fly had flown into his mouth and tickled his throat. "I mean, your Highnesses, we did whatever men could to keep the populace within bounds. But they broke through and leaped upon us, throwing their arms about our horses' necks, crying out, 'Our saviours!' 'Our deliverers!' God wot, we might as well have tried to charge through the billows of the Baltic when it blows a norther right from the Gulf of Bothnia! But it almost broke my heart to see them ride off with never so much as a spear thrust through one single Muscovite belly-band!" Here Jorian had a fit of coughing which caused the Princess to look severely upon him. Boris, recalled to himself, proceeded more carefully. "It was all we could do to open up a way to where the young man Maurice lay stretched on the Cross of Death. They had loosed the wild horses before we arrived, and these had galloped off after their companions. A pity! Oh, a great pity! "Then came the young man's mother near, she who was our hostess at Isle Rugen----" "Why did you not abide at Kernsberg as you were instructed?" put in Hugo at this point. "Never mind--go on--tell the tale!" cried Helene, who was listening breathlessly. "We thought it our duty to accompany the Duchess Joan," said Boris, deftly enough; "where the king is, there is the court!" And at this point the two captains saluted very dutifully and respectfully, like machines moved by one spring. "Well said for once, thou overly long one," growled Jorian under his breath. "Go on!" commanded Helene. "The young man's mother came near and threw a cloak across his naked body. Then Jorian and I unbound him and chafed his limbs, first removing the gag from his mouth; but so tightly had the cords been bound about him that for long he could not stand upright. Then, from the royal pavilion, where she had been brought for cruel sport to see the death, the Princess Margaret came running----" "Oh, wickedness!" cried Helene, "to make her look on at her lover's death!" "She came furiously, though a dainty princess, thrusting strong men aside. 'Way there!' she cried, 'on your lives make way! I will go to him. I am the Princess Margaret. Give me a dagger and I will prick me a way.'" "And, by Saint Stephen the holy martyr--if she did not snatch a bodkin from the belt of a tailor in the High Street and with it open up her way as featly as though she were handling a Cossack lance." "And what happened when she got to him--when she found her husband?" cried Helene, her eyes sparkling. And she put out a hand to touch her own, just to be sure that he was there. "Truth, a very wondrous thing happened!" said Jorian, whose fingers also had been twitching, "a mightily wondrous thing. Thus it was----" "Hold your tongue, sausage-bag!" growled Boris, very low; "who tells this tale, you or I?" "Get on, then," answered in like fashion Captain Jorian, "you are as long-winded and wheezy as a smith's bellows!" "Yes, a strange thing it was. I was standing by Maurice von Lynar, undoing the cord from his neck. His mother was chafing an arm. The Lady Joan was bending to speak softly to him, for she had dismounted from her horse, when, all in the snapping of a twig, the Princess Margaret came bursting through the ring which Jorian and the Kernsbergers were keeping with their lance-butts. She thrust us all aside. By my faith, me she sent spinning like the young Prince's top there!" "God save his Excellency!" quoth Jorian, not to be left out entirely. "Silence!" cried Helene, with an imperious stamp of her little foot; "and do you, Boris, tell the tale without comparisons. What happened then?" "Only the boy's mother kept her ground! She went on chafing his arm without so much as raising her eyes." "Did the Princess serve Joan of the Sword Hand as she served you?" interposed Hugo. "Marry, worse!" cried Boris, growing excited for the first time. "She thrust her aside like a kitchen wench, and our lady took it as meekly as--as----" "Go on! Did I not tell you to spare us your comparatives?" cried Helene the Princess, letting her broidery slip to the ground in her consuming interest. "Well," said Boris, quickly sobered, "it was in truth a mighty quaint thing to see. The Princess Margaret took the young man in her arms and caught him to her. The Lady Theresa kept hold of his wrist. They looked at each other a moment without speech, eye countering eye like knights at a----" "Go on!" the Princess thundered, if indeed a silvern voice can be said to thunder. "'Give him up to me! He is mine!' cried the Princess. "'He is mine!' answered very haughtily the lady of the Isle Rugen--'Who are you?' 'And you?' cried both at once, flinging their heads back, but never for a moment letting go with their hands. The youth, being dazed, said nothing, nor so much as moved. "'I am his mother!' said the Lady Theresa, speaking first. "'I am his wife!' said the Princess. "Then the woman who had borne the young man gave him into his wife's arms without a word, and the Princess gathered him to her bosom and crooned over him, that being her right. But his mother stepped back among the crowd and drew the hood of her cloak over her head that no man might look upon her face." "Bravo!" cried Helene, clapping her hands, "it was her right!" "Little one," said her husband, pointing to the boy on the terrace beneath, who was lashing a toy horse of wood with all his baby might, "I wonder if you will think so when another woman takes _him_ from you!" The Princess Helene caught her breath sharply. "That would be different!" she said, "yes, very different!" "Ah!" said Hugo the Prince, her husband. CHAPTER XLVI THE FEAR THAT IS IN LOVE Thus the climax came about in the twinkling of an eye, but the universal turmoil and wild jubilation in which Prince Louis's power and government were swept away had really been preparing for years, though the end fell sharp as the thunderclap that breaks the weather after a season of parching heat. For all that the trouble was only deferred, not removed. The cruel death of Maurice von Lynar had been rendered impossible by the opportune arrival of Prince Conrad and the sudden revolution which the sight of his noble and beloved form, clad in armour, produced among the disgusted and impulsive Courtlanders. Yet the arch-foe had only recoiled in order that he might the further leap. The great army of the White Czar was encamped just across the frontier, nominally on the march to Poland, but capable of being in a moment diverted upon the Princedom of Courtland. Here was a pretext of invasion ripe to Prince Ivan's hand. So he kept Louis, the dethroned and extruded prince, close beside him. He urged his father, by every tie of friendship and interest, to replace that prince upon his throne. And the Czar Paul, well knowing that the restoration of Louis meant nothing less than the incorporation of Courtland with his empire, hastened to carry out his son's advice. In Courtland itself there was no confusion. A certain grim determination took possession of the people. They had made their choice, and they would abide by it. They had chosen Conrad to be their ruler, as he had long been their only hope; and they knew that now Louis was for ever impossible, save as a cloak for a Muscovite dominion. It had been the first act of Conrad to summon to him all the archpriests and heads of chapels and monasteries by virtue of his office as Cardinal-Archbishop. He represented to them the imminent danger to Holy Church of yielding to the domination of the Greek heretic. Whoever might be spared, the Muscovite would assuredly make an end of them. He promised absolution from the Holy Father to all who would assist in bulwarking religion and the Church of Peter against invasion and destruction. He himself would for the time being lay aside his office and fight as a soldier in the sacred war which was before them. Every consideration must give way to that. Then he would lay the whole matter at the feet of the Holy Father in Rome. So throughout every town and village in Courtland the war of the Faith was preached. No presbytery but became a recruiting office. Every pulpit was a trumpet proclaiming a righteous war. There was to be no salvation for any Courtlander save in defending his faith and country. It was agreed by all that there was no hope save in the blessed rule of Prince Conrad, at once worthy Prince of the Blood, Prince of Holy Church, and defender of our blessed religion. Prince Louis was a deserter and a heretic. The Pope would depose him, even as (most likely) he had cursed him already. So, thus encouraged, the country rose behind the retiring Muscovite, and Prince Louis was conducted across the boundary of his princedom under the bitter thunder of cannon and the hiss of Courtland arrows. And the craven trembled as he listened to the shouted maledictions of his own people, and begged for a common coat, lest his archer guard should distinguish their late Prince and wing their clothyard shafts at him as he cowered a little behind Prince Ivan's shoulder. Meanwhile Joan, casting aside with an exultant leap of the heart her intent to make of herself an obedient wife, rode back to Kernsberg in order to organise all the forces there to meet the common foe. It was to be the last fight of the Teuton Northland for freedom and faith. The Muscovite does not go back, and if Courtland were conquered Kernsberg could not long stand. To Plassenburg (as we have seen) rode Boris and Jorian to plead for help from their Prince and Princess. Dessauer had already preceded them, and the armies, disciplined and equipped by Prince Karl, were already on the march to defend their frontiers--it might be to go farther and fight shoulder to shoulder with Courtland and Kernsberg against the common foe. And if all this did not happen, it would not be the fault of those honest soldiers and admirable diplomatists, Captains Boris and Jorian, captains of the Palace Guard of Plassenburg. * * * * * The presence of Prince Conrad in the city of Courtland seemed to change entirely the character of the people. From being somewhat frivolous they became at once devoted to the severest military discipline. Nothing was heard but words of command and the ordered tramp of marching feet. The country barons and knights brought in their forces, and their tents, all gay with banners and fluttering pennons, stretched white along the Alla for a mile or more. The word was on every lip, "When will they come?" For already the Muscovite allies of Prince Louis had crossed the frontier and were moving towards Courtland, destroying everything in their track. The day after the deliverance of the Sparhawk, Joan had announced her intention of riding on the morrow to Kernsberg. Maurice von Lynar and Von Orseln would accompany her. "Then," cried Margaret instantly, "I will go, too!" "The ride would be over toilsome for you," said Joan, pausing to touch her friend's hair as she looked forth from the window of the Castle of Courtland at the Sparhawk ordering about a company of stout countrymen in the courtyard beneath. "I _will_ go!" said Margaret wilfully. "I shall never let him out of my sight again!" "We shall be back within the week! You will be both safer and more comfortable here!" The Princess Margaret withdrew her head from the open window, momentarily losing sight of her husband and, in so doing, making vain her last words. "Ah, Joan," she said reproachfully, "you are wise and strong--there is no one like you. But you do not know what it is to be married. You never were in love. How, then, can you understand the feelings of a wife?" She looked out of the window again and waved a kerchief. "Oh, Joan," she looked back again with a mournful countenance, "I do believe that Maurice does not love me as I love him. He never took the least notice of me when I waved to him!" "How could he," demanded Joan, the soldier's daughter, sharply, "he was on duty?" "Well," answered Margaret, still resentful and unconsoled, "he would not have done that _before_ we were married! And it is only the first day we have been together, too, since--since----" And she buried her head in her kerchief. Joan looked at the Princess a moment with a tender smile. Then she gave a little sigh and went over to her friend. She laid her hand on her shoulder and knelt down beside her. "Margaret," she whispered, "you used to be so brave. When I was here, and had to fight the Sparhawk's battles with Prince Wasp, you were as headstrong as any young squire desiring to win his spurs. You wished to see us fight, do you remember?" The Princess took one corner of her white and dainty kerchief away from her eyes in order to look yet more reproachfully at her friend. "Ah," she said, "that shows! Of course, I knew. You were not _he_, you see; I knew that in a moment." Joan restrained a smile. She did not remind her friend that then she had never seen "him." The Princess Margaret went on. "Joan," she cried suddenly, "I wish to ask you something!" She clasped her hands with a sweet petitionary grace. "Say on, little one!" said Joan smiling. "There will be a battle, Joan, will there not?" Joan of the Sword Hand nodded. She took a long breath and drew her head further back. Margaret noted the action. "It is very well for you, Joan," she said; "I know you are more than half a man. Every one says so. And then you do not love any one, and you like fighting. But--you may laugh if you will--I am not going to let my husband fight. I want you to let him go to Plassenburg till it is over!" Joan laughed aloud. "And you?" she said, still smiling good-naturedly. It was now Margaret's turn to draw herself up. "You are not kind!" she said. "I am asking you a favour for my husband, not for myself. Of course I should accompany him! _I_ at least am free to come and go!" "My dear, my dear," said Joan gently, "you are at liberty to propose this to your husband! If he comes and asks me, he shall not lack permission." "You mean he would not go to Plassenburg even if I asked him?" "I know he would not--he, the bravest soldier, the best knight----" There came a knocking at the door. "Enter!" cried Joan imperiously, yet not a little glad of the interruption. Werner von Orseln stood in the portal. Joan waited for him to speak. "My lady," he said, "will you bid the Count von Löen leave his work and take some rest and sustenance. He thinks of nothing but his drill." "Oh, yes, he does," cried the Princess Margaret; "how dare you say it, fellow! He thinks of me! Why, even now----" She looked once more out of the window, a smile upon her face. Instantly she drew in her head again and sprang to her feet. "Oh, he is gone! I cannot see him anywhere!" she cried, "and I never so much as heard them go! Joan, I am going to find him. He should not have gone away without bidding me goodbye! It was cruel!" She flashed out of the room, and without waiting for tiring maid or coverture, she ran downstairs, dressed as she was in her light summer attire. Joan stood a moment silent, looking after her with eyes in which flashed a tender light. Werner von Orseln smiled broadly--the dry smile of an ancient war-captain who puts no bounds to the vagaries of women. It was an experienced smile. "'Tis well for Kernsberg, my lady," said Werner grimly, "that you are not the Princess Margaret." "And why!" said Joan a little haughtily. For she did not like Conrad's sister to be treated lightly even by her chief captain. "Ah, love--love," said Werner, nodding his head sententiously. "It is well, my lady, that I ever trained you up to care for none of these things. Teach a maid to fence, and her honour needs no champion. Give her sword-cunning and you keep her from making a fool of herself about the first man who crosses her path. Strengthen her wrist, teach her to lunge and parry, and you strengthen her head. But you do credit to _your_ instructor. You have never troubled about the follies of love. Therefore are you our own Joan of the Sword Hand!" Joan sighed another sigh, very softly this time, and her eyes, being turned away from Von Orseln, were soft and indefinitely hazy. "Yes," she answered, "I am Joan of the Sword Hand, and I never think of these things!" "Of course not," he cried cheerfully; "why should you? Ah, if only the Princess Margaret had had an ancient Werner von Orseln to teach her how to drill a hole in a fluttering jackanapes! Then we would have had less of this meauling apron-string business!" "Silence," said Joan quickly. "She is here." And the Princess came running in with joy in her face. Instinctively Werner drew back into the shadow of the window curtain, and the smile on his face grew more grimly experienced than ever. "Oh, Joan," cried the Princess breathlessly, "he had not really gone off without bidding me goodbye. You remember I said that I could not believe it of him, and you see I was right. One cannot be mistaken about one's husband!" "No?" said Joan interrogatively. "Never--so long as he loves you, that is!" said Margaret, breathless with her haste; "but when you really love any one, you cannot help getting anxious about them. And then Ivan or Louis might have sent some one to carry him off again to tear him to pieces. Oh, Joan, you cannot know all I suffered. You must be patient with me. I think it was seeing him bound and about to die that has made me like this!" "Margaret!" Joan went quickly towards her friend, touched with compunction for her lack of sympathy, and resolved to comfort her if she could. It was true, after all, that while she and Conrad had been happy together on Isle Rugen, this girl had been suffering. Margaret came towards her, smiling through her tears. "But I have thought of something," she said, brightening still more; "such a splendid plan. I know Maurice would not want to go away when there was fighting--though I believe, if I had him by himself for an hour, I could persuade him even to that, for my sake." A stifled grunt came from behind the curtains, which represented the injury done to the feelings of Werner von Orseln by such unworthy sentiments. The Princess looked over in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing. Joan moved quietly round, so that her friend's back was towards the window, behind the curtains of which stood the war captain. "This is my thought," the Princess went on more calmly. "Do you, Joan, send Maurice on an embassy to Plassenburg till this trouble is over. Then he will be safe. I will find means of keeping him there----" A stifled groan of rage came from the window. Margaret turned sharply about. "What is that?" she cried, taking hold of her skirts, as the habit of women is. "Some one without in the courtyard," said Joan hastily; "a dog, a cat, a rat in the wainscot--anything!" "It sounded like something," answered the Princess, "but surely not like anything! Let us look." "Margaret," said Joan, gently taking her by the arm and walking with her towards the door, "Maurice von Lynar is a soldier and a soldier's son. You would break his heart if you took him away from his duty. He would not love you the same; you would not love him the same." "Oh, yes, I would," said Margaret, showing signs that her sorrow might break out afresh. "I would love him more for taking care of his life for my sake!" "You know you would not, Margaret," Joan persisted. "No woman can truly and fully love a man whom she is not proud of." [Illustration: "Joan indignantly drew the curtain aside." [_Page 323_]] "Oh, that is before they are married!" cried the Princess indignantly. "Afterwards it is different. You find out things then--and love them all the same. But, of course, how should I expect you to help me? You have never loved; you do not understand!" And, without another word, Margaret of Courtland, who had once been so heart-free and _débonnaire_, went out sobbing like a fretted child. Hardly had the door closed upon her when the sound of stifled laughter broke from the window-seat. Joan indignantly drew the curtains aside and revealed Werner von Orseln shaking all over and vainly striving to govern his mirth with his hands pressed against his sides. At sight of the face of his mistress, which was very grave, and even stern, his laughter instantly shut itself off. As it seemed, with a single movement, he raised himself to his feet and saluted. Joan stood looking at him a moment without speech. "Your mirth is exceedingly ill-timed," she said slowly. "On a future occasion, pray remember that the Lady Margaret is a Princess and my friend. You can go! We ride out to-morrow morning at five. See that everything is arranged." Once more Von Orseln saluted, with a face expressionless as a stone. He marched to the door, turned and saluted a third time, and with heavy footsteps descended the stairs communing with himself as he went. "That was salt, Werner. Faith, but she gave you the back of the sword-hand that time, old kerl! Yet, 'twas most wondrous humorsome. Ha! ha! But I must not laugh--at least, not here, for if she catches me the Kernsbergers will want a new chief captain. Ha! ha! No, I will not laugh. Werner, you old fool, be quiet! God's grace, but she looked right royal! It is worth a dressing down to see her in a rage. Faith, I would rather face a regiment of Muscovites single-handed than cross our Joan in one of her tantrums!" He was now at the outer door. Prince Conrad was dismounting. The two men saluted each other. "Is the Duchess Joan within?" said Conrad, concealing his eagerness under the hauteur natural to a Prince. "I have just left her!" answered the chief captain. Without a word Conrad sprang up the steps three at a time. Werner turned about and watched the young man's firm lithe figure till it had disappeared. "Faith of Saint Anthony!" he murmured, "I am right glad our lady cares not for love. If she did, and if you had not been a priest--well, there might have been trouble." CHAPTER XLVII THE BROKEN BOND Above, in the dusky light of the upper hall, Conrad and Joan stood holding each other's hands. It was the first time they had been alone together since the day on which they had walked along the sand-dunes of Rugen. Since then they seemed to have grown inexplicably closer together. To Joan, Conrad now seemed much more her own--the man who loved her, whom she loved--than he had been on the Island. To watch day by day for his passing in martial attire brought back the knight of the tournament whose white plume she had seen storm through the lists on the day when, a slim secretary, she had stood with beating heart and shining eyes behind the chair of Leopold von Dessauer, Ambassador of Plassenburg. For almost five minutes they stood thus without speech; then Joan drew away her hands. "You forget," she said smiling, "that was forbidden in the bond." "My lady," he said, "was not the bond for Isle Rugen alone? Here we are comrades in the strife. We must save our fatherland. I have laid aside my priesthood. If I live, I shall appeal to the Holy Father to loose me wholly from my vows." Smilingly she put his eager argument by. "It was of another vow I spoke. I am not the Holy Father, and for this I will not give you absolution. We are comrades, it is true--that and no more! To-morrow I ride to Kernsberg, where I will muster every man, call down the shepherds from the hills, and be back with you by the Alla before the Muscovite can attack you. I, Joan of the Sword Hand, promise it!" She stamped her foot, half in earnest and half in mockery of the sonorous name by which she was known. "I would rather you were Joan of the Grange at Isle Rugen, and I your jerkined servitor, cleaving the wood that you might bake the bread." "Conrad," said Joan, shaking her head wistfully, "such thoughts are not wise for you and me to harbour. I may indeed be no duchess and you no prince, but we must stand to our dignities now when the enemy threatens and the people need us. Afterwards, an it like us, we may step down together. But, indeed, I need not to argue, for I think better of you, my comrade, than to suppose you would ever imagine anything else." "Joan," said Conrad very gravely, "do not fear for me. I have turned once for all from a career I never chose. Death alone shall turn me back this time." "I know it," she answered; "I never doubted it. But what shall we do with this poor lovesick bride of ours?" And she told him of her interview that morning with his sister. Conrad laughed gently, yet with sympathy; Margaret had always been his "little girl," and her very petulances were dear to him. "It had been well if she would have consented to remain here," he said; "and yet I do not know. She is not built for rough weather, our Gretchen. We are near the enemy, and many things may happen. Our soldiers are mostly levies in Courtland, and the land has been long at peace. The burghers and country folk are willing enough, but--well, perhaps she will be better with you." "She swears she will not go without her husband," said Joan. "Yet he ought to remain with you. I do not need him; Werner will be enough." "Leave me Von Orseln, and do you take the young man," said Conrad; "then Margaret will go with you willingly and gladly." "But she will want to return--that is, if Maurice comes, too." "Isle Rugen?" suggested Conrad, smilingly. "Send your ten men who know the road. If they could carry off Joan of the Sword Hand, they should have no difficulty with little Margaret of Courtland." Joan clapped her hands with pleasure and relief, all unconscious that immediately behind her Margaret had entered softly and now stood arrested by the sound of her own name. "Oh, they will have no trouble, will they not?" she said in her own heart, and smiled. "Isle Rugen? Thank you, my very dear brother and sister. You would get rid of me, separate me from Maurice while he is fighting for your precious princedoms. What is a country in comparison with a husband? I would not care a doit which country I belonged to, so long as I had Maurice with me!" A moment or two Conrad and Joan discussed the details of the capture, while more softly than before Margaret retired to the door. She would have slipped out altogether but that something happened just then which froze her to the spot. A trumpet blew without--once, twice, and thrice, in short and stirring blasts. Hardly had the echoes died away when she heard her brother say, "Adieu, best-beloved! It is the signal that tells me that Prince Ivan is within a day's march of Courtland. I bid you goodbye, and if--if we should never meet again, do not forget that I loved you--loved you as none else could love!" He held out his hand. Joan stood rooted to the spot, her lips moving, but no words coming forth. Then Margaret heard a hoarse cry break from her who had contemned love. "I cannot let you go thus!" she cried. "I cannot keep the vow! It is too hard for me! Conrad!--I am but a weak woman after all!" And in a moment the Princess Margaret saw Joan the cold, Joan of the Sword Hand, Joan Duchess of Kernsberg and Hohenstein, in the arms of her brother. Whereupon, not being of set purpose an eavesdropper, Margaret went out and shut the door softly. The lovers had neither heard her come nor go. And the wife of Maurice von Lynar was smiling very sweetly as she went, but in her eyes lurked mischief. Conrad descended the stair from the apartments of the Duchess Joan, divided between the certainty that his lips had tasted the unutterable joy and the fear lest his soul had sinned the unpardonable sin. A moment Joan steadied herself by the window, with her hand to her breast as if to still the flying pulses of her heart. She took a step forward that she might look once more upon him ere he went. But, changing her purpose in the very act, she turned about and found herself face to face with the Princess Margaret, who was still smiling subtly. "You have granted my request?" she said softly. Joan commanded herself with difficulty. "What request?" she asked, for she indeed had forgotten. "That Maurice and I should first go with you to Kernsberg and afterwards to Plassenburg." "Let me think--let me think--give me time!" said Joan, sinking into a chair and looking straight before her. The world was suddenly filled with whirling vapour and her brain turned with it. "I am in the midst of troubles. I know not what to do!" she murmured. "Ah, it was quieter at Isle Rugen, was it not?" suggested Margaret, who had not forgiven the project of kidnapping her and carrying her off from her husband. But Joan was thinking too deeply to answer or even to notice any taunt. "I cannot go," she murmured, thinking aloud. "I cannot ride to Kernsberg and leave him in the front of danger!" "A woman's place is at home!" said Margaret in a low tone, maliciously quoting Joan's words. "He must not fight this battle alone. Perhaps I shall never see him again!" "A man must not be hampered by affection in the hour of danger!" At this point Joan looked down upon Margaret as she might have done at a puppy that worried a stick to attract her attention. "Do you know," she said, "that Prince Ivan and his Muscovites are within a day's march of Courtland, and that Prince Conrad has already gone forth to meet them?" "What!" cried Margaret, "within a day's march of the city? I must go and find my husband." "Wait!" said Joan. "I see my way. Your husband shall come hither." She went to the door and clapped her hands. An attendant appeared, one of the faithful Kernsberg ten to whom so much had been committed upon the Isle Rugen. "Send hither instantly Werner von Orseln, Alt Pikker, and the Count von Löen!" She waited with the latch of the door in her hand till she heard their footsteps upon the stair. They entered together and saluted. Margaret moved instinctively nearer to her husband. Indeed, only the feeling that the moment was a critical one kept her from running at once to him. As for Maurice, he had not yet grown ashamed of his wife's open manifestations of affection. "Gentlemen," said Joan, "the enemy is at the gate of the city. We shall need every man. Who will ride to Kernsberg and bring back succour?" "Alt Pikker will go!" said Maurice instantly; "he is in charge of the levies!" "The Count von Löen is young. He will ride fastest!" said the chief captain. "Werner von Orseln, of course!" said Alt Pikker, "he is in chief command." "What? You do not wish to go?" said Joan a little haughtily, looking from one to the other of them. It was Werner von Orseln who answered. "Your Highness," he said respectfully, "if the enemy be so near, and a battle imminent, the man is no soldier who would willingly be absent. But we are your servants. Choose you one to go; or, if it seem good to you, more than one. Bid us go, and on our heads it shall be to escort you safely to Kernsberg and bring back reinforcements." The Princess came closer to Joan and slipped a hand into hers. The witty wrinkle at the corner of Werner von Orseln's mouth twitched. "Von Lynar shall go!" said Joan. Whereat Maurice held down his head, Margaret clapped her hands, and the other two stood stolidly awaiting instructions, as became their position. "At what hour shall I depart, my lady?" said Maurice. "Now! So soon as you can get the horses ready?" "But your Grace must have time to make her preparations!" "I am not going to Kernsberg. I stay here!" said Joan, stating a fact. Werner von Orseln was just going out of the door, jubilantly confiding to Alt Pikker that as soon as he saw the Princess put her hand in their lady's he knew they were safe. At the sound of Joan's words he was startled into crying out loudly, "What?" At the same time he faced about with the frown on his face which he wore when he corrected an irregularity in the ranks. "I am not going to Kernsberg. I bide here!" Joan repeated calmly. "Have you anything to say to that, Chief Captain von Orseln?" "But, my lady----" "There are no buts in the matter. Go to your quarters and see that the arms and armour are all in good case!" "Madam, the arms and armour are always in good case," said Werner, with dignity; "but go to Kernsberg you must. The enemy is near to the city, and your Highness might fall into their hands." "You have heard what I have said!" Joan tapped the oaken floor with her foot. "But, madam, let me beseech you----" Joan turned from her chief captain impatiently and walked towards the door of her private apartments. Werner followed his mistress, with his hands a little outstretched and a look of eager entreaty on his face. "My lady," he said, "thirty years I was the faithful servant of your father--ten I have served you. By the memory of those years, if ever I have served you faithfully--" "My father taught you but little, if after thirty years you have not learned to obey. Go to your post!" Werner von Orseln drew himself up and saluted. Then he wheeled about and clanked out without adding a word more. "Faith," he confided to Alt Pikker, "the wench is her father all over again. If I had gone a step further, I swear she would have beat me with the flat of my own sword. I saw her eye full on the hilt of it." "Faith, I too, wished that I had been better helmeted!" chuckled Alt Pikker. "Well," said Werner, like one who makes the best of ill fortune, "we must keep the closer to her, you and I, that in the stress of battle she come not to a mischief. Yet I confess that I am not deeply sorry. I began to fear that Isle Rugen had sapped our lass's spirit. To my mind, she seemed somewhat over content to abide there." "Ah," nodded Alt Pikker, "that is because, after all, our Joan is a woman. No one can know the secret of a woman's heart." "And those who think they know most, know the least!" concurred the much experienced Werner. * * * * * For a moment, after the door closed upon the men, Joan and Margaret stood in silence regarding each other. "I must go and make me ready," said Margaret, speaking like one who is thinking deeply. Joan stood still, conscious that something was about to happen, uncertain what it might be. "I shall see you before I depart," Margaret was saying, with her hand on the latch. Suddenly she dropped the handle of the door and ran impulsively to Joan, clasping her about the neck. "_I know!_" she said, looking up into her face. With a great leap the blood flew to Joan's neck and brow, then as slowly faded away, leaving her paler than before. "What do you know?" she faltered; and she feared, yet desired, to hear. "That you love him!" said Margaret very low. "I came in--I could not help it--I did not know--when Conrad was bidding you goodbye. Joan, I am so glad--so glad! Now you will understand; now you will not think me foolish any more!" "Margaret, I am shamed for ever--it is sin!" whispered Joan, with her arms about her friend. "It is love!" said the wife of Maurice von Lynar, with glowing eyes and pride in her voice. "I hope I shall die in battle----" "Joan!" "I a wife, and love a priest--the brother of the man who is my husband! I pray God that He will take my life to atone for the sin of loving him. Yet He knows that I could neither help it nor yet hinder." "Joan, you will yet be happy." The Duchess shook her head. "It were best for us both that I should die--that is what I pray for." "May Heaven avert this thing--you know not what you say. And yet," Margaret continued in a more meditative tone, "I am not sure. If he were there with you, death itself would not be so hard; at all events, it were better than living without each other." And the two women went into the attiring-room with arms still locked about each other's waists. And as often as their eyes encountered they lingered a little, as if tasting the sweet new knowledge which they had in common. Then those of Joan of the Sword Hand were averted and she blushed. CHAPTER XLVIII JOAN GOVERNS THE CITY It was night in the city of Courtland, and a time of great fear. The watchmen went to and fro on the walls, staring into the blank dark. The Alla, running low with the droughts, lapped gently about the piles of the Summer Palace and lisped against the bounding walls of the city. But ever and anon from the east, where lay the camps of the opposed forces, there came a sound, heavy and sonorous, like distant thunder. Whereat the frighted wives of the burghers of Courtland said, "I wonder what mother's son lies a-dying now. Hearken to the talking of Great Peg, the Margraf's cannon!" At the western or Brandenberg gate there was yet greater fear. For the news had spread athwart the city that a great body of horsemen had paused in front of it, and were being held in parley by the guard on duty, till the Lady Joan, Governor of the city, should be made aware. "They swear that they are friends"--so ran the report--"which is proof that they are enemies. For how can there be friends who are not Courtlanders. And these speak an outland speech, clacking in their throats, hissing their s's, and laughing 'Ho! ho!' instead of 'Hoch! hoch!' as all good Christians do!" The Governor of the city, roused from a rare slumber, leaped on her horse and went clattering off with an escort through the unsleeping streets. When first she came the folk had cheered her as she went. But they were too jaded and saddened now. "Our Governor, the Princess Joan!" they used to call her with pride. But for all that she found not the same devotion among these easy Courtlanders as among her hardy men of Hohenstein. To these she was indeed the Princess Joan. But to those in Castle Kernsberg she was Joan of the Sword Hand. When at last she came to the Brandenburg gate she found before it a great gathering of the townsfolk. The city guard manned the walls, fretted with haste and falling over each other in their uncertainty. There was yet no strictness of discipline among these raw train-bands, and, instead of waiting for an officer to hail the horsemen in front, every soldier, hackbutman, and halberdier was shouting his loudest, till not a word of the reply could be heard. But all this turmoil vanished before the first fierce gust of Joan's wrath like leaves blown away by the blasts of January. "To your posts, every man! I will have the first man spitted with arrows who disobeys--aye, or takes more upon himself than simple obedience to orders. Let such as are officers only abide here with me. Silence beneath in the tower there." Looking out, Joan could see a dark mass of horsemen, while above them glinted in the pale starlight a forest of spearheads. "Whence come you, strangers?" cried Joan, in the loud, clear voice which carried so far. "From Plassenburg we are!" came back the answer. "Who leads you?" "Captains Boris and Jorian, officers of the Prince's bodyguard." "Let Captains Boris and Jorian approach and deliver their message." "With whom are we in speech?" cried the unmistakable voice of Boris, the long man. "With the Princess Joan of Hohenstein, Governor of the city of Courtland," said Joan firmly. "Come on, Boris; those Courtland knaves will not shoot us now. That is the voice of Joan of the Sword Hand. There can be no treachery where she is." "Ho, below there!" cried Joan. "Shine a light on them from the upper sally port." The lanterns flashed out, and there, immediately below her, Joan beheld Boris and Jorian saluting as of old, with the simultaneous gesture which had grown so familiar to her during the days at Isle Rugen. She was moved to smile in spite of the soberness of the circumstances. "What news bring you, good envoys?" "The best of news," they said with one accord, but stopped there as if they had no more to say. "And that news is----" "First, we are here to fight. Pray you tell us if it is all over!" "It is not over; would to Heaven it were!" said Joan. "Thank God for that!" cried Boris and Jorian, with quite remarkable unanimity of piety. "Is that all your tidings?" "Nay, we have brought the most part of the Palace Guard with us--five hundred good lances and all hungry-bellied for victuals and all monstrously thirsty in their throats. Besides which, Prince Hugo raises Plassenburg and the Mark, and in ten days he will be on the march for Courtland." "God send him speed! I fear me in ten days it will be over indeed," said Joan, listening for the dull recurrent thunder down towards the Alla mouth. "What, does the Muscovite press you so hard?" "He has thousands to our hundreds, so that he can hem us in on every side." "Never fear," cried Boris confidently; "we will hold him in check for you till our good Hugo comes to take him on the flank." Then Joan bade the gates be opened, and the horsemen of Plassenburg, strong men on huge horses, trampled in. She held out a hand for the captains to kiss, and sent the burgomaster to assign them billets in the town. Then, without resting, she went to the wool market, which had been turned into a soldiers' hospital. Here she found Theresa von Lynar, going from bed to bed smoothing pillows, anointing wounded limbs, and assisting the surgeons in the care of those who had been brought back from the fatal battlefields of the Alla. Theresa von Lynar rose to meet Joan as she entered, with all the respect due to the city's Governor. Silently the young girl beckoned her to follow, and they went out between long lines of pallets. Here and there a torch glimmered in a sconce against the wall, or a surgeon with a candle in his hand paused at a bedside. The sough of moaning came from all about, and in a distant window-bay, unseen, a man distract with fever jabbered and fought fitfully. Never had Joan realised so nearly the reverse of war. Never had she so longed for the peace of Isle Rugen. She could govern a city. She could lead a foray. She was not afraid to ride into battle, lance in rest or sword in hand. But she owned to herself that she could not do what this woman was doing. "Remember, when all is over I shall keep my vow!" Joan began, as they paused and looked down the long alley of stained pillows, tossing heads, and torn limbs lying very still on palliasses of straw. Without, some of the riotous youth of the city were playing martial airs on twanging instruments. "And I also will keep mine!" responded Theresa briefly. "I am Duchess and city Governor only till the invader is driven out," Joan continued. "Then Isle Rugen is to be mine, and your son shall sit in the seat of Henry the Lion!" "Isle Rugen shall be yours!" answered Theresa. "And when you are tired of Castle Kernsberg you will cross the wastes and take boat to visit me, even as at the first I came to you!" said Joan, kindling at the thought of a definite sacrifice. It seemed like an atonement for her soul's sin. "And what of Prince Conrad!" said Theresa quietly. Joan was silent for a space, then she answered with her eyes on the ground. "Prince Conrad shall rule this land as is his duty--Cardinal, Archbishop, Prince he shall be; there shall be none to deny him so soon as the power of the Muscovite is broken. He will be in full alliance with Hohenstein. He will form a blood bond with Plassenburg. And when he dies, all that is his shall belong to the children of Duke Maurice and his wife Margaret!" Theresa von Lynar stood a moment weighing Joan's words, and when she spoke it was a question that she asked. "Where is Maurice to-night?" she asked. "He commands the Kernsbergers in the camp. Prince Conrad has made him provost-marshal." "And the Princess Margaret?" "She abides in the river gate of the city, which Maurice passes often upon his rounds!" A strange smile passed over the face of Theresa von Lynar. "There are many kinds of love," she said; "but not after this fashion did I, that am a Dane, love Henry the Lion. Wherefore should a woman hamper a man in his wars? Sooner would I have died by his hand!" "She loves him," said Joan, with a new sympathy. "She is a princess and wilful. Moreover, not even a woman can prophesy what love will make another woman do!" "Aye!" retorted Theresa, "I am with you there. But to help a man, not to hinder. Let her strip herself naked that he may go forth clad. Let her fall on the sharp wayside stones that he may march to victory. Let her efface herself that no breath may sully his great name. Let her die unknown--nay, make of herself a living death--that he may increase and fill the mouths of men. That is love--the love of women as I have imagined it. But this love that takes and will not give, that hampers and sends not forth to conquer, that keeps a man within call like a dog straining upon a leash--pah! that is not the love I know!" She turned sharply upon Joan, all her body quivering with excitement. "No, nor yet is it your way of love, my Lady Joan!" "I shall never be so tried, like Margaret," answered Joan, willing to change her mood. "I shall never love any man with the love of wife!" "God forbid," said Theresa, looking at her, "that such a woman as you should die without living!" CHAPTER XLIX THE WOOING OF BORIS AND JORIAN "Jorian," said Boris, adjusting his soft underjerkin before putting on his body armour, "thou art the greatest fool in the world!" "Hold hard, Boris," answered Jorian. "Honour to whom honour--thou art greater by at least a foot than I!" "Well," said the long man, "let us not quarrel about the breadth of a finger-nail. At any rate, we two are the greatest fools in the world." "There are others," said Jorian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the women's apartments. "None so rounded and tun-bellied with folly!" cried Boris, with decision. "No two donkeys so thistle-fed as we--to have the command of five hundred good horsemen, and the chances of as warm a fight as ever closed----" "That is just it," cried Jorian; "our Hugo had no business to forbid us to engage in the open before he should come." "'Hold the city.' quoth he, shaking that great head of his. 'I know not the sort of general this priest-knight may be, and till I know I will not have my Palace Guard flung like a can of dirty water in the face of the Muscovites. Therefore counsel the Prince to stand on the defensive till I come.'" "And rightly spoke the son of the Red Axe," assented Boris; "only our good Hugo should have sent other men than you and me to command in such a campaign. We never could let well alone all the days of us." "Save in the matter of marriage or no marriage!" smiled Boris grimly. "A plague on all women!" growled the little fat man, his rubicund and shining face lined with unaccustomed discontent. "A plague on all women, I say! What can this Theresa von Lynar want in the Muscovite camp, that we must promise to convey her safe through the fortifications, and then put her into Prince Wasp's hands?" "Think you that for some hatred of our Joan--you remember that night at Isle Rugen--or some purpose of her own (she loves not the Princess Margaret either), this Theresa would betray the city to the enemy?" "Tush!" Jorian had lost his temper and answered crossly. "In that case, would she have called us in? It were easy enough to find some traitor among these Courtlanders, who, to obtain the favour of Prince Louis, would help to bring the Muscovite in. But what, if she were thrice a traitress, would cause her to fix on the two men who of all others would never turn knave and spoil-sport--no, not for a hundred vats of Rhenish bottled by Noah the year after the Flood!" "Well," sighed his companion, "'tis well enough said, my excellent Jorian, but all this does not advance us an inch. We have promised, and at eleven o' the clock we must go. What hinders, though, that we have a bottle of Rhenish now, even though the vintage be younger than you say? Perhaps, however, the patron was more respectable!" * * * * * Thus in the hall of the men-at-arms in the Castle of Courtland spoke the two captains of Plassenburg. All this time they were busy with their attiring, Boris in especial making great play with a tortoiseshell comb among his tangled locks. Somewhat more spruce was the arraying of our twin comrades-in-arms than we have seen it. Perhaps it was the thought of the dangerous escort duty upon which they had promised to venture forth that night; perhaps---- "May we come in?" cried an arch voice from the doorway. "Ah, we have caught you! There--we knew it! So said I to my sister not an hour agone. Women may be vain as peacocks, but for prinking, dandifying vanity, commend me to a pair of foreign war-captains. My lords, have you blacked your eyelashes yet, touched up your eyebrows, scented and waxed those _beautiful_ moustaches? Sister, can you look and live?" And to the two soldiers, standing stiff as at attention, with their combs in their hands, enter the sisters Anna and Martha Pappenheim, more full of mischief than ever, and entirely unsubdued by the presence of the invader at their gates. "Russ or Turk, Courtlander or Franconian, Jew, proselyte, or dweller in Mesopotamia, all is one to us. So be they are men, we will engage to tie them about our little fingers!" "Why," cried Martha, "whence this grand toilet? We knew not that you had friends in the city. And yet they tell me you have been in Courtland before, Sir Boris?" "Marthe," cried Anna Pappenheim, with vast pretence of indignation, "what has gotten into you, girl? Can you have forgotten that martial carriage, those limbs incomparably knit, that readiness of retort and delicate sparkle of Wendish wit, which set all the table in a roar, and yet never once brought the blush to maiden's cheek? For shame, Marthe!" "Ha! ha!" laughed Jorian suddenly, short and sharp, as if a string had been pulled somewhere. "Ho! ho!" thus more sonorously Boris. Anna Pappenheim caught her skirts in her hand and spun round on her heel on pretence of looking behind her. "Sister, what was that?" she cried, spying beneath the settles and up the wide throat of the chimney. "Methought a dog barked." "Or a grey goose cackled!" "Or a donkey sang!" "Ladies," said Jorian, who, being vastly discomposed, must perforce try to speak with an affectation of being at his ease, "you are pleased to be witty." "Heaven mend our wit or your judgment!" "And we are right glad to be your butts. Yet have we been accounted fellows of some humour in our own country and among men----" "Why, then, did you not stay there?" inquired Martha pointedly. "It was not Boris and I who could not stay without," retorted Jorian, somewhat nettled, nodding towards the door of the guard-room. "Well said!" cried frank Anna. "He had you there, Marthe. Pricked in the white! Faith, Sir Jorian pinked us both, for indeed it was we who intruded into these gentlemen's dressing-room. Our excuse is that we are tirewomen, and would fain practise our office when and where we can. Our Princess hath been wedded and needs us but once a week. Noble Wendish gentlemen, will not you engage us?" She clasped her hands, going a step or two nearer Boris as if in appeal. "Do, kind sirs," she said, "have pity on two poor girls who have no work to do. Think--we are orphans and far from home!" The smiles on the faces of the war-captains broadened. "Ho! ho! Good!" burst out Boris. "Ha! ha! Excellent!" assented Jorian, nodding, with his eyes on Martha. Anna Pappenheim ran quickly on tip-toe round to Boris's back and peered between his shoulders. Then she ran her eyes down to his heels. "Sister," she cried, "_they_ do it. That dreadful noise comes from somewhere about them. I distinctly saw their jaws waggle. They must of a surety be wound up like an arbalist. Yet I cannot find the string and trigger! Do come and help me, good Marthe! If you find it, I will dance at your wedding in my stocking-feet!" And the gay Franconian reached up and pulled a stray tag of Boris's jerkin, which hung down his back. The knot slipped, and a circlet of red and gold, ragged at the lower edges, came off in her hand, revealing the fact that Boris's noble _soubreveste_ was no more than a fringe of broidered collar. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Jorian irrepressibly. For Boris looked mightily crestfallen to have his magnificence so rudely dealt with. Anna von Pappenheim clapped her hands. "I have found it," she cried. "It goes like this. You touch off the trigger of one, and the other explodes!" Boris wheeled about with fell intent on his face. He would have caught the teasing minx in his arms, but Anna skipped round behind a chair and threatened him with her finger. "Not till you engage us," she cried. "Hands off, there! We are to array you--not you to disarray us!" Whereat the two gamesome Southlanders stood together in ludicrous imitation of Boris and Jorian's military stiffness, folding their hands meekly and casting their eyes downward like a pair of most ingenuous novices listening to the monitions of their Lady Superior. Then Anna's voice was heard speaking with almost incredible humility. "Will my lord with the hook nose so great and noble deign to express a preference which of us shall be his handmaid?" But they had ventured an inch too far. The string was effectually pulled now. "I will have this one--she is so merry!" cried solemn Boris, seizing Anna Pappenheim about the waist. "And I this! She pretendeth melancholy, yet has tricks like a monkey!" said Jorian, quickly following his example. The girls fended them gallantly, yet, as mayhap they desired, their case was hopeless. "Hands off! I will not be called 'this one,'" cried Anna, though she did not struggle too vehemently. "Nor I a monkey! Let me go, great Wend!" chimed Martha, resigning herself as soon as she had said it. In this prosperous estate was the courtship of Franconia and Plassenburg, when some instinct drew the eyes of Jorian to the door of the officers' guard-room, which Anna had carefully left open at her entrance, in order to secure their retreat. The Duchess Joan stood there silent and regardant. "Boris!" cried Jorian warningly. Boris lifted his eyes from the smiling challenge upon Anna's upturned lips, which, after the manner of your war-captains, he was stooping to kiss. Unwillingly Boris lifted his eyes. The next moment both the late envoys of Plassenburg were saluting as stiffly as if they had still been men-at-arms, while Anna and Martha, blushing divinely, were busy with their needlework in the corner, as demure as cats caught sipping cream. Joan looked at the four for a while without speaking. "Captains Boris and Jorian," she said sternly, "a messenger has come from Prince Conrad to say that the Muscovites press him hard. He asks for instant reinforcements. There is not a man fit for duty within the city saving your command. Will you take them to the Prince's assistance immediately? Werner von Orseln fights by his side. Maurice and my Kernsbergers are already on their way." The countenances of the two Plassenburg captains fell as the leathern screen drops across a cathedral door through which the evening sunshine has been streaming. "My lady, it is heartbreaking, but we cannot," said Boris dolefully. "Our Lord Prince Hugo bade us keep the city till he should arrive!" "But I am Governor. I will keep the city," cried Joan; "the women will mount halberd and carry pike. Go to the Prince! Were Hugo of Plassenburg here he would be the first to march! Go, I order you! Go, I beseech you!" She said the last words in so changed a tone that Boris looked at her in surprise. But still he shook his head. "It is certain that if Prince Hugo were here he would be the first to ride to the rescue. But Prince Hugo is not here, and my comrade and I are soldiers under orders!" "Cowards!" flashed Joan, "I will go myself. The cripples, the halt, and the blind shall follow me. Thora of Bornheim and these maidens there, they shall follow me to the rescue of their Prince. Do you, brave men of Plassenburg, cower behind the walls while the Muscovite overwhelms all and the true Prince is slain!" And at this her voice broke and she sobbed out, "Cowards! cowards! cowards! God preserve me from cowardly men!" For at such times and in such a cause no woman is just. For which high Heaven be thanked! Boris looked at Jorian. Jorian looked at Boris. "No, madam," said Boris gravely; "your servants are no cowards. It is true that we were commanded by our master to keep his Palace Guard within the city walls, and these must stay. But we two are in some sense still Envoys Extraordinary, and not strictly of the Prince's Palace Guard. As Envoys, therefore, charged with a free commission in the interests of peace, we can without wrongdoing accompany you whither you will. Eh, Jorian?" "Aye," quoth Jorian; "we are at her Highness's service till ten o' the clock." "And why till ten?" asked Joan, turning to go out. "Oh," returned Jorian, "there is guard-changing and other matters to see to. But there is time for a wealth of fighting before ten. Lead on, madam. We follow your Highness!" CHAPTER L THE DIN OF BATTLE It was a strange uncouth band that Joan had got together in a handful of minutes in order to accompany her to the field upon which, sullenly retiring before a vastly more numerous enemy, Conrad and his little army stood at bay. Raw lathy lads, wide-hammed from sitting cross-legged in tailors' workshops; prentices too wambly and knock-kneed to be taken at the first draft; old men who had long leaned against street corners and rubbed the doorways of the cathedral smooth with their backs; a sprinkling of stout citizens, reluctant and much afraid, but still more afraid of the wrath of Joan of the Sword Hand. Joan was still scouring the lanes and intricate passages for laggards when Boris and Jorian entered the little square where this company were assembled, most of them embracing their arbalists as if they had been sweeping besoms, and the rest holding their halberds as if they feared they would do themselves an injury. The nose of fat Jorian went so high into the air that, without intending it, he found himself looking up at Boris; and at that moment Boris chanced to be glancing at Jorian down the side of his high arched beak. To the herd of the uncouth soldiery it simply appeared as though the two war-captains of Plassenburg looked at each other. An observer on the opposite side would have noted, however, that the right eye of Jorian and the left eye of Boris simultaneously closed. Yet when they turned their regard upon the last levy of the city of Courtland their faces were grave. "Whence come these churchyard scourings, these skulls and crossbones set up on end?" cried Jorian in face of them all. And this saying from so stout a man made their legs wamble more than ever. "Rotboss rascals, rogues in grain," Boris took up the tale, "faith, it makes a man scratch only to look at them! Did you ever see their marrow?" The two captains turned away in disgust. They walked to and fro a little apart, and Boris, who loved all animals, kicked a dog that came his way. Boris was unhappy. He avoided Jorian's eye. At last he broke out. "We cannot let our Lady Joan set forth for field with such a compost of mumpers and tun-barrels as these!" he said. Boris confided this, as it were to the housetops. Jorian apparently did not listen. He was clicking his dagger in its sheath, but from his next word it was evident that his mind had not been inactive. "What excuse could we make to Hugo, our Prince?" he said at last. "Scarcely did he believe us the last time. And on this occasion we have his direct orders." "Are we not still Envoys?" queried Boris. "Extraordinary!" twinkled Jorian, catching his comrade's idea as a bush of heather catches moorburn. "And as Envoys of a great principality like Plassenburg--representatives of the most noble Prince and Princess in this Empire, should we not ride with retinue due and fitting? That is not taking the Palace Guard into battle. It is only affording due protection to their Excellencies' representatives." "That sounds well enough," answered Boris doubtfully, "but will it stand probation, think you, when Hugo scowls at us from under his brows, and you see the bar of the fifteen Red Axes of the Wolfmark stand red across his forehead?" "Tut, man, his anger is naught to that of Karl the Miller's Son. You and I have stood that. Why should we fear our quiet Hugo?" "Aye, aye; in our day we have tried one thing and then another upon Karl and have borne up under his anger. But then Karl only cursed and used great horned words, suchlike as in his youth he had heard the waggoners use to encourage their horses up the mill brae. But Hugo--when he is angry he says nought, only the red bar comes up slowly, and as it grows dark and fiery you wish he would order you to the scaffold at once, and be done with it!" "Well," said Jorian, "at all events, there is always our Helene. I opine, whatever we do, she will not forget old days--the night at the earth-houses belike and other things. I think we may risk it!" "True," meditated Boris, "you say well. There is always Helene. The Little Playmate will not let our necks be stretched! Not at least for succouring a Princess in distress." "And a woman in love?" added Jorian, who, though he followed the lead of the long man in great things, had a shrewder eye for some more intimate matters. "Eh, what's that you say?" said Boris, turning quickly upon him. He had been regarding with interest a shackled-kneed varlet holding a halberd in his arms as if it had been a fractious bairn. But Jorian was already addressing the company before him. "Here, ye unbaked potsherds--dismiss, if ye know what that means. Get ye to the walls, and if ye cannot stand erect, lean against them, and hold brooms in your hands that the Muscovite may take them for muskets and you for men if he comes nigh enough. Our Lady is not Joan of the Dishclout, that such draught-house ragpickers as you should be pinned to her tail. Set bolsters stuffed with bran on the walls! Man the gates with faggots. Cleave beech billets half in two and set them athwart wooden horses for officers. But insult not the sunshine by letting your shadows fall outside the city. Break off! Dismiss! Go! Get out o' this!" As Jorian stood before the levies and vomited his insults upon them, a gleam of joy passed across chops hitherto white like fish-bellies with the fear of death. Bleared eyes flashed with relief. And there ran a murmur through the ragged ranks which sounded like "Thank you, great captain!" * * * * * In a short quarter of an hour the drums of the Plassenburg Palace Guard had beaten to arms. From gate to gate the light sea-wind had borne the cheerful trumpet call, and when Joan returned, heartless and downcast, with half a dozen more mouldy rascals, smelling of muck-rakes and damp stable straw, she found before her more than half the horsemen of Plassenburg armed cap-a-pie in burnished steel. Whereat she could only look at Boris in astonishment. "Your Highness," said that captain, saluting gravely, "we are only able to accompany you as Envoys Extraordinary of the Prince and Princess of Plassenburg. But as such we feel it our duty in order properly to support our state, to take with us a suitable attendance. We are sure that neither Prince Hugo nor yet his Princess Helene would wish it otherwise!" Before Joan could reply a messenger came springing up the long narrow streets along which the disbanded levies, so vigorously contemned of Jorian, were hurrying to their places upon the walls with a detail of the Plassenburg men behind them, driving them like sheep. Joan took the letter and opened it with a jerk. "From High Captain von Orseln to the Princess Joan. "Come with all speed, if you would be in time. We are hard beset. The enemy are all about us. Prince Conrad has ordered a charge!" The face of the woman whitened as she read, but at the same moment the fingers of Joan of the Sword Hand tightened upon the hilt. She read the letter aloud. There was no comment. Boris cried an order, Jorian dropped to the rear, and the retinue of the Envoys Extraordinary swung out on the road towards the great battle. Outnumbered and beaten back by the locust flock which spread to either side, far outflanking and sometimes completely enfolding his small army, Prince Conrad still maintained himself by good generalship and the high personal courage which stimulated his followers. The hardy Kernsbergers, both horse and foot, whom Maurice had brought up, proved the backbone of the defence. Besides which Werner von Orseln had striven by rebuke and chastening, as well as by appeals to their honour, to impart some steadiness into the Courtland ranks. But save the free knights from the landward parts, who were driven wild by the sight of the ever-spreading Muscovite desolation, there was little stamina among the burghers. They were, indeed, loud and turbulent upon occasion, but they understood but ill any concerted action. In this they differed conspicuously from their fellows of the Hansa League, or even from the clothweavers of the Netherland cities. As Joan and the war-captains of Plassenburg came nearer they heard a low growling roar like the distant sound of the breakers on the outer shore at Isle Rugen. It rose and fell as the fitful wind bore it towards them, but it never entirely ceased. They dashed through the fords of the Alla, the three hundred lances of the Plassenburg Guard clattering eagerly behind them. Joan led, on a black horse which Conrad had given her. The two war-captains with one mind set their steel caps more firmly on their heads, and as his steed breasted the river bank Jorian laughed aloud. Angrily Joan turned in her saddle to see what the little man was laughing at. But with quick instinct she perceived that he laughed only as the war-horse neighs when he scents the battle from afar. He was once more the born fighter of men. Jorian and his mate would never be generals, but they were the best tools any general could have. They came nearer. A few wreaths of smoke, hanging over the yet distant field, told where Russ and Teuton met in battle array. A solemn slumberous reverberation heard at intervals split the dull general roar apart. It was the new cannon which had come from the Margraf George to help beat back the common foe. Again and again broke in upon their advance that appalling sound, which set the inward parts of men quivering. Presently they began to pass limping men hasting cityward, then fleeing and panic-stricken wretches who looked over their shoulders as if they saw steel flashing at their backs. A camp-marshal or two was trying to stay these, beating them over the head and shoulders with the flat of their swords; but not a man of the Plassenburgers even looked towards them. Their eyes were on that distant tossing line dimly seen amid clouds of dust, and those strange wreaths of white smoke going upward from the cannons' mouths. The roar grew louder; there were gaps in the fighting line; a banner went down amid great shouting. They could see the glinting of sunshine upon armour. "Kernsberg!" cried Joan, her sword high in the air as she set spurs in her black stallion and swept onward a good twenty yards before the rush of the horsemen of Plassenburg. Now they began to see the arching arrow-hail, grey against the skyline like gnat swarms dancing in the dusk of summer trees. The quarrels buzzed. The great catapults, still used by the Muscovites, twanged like the breaking of viol cords. The horses instinctively quickened their pace to take the wounded in their stride. There--there was the thickest of the fray, where the great cannon of the Margraf George thundered and were instantly wrapped in their own white pall. [Illustration: "The sturdy form of Werner von Orseln, bestriding the body of a fallen knight." [_Page 351_]] Joan's quick glance about her for Conrad told her nothing of his whereabouts. But the two war-captains, more experienced, perceived that the Muscovites were already everywhere victorious. Their horsemen outflanked and overlapped the slender array of Courtland. Only about the cannon and on the far right did any seem to be making a stand. "There!" cried Jorian, couching his lance, "there by the cannon is where we will get our bellyful of fighting." He pointed where, amid a confusion of fighting-men, wounded and struggling horses, and the great black tubes of the Margraf's cannon, they saw the sturdy form of Werner von Orseln, grown larger through the smoke and dusty smother, bestriding the body of a fallen knight. He fought as one fights a swarm of angry bees, striking every way with a desperate courage. The charging squadrons of Plassenburg divided to pass right and left of the cannon. Joan first of all, with her sword lifted and crying not Kernsberg now, but "Conrad! Conrad!" drave straight into the heart of the Cossack swarm. At the trampling of the horses' feet the Muscovites lifted their eyes. They had been too intent to kill to waste a thought on any possible succour. Joan felt herself strike right and left. Her heart was crazed within her so that she set spurs to her steed and rode him forward, plunging and furious. Then a blowing wisp of white plume was swept aside, and through a helmet (broken as a nut shell is cracked and falls apart) Joan saw the fair head of her Prince. A trickle of blood wetted a clinging curl on his forehead and stole down his pale cheek. Werner von Orseln, begrimed and drunken with battle, bestrode the body of Prince Conrad. His defiance rose above the din of battle. "Come on, cowards of the North! Taste good German steel! To me, Kernsberg! To me, Hohenstein! Curs of Courtland, would ye desert your Prince? Curses on you all, swart hounds of the Baltic! Let me out of this and never a dog of you shall ever bite bread again!" And so, foaming in his battle anger, the ancient war-captain would have stricken down his mistress. For he saw all things red and his heart was bitter within him. With all the power that was in her, right and left Joan smote to clear her way to Conrad, praying that if she could not save him she might at least die with him. But by this time Captains Boris and Jorian, leaving their horsemen to ride at the second line, had wheeled and now came thrusting their lances freely into Cossack backs. These last, finding themselves thus taken in the rear, turned and fled. "Hey, Werner, good lad, do not slay your comrades! Down blade, old Thirsty. Hast thou not drunken enough blood this morning?" So cried the war-captains as Werner dashed the blood and tears out of his eyes. "Back! back!" he cried, as soon as he knew with whom he had to do. "Go back! Conrad is slain or hath a broken head. They were lashing at him as he lay to kill him outright? Ah, viper, would you sting?" (He thrust a wounded Muscovite through as he was crawling nearer to Conrad with a broad knife in his hand.) "These beaten curs of Courtlanders broke at the first attack. Get him to horse! Quick, I say. My Lady Joan, what do you do in this place?" For even while he spoke Joan had dismounted and was holding Conrad's head on her lap. With the soft white kerchief which she wore on her helm as a favour she wiped the wound on his scalp. It was long, but did not appear to be very deep. As Werner stood astonished, gazing at his mistress, Boris summoned the trumpeter who had wheeled with him. "Sound the recall!" he bade him. And in a moment clear notes rang out. "He is not dead! Lift him up, you two!" Joan cried suddenly. "No, I will take him on my steed. It is the strongest, and I the lightest. I alone will bear him in." And before any could speak she sprang into the saddle without assistance with all her old lightness of action, most like that of a lithe lad who chases the colts in his father's croft that he may ride them bareback. So Werner von Orseln lifted the head and Boris the feet, bearing him tenderly that they might set him upon Joan's horse. And so firm was her seat (for she rode as the Maid rode into Orleans with Dunois on one side and Gilles de Rais on the other), that she did not even quiver as she received the weight. The noble black looked round once, and then, as if understanding the thing that was required of him, he gentled himself and began to pace slow and stately towards the city. On either side walked tall Boris and sturdy Werner, who steadied the unconscious Prince with the palms of their hands. Meanwhile the Palace Guard, with Jorian at its head, defended the slow retreat, while on the flanks Maurice and his staunch Kernsbergers checked the victorious advance of the Muscovites. Yet the disaster was complete. They left the dead, they left the camp, they left the munitions of war. They abandoned the Margraf's cannon and all his great store of powder. And there were many that wept and some that only ground teeth and cursed as they fell back, and heard the wailing of the women and saw the fear whitening on the faces they loved. Only the Kernsbergers bit their lips and watched the eye of Maurice, by whose side a slim page in chain-mail had ridden all day with visor down. And the men of the Palace Guard prayed for Prince Hugo to come. As for Joan, she cared nothing for victory or defeat, loss or gain, because that the man she loved leaned on her breast, bleeding and very still. Yet with great gentleness she gave him down into loving hands, and afterwards stood marble-pale beside the couch while Theresa von Lynar unlaced his armour and washed his wounds. Then, nerving herself to see him suffer, she murmured over to herself, once, twice, and a hundred times, "God help me to do so and more also to those who have wrought this--specially to Louis of Courtland and Ivan of Muscovy." "Abide ye, little one--be patient. Vengeance will come to both!" said Theresa. "I, who do not promise lightly, promise it you!" And she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. Never before had the Duchess Joan been called "little one!" Yet for all her brave deeds she laid her head on Theresa's shoulder, murmuring, "Save him--save him! I cannot bear to lose him. Pray for him and me!" Theresa kissed her brow. "Ah," she said, "the prayers of such as Theresa von Lynar would avail little. Yet she may be a weapon in the hand of the God of vengeance. Is it not written that they that take the sword shall perish by the sword?" But already Joan had forgotten vengeance. For now the surgeons of Courtland stood about, and she murmured, "Must he die? Tell me, will he die?" And as the wise men silently shook their heads, the crying of the victorious Muscovites could be heard outside the wall. Then ensued a long silence, through which broke a gust of iron-throated laughter. It was the roar of the Margraf's captured cannon firing the salvo of victory. CHAPTER LI THERESA'S TREACHERY That night the whole city of Courtland cowered in fear before its triumphant enemy. At the nearest posts the Muscovites were in great strength, and the sight of their burnings fretted the souls of the citizens on guard. Some came near enough to cry insults up to the defenders. "You would not have your own true Prince. Now ye shall have ours. We will see how you like the exchange!" This was the cry of some renegade Courtlander, or of a Muscovite learned (as ofttimes they are) in the speech of the West. But within the walls and at the gates the men of Kernsberg and Hohenstein rubbed their hands and nudged each other. "Brisk lads," one said, "let us make our wills and send them by pigeon post. I am leaving Gretchen my Book of Prayers, my Lives of the Saints, my rosary, and my belt pounced with golden eye-holes----" "Methinks that last will do thy Gretchen most service," said his companion, "since the others have gone to the vintner's long ago!" * * * * * "Thou art the greater knave to say so," retorted his companion; "and if by God's grace we come safe out of this I will break thy head for thy roguery!" The Muscovites had dragged the captured cannon in front of the Plassenburg Gate, and now they fired occasionally, mostly great balls of quarried stone, but afterward, as the day wore later, any piece of metal or rock they could find. And the crash of wooden galleries and stone machicolations followed, together with the scuttling of the Courtland levies from the post of danger. A few of the younger citizens, indeed, were staunch, but for the most part the Plassenburgers and Kernsbergers were left to bite their lips and confide to each other what their Prince Hugo or their Joan of the Hand Sword would have done to bring such cowards to reason and right discipline. "An it were not for our own borders and that brave priest-prince, no shaveling he," they said, "faith, such curs were best left to the Muscovite. The plet and the knout were made for such as they!" "Not so," said he who had maligned Gretchen; "the Courtlanders are yea-for-soothing knaves, truly; but they are Germans, and need only to know they must, to be brave enough. One or two of our Karl's hostelries, with thirteen lodgings on either side, every guest upright and a-swing by the neck--these would make of the Courtlanders as good soldiers as thyself, Hans Finck!" But at that moment came Captain Boris by and rebuked them sharply for the loudness of their speech. It was approaching ten of the clock. Boris and Jorian had already visited all the posts, and were now ready to make their venture with Theresa von Lynar. "No fools like old fools!" grumbled Jorian sententiously, as he buckled on his carinated breastplate, that could shed aside bolts, quarrels, and even bullets from powder guns as the prow of a vessel sheds the waves to either side in a good northerly wind. "'Tis you should know," retorted Boris, "being both old and a fool." "A man is known by the company he keeps!" answered Jorian, adjusting the lining of his steel cap, which was somewhat in disarray after the battle of the morning. "Ah!" sighed his companion. "I would that I had the choosing of the company I am to keep this night!" "And I!" assented Jorian, looking solemn for once as he thought of pretty Martha Pappenheim. "Well, we do it from a good motive," said Boris; "that is one comfort. And if we lose our lives, Prince Conrad will order many masses (they will need to be very many) for your soul's peace and good quittance from purgatory!" "Humph!" said Jorian, as if he did not see much comfort in that, "I would rather have a box on the ear from Martha Pappenheim than all the matins of all the priests that ever sung laud!" "Canst have that and welcome--if her sister will do as well!" cried Anna, as the two men went out into the long passage. And she suited the deed to the word. "Oh! I have hurt my hand against that hard helmet. It serves me right for listening! Marthe!"--she looked about for her sister before turning to the soldiers--"see, I have hurt my hand," she added. Then she made the tears well up in her eyes by an art of the tongue in the throat she had. "Kiss it well, Marthe!" she said, looking up at her sister as she came along the passage swinging a lantern as carelessly as if there were not a Muscovite in the world. But Boris forestalled the newcomer and caught up the small white hand in the soft leathern grip of his palm where the ring-mail stopped. "_I_ will do that better than any sister!" he said. "That, indeed, you cannot; for only the kiss of love can make a hurt better!" Anna glanced up at him with wet eyes, a little maid full of innocence and simplicity. Most certainly she was all unconscious of the danger in which she was putting herself. "Well, then, I love you!" said Boris, who did his wooing plainly. And did not kiss her hand. Meanwhile the others had wandered to the end of the passage and now stood at the turnpike staircase, the light of Martha Pappenheim's lantern making a dim haze of light about them. Anna looked at Boris as often as she could. "You really love me?" she questioned. "No, you cannot; you have known me too brief a time. Besides, this is no time to speak of love, with the enemy at the gates!" "Tush!" said Boris, with the roughness which Anna had looked for in vain among all the youth of Courtland. "I tell you, girl, it is the time. You and I are no Courtlanders, God be thanked! In a little while I shall ride back to Plassenburg, which is a place where men live. I shall not go alone. You, little Anna, shall come, too!" "You are not deceiving me?" she murmured, looking up upon occasion. "There is none at Plassenburg whom you love at all?" "I have never loved any woman but you!" said Boris, settling his conscience by adding mentally, "though I may have thought I did when I told them so." "Nor I any man!" said Anna, softly meditative, making, however, a similar addition. Thus Greek met Greek, and both were very happy in the belief that their own was the only mental reservation. "But you are going out?" pouted Anna, after a while. "Why cannot you stay in the Castle to-night?" "To-night of all nights it is impossible," said Boris. "We must make the rounds and see that the gates are guarded. The safety of the city is in our hands." "You are sure that you will not run into any danger!" said Anna anxiously. She remembered a certain precariousness of tenure among some of her previous--mental reservations. There was Fritz Wünch, who had laughed at the red beard of a Prussian baron; Wilhelm of Bautzen, who went once too often on a foray with his uncle, Fighting Max of Castelnau---- For answer the staunch war-captain kissed her, and the girl clung to her lover, this time in real tears. Martha's candle had gone out, and the two had perforce to go down the stair in the dark. They reached the foot at last. "None of them were quite like him," she owned that night to her sister. "He takes you up as if he would break you in his arms. And he could, too. It is good to feel!" "Jorian also is just like that--so satisfactory!" answered Martha. Which shows the use Jorian must have made of his time at the stairhead, and why Martha Pappenheim's light went out. "He swears he has never loved any woman before." "Jorian does just the same." "I suppose we must never tell them----" "Marthe--if you should dare, I will---- Besides, you were just as bad!" "Anna, as if I would dream of such a thing!" And the two innocents fell into each other's arms and embraced after the manner of women, each in her own heart thinking how much she preferred "the way of a man with a maid"--at least that form of it cultivated by stout war-captains of Plassenburg. Without, Boris and Jorian trampled along through a furious gusting of Baltic rain, which came in driving sheets from the north and splashed its thumb-board drops equally upon the red roofs of Courtland, the tented Muscovites drinking victory, and upon the dead men lying afield. Worse still, it fell on many wounded, and to such even the thrust of the thievish camp-follower's tolle-knife was merciful. Never could monks more fitly have chanted, "Blessed are the dead!" than concerning those who lay stiff and unconscious on the field where they had fought, to whose ears the Alla sang in vain. Attired in her cloak of blue, with the hood pulled low over her face, Theresa von Lynar was waiting for Boris and Jorian at the door of the market-hospital. "I thank you for your fidelity," she said quickly. "I have sore need of you. I put a great secret into your hands. I could not ask one of the followers of Prince Conrad, nor yet a soldier of the Duchess Joan, lest when that is done which shall be done to-night the Prince or the Duchess should be held blameworthy, having most to gain or lose thereto. But you are of Plassenburg and will bear me witness!" Boris and Jorian silently signified their obedience and readiness to serve her. Then she gave them their instructions. "You will conduct me past the city guards, out through the gates, and take me towards the camp of the Prince of Muscovy. There you will leave me, and I shall be met by one who in like manner will lead me through the enemy's posts." "And when will you return, my Lady Theresa? We shall wait for you!" "Thank you, gentlemen. You need not wait. I shall not return!" "Not return?" cried Jorian and Boris together, greatly astonished. "No," said Theresa very slowly and quietly, her eyes set on the darkness. "Hear ye, Captains of Plassenburg--I will give you my mind. You are trusty men, and can, as I have proved, hold your own counsel." Boris and Jorian nodded. There was no difficulty about that. "Good!" they said together as of old. As they grew older it became more and more easy to be silent. Silence had always been easier to them than speech, and the habit clave to them even when they were in love. "Listen, then," Theresa went on. "You know, and I know, that unless quick succour come, the city is doomed. You are men and soldiers, and whether ye make an end amid the din of battle, or escape for this time, is a matter wherewith ye do not trouble your minds till the time comes. But for me, be it known to you that I am the widow of Henry the Lion of Kernsberg. My son Maurice is the true heir to the Dukedom. Yet, being bound by an oath sworn to the man who made me his wife, I have never claimed the throne for him. But now Joan his sister knows, and out of her great heart she swears that she will give up the Duchy to him. If, therefore, the city is taken, the Muscovite will slay my son, slay him by their hellish tortures, as they have sworn to do for the despite he put upon Prince Ivan. And his wife, the Princess Margaret, will die of grief when they carry her to Moscow to make a bride out of a widow. Joan will be a prisoner, Conrad either dead or a priest, and Kernsberg, the heritage of Henry the Lion, a fief of the Czar. There is no help in any. Your Prince would succour, but it takes time to raise the country, and long ere he can cross the frontier the Russian will have worked his will in Courtland. Now I see a way--a woman's way. And if I fall in the doing of it, well--I but go to meet him for the sake of whose children I freely give my life. In this bear me witness." "Madam," said Boris, gravely, "we are but plain soldiers. We pretend not to understand the great matters of State of which you speak. But rest assured that we will serve you with our lives, bear true witness, and in all things obey your word implicitly." Without difficulty they passed through the streets and warded gates. Werner von Orseln, indeed, tramping the inner rounds, cried "Whither away?" Then, seeing the lady cloaked between them, he added after his manner, "By my faith, you Plassenburgers beat the world. Hang me to a gooseberry bush if I do not tell Anna Pappenheim of it ere to-morrow's sunset. As I know, she will forgive inconstancy only in herself!" They plunged into the darkness of the outer night. As soon as they were beyond the gates the wind drave past them hissing level. The black trees roared overhead. At first in the swirl of the storm the three could see nothing; but gradually the watchfires of the Muscovite came out thicksown like stars along the rising grounds on both sides of the Alla. Boris strode on ahead, peering anxiously into the night, and a little behind Jorian gave Theresa his hand over the rough and uneven ground. A pair of ranging stragglers, vultures that accompany the advance of all great armies, came near and examined the party, but retreated promptly as they caught the glint of the firelight upon the armour of the war-captains. Presently they began to descend into the valley, the iron-shod feet of the men clinking upon the stones. Theresa walked silently, steeped in thought, laying a hand on arm or shoulder as she had occasion. Suddenly tall Boris stopped dead and with a sweep of his arm halted the others. "There!" he whispered, pointing upward. And against the glow thrown from behind a ridge they could see a pair of Cossacks riding to and fro ceaselessly, dark against the ruddy sky. "Gott, would that I had my arbalist! I could put gimlet holes in these knaves!" whispered Jorian over Boris's shoulder. "Hush!" muttered Boris; "it is lucky for Martha Pappenheim that you left it at home!" "Captains Boris and Jorian," Theresa was speaking with quietness, raising her voice just enough to make herself heard over the roar of the wind overhead, for the nook in which they presently found themselves was sheltered, "I bid you adieu--it may be farewell. You have done nobly and like two valiant captains who were fit to war with Henry the Lion. I thank you. You will bear me faithful witness in the things of which I have spoken to you. Take this ring from me, not in recompense, but in memory. It is a bauble worth any lady's acceptance. And you this dagger." She took two from within her mantle, and gave one to Jorian. "It is good steel and will not fail you. The fellow of it I will keep!" She motioned them backward with her hand. "Abide there among the bushes till you see a man come out to meet me. Then depart, and till you have good reason keep the last secret of Theresa, wife of Henry the Lion, Duke of Kernsberg and Hohenstein!" Boris and Jorian bowed themselves as low as the straitness of their armour would permit. "We thank you, madam," they said; "as you have commanded, so will we do!" And as they had been bidden they withdrew into a clump of willow and alder whose leaves clashed together and snapped like whips in the wind. "Yonder woman is braver than you or I, Jorian," said Boris, as crouching they watched her climb the ridge. "Which of us would do as much for any on the earth?" "After all, it is for her son. If you had children, who can say----?" "Whether I may have children or no concerns you not," returned Boris, who seemed unaccountably ruffled. "I only know that I would not throw away my life for a baker's dozen of them!" Upon the skyline Theresa von Lynar stood a moment looking backward to make sure that her late escort was hidden. Then she took a whistle from her gown and blew upon it shrilly in a lull of the storm. At the sound the war-captains could see the Cossacks drop their lances and pause in their unwearying ride. They appeared to listen eagerly, and upon the whistle being repeated one of them threw up a hand. Then between them and on foot the watchers saw another man stand, a dark shadow against the watchfires. The sentinels leaned down to speak with him, and then, lifting their lances, they permitted him to pass between them. He was a tall man, clad in a long caftan which flapped about his feet, a sheepskin posteen or winter jacket, and a round cap of fur, high-crowned and flat-topped, upon his head. He came straight towards Theresa as if he expected a visitor. The two men in hiding saw him take her hand as a host might that of an honoured guest, kiss it reverently, and then lead her up the little hill to where the sentinels waited motionless on their horses. So soon as the pair had passed within the lines, their figures and the Cossack salute momentarily silhouetted against the watchfires, the twin horsemen resumed their monotonous ride. By this time Jorian's head was above the bushes and his eyes stood well nigh out of his head. "Down, fool!" growled Boris, taking him by the legs and pulling him flat; "the Cossacks will see you!" "Boris," gasped Jorian, who had descended so rapidly that the fall and the weight of his plate had driven the wind out of him, "I know that fellow. I have seen him before. It is Prince Wasp's physician, Alexis the Deacon. I remember him in Courtland when first we came thither!" "Well, and what of that?" grunted Boris, staring at the little detached tongues of willow-leaf flame which were blown upward from the Muscovite watchfires. "What of that, man?" retorted Boris. "Why, only this. We have been duped. She was a traitress, after all. This has been planned a long while." "Traitress or saint, it is none of our business," said Boris grimly. "We had better get ourselves within the walls of Courtland, and say nothing to any of this night's work!" "At any rate," added the long man as an afterthought, "I have the ring. It will be a rare gift for Anna." Jorian looked ruefully at his dagger, holding it between the rustling alder leaves, so as to catch the light from the watchfires. The red glow fell on a jewel in the hilt. "'Tis a pretty toy enough, but how can I give that to Marthe? It is not a fit keepsake for a lady!" "Well," said Boris, suddenly appeased, "I will swop you for it. I am not so sure that my pretty spitfire would not rather have it than any ring I could give her. Shall we exchange?" "But we promised to keep them as souvenirs?" urged Jorian, whose conscience smote him slightly. "One does not tell lies to a lady--at least where one can help it." "It depends upon the lady!" said Boris practically. "You can tell your Marthe the truth. I will please myself with Anna. Hand over the dagger." So wholly devoid of sentiment are war-captains when they deal with keepsakes. CHAPTER LII THE MARGRAF'S POWDER CHESTS It was indeed Alexis the Deacon who met the Lady Theresa. And the matter had been arranged, just as Boris said. Alexis the Deacon, a wise man of many disguises, remained in Courtland after the abrupt departure of Prince Ivan. Theresa had found him in the hospital, where, sheltered by a curtain, she heard him talk with a dying man--the son of a Greek merchant domiciled in Courtland, whose talent for languages and quick intelligence had induced Prince Conrad to place him on his immediate staff of officers. "I bid you reveal to me the plans and intents of the Prince," Theresa heard Alexis say, "otherwise I cannot give you absolution. I am priest as well as doctor." At this the young Greek groaned and turned aside his head, for he loved the Prince. Nevertheless, he spoke into the ear of the physician all he knew, and as reward received a sleeping draught, which induced the sleep from which none waken. And afterwards Theresa had spoken also. So it was this same Alexis--spy, priest, surgeon, assassin, and chief confidant of Ivan Prince of Muscovy--who, in front of the watchfires, bent over the hand of Theresa von Lynar on that stormy night which succeeded the crowning victory of the Russian arms in Courtland. "This way, madam. Fear not. The Prince is eagerly awaiting you--both Princes, indeed," Alexis said, as he led her into the camp through lines of lighted tents and curious eyes looking at them from the darkness. "Only tell them all that you have to tell, and, trust me, there shall be no bounds to the gratitude of the Prince, or of Alexis the Deacon, his most humble servant." Theresa thought of what this boundless gratitude had obtained for the young Greek, and smiled. They came to an open space before a lighted pavilion. Before the door stood a pair of officers trying in vain to shield their gay attire under scanty shoulder cloaks from the hurtling inclemency of the night. Their ready swords, however, barred the way. "To see the Prince--his Highness expects us," said Alexis, without any salute. And with no further objection the two officers stood aside, staring eagerly and curiously however under the hood of the lady's cloak whom Alexis brought so late to the tent of their master. "Ha!" muttered one of them confidentially as the pair passed within, "I often wondered what kept our Ivan so long in Courtland. It was more than his wooing of the Princess Margaret, I will wager!" "Curse the wet!" growled his fellow, turning away. He felt that it was no time for speculative scandal. Theresa and her conductor stood within the tent of the commander of the Muscovite army. The glow of light, though it came only from candles set within lanterns of horn, was great enough to be dazzling to her eyes. She found herself in the immediate presence of Prince Ivan, who rose with his usual lithe grace to greet her. An older man, with a grey pinched face, sat listlessly with his elbow on the small camp table. He leaned his forehead on his palm, and looked down. Behind, in the half dark of the tent, a low wide divan with cushions was revealed, and all the upper end of the tent was filled up with a huge and shadowy pile of kegs and boxes, only half concealed behind a curtain. "I bid you welcome, my lady," said Prince Ivan, taking her hand. "Surely never did ally come welcomer than you to our camp to-night. My servant Alexis has told me of your goodwill--both towards ourselves and to Prince Louis." (He indicated the silent sitting figure with a little movement of his hand sufficiently contemptuous.) "Let us hear your news, and then will we find you such lodging and welcome as may be among rough soldiers and in a camp of war." As he was speaking Theresa von Lynar loosened her long cloak of blue, its straight folds dank and heavy with the rains. The eyes of the Prince of Muscovy grew wider. Hitherto this woman had been to him but a common traitress, possessed of great secrets, doubtless to be flattered a little, and then--afterwards--thrown aside. Now he stood gazing at her his hands resting easily on the table, his body a little bent. As she revealed herself to him the pupils of his eyes dilated, and amber gleams seemed to shoot across the irises. He thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman. As he stood there, sharpening his features and moistening his lips, Prince Ivan looked exceedingly like a beast of prey looking out of his hole upon a quarry which comes of its own accord within reach of his claws. But in a moment he had recovered himself, and came forward with renewed reverence. "Madam," he said, bowing low, "will you be pleased to sit down? You are wet and tired." He went to the flap of the pavilion and pushed aside the dripping flap. "Alexis!" he cried, "call up my people. Bid them bring a brazier, and tell these lazy fellows to serve supper in half an hour on peril of their heads!" He returned and stood before Theresa, who had sunk back as if fatigued on an ottoman covered with thick furs. Her feet nestled in the bearskins which covered the floor. The Prince looked anxiously down. "Pardon me, your shoes are wet," he said. "We are but Muscovite boors, but we know how to make ladies comfortable. Permit me!" And before Theresa could murmur a negative the Prince had knelt down and was unloosing the latchets of her shoes. "A moment!" he said, as he sprang again to his feet with the lithe alertness which distinguished him. Prince Ivan ran to a corner where, with the brusque hand of a master, he had tossed a score of priceless furs to the ground. He rose again and came towards Theresa with a flash of something scarlet in his hand. "You will pardon us, madam," he said, "you are our guest--the sole lady in our camp. I lay it upon your good nature to forgive our rude makeshifts." And again Prince Ivan knelt. He encased Theresa's feet in dainty Oriental slippers, small as her own, and placed them delicately and respectfully on the couch. "There, that is better!" he said, standing over her tenderly. "I thank you, Prince." She answered the action more than the words, smiling upon him with her large graciousness; "I am not worthy of so great favour." "My lady," said the Prince, "it is a proverb of our house that though one day Muscovy shall rule the world, a woman will always rule Muscovy. I am as my fathers were!" Theresa did not answer. She only smiled at the Prince, leaning a little further back and resting her head easily upon the palm of her hand. The servitors brought in more lamps, which they slung along the ridge-pole of the roof, and these shedding down a mellow light enhanced the ripe splendour of Theresa's beauty. Prince Ivan acknowledged to himself that he had spoken the truth when he said that he had never seen a woman so beautiful. Margaret?--ah, Margaret was well enough; Margaret was a princess, a political necessity, but this woman was of a nobler fashion, after a mode more truly Russ. And the Prince of Muscovy, who loved his fruit with the least touch of over-ripeness, would not admit to himself that this woman was one hour past the prime of her glorious beauty. And indeed there was much to be said for this judgment. Theresa's splendid head was set against the dusky skins. Her rich hair of Venice gold, escaping a little from the massy carefulness of its ordered coils, had been blown into wet curls that clung closely to her white neck and tendrilled about her broad low brow. The warmth of the tent and the soft luxury of the rich rugs had brought a flush of red to a cheek which yet tingled with the volleying of the Baltic raindrops. "Alexis never told me this woman was so beautiful," he said to himself. "Who is she? She cannot be of Courtland. Such a marvel could not have been hidden from me during all my stay there!" So he addressed himself to making the discovery. "My lady," he said, "you are our guest. Will you deign to tell us how more formally we may address you? You are no Courtlander, as all may see!" "I am a Dane," she answered smiling; "I am called the Lady Theresa. For the present let that suffice. I am venturing much to come to you thus! My father and brothers built a castle upon the Baltic shore on land that has been the inheritance of my mother. Then came the reivers of Kernsberg and burned the castle to the ground. They burned it with fire from cellar to roof-tree. And they slackened the fire with the blood of my nearest kindred!" As she spoke Theresa's eyes glittered and altered. The Prince read easily the meaning of that excitement. How was he to know all that lay behind? "And so," he said, "you have no good-will to the Princess Joan of Hohenstein--and Courtland. Or to any of her favourers?" he added after a pause. At the name the grey-headed man, who had been sitting unmoved by the table with his elbow on the board, raised a strangely wizened face to Theresa's. "What"--he said, in broken accents, stammering in his speech and grappling with the words as if, like a wrestler at a fair, he must throw each one severally--"what--who has a word to say against the Lady Joan, Princess of Courtland? Whoso wrongs her has me to reckon with--aye, were it my brother Ivan himself!" "Not I, certainly, my good Louis," answered Ivan easily. "I would not wrong the lady by word or deed for all Germany from Bor-Russia to the Rhine-fall!" He turned to Alexis the Deacon, who was at his elbow. "Fill up his cup--remember what I bade you!" he said sharply in an undertone. "His cup is full, he will drink no more. He pushes it from him!" answered Alexis in the same half-whisper. But neither, as it seemed, took any particular pains to prevent their words carrying to the ear of Prince Louis. And, indeed, they had rightly judged. For swiftly as it had come the momentary flash of manhood died out on the meagre face. The arm upon which he had leaned swerved limply aside, and the grey beard fell helplessly forward upon the table. "So much domestic affection is somewhat belated," said Prince Ivan, regarding Louis of Courtland with disgust. "Look at him! Who can wonder at the lady's taste? He is a pretty Prince of a great province. But if he live he will do well enough to fill a chair and hold a golden rod. Take him away, Alexis!" "Nay," said Theresa, with quick alarm, "let him stay. There are many things to speak of. We may need to consult Prince Louis later." "I fear the Prince will not be of great use to us," smiled Prince Ivan. "If only I had known, I would have conserved his princely senses more carefully. But for heads like his the light wine of our country is dangerously strong." He glanced about the pavilion. The servants had not yet retired. "Convey his Highness to the rear, and lay him upon the powder barrels!" He indicated with his hand the array of boxes and kegs piled in the dusk of the tent. The servitors did as they were told; they lifted Prince Louis and would have carried him to that grim couch, but, struck with some peculiarity, Alexis the Deacon suddenly bent over his lax body and thrust his hand into the bosom of his princely habit, now tarnished thick with wine stains and spilled meats. "Excellency," he said, turning to his master, "the Prince is dead! His heart does not beat. It is the stroke! I warned you it would come!" Prince Ivan strode hastily towards the body of Louis of Courtland. "Surely not?" he cried, in seeming astonishment. "This may prove very inconvenient. Yet, after all, what does it matter? With your assistance, madam, the city is ours. And then, what matters dead prince or living prince? A garrison in every fort, a squadron of good Cossacks pricking across every plain, a tax-collector in every village--these are the best securities of princedom. But this is like our good Louis. He never did anything at a right time all his life." Theresa stood on the other side of the dead man as the servitors lowered him for the inspection of their lord. The weary wrinkled face had been smoothed as with the passage of a hand. Only the left corner of the mouth was drawn down, but not so much as to be disfiguring. "I am glad he spoke kindly of his wife at the last," she murmured. And she added to herself, "This falls out well--it relieves me of a necessity." "Spoken like a woman!" cried Prince Ivan, looking admiringly at her. "Pray forgive my bitter speech, and remember that I have borne long with this man!" He turned to the servitors and directed them with a motion of his hand towards the back of the pavilion. "Drop the curtain," he said. And as the silken folds rustled heavily down the curtain fell upon the career and regality of Louis, Prince of Courtland, hereditary Defender of the Holy See. The men did not bear him far. They placed him upon the boxes of the powder for the Margraf's cannon, which for safety and dryness Ivan had bade them bring to his own pavilion. The dead man lay in the dark, open-eyed, staring at the circling shadows as the servitors moved athwart the supper table, at which a woman sat eating and drinking with her enemy. * * * * * Theresa von Lynar sat directly opposite the Prince of Muscovy. The board sparkled with mellow lights reflected from many lanterns. The servitors had departed. Only the measured tread of the sentinels was heard without. They were alone. And then Theresa spoke. Very fully she told what she had learned of the defences of the place, which gates were guarded by the Kernsbergers, which by the men of Plassenburg, which by the remnants of the broken army of Courtland. She spoke in a hushed voice, the Prince sipping and nodding as he looked into her eyes. She gave the passwords of the inner and outer defences, the numbers of the defenders at each gate, the plans for bringing provisions up the Alla--indeed, everything that a besieging general needs to know. And so soon as she had told the passwords the Prince asked her to pardon him a moment. He struck a silver bell and with scarce a moment's delay Alexis entered. "Go," said the Prince; "send one of our fellows familiar with the speech of Courtland into the city by the Plassenburg Gate. The passwords are '_Henry the Lion_' at the outer gate and '_Remember_' at the inner port. Let the man be dressed in the habit of a countryman, and carry with him some wine and provend. Follow him and report immediately." While the Prince was speaking he had never taken his eyes off Theresa von Lynar, though he had appeared to be regarding Alexis the Deacon. Theresa did not blanch. Not a muscle of her face quivered. And within his Muscovite heart, full of treachery as an egg of meat, Prince Ivan said, "She is no traitress, this dame; but a simpleton with all her beauty. The woman is speaking the truth." And Theresa was speaking the truth. She had expected some such test and was prepared; but she only told the defenders' plans to one man; and as for the passwords, she had arranged with Boris that at the earliest dawn they were to be changed and the forces redistributed. While these two waited for the return of Alexis, the Prince encouraged Theresa to speak of her wrongs. He watched with approbation the sparkle of her eye as he spoke of Joan of the Sword Hand. He noted how she shut down her lips when Henry the Lion was mentioned, how her voice shook as she recounted the cruel end of her kin. Though at ordinary times most sober, the Prince now added cup to cup, and like a Muscovite he grew more bitter as the wine mounted to his head. He leaned forward and laid his hand upon his companion's white wrist. Theresa quivered a little, but did not take it away. The Prince was becoming confidential. "Yes," he said, leaning towards her, "you have suffered great wrongs, and do well to hate with the hate that craves vengeance. But even you shall be satisfied. To-morrow and to-morrow's to-morrow you and I shall have out our hearts' desire upon our enemies. Yes, for many days. Sweet--sweet it shall be--sweet, and very slow; for I, too, have wrongs, as you shall hear." "Truly, I did well to come to you!" said Theresa, giving her hand willingly into his. He clasped her fingers and would have kissed her but for the table between. "You speak truth." He hissed the words bitterly. "Indeed, you did better than well. I also have wrongs, and Ivan of Muscovy will show you a Muscovite vengeance. "This Prince Conrad of theirs baulked me of my revenge and drove me from the city. Him will I take and burn at the stake in his priest's robes, as if he were saying mass--or, better still, in the red of the cardinal's habit with his hat upon his head. And ere he dies he shall see his paramour carried to her funeral. For I will give you the life of the woman for whose sake he thwarted Ivan of Muscovy. If you will it, no hand but yours shall have the shedding of the blood of your house's enemy. Is not this your vengeance already sweet in prospect?" "It is sweet indeed!" answered Theresa. "Your Highness!" said the voice of Alexis at the tent door, "am I permitted to speak?" "Speak on!" cried Ivan, without relaxing his clasp upon the hand of Theresa von Lynar. Indeed, momentarily it became a grip. "The man went safely through at the Plassenburg Gate. The passwords were correct. The man who challenged spoke with a Kernsberg accent!" The Prince's grasp relaxed. "It is well," he said. "Now go to the captains and tell them to be in their posts about the city according to the plan--the main assault to be delivered by the gate of the sea. At dawn I will be with you! Go! Above all, do not forget the passwords--first '_Henry the Lion!_' then '_Remember!_'" Alexis the Deacon saluted and went. The Prince rose and came about the table nearer to Theresa von Lynar. She drew her breath quickly and checked it as sharply with a kind of sob. Her left hand went down to her side as naturally as a nun's to her rosary. But it was no rosary her fingers touched. The action steadied her, and she threw back her head and smiled up at her companion debonairly as though she had no care in the world. Theresa repeated the passwords slowly and audibly. "'_Henry the Lion!_' '_Remember!_' Ah!" (she broke off with a laugh) "I am not likely to forget." Ivan laid his hand on her shoulder, glad to see her so resolute. "All in good time," he said, sitting down on a stool at her feet and taking her hand--her right hand. The other he did not see. Then he spoke confidentially. "One other revenge I have which I shall keep till the last. It shall be as sweet to me as yours to you. I shall draw it out lingeringly that I may drain all its sweetness. It concerns the upstart springald whom the Princess Margaret had the bad taste to prefer to me. Not that I cared a jot for the Princess. My taste is far other" (here he looked up tenderly); "but the Princess I must wed, as maid or widow I care not. I take her provinces, not herself; and these must be mine by right of fief and succession as well as by right of conquest. The way is clear. That piece of carrion which men called by a prince's name was carried out a while ago. Conrad the priest, who is a man, shall die like a man. And I, Ivan, and Holy Russia shall enter in. By the right of Margaret, sole heir of Courtland, city and province shall be mine; Kernsberg shall be mine; Hohenstein shall be mine. Then mayhap I will try a fall for Plassenburg and the Mark with the Executioner's Son and his little housewife. But sweeter than all shall be my revenge upon the man I hate--upon him who took his betrothed wife from Ivan of Muscovy." "Ah," said Theresa von Lynar, "it will indeed be sweet! And what shall be your worthy and terrible revenge?" "I have thought of it long--I have turned it over, this and that have I thought--of the smearing with honey and the anthill, of trepanning and the worms on the brain--but I have fixed at last upon something that will make the ears of the world tingle----" He leaned forward and whispered into the ear of Theresa von Lynar the terrible death he had prepared for her only son. She nodded calmly as she listened, but a wonderful joy lit up the woman's face. "I am glad I came hither," she murmured, "it is worth it all." Prince Ivan took her hand in both of his and pressed it fondly. "And you shall be gladder yet," he said, "my Lady Theresa. I have something to say. I had not thought that there lived in the world any woman so like-minded, even as I knew not that there lived any woman so beautiful. Together you and I might rule the world. Shall it be together?" "But, Prince Ivan," she interposed quickly, but still smiling, "what is this? I thought you were set on wedding the Princess Margaret. You were to make her first widow and then wife." "Theresa," he said, looking amorously up at her, "I marry for a kingdom. But I wed the woman who is my mate. It is our custom. I must give the left hand, it is true, but with it the heart, my Theresa!" He was on his knees before her now, still clasping her fingers. "You consent?" he said, with triumph already in his tone. "I do not say you nay!" she answered, with a sigh. He kissed her hand and rose to his feet. He would have taken her in his arms, but a noise in the pavilion disturbed him. He went quickly to the curtain and peeped through. "It is nothing," he said, "only the men come to fetch the powder for the Margraf's cannon. But the night speeds apace. In an hour we assault." With an eager look on his face he came nearer to her. "Theresa," he said, "a soldier's wooing must needs be brisk and speedy. Yours and mine yet swifter. Our revenge beckons us on. Do you abide here till I return--with those good friends whose names we have mentioned. But now, ere I go forth, pledge me but once your love. This is our true betrothal. Say, 'I love you, Ivan!' that I may keep it in my heart till my return!" Again he would have taken her in his arms, but Theresa turned quickly, finger on lip. She looked anxiously towards the back of the tent where lay the dead prince. "Hush! I hear something!" she said. Then she smiled upon him--a sudden radiance like sunshine through rain-clouds. "Come with me--I am afraid of the dark!" she said, almost like a child. For great is the guile of woman when her all is at stake. Theresa von Lynar opened the latch of a horn lantern which dangled at a pole and took the taper in her left. She gave her right hand with a certain gesture of surrender to Prince Ivan. "Come!" she said, and led him within the inner pavilion. A dim light sifted through the open flap by which the men had gone out with their load of powder. Day was breaking and a broad crimson bar lay across the path of the yet unrisen sun. Theresa and Prince Ivan stood beside the dead. He had been roughly thrown down on the pile of boxes which contained the powder manufactured by the Margraf's alchemists according to the famous receipt of Bertholdus Schwartz. The lid of the largest chest stood open, as if the men were returning for yet another burden. "Quick!" she said, "here in the presence of the dead, I will whisper it here, here and not elsewhere." She brought him close to her with the gentle compulsion of her hand till he stood in a little angle where the red light of the dawn shone on his dark handsome face. Then she put an arm strong as a wrestler's about him, pinioning him where he stood. Yet the gracious smile on the woman's lips held him acquiescent and content. She bent her head. [Illustration: "'The password, Prince--do not forget the password!'" [_Page 379_]] "Listen," she said, "this have I never done for any man before--no, not so much as this! And for you will I do much more. Prince Ivan, you speak true--death alone must part you and me. You ask me for a love pledge. I will give it. Ivan of Muscovy, you have plotted death and torture--the death of the innocent. Listen! I am the wife of Henry of Kernsberg, the mother of the young man Maurice von Lynar whom you would slay by horrid devices. Prince, truly you and I shall die together--and the time is _now_!" Vehemently for his life struggled Prince Ivan, twisting like a serpent, and crying, "Help! Help! Treachery! Witch, let me go, or I will stab you where you stand." Once his hand touched his dagger. But before he could draw it there came a sound of rushing feet. The forms of many men stumbled up out of the gleaming blood-red of the dawn. Then Theresa von Lynar laughed aloud as she held him helpless in her grasp. "The password, Prince--do not forget the password! You will need it to-night at both inner and outer guard! I, Theresa, have not forgotten. It is '_Henry the Lion_! _Remember!_'" And Theresa dropped the naked candle she had been holding aloft into the great chest of dull black grains which stood open by her side. * * * * * And after that it mattered little that at the same moment beyond the Alla the trumpets of Hugo, Prince of Plassenburg, blew their first awakening blast. CHAPTER LIII THE HEAD OF THE CHURCH VISIBLE "So," said Pope Sixtus amicably, "your brother was killed by the great explosion of Friar Roger's powder in the camp of the enemy! Truly, as I have often said, God is not with the Greek Church. They are schismatics if not plain heretics!" He was a little bored with this young man from the North, and began to remember the various distractions which were waiting for him in his own private wing of the Vatican. Still, the Church needed such young war-gods as this Prince Conrad. There were signs, too, that in a little she might need them even more. The Pope's mind travelled fast. He had a way of murmuring broken sentences to himself which to his intimates showed how far his thoughts had wandered. It was the Vatican garden in the month of April. Holy Week was past, and the mind of the Vicar of Christ dwelt contentedly upon the great gifts and offerings which had flowed into his treasury. Conrad could not have arrived more opportunely. Beneath, the eye travelled over the hundred churches of Rome and the red roofs of her palaces--to the Tiber no longer tawny, but well-nigh as blue as the Alla itself; then further still to the grey Campagna and the blue Alban Hills. But the Pope's eye was directed to something nearer at hand. In an elevated platform garden they sat in a bower sipping their after-dinner wine. Beyond answering questions Conrad said little. He was too greatly astonished. He had expected a saint, and he had found himself quietly talking politics and scandal with an Italian Prince. The Holy Father's face was placid. His lips moved. Now and then a word or two escaped him. Yet he seemed to be listening to something else. That which he looked at was an excavation over which thousands of men crawled, thick as ants about a mound when you thrust your stick among their piled pine-needles on Isle Rugen. Already at more than one point massive walls began to rise. Architects with parchment rolls in their hands went to and fro talking to overseers and foremen. These were clad in black coats reaching below the waist, which made inky blots on the white earth-glare and contrasted with the striped blouses of the overseers and the naked bodies and red loin-cloths of the workmen. Conrad blessed his former sojourns in Italy which enabled him to follow the fast-running river of the Pontiff's half-unconscious meditation, which was couched not in crabbed monkish Latin, but in the free Italic to which as a boy the Head of the Church had been accustomed. "So your brother is dead!--(Yes, yes, he told me so before.) And a blessing of God, too. I never liked my brothers. Nephews and nieces are better, so be they are handsome. What, you have none? Then you are the heir to the kingdom--you must marry--you must marry!" Conrad suddenly flushed fiery red. "Holy Father," he said nervously, his eyes on the Alban Hills, "it was concerning this that I made pilgrimage to Rome--that I might consult your Holiness!" The Pontiff nodded amicably and looked about him. At the far end of the garden, in a second creeper-enclosed arbour similar to that in which they sat, the Pope's personal attendants congregated. These were mostly gay young men in parti-coloured raiment, who jested and laughed without much regard for appearances, or at all fearing the displeasure of the Church's Head. As Conrad looked, one of them stood up and tossed over the wall a delicately folded missive, winged like a dart and tied with a ribbon of fluttering blue. Then, the moment afterwards, from beneath came the sound of girlish laughter, whereat all the young men, save one, craned their necks over the wall and shouted jests down to the unseen ladies on the balcony below. All save one--and he, a tall stern-faced dark young man in a plain black soutane, walked up and down in the sun, with his eyes on the ground and his hands knotting themselves behind his back. The fingers were twisting nervously, and he pursed his lips in meditation. He did not waste even one contemptuous glance on the riotous crew in the arbour. "Aha--you came to consult me about your marriage," chuckled the Holy Father. "Well, what have you been doing? Young blood--young blood! Once I was young myself. But young blood must pay. I am your father confessor. Now, proceed. (This may be useful--better, better, better!)" And with a wholly different air of interest, the Pope poured himself a glass of the rich wine and leaned back, contemplating the young man now with a sort of paternal kindliness. The thought that he had certain peccadillos to confess was a relish to the rich Sicilian vintage, and created, as it were, a common interest between them. For the first time Pope Sixtus felt thoroughly at ease with his guest. "I have, indeed, much to confess, Holy Father, much I could not pour into any ears but thine." "Yes--yes--I am all attention," murmured the Pontiff, his ears pricking and twitching with anticipation, and the famous likeness to a goat coming out in his face. "Go on! Go on, my son. Confession is the breathing health of the soul! (If this young man can tell me aught I do not know--by Peter, I will make him my private chaplain!)." Then Conrad summoned up all his courage and put his soul's sickness into the sentence which he had been conning all the way from the city of Courtland. "My father," he said, very low, his head bent down, "I, who am a priest, have loved the Lady Joan, my brother's wife!" "Ha," said Sixtus, pursing his lips, "that is bad--very bad. (Bones of Saint Anthony! I did not think he had the spirit!) Penance must be done--yes, penance and payment! But hath the matter been secret? There has, I hope, been no open scandal; and of course it cannot continue now that your brother is dead. While he was alive all was well; but dead--oh, that is different! You have now no cloak for your sin! These open sores do the Church much harm! I have always avoided such myself!" The young man listened with a swiftly lowering brow. "Holy Father," he said; "I think you mistake me. I spoke not of sin committed. The Princess Joan is pure as an angel, unstained by evil or the thought of it! She sits above the reach of scandalous tongues!" ("Humph--what, then, is the man talking about? Some cold northern snowdrift! Strange, strange! I thought he had been a lad of spirit!") But aloud Sixtus said, with a surprised accent, "Then why do you come to me?" "Sire, I am a priest, and even the thought of love is sin!" "Tut-tut; you are a prince-cardinal. In Rome at least that is a very different thing!" He turned half round in his seat and looked with a certain indulgent fondness upon the gay young men who were conducting a battle of flowers with the laughing girls beneath them. Two of them had laid hold of another by the legs and were holding him over the trellised flowers that he might kiss a girl whom her companions were elevating from below for a like purpose. As their young lips met the Pontiff slapped the purple silk on his thigh and laughed aloud. "Ah, rascals, merry rascals!" (here he sighed). "What it is to be young! Take an old man's advice, Live while you are young. Yes, live and leave penance, for old age is sufficient penance in itself. (Tut--what am I saying? Let his pocket do penance!) He who kissed was my nephew Girolamo, ever the flower of the flock, my dear Girolamo. I think you said, Prince Conrad, that you were a cardinal. Well, most of these young men are cardinals (or will be, so soon as I can get the gold to set them up. They spend too much money, the rascals)." "These are cardinals? And priests?" queried Conrad, vastly astonished. The Holy Father nodded and took another sip of the perfumed Sicilian. "To be a cardinal is nothing," he said calmly. "It is a step--nothing more. The high road of advancement, the spirit of the time. When I have princedoms for them all, why, they must marry and settle--raise dynasties, found princely houses. So it shall be with you, son Conrad. Your brother was alive, Prince of Courtland, married to this fair lady (what was her name? Yes, yes, Joanna). You, a younger son, must be provided for, the Church supported. Therefore you received that which was the hereditary right of your family--the usual payments to Holy Church being made. You were Archbishop, Cardinal, Prince of the Church. In time you would have been Elector of the Empire and my assessor at the Imperial Diet. That was your course. What harm, then, that you should make love to your brother's wife? Natural--perfectly natural. Fortunate, indeed, that you had a brother so complaisant----" "Sir," said Conrad, half rising from his seat, "I have already had the honour of informing you----" "Yes, yes, I forgot--pardon an old man. (Ah, the rascal, would he? Served him right! Ha, ha, well smitten--a good girl!)" Another had tried the trick of being held over the balcony, but this time the maiden below was coy, and, instead of a kiss, the youth had received only a sound smack on the cheek fairly struck with the palm of a willing hand. "Yes, I remember. It was but a sin of the soul. (Stupid fellow! stupid fellow! Girolamo is a true Delia Rovere. He would not have been served so.) Yes, a sin of the soul. And now you wish to marry? Well, I will receive back your hat. I will annul your orders--the usual payments being made to Holy Church. I have so many expenses--my building, the decorations of my chapel, these young rascals--ah, little do you know the difficulties of a Pope. But whom do you wish to marry? What, your brother's widow? Ah, that is bad--why could you not be content----? Pardon, your pardon, my mind is again wandering." "Tsut--tsut--this is a sad business, a matter infinitely more difficult, forbidden by the Church. What? They parted at the church door? A wench of spirit, I declare. I doubt not like that one who smote Pietro just now. I wonder not at you, save at your moderation--that is, if you speak the truth." "I do speak the truth!" said Conrad, with northern directness, beginning to flush again. "Gently--gently," said Sixtus; "there are many minutes in a year, many people go to make a world. I have never seen a man like you before. Be patient, then, with me. I am giving you a great deal of my time. It will be difficult, this marriage--difficult, but not impossible. Peter's coffers are very empty, my son." The Pontiff paused to give Conrad time to speak. "I will pay into the treasury of the Holy Father on the day of my marriage a hundred thousand ducats," said Conrad, blushing deeply. It seemed like bribing God. The Vicegerent of Christ stretched out a smooth white hand, and his smile was almost as gracious as when he turned it upon his nephew Girolamo. "Spoken like a true prince," he cried, "a son of the Church indeed. Her works--the propagation of the Faith, the Holy Office--these shall benefit by your generosity." He turned about again and beckoned to the tall young man in the black soutane. "Guliano, come hither!" he cried, and as he came he explained in his low tones, "My nephew, between ourselves, a dull dog, but will be great. He choked a ruffian who attacked him on the street; so, one day, he will choke this Italy between his hands. He will sit in this chair. Ah, there is one thing that I am thankful for, and it is that I shall be dead when our Julian is Pope. I know not where I shall be--but anything were preferable to being in Rome under Julian--purgatory or----Yes, my dear nephew, Prince Conrad of Courtland! You are to go and prepare documents concerning this noble prince. I will instruct you as to their nature presently. Await me in the hither library." The young man had been looking steadily at Conrad while his uncle was speaking. It was a firm and manly look, but there was cruelty lurking in the curve of the upper lip. Guliano della Rovere looked more _condottiere_ than priest. Nevertheless, without a word he bowed and retired. When he was gone the Pope sat a moment absorbed in thought. "I will send him to Courtland with you. (Yes, yes, he is staunch and to be trusted with money.) He will marry you and bring back the--the--benefaction. Your hand, my son. I am an old man and need help. May you be happy! Live well and honour Holy Church. Be not too nice. The commons like not a precisian. And, besides, you cannot live your youth over. Girolamo! Girolamo! Where is that rascal? Ah, there you are. I saw you kiss yonder pretty minx! Shame, sir, shame! You shall do penance--I myself will prescribe it. What kept you so long when I called you? Some fresh rascality, I will wager!" "No, my father," said Girolamo readily. "I went to the dungeons of the Holy Office to see if they had finished off that ranting philosopher who stirred up the people yesterday!" "Well, and have they?" asked the Pontiff. "Yes, the fellow has confessed that six thousand pieces are hidden under the hearthstone of his country house. So all is well ended. He is to be burned to-morrow." "Good--good. So perish all Jews, heretics, and enemies of Holy Church!" said Pope Sixtus piously. "And now I bid you adieu, son Conrad! You set out to-morrow. The papers shall be ready. A hundred thousand ducats, I think you said--_and_ the fees for secularisation. These will amount to fifty thousand more. Is it not so, my son?" Conrad bowed assent. He thought it was well that Courtland was rich and his brother Louis a careful man. "Good--good, my son. You are a true standard-bearer of the Church. I will throw in a perpetual indulgence--with blanks which you may fill up. No, do not refuse! You think that you will never want it, because you do not want it now. But you may--you may!" He stretched out his hand. The blessed ring of Saint Peter shone upon it. Conrad fell on his knees. "_Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi benedicat te in omni benedictione spirituali. Amen!_" EPILOGUE OF EXPLICATION It was the morning of a white day. The princely banner flew from every tower in Castle Kernsberg, for that day it was to lose a duchess and gain a duke. It was Joan's second wedding-day--the day of her first marriage. Never had the little hill town seen so brave a gathering since the northern princes laid Henry the Lion in his grave. In the great vault where he slept there was a new tomb, a plain marble slab with the inscription-- "THERESA, WIFE OF HENRY, DUKE OF KERNSBERG AND HOHENSTEIN." And underneath, and in Latin, the words-- "AFTER THE TEMPEST, PEACE!" For strangely enough, by the wonder of Providence or some freak of the exploding powder, they had found Theresa fallen where she had stood, blackened indeed but scarce marred in face or figure. So from that burnt-out hell they had brought her here that at the last she might rest near the man whom her soul loved. And as they moved away and left her, little Johannes Rode, the scholar, murmured the words, "_Post tempestatem, tranquillitas!_" Prince Conrad heard him, and he it was who had them engraven on her tomb. But on this morning of gladness only Joan thought of the dead woman. "To-day I will do the thing she wished," the Duchess thought, as she looked from the window towards her father's tomb. "She would take nothing for herself, yet shall her son sit in my place and rule where his father ruled. I am glad!" Here she blushed. "Yet, why should I vaunt? It is no sacrifice, for I shall be--what I would rather a thousand times be. Small thanks, then, that I give up freely what is worth nothing to me now!" And with the arm that had wielded a sword so often and so valiantly, Joan the bride went on arraying her hair and making her beautiful for the eyes of her lord. "My lord!" she said, and again with a different accent. "_My_ lord!" And when these her living eyes met those others in the Venice mirror, lo! either pair was smiling a new smile. * * * * * Meantime, beneath in her chamber, the Princess Margaret was making her husband's life a burden to him, or rather, first quarrelling with him and the next moment throwing her arms about his neck in a passion of remorse. For that is the wont of dainty Princess Margarets who are sick and know not yet what aileth them. "Maurice," she was saying, "is it not enough to make me throw me over the battlements that they should all forsake me, on this day of all others, when you are to be made a Duke in the presence of the Pope's Legate and the Emperor's _Alter_--what is it?--_Alter ego?_ What a silly word! And you might have told it to me prettily and without laughing at me. Yes, you did, and you also are in league against me. And I will not go to the wedding; no, not if Joan were to beg of me on my knees! I will not have any of these minxes in to do my hair. Nay, do not you touch it. I am nobody, it seems, and Joan everything. Joan--Joan! It is Joan this and Joan that! Tush, I am sick of your Joans. "She gives up the duchy to us--well, that is no great gift. She is getting Courtland for it, and my brother. Even he will not love me any more. Conrad is like the rest. He eats, drinks, sleeps, wakes, talks Joan. He is silent, and thinks Joan. So, I believe, do you. You are only sorry that she did not love you best! "Well, if you _are_ her brother, I do not care. Who was speaking about marrying her? And, at any rate, you did not know she was your sister. You might very well have loved her. And I believe you did. You do not love me, at all events. _That_ I do know! "No, I will not 'hush,' nor will I come upon your knee and be petted. I am not a baby! '_What is the matter betwixt me and the maidens?_' If you had let me explain I would have told you long ago. But I never get speaking a word. I am not crying, and I shall cry if I choose. Oh yes, I will tell you, Duke Maurice, if you care to hear, why I am angry with the maids. Well, then, first it was that Anna Pappenheim. She tugged my hair out by the roots in handfuls, and when I scolded her I saw there were tears in her eyes. I asked her why, and for long she would not tell me. Then all at once she acknowledged that she had promised to marry that great overgrown chimney-pot, Captain Boris, and must hie her to Plassenburg, if I pleased. I did not please, and when I said that surely Marthe was not so foolish thus to throw herself away, the wretched Marthe came bawling and wringing hands, and owned that she was in like case with Jorian. "So I sent them out very quickly, being justly angry that they should thus desert me. And I called for Thora of Bornholm, and began easing my mind concerning their ingratitude, when the Swede said calmly, 'I fear me, madam, I am not able to find any fault with Anna and Martha. For I am even as they, or worse. I have been married for over six months.' "'And to whom?' I cried; 'tell me, and he shall hang as surely as I am a Princess of Courtland.' For I was somewhat disturbed. "'To-day your Highness is Duchess of Kernsberg,' said the minx, as calmly as if at sacrament. 'My husband's name is Johannes Rode!' "And when I have told you, instead of being sorry for me, you do nothing but laugh. I will indeed fling me over the window!" And the fiery little Princess ran to the window and pretended to cast herself headlong. But her husband did not move. He stood leaning against the mantelshelf and smiling at her quietly and lovingly. Hearing no rush of anxious feet, and finding no restraining arm cast about her, Margaret turned, and with fresh fire in her gesture stamped her foot at Maurice. "That just proves it! Little do you care whether or no I kill myself. You wish I would, so that you might marry somebody else. You dare not deny it!" Maurice knew better than to deny it, nor did he move till the Princess cast herself down on the coverlet and sobbed her heart out, with her face on the pillow and her hair spraying in linked tendrils about her white neck and shoulders. Then he went gently to her and laid his hand on her head, regardless of the petulant shrug of her shoulders as he touched her. He gathered her up and sat down with her in his arms. "Little one," he said, "I want you to be good. This is a great and a glad day. To-day my sister finds the happiness that you and I have found. To-day I am to sit in my father's seat and to have henceforth my own name among men. You must help me. Will you, little one? For this once let me be your tire-woman. I have often done my own tiring when, in old days, I dared death in women's garments for your sweet sake. Dearest, do not hurt my heart any more, but help me." His wife smiled suddenly through her tears, and cast her arms about his neck. "Oh, I am bad--bad--bad," she cried vehemently. "It were no wonder if you did not love me. But do keep loving me. I should die else. I will be better--I will--I will! I do not know why I should be so bad. Sometimes I think I cannot help it." But Maurice kissed her and smiled as if he knew. "We will live like plain and honest country folk, you and I," he said. "Let Anna and Martha follow their war-captains. Thora at least will remain with us, and we will make Johannes Rode our almoner and court poet. Now smile at me, little one! Ah, that is better." In Margaret's April eyes the sun shone out again, and she clung lovingly to her husband a long moment before she would let him go. Then she thrust him a little away from her, that she might see his face, as she asked the question of all loving and tempestuous Princess Margarets, "Are you sure you love me just the same, even when I am naughty?" Maurice was sure. And taking his face between her hands in a fierce little clutch, she asked a further assurance. "Are you quite, quite sure?" she said. And Maurice was quite, quite sure. * * * * * Not in a vast and solemn cathedral was Joan married, but in the old church of Kernsberg, which had so often raised the protest of the Church against the exactions of her ancestors. The bridal escort was of her own tried soldiery, now to be hers no more, and all of them a little sad for that. Hugo and Helene of Plassenburg had come--Hugo because he was the representative of the Emperor, and Helene because she was a sweet and loving woman who delighted to rejoice in another's joy. With these also arrived, and with these was to depart, the dark-faced stern young cardinal of San Pietro in Vincoli. He must have good escort, he said, for he carried many precious relics and tokens of the affection of the faithful for the Church's Head. The simple priesthood of Kernsberg shrank from his fiery glances, and were glad when he was gone. But, save at the hour of bridal itself, he spent all his time with the treasurer of the Princedom of Courtland. When at last they came down the aisle together, and the sweet-voiced choristers sang, and the white-robed maidens scattered flowers for their feet to walk upon, the bride found opportunity to whisper to her husband, "I fear me I shall never be Joan of the Sword Hand any more!" He smiled back at her as they came out upon the tears and laughter and acclaim of the many-coloured throng that filled the little square. "Be never afraid, beloved," he said, and his eyes were very glad and proud, "only be Joan to me, and I will be your Sword Hand!" THE END The Gresham Press, UNWIN BROTHERS, WOKING AND LONDON. Novels by Guy Boothby. _SPECIAL & ORIGINAL DESIGNS._ Each volume attractively illustrated by Stanley L. Wood and others. _Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, Trimmed Edges, 5s._ Mr. Rudyard Kipling Says: "Mr. GUY BOOTHBY has come to great honours now. His name is large upon hoardings, his books sell like hot cakes, and he keeps a level head through it all. 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21757	----	THE HOT SWAMP, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. A ROMANCE OF OLD ALBION. OPENS WITH LEAVE-TAKING. Nearly two thousand seven hundred years ago--or somewhere about eight hundred years BúCú--there dwelt a Phoenician sea-captain in one of the eastern sea-ports of Greece--known at that period, or soon after, as Hellas. This captain was solid, square, bronzed, bluff, and resolute, as all sea-captains are--or ought to be--whether ancient or modern. He owned, as well as commanded, one of those curious vessels with one mast and a mighty square-sail, fifty oars or so, double-banked, a dragon's tail in the stern and a horse's head at the prow, in which the Phoenicians of old and other mariners were wont to drive an extensive and lucrative trade in the Mediterranean; sometimes pushing their adventurous keels beyond the Pillars of Hercules, visiting the distant Cassiterides or Tin Isles, and Albion, and even penetrating northward into the Baltic, in search of tin, amber, gold, and what not. One morning this captain, whose name was Arkal, sauntered up from the harbour to his hut, which stood on a conspicuous eminence overlooking the bay. His hands were not thrust into his pockets, because he had no pockets to put them into--the simple tunic of the period being destitute of such appendages. Indeed, the coarse linen tunic referred to constituted the chief part of his costume, the only other portions being a pair of rude shoes on his feet, a red fez or tarbouche on his bushy brown locks, and yards of something wound round his lower limbs to protect them from thorns on shore, as well as from the rasping of cordage and cargo at sea. At the door of his hut stood his pretty little Greek wife, with a solid, square, bluff, and resolute, but not yet bronzed, baby in her arms. "Well, Penelope, I'm off," said the captain. At least he used words to that effect, as he enveloped wife and baby in a huge embrace. Of course he spoke in a dialect of ancient Greek, of which we render a free translation. The leave-taking was of the briefest, for just then a loud halloo from his mate, or second in command, apprised the captain that all was ready to set sail. But neither Penelope nor her husband were anxious souls or addicted to the melting mood. The square baby was rather more given to such conditions. In emulation of the mate it set up a sudden howl which sent its father away laughing to the harbour. "No sign of the young men," remarked the mate, as his superior came within hail. "It is ever the way with these half-fledged boys who think themselves men while their faces are yet hairless," growled the captain, casting a glance at his unfailing chronometer, the rising sun. "They have no more regard for the movements of that ball of fire than if it was set in the sky merely to shine and keep them warm, and had no reference whatever to time. If this youth from Albion does not appear soon, I shall set sail without him, prince though he be, and leave him to try his hand at swimming to the Cassiterides. His comrade and friend, Dromas, assured me they would not keep us waiting; but he is no better than the rest of them--a shouting, singing, smooth-faced, six-foot set they are, who think they inherit the combined wisdom of all their grandfathers but none of their weaknesses; reckless fear-nothings, fit only for war and the Olympic games!" "Nevertheless, we could not do well without them," returned the mate, glancing significantly at the ship's crew, a large proportion of which was composed of these same stalwart fear-nothings of whom his leader spoke so contemptuously; "at least they would make a fine show at these games, and our ventures at sea would not prosper so well if we had not such to help us." "True, true, and I would not speak slightingly of them, but they do try one's patience; here is the wind failing, and we all ready to hoist sail," returned the captain with another growl, a glance at the sky, and a frown at his vessel, everything about which betokened readiness for instant departure. The crew--partly composed of slaves--were seated at the oars; the fighting men and seamen were all on board arranging their shields round the vessel's sides, and the great sail was cast loose ready to hoist as soon as the mouth of the harbour should be cleared. Just then a band of young men issued from the town, and the captain's good humour was restored as they hurried towards him. They seemed to be much excited, and talked in loud tones as they advanced, their manners and costumes indicating that they belonged to the upper ranks of society. One of the band, a fair youth, towered, like Saul, head and shoulders above his fellows. Another, of dark complexion, handsome features, and elegant, active frame, hurried forward to salute the captain. "I fear we have kept you waiting," he said with a pleasant expression that disarmed reproof. "I will not deny that, Dromas," answered the captain, "but you have not detained me long. Nevertheless, I was on the point of sailing without your friend, for the winds and waves respect no one." "But you are neither a wind nor a wave," remarked the youth. "True, but I am the humble friend of both," retorted the captain, "and am bound to accommodate myself to them. I suppose this is the prince you spoke of," he added, turning to the towering youth already referred to, with the air of a man who had as little--or as much--regard for a prince as a peasant. "Yes, Captain Arkal, this is Prince Bladud. Let me present him to you." As the prince and the seaman joined hands the latter looked up from an altitude of five feet six and squared his broad shoulders with the air of a man ready to defy all creation, and anxious rather than otherwise to do so. The prince, on the other hand, looked down from an eminence of six feet seven, and bent his head with a modest grace and a genial smile that indicated a desire to be on good terms, if possible, with the world at large. Although almost equal as to physical strength, the inequality of the two men in height rendered their experience in those rude warlike times very dissimilar, for, whereas the sailor was often compelled to give proof of his strength to tall unbelievers, the prince very seldom had occasion to do so. Hence, partly, their difference in manner, the one being somewhat pugnacious and the other conciliatory, while both were in reality good-natured, peace-loving men. No two men, however, could have been more unlike in outward aspect. The prince was, if we may say so, built on the Gothic model--fair, blue-eyed, bulky of limb, huge, muscular, massive, with a soft beard and moustache--for he had not yet seen twenty-four summers--and hair that fell like rippling gold on his shoulders. Captain Arkal, on the contrary, was dark, with a thick reddish beard, luxuriant brown hair, piercing black eyes, and limbs that were hardened as well as darkened by thirty years of constant exposure to elemental and other warfare. "I hope that I may be of some use to you," said the prince, "though I profess not to know more of seamanship than I acquired during my voyage hither, and as that voyage occurred six years ago, it may be that I have lost the little I had learned. But if pirates should assail us, perhaps I may do you some service." "Little fear I have of that," returned the captain with an approving nod. "Now, bid your comrades farewell and get on board, for the wind is failing fast, and it behoves us to get well forward on our voyage before night." It was evident that the leave-taking which ensued was not merely formal, for the youths from whom Bladud was parting had been his companions in study for six years, as well as his competitors in all the manly games of the period, and as he excelled them all in most things--especially in athletics--some looked up to the young prince from Albion as a sort of demi-god, while others to whom he had been helpful in many ways regarded him with the warmest affection. "Come here aside with me; I must have a few last words with you alone," said Bladud, taking young Dromas by the arm and leading him aside. The prince's other friends made no objection to this evidence of preference, for Dromas had shared the same apartment with him while in Athens, and engaged in similar studies with Bladud for several years; had travelled with him in the East, and sailed over the sea in his company, even as far as Egypt, besides having been second to him in most of the games practised by the young men. Indeed, at the high jump he equalled, and at the short race had even excelled him. "Dromas," said the prince impressively--"Come, now, my old friend and comrade," interrupted the Greek youth lightly, "don't put on such a long face. I foresee that you are about to give me a lecture, and I don't want the tone of remonstrance to be the last that I shall hear. I know that I'm a wild, good-for-nothing fellow, and can guess all you would say to me. Let us rather talk of your speedy return to Hellas, for, to tell you the truth, I feel as if the loss of you would leave me like a poor man who has been crippled in the wars. I shall be a mere shadow till you return." There was a slight tremor in the voice, which showed that much of the gaiety of the young man was forced. "Nay, I have no mind to give you a lecture," returned Bladud, "I only ask you to grant me two requests." "Granted, before mentioned, for you have ever been a reasonable creature, Bladud, and I trust you to retain your character on the present occasion." "Well, then, my first request is that you will often remember the many talks that you and I have had about the gods, and the future life, and the perplexing conditions in which we now live." "Remember them," exclaimed Dromas with animation, "my difficulty would be to forget them! The questions which you have propounded and attempted to answer--for I do not admit that you have been quite successful in the attempt--have started up and rung in my ears at all kinds of unseasonable times. They haunt me often in my dreams--though, to say truth, I dream but little, save when good fellowship has led me to run supper into breakfast--they worry me during my studies, which, you know, are frequent though not prolonged; they come between me and the worthy rhapsodist when he is in the middle of the most interesting-- or least wearisome--passage of the poem, and they even intrude on me at the games. The very last race I ran was lost, only by a few inches, because our recent talk on the future of cats caused a touch of internal laughter which checked my pace at the most critical moment. You may rest assured that I cannot avoid granting your first request. What is your second?" "That you promise to visit me in my home in Albion. You know that it will be impossible for me ever again to re-visit these shores, where I have been so happy. My father, if he forgives my running away from him, will expect me to help him in the management of his affairs. But you have nothing particular to detain you here--" "You forget--the old woman," interrupted Dromas gravely. "What old woman?" asked Bladud in surprise. "My mother!" returned his friend. The prince looked a little confused and hastened to apologise. Dromas' mother was one of those unfortunate people who existed in the olden time as well as in modern days, though perhaps not so numerously. She was a confirmed invalid, who rarely quitted her house, and was seldom seen by any one save her most intimate friends, so that she was apt to be forgotten--out of sight out of mind, then as now. "Forgive me, Dromas--," began Bladud, but his friend interrupted him. "I cannot forgive when I have nothing to forgive! Say no more about that. But, now I come to consider of it, I grant your second request conditionally. If my mother agrees to accompany me to Albion, you may expect to see me some day or other--perhaps a year or two hence. You see, since my father and brother were slain in the last fight with our neighbours, I am the only one left to comfort her, so I cannot forsake her." "Then this will be our final parting," returned Bladud, sadly, "for your mother will never consent to leave home." "I don't know that," returned Dromas with a laugh. "The dear old soul is intensely adventurous, like myself, and I do believe would venture on a voyage to the Cassiterides, if the fancy were strong upon her. You have no idea how powerfully I can work upon her feelings. I won't say that I can make much impression on her intellect. Indeed, I have reason to know that she does not believe in intellect except as an unavoidable doorway leading into the feelings. The fact is, I tried her the other day with the future of cats, and do you know, instead of treating that subject with the gravity it merits, she laughed in my face and called me names--not exactly bad names, such as the gods might object to--but names that were not creditable to the intelligence of her first-born. Now," continued Dromas with increasing gravity, "when I paint to her the beauty of your native land; the splendour of your father's court; the kindliness of your mother, and the exceeding beauty of your sister--fair like yourself, blue-eyed, tall--you said she was tall, I think?" "Yes--rather tall." "Of course not _quite_ so tall as yourself, say six feet or so, with a slight, feminine beard--no? you shake your head; well, smooth-faced and rosy, immense breadth of shoulders--ah! I have often pictured to myself that sister of yours--" "Hilloa!" shouted Captain Arkal in a nautical tone that might almost have been styled modern British in its character. It was an opportune interruption, for Dromas had been running on with his jesting remarks for the sole purpose of crushing down the feelings that almost unmanned him. With few but fervently uttered words the final farewells were at last spoken. The oars were dipped; the vessel shot from the land, swept out upon the blue waves of the Aegean, the sail was hoisted, and thus began the long voyage to the almost unknown islands of the far North-West. CHAPTER TWO. TEMPORARY DELAY THROUGH ELEMENTS AND PIRATES. But it is not our purpose to inflict the entire log of that voyage on our reader, adventurous though the voyage was. Matter of much greater importance claims our regard. Still it would be unjust to our voyagers to pass it over in absolute silence. At the very commencement of it, there occurred one of those incidents to which all voyagers are more or less subject. A gale arose the very evening of the day on which they left port, which all but swamped the little vessel, and the violence of the wind was so great that their huge sail was split from top to bottom. In spite of the darkness and the confusion that ensued, Captain Arkal, by his prompt action and skilful management, saved the vessel from immediate destruction. Fortunately the gale did not last long, and, during the calm that followed, the rent was repaired and the sail re-set. Then occurred another incident that threatened to cut short the voyage even more disastrously than by swamping. The sea over which they steered swarmed with pirates at the time we write of, as it continued to swarm during many centuries after. Merchantmen, fully aware of the fact, were in those days also men of war. They went forth on their voyages fully armed with sword, javelin, and shield, as well as with the simple artillery of the period--bows and arrows, slings and stones. On the afternoon of the day that followed the gale, the vessel--which her captain and owner had named the _Penelope_ in honour of his wife-- was running before a light breeze, along the coast of one of the islands with which that sea is studded. Bladud and some of the crew were listening at the time to an account given by a small seaman named Maikar, of a recent adventure on the sea, when a galley about as large as their own was seen to shoot suddenly from the mouth of a cavern in the cliffs in which it had lain concealed. It was double-banked and full of armed men, and was rowed in such a way as to cut in advance of the _Penelope_. The vigour with which the oars were plied, and the rapidity with which the sail was run up, left no doubt as to the nature of the craft or the intentions of those who manned it. "The rascals!" growled Arkal with a dark frown, "I more than half expected to find them here." "Pirates, I suppose?" said Bladud. "Ay--and not much chance of escaping them. Give another haul on the sail-rope, mate, and pull, men, pull, if you would save your liberty-- for these brutes have no mercy." The sail was tightened up a few inches, and the vessel was put more directly before the wind. The way in which the slaves bent to the oars showed that the poor fellows fully understood the situation. For a few minutes Captain Arkal watched the result in stern silence. Then, with an unwonted look and tone of bitterness, he said in a low voice-- "No--I thought as much. She sails faster than we do. Now, friend Bladud, you shall presently have a chance of proving whether your royal blood is better than that of other men." To this remark the prince made no other reply than by a good-natured smile as he took up the bronze helmet which lay beside his sword on the thwart and placed it on his head. Captain Arkal regarded him with a sort of grim satisfaction as he followed up the action by buckling on his sword. The sword in question was noteworthy. It was a single-handed weapon of iron, made in Egypt, to suit the size and strength of its owner, and was large enough to have served as a two-handed sword for most men. "You can throw a javelin, no doubt?" asked the captain, as he watched the young man's leisurely preparations for the expected combat. "Yes, I have practised throwing the spear a good deal--both in peace and war." "Good. I have got one here that will suit you. It belonged to my grandfather, who was a stout man, and made powerful play with it during a neighbouring tribe's raid--when I was a baby--to the discomfort, I have been told, and surprise of his foes. I always keep it by me for luck, and have myself used it on occasion, though I prefer a lighter one for ordinary use. Here it is--a pretty weapon," he continued, drawing a javelin of gigantic proportions from under the gunwale and handing it to Bladud. "But we must proceed with caution in this matter. Take off your helmet at present, and try to look frightened if you can." "I fear me that will be difficult, captain." "Not in the least. Look here, nothing is easier when you get used to it." As he spoke Arkal caused his stern visage to relax into a look of such amiable sheepishness that Bladud could not repress a sudden laugh which recalled and intensified the captain's fierce expression instantly. "Learn to subdue yourself, young man," he muttered sternly. "If these pirates hear laughter, do you think they can be made to believe we are afraid of them?" "Forgive me, captain; if you had seen your own face, you would have joined in the laugh. I will be more careful. But how do you mean to proceed, and what do you wish me to do?" Captain Arkal, who was restored to good-humour by this compliment to his power of expression, as well as by the modesty with which the prince received his rebuke, explained his intentions--in low, earnest tones, however, for they were by that time drawing near to the piratical craft. Having got well ahead of the _Penelope_, it had backed its sail and lay still, awaiting her coming up. "Creep to the bow, Bladud, with your helmet off, and show as little of your bulk as may be. Show only your head above the bulwarks, and look as miserable as I did just now--more so if you can. Take your sword, javelin, and shield with you. I need say no more to a man of war. Use them when you see your opportunity." Bladud received his orders in silence, and obeyed them with that unquestioning and unhesitating promptitude which is one of the surest evidences of fitness to command. Meanwhile the mate, who was accustomed to his captain's habits, and needed no instructions, had caused the sailors to lay their shields and swords out of sight at their feet, so that they might approach the pirates in the character of simple traders who were completely cowed by the appearance of the foe. To increase this aspect of fear, the sail was lowered as they drew near, and the oars were used to complete the distance that yet intervened between the two vessels. This humble and submissive approach did not, however, throw the pirates quite off their guard. They stood to their arms and prepared to spring on board their victim when close enough. As the pirate vessel lay motionless on the water she presented her broadside to the trader. The captain took care to steer so that this relative position should be maintained. The pirate chief, a huge man in rude armour, with a breast-plate of thick bull-hide and a shield of the same on his left arm, gave orders to pull the oars on one side of his vessel so that the two might be brought alongside. They were about fifty yards apart at the moment. Before the order could be carried into effect, however, Arkal uttered a low hiss. Instantly the double banks of oars bent almost to the breaking point, and the _Penelope_ leaped forward like a sentient creature. Each man seized sword and shield and sprang up, and Bladud, forgetting both helmet and shield in the hurry of the moment, poised the mighty javelin which had so astonished its owner's enemies in days gone by, and in another moment hurled it shrieking through the air. It flew straight as a thunderbolt at the pirate chief; pierced through shield and breastplate, and came out at his back, sending him headlong into the arms of his horrified crew. The whole incident was so sudden that the pirates had scarcely time to recover from their surprise when the bow of the _Penelope_ crashed into the side of their vessel and stove it in, for the trader, like some of the war-vessels of the period, was provided with a ram for this very purpose. As the _Penelope_ recoiled from the shock, a yell of rage burst from the pirates, and a volley of javelins and stones followed, but, owing to the confusion resulting from the shock, these were ill-directed, and such of them as found their mark were caught on the shields. Before another discharge could be made, the pirate vessel heeled over and sank, leaving her crew of miscreants struggling in the sea. Some of them--being, strange to say, unable to swim--were drowned. Others were killed in the water, while a few, taking their swords in their teeth, swam to the trader and made desperate attempts to climb on board. Of course they failed, and in a few minutes nothing remained of the pirate vessel to tell of the tragedy that had been enacted, except an oar or two and a few spars left floating on the sea. "Would that all the sea-robbers in these parts could be as easily and thoroughly disposed of," remarked the captain, as he gave orders to re-hoist the sail. "Ho! Bladud, my worthy prince, come aft here. What detains you?" But Bladud did not answer to the call. A stone from the enemy had fallen on his defenceless head and knocked him down insensible. Four of the men now raised him up. As they did so, one of the men--the small seaman, Maikar--was found underneath him in a state of semi-consciousness. While they carried Bladud aft, the little sailor began to gasp and sneeze. "Not killed, I see," remarked the mate, looking into his face with some anxiety. "No, not quite," sighed Maikar, drawing a long breath, and raising himself on one elbow, with a slightly dazed look, "but I never was so nearly burst in all my life. If an ox had fallen on me he could not have squeezed me flatter. Do, two of you, squeeze me the other way, to open me out a little; there's no room in me left to breathe--scarcely room to think." "Oh! your battles are not yet over, I see," said the mate, going off to the stern of the vessel, where he found Bladud just recovering consciousness and smiling at the remarks of the captain, who busied himself in stanching the wound, just over his frontal bone, from which blood was flowing freely. "H'm! this comes of sheer recklessness. I told you to take off your helmet, but I did not tell you to keep it off. Man, you launched that javelin well!--better than I could have done it myself. Indeed, I doubt if my old grandfather could have done it with such telling effect-- straight through and through. I saw full a hand-breadth come out at the villain's back. What say you, mate? Little Maikar wounded?" "No, not wounded, but nearly burst, as he says himself; and no wonder, for Bladud fell upon him." "Didn't I tell you, mate," said the captain, looking up with a grin, "that nothing will kill little Maikar? Go to, man, you pretend to be a judge of men; yet you grumbled at me for engaging him as one of our crew. Do you feel better now, prince?" "Ay, greatly better, thank you," replied Bladud, putting his hand gently on the bandages with which the captain had skilfully bound his head. "That is well. I think, now, that food will do you service. What say you?" "Nay, with your leave, I prefer sleep," said the prince, stretching himself out on the deck. "A little rest will suffice, for my head is noted for its thickness, and my brain for its solidity--at least so my good father was wont to say; and I've always had great respect for his opinion." "Ah, save when it ran counter to your own," suggested Arkal; "and especially that time when you ran away from home and came out here in the long ship of my trading friend." "I have regretted that many a time since then, and I am now returning home to offer submission." "D'you think that he'll forgive you?" "I am sure he will, for he is a kind man; and I know he loves me, though he has never said so." "I should like to know that father of yours. I like your description of him--so stern of face, yet so kind of heart, and with such an unchangeable will when he sees what is right. But what _is_ right, and what is wrong?" "Ay--what is--who can tell? Some people believe that the gods make their will known to man through the Delphic Oracle." "Boh!" exclaimed the captain with a look of supreme contempt. The turn of thought silenced both speakers for a time; and when Captain Arkal turned to resume the conversation, he found that his friend was sound asleep. CHAPTER THREE. ON THE VOYAGE. Weather has always been, and, we suppose, always will be, capricious. Its uncertainty of character--in the Levant, as in the Atlantic, in days of old as now, was always the same--smiling to-day; frowning to-morrow; playful as a lamb one day; raging like a lion the next. After the rough handling experienced by the _Penelope_ at the beginning of her voyage, rude Boreas kindly retired, and spicy breezes from Africa rippled the sea with just sufficient force to intensify its heavenly blue, and fill out the great square-sail so that there was no occasion to ply the oars. One dark, starlight but moonless night, a time of quiet talk prevailed from stem to stern of the vessel as the grizzled mariners spun long yarns of their prowess and experiences on the deep, for the benefit of awe-stricken and youthful shipmates whose careers were only commencing. "You've heard, no doubt, of the great sea-serpent?" observed little Maikar, who had speedily recovered from the flattening to which Bladud had subjected him, and was busy enlivening a knot of young fellows in the bow of the ship. "Of course we have!" cried one; "father used to tell me about it when I was but a small boy. He never saw it himself, though he had been to the Tin Isles and Albion more than once; but he said he had met with men who had spoken with shipmates who had heard of it from men who had seen it only a few days before, and who described it exactly." "Ah!" remarked another, "but I have met a man who had seen it himself on his first voyage, when he was quite a youth; and he said it had a bull's head and horns, with a dreadful long body all over scales, and something like an ass's tail at the end." "Pooh!--nonsense!" exclaimed little Maikar, twirling his thumbs, for smoking had not been introduced into the world at that period--and thumb-twirling would seem to have served the ancient world for leisurely pastime quite as well, if not better--at least we are led to infer so from the fact that Herodotus makes no mention of anything like a vague, mysterious sensation of unsatisfied desire to fill the mouth with smoke in those early ages, which he would certainly have done had the taste for smoke been a natural craving, and thumb-twirling an unsatisfactory occupation. This absolute silence of the "Father of History," we think, almost proves our point. "Nonsense!" repeated little Maikar. "The youth of the man who told you about the serpent accounts for his wild description, for youth is prone to strange imaginings and--" "It seems to me," interrupted a grave man, who twirled his thumbs in that slow, deliberate way in which a contemplative man smokes--"it seems to me that there's no more truth about the great sea-serpent than there is about the golden fleece. I don't believe in either of them." "Don't you? Well, all I can say is," returned the little man, gazing fixedly in the grave comrade's face, "that I saw the great sea-serpent with my own eyes!" "No! did you?" exclaimed the group, drawing their heads closer together with looks of expectancy. "Ay, that did I, mates; but you mustn't expect wild descriptions about monsters with bulls' horns and asses' tails from me. I like truth, and the truth is, that the brute was so far away at the time we saw it, that not a man of us could tell exactly what it was like, and when we tried the description, we were all so different, that we gave it up; but we were all agreed on this point, that it certainly _was_ the serpent." The listeners seemed rather disappointed at this meagre account and sudden conclusion of what had bidden fair to become a stirring tale of the sea; but Maikar re-aroused their expectations by stating his firm belief that it was all nonsense about there being only one sea-serpent. "Why, how could there be only one?" he demanded, ceasing to twirl, in order that he might clench his fist and smite his knee with emphasis. "Haven't you got a grandfather?" he asked, turning suddenly to the grave man. "Certainly, I've got two of them if you come to that," he answered, taken rather aback by the brusque and apparently irrelevant nature of the question. "Just so--two of them," repeated the little man, "and don't you think it likely that the sea serpent must have had two grandfathers also?" "Undoubtedly--and two grandmothers as well. Perhaps he's got them yet," replied the grave man with a contemplative look over the side, where the rippling sea gleamed with phosphoric brilliancy. "Exactly so," continued Maikar in an eager tone, "and of course these also must have had two grandfathers besides a mother each, and it is more than likely that the great sea-serpent himself is the father of a large family." "Which implies a wife," suggested one of the seamen. "Not necessarily," objected an elderly seaman, who had once been to the lands lying far to the north of Albion, and had acquired something of that tendency to object to everything at all times which is said to characterise the people of the far North. "Not necessarily," he repeated, "for the serpent may be a bachelor with no family at all." There was a short laugh at this, and an illogical man of the group made some irrelevant observation which led the conversation into a totally different channel, and relegated the great sea-serpent, for the time being, to oblivion! While the men were thus engaged philosophising in the bow, Bladud and the captain were chatting in subdued voices in the stern. "It is impossible," said the latter, in reply to a remark made by the former, "it is impossible for me to visit your father's court this year, though it would please me much to do so, but my cargo is intended for the south-western Cassiterides. To get round to the river on the banks of which your home stands would oblige me to run far towards the cold regions, into waters which I have not yet visited--though I know them pretty well by hearsay. On another voyage I may accomplish it, but not on this one." "I am sorry for that, Arkal, because things that are put off to another time are often put off altogether. But the men of the Tin Isles often visit my father's town in their boats with copper and tin, and there are tracks through the forest which horses can traverse. Could you not visit us overland? It would not be a journey of many weeks, and your trusty mate might look after the ship in your absence. Besides, the diggers may not have enough of the metal ready to fill your ship, so you may be idle a long time. What say you?" Captain Arkal frowned, as was his wont when considering a knotty question, and shook his head. "I doubt if I should be wise to venture so much," he said; "moreover, we are not yet at the end of our voyage. It is of little use troubling one's-self about the end of anything while we are only at the beginning." "Nevertheless," rejoined Bladud, "to consider the possible end while yet at the beginning, seems not unreasonable, though, undoubtedly, we may never reach the end. Many a fair ship sets sail and never returns." "Ay, that is true, as I know to my cost," returned the captain, "for this is not my first venture. A long time ago I loaded a ship about the size of this one, and sent her under command of one of my best friends to the Euxine sea for gold. I now think that that old story about Jason and his ship _Argo_ sailing in search of the golden fleece was running too strong in my youthful brain. Besides that, of course I had heard the report that there is much gold in that direction, and my hopes were strong, for you know all the world runs after gold. Anyhow, my ship sailed and I never saw her or my friend again. Since then I have contented myself with copper and tin." A slight increase in the wind at that moment caused the captain to dismiss his golden and other memories, and look inquiringly to windward. "A squall, methinks?" said Bladud. "No, only a puff," replied his friend, ordering the steersman to alter the course a little. The squall or puff was only strong enough to cause the _Penelope_ to make a graceful bow to the controlling element and cleave the sparkling water with her prow so swiftly that she left a gleaming wake as of lambent fire astern. It was short-lived, however, and was followed by a calm which obliged little Maikar and his comrades to cease their story-telling and ply their fifty oars. Thus the pace was kept going, though not quite so swiftly as if they were running before a stiff breeze. "The gods are propitious," said the captain; "we are going to have a prosperous voyage." "How many gods are propitious?" asked Bladud. "That is a question much too deep for me to answer." "But not too deep to think of--is it?" "Of what use would be my thinking?" returned the captain, lightly. "I leave such matters to the learned." "Now, mate," he added, turning to his subordinate, "I'm going to rest a while. See that you keep an open eye for squalls and pirates. Both are apt to come down on you when you least expect them." But neither squalls nor pirates were destined to interfere with the _Penelope_ during the greater part of that voyage. Day after day the skies were clear, the sea comparatively smooth, and the winds favourable. Sometimes they put ashore, when the weather became stormy and circumstances were favourable. On such occasions they lighted camp-fires under the trees, the ruddy light of which glowed with a grand effect on the picturesque sailors as they sat, stood, or reclined around them. At other times they were obliged to keep more in the open sea, and occasionally met with traders like themselves returning home, with whom, of course, they were glad to fraternise for a time and exchange views. Once only did they meet with anything like a piratical vessel, but as that happened to be late in the evening, they managed, by plying the oars vigorously, and under the shade of night, to escape a second encounter with those robbers of the sea. Thus, in course of time, the length of the great inland sea was traversed, the southern coast of what is now known as France was reached, and the captain's prophecy with regard to a prosperous voyage was thus far fulfilled. CHAPTER FOUR. THE STORM AND WRECK. It was near daybreak on the morning of a night of unclouded splendour when the mate of the _Penelope_ aroused his chief with the information that appearances to windward betokened a change of some sort in the weather. "If there is a change at all it must be for the worse," said Arkal, raising himself on one elbow, rubbing his eyes, yawning, and then casting a glance over the side where the rippling foam told that the wind was increasing. Raising his eyes to the windward horizon, he threw aside the sheepskin blanket that covered him and rose up quickly. "There is indeed a change coming. Rouse the men and reduce the sail, mate. Bestir you! The squalls are sudden here." The orders were obeyed with promptitude. In a few minutes the sail was reduced to its smallest size, and all loose articles about the vessel were made fast. "You expect a gale, captain?" asked Bladud, who was aroused by the noise of the preparations. "Ay--or something like one. When a cloud like that rises up on the horizon there is usually something more than a puff coming. You had better keep well under the lee of the bulwarks when it strikes us." Bladud's nautical experience had already taught him what to expect and how to act in the circumstance that threatened. Standing close to the side of the ship, he laid hold of a stanchion and looked out to windward, as most of the crew were by that time doing. Captain Arkal himself took the helm. The increasing daylight showed them that the bank of cloud was spreading quickly over the sky towards the zenith, while a soft hissing sound told of the approaching wind. Soon the blackness on the sea intensified, and white gleams as of flashing light showed where the waves were torn into foam by the rushing wind. With a warning to "hold on fast!" the captain turned the vessel's head so as to meet the blast. So fierce was it that it cut off the crests of the wavelets, blowing the sea almost flat for a time, and producing what is known as a white squall. The sail was kept fluttering until the fury of the onset was over, then the wind was allowed to fill it; the _Penelope_ bent down until the sea began to bubble over the lee bulwarks, and in a few moments more she was springing over the fast rising waves like a nautical racehorse. Every moment the gale increased, obliging the mariners to show but a corner of the sail. Even this had at last to be taken in, and, during the whole of that dismal day and of the black night which followed, the _Penelope_ drove helplessly before the wind under a bare pole. Fortunately the gale was favourable, so that they were enabled to lay their course, but it required all the skill and seamanship of Captain Arkal to prevent their being pooped and swamped by the waves that rolled hissing after them as if hungering mightily to swallow them up. To have the right man in the right place at such times of imminent danger is all-important, not only to the safety of the craft, but to the peace of mind of those whose lives are in jeopardy. All on board the little vessel during that hurricane felt much comforted by the knowledge that their captain was in the right place. Although a "square man," he had by no means been fitted into a round hole! Knowing this, Prince Bladud felt no anxiety as to the management of the craft, and gave himself up to contemplate the grandeur of the storm, for the howling blast, creaking spars, and bursts of rattling thunder, rendered conversation out of the question. During a slight lull, however, Bladud asked the question whether the captain knew on what part of the coast they were running. "Not exactly," he replied, "we have been running so long in darkness that I can only guess. If it holds on much longer like this I shall have to put her head to wind and wait for more light. It may be that we have been driven too far to the left, and there are islands hereabouts that we must keep well clear of. I would that we had put into some bay for shelter before this befell us. Ho! mate." "Ay, captain." "See that you put our sharpest pair of eyes in the bow, and let a second pair watch the first, lest the owner of them should go to sleep." "Little Maikar is there, sir," shouted the mate, "and I am watching him myself." "We shall do well with Maikar in the bow, for he sees like a weasel, and is trustworthy," muttered the captain as he glanced uneasily over the stern, where the hungry waves were still hissing tumultuously after them, as if rendered furious by the delayed meal. At daybreak on the second day the gale moderated a little, and they were enabled once more to show a corner of their sail, and to encourage the hope that the worst was over. But a fresh outburst, of greater fury than before, soon dashed these hopes, and obliged the captain to throw overboard all the spare spars and some of the heaviest part of the cargo. Still the gale increased, and the impatient waves began to lip over the poop occasionally as if unable to refrain from tasting! "More cargo must go," muttered the captain, with a gloomy frown. Being resolute, he gave orders to that effect. Presently the order was given to take soundings. When this was done it was found that they were in twenty fathoms water. On taking another cast, the depth reported was fifteen fathoms. There were no charts covered with soundings to guide the mariner in those days, but it did not require much experience to convince a seaman that land was probably too near, with such a sudden change from twenty to fifteen fathoms. Arkal was, however, not unprepared for it, and quickly gave orders to stand by to let go the anchors. At that moment the voice of little Maikar was heard shouting, in stentorian tones, "Land ahead!" The captain replied with a sharp "let go!" and four anchors were promptly dropped from the stern. At the same moment he placed the helm fair amidships, and made it fast with rudder-bands. As the stern of the _Penelope_ was formed like the bow, a sharp cut-water was by this means instantly presented to the sea, thus avoiding the necessity and danger incurred by modern ships, in similar circumstances, of anchoring by the head and swinging round. The hungry waves hissed tumultuously on, but were cleft and passed under the ship disappointed, for there was still enough of water beneath to permit of her tossing to and fro and rising to them like a duck, as she strained and tugged at the anchors. Just as these operations had been performed, the mists of darkness seemed to lift a little and revealed a wild rocky line of coast, against which the waves were breaking madly. "Now all hope is over; pray to your gods, men," said the mate, whose courage was not quite equal to his position. "There are no gods!" growled the captain bitterly, for he saw that he was now a ruined man, even though he should escape with life. "There is _one_ God," said Bladud quietly, "and He does all things well." As he spoke, the captain, whose eyes had not ceased to look searchingly along the coast, observed something like a bay a short way to the left of the place where they lay. "It looks like a sandy bay," he said. "It _is_ a sandy bay," exclaimed the anxious mate; "let us up anchors and run into it." "Have an easy mind and keep your advice till asked for," returned the captain with a look of scorn. "If we are destined to escape, we _shall_ escape without making haste. If we are doomed to die, nothing can save us, and it is more manly to die in a leisurely way than in a hurry. When we can see clearly we shall know better how to act." Although this manner of submitting to the inevitable did not quite suit the mate, he felt constrained to repress his impatience, while the coolness of the captain had a quieting effect on some of the men who were inclined to give way to panic. The sight of Bladud--as he sat there leaning on the hilt of his sword with an expression of what appeared to be serene contentment--had also a quieting effect on the men. When the increasing light showed that the sandy bay was a spot that might possibly be reached in safety, orders were given to cut the cables, loose the rudder-bands and hoist the sail. For a few minutes the vessel ran swiftly towards the bay, but before reaching the shore she struck with violence. The fore part of the _Penelope_ stuck fast immovably, and then, at last, the ravenous waves attained their longed-for meal. They burst over the stern, swept the decks, tore up the fastenings, revelled among the tackling and began tumultuously to break up the ship. "Launch the skiff," shouted the captain, hastening to lend a hand in the operation. The men were not slow to obey, and when it touched the water they swarmed into it, so that, being overloaded, it upset and left its occupants struggling in the water. A number of the men who could swim, immediately jumped overboard and tried to right the skiff, but they failed, and, in the effort to do so, broke the rope that held it. Some clung to it. Others turned and swam for the shore. A good many of the men, however, still remained in the wreck, which was fast breaking up. To these the captain turned. "Now, men," he said, "those of you who can swim would do well to take to the water at once, for it is clear that we shall not have a plank left to stand on soon. Come, mate, show them an example." The man, though not very courageous, as his pale face betrayed, happened to be a good swimmer, and at once leaped into the sea. He was followed by all who could swim. Those who could not, were encouraged to make the attempt with planks and oars to aid them. As for Bladud, he busied himself like the captain in giving heart to the non-swimmers and showing them how best to use their floats. The last of the men to leave was little Maikar. He stood at the bow with his arms crossed on his chest and a look of melancholy interest on his countenance. "What! not gone yet?" exclaimed the captain, turning to him. "I cannot swim," said the man. "But neither can these," returned the captain, pointing to the men who had left last. "My father used to say," rejoined Maikar, as if murmuring to himself, "that I was born to be drowned, and I'm inclined to think he was right." "Surely you are not afraid," said Arkal. "Afraid!" exclaimed Maikar, with a sarcastic laugh. "No, captain, but I'm sorry to part with you, because you've been a good captain to me." "An' I bear no ill-will to you, Bladud, though you _did_ squeeze most of the life out of me once. Farewell, both." As he spoke the little man seized an oar, leaped overboard, and, after some trouble in steadying himself and pointing the oar in the right direction, struck out for the shore. It was a long way off, and often, while this scene was being enacted, was heard the bubbling cry of men whose powers were failing them. Some were carried by currents against a point to the westward and, apparently, dashed against the rocks. Others sank before half the distance had been traversed. Bladud and the captain looked at each other when Maikar had left them. "Can you swim?" asked the captain. "Like a duck," returned the prince, "and I can help you if required." "I swim like a fish," returned the captain, "but it is hard to part from my _Penelope_! She has never failed me till now, and as this venture contains all my goods, I am a ruined man." "But your life still remains," said the prince. "Be of good cheer, captain. A stout man can make his fortune more than once. Come, let us go." A loud cry from Maikar at that moment hastened their deliberations. "Are you going to cumber yourself with your weapons?" asked Arkal, as they were about to spring from the side, observing that his friend took up his sword and shield. "Ay--that am I. It is not a small matter that will part my good sword and me." Both men sprang overboard at the same moment, and made for the spot where little Maikar was still giving vent to bubbling yells and struggling with his oar. Bladud was soon alongside of him, and, seizing his hair, raised him out of the water. "Got the cramp," he shouted. "Keep still, then, and do what I tell ye," said the prince, in a tone of stern command. He caught the poor man under the armpits with both hands, turned on his back and drew him on to his chest. Swimming thus on his back, with Captain Arkal leading so as to keep them in the right direction, the three were ultimately cast, in a rather exhausted condition, on the shore of the little bay. CHAPTER FIVE. AFTER THE WRECK. It was on the southern shore of what is now known as France that our hero and his comrades in misfortune were cast. At the time we write of, we need hardly say, the land was nameless. Even her old Roman name of Gaul had not yet been given to her, for Rome itself had not been founded. The fair land was a vast wilderness, known only--and but slightly--to the adventurous mariners of the east, who, with the spirit of Columbus, had pushed their discoveries and trade far beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Of course the land was a vast solitude, inhabited, sparsely, by a few of those wandering tribes which had been driven westward--by conquest or by that desire for adventure which has characterised the human race, we suppose, ever since Adam and Eve began to explore the regions beyond Eden. Like the great wilderness lying to the north of Canada at the present time, it was also the home of innumerable wild animals which afforded to its uncivilised inhabitants both food and clothing. Captain Arkal was the only one of the three survivors of the wreck who had seen that coast before or knew anything about it, for, when Bladud had entered the Mediterranean many years before, he had passed too far to the southward to see the northern land. As they staggered up the beach to a place where the thundering waves sent only their spray, Bladud looked round with some anxiety. "Surely," he said, "some of the crew must have escaped. It can hardly be that we three are the only survivors out of so many." The party halted and looked back at the seething waves from which they had just escaped. "It would be foul shame to us," said the captain, "if we did not try to lend a helping hand to our comrades; but we shall find none of them here. I observed when they started that, in spite of my warning, they made straight for the land, instead of keeping well to windward to avoid being swept round that point of rock to the west. I led you in the right direction, and that is why we alone are here. If any of the others have been saved, they must be on the other side of that point." While he was speaking, the captain had hurried into the woods, intending to cross the neck of land which separated them from the bay beyond the point referred to. Their strength returned as they ran, for their intense desire to render aid to those of their late comrades who might stand in need of it seemed to serve them in the stead of rest. "Come, quick!" cried little Maikar, whose catlike activity and strength enabled him to outrun his more bulky companions. "We may be too late; and some of them can't swim--I know." They reached the crest of a ridge a few minutes later, and, halting, looked at each other in dismay, for the bay beyond the point was full of great rocks and boulders, among which the waves rushed with such fury that they spouted in jets into the air, and covered the sea with foam. "No living soul can have landed there," said the captain, in a tone that showed clearly he had given up all hope. "But some may have been swept round the next point," suggested Maikar eagerly, commencing to run forward as he spoke. Bladud followed at once, and so did the captain, but it was evident that he regarded any further effort as useless. It proved a longer and more toilsome march than they had expected to pass beyond the second point, and when at last it was reached, there was not a speck at all resembling a human being to be seen on the coast, in all its length of many miles. "No hope," murmured Bladud. "None," returned the captain. Little Maikar did not speak, but the expression of his countenance showed that he was of the same opinion. "Now," resumed the captain, after a brief silence, "if we would not starve we must go straight back, and see whether any provisions have been washed ashore." They did not, however, return to the spot where they had landed, for they knew that the same current which had carried their hapless comrades to the westward must have borne the remains of the wreck in the same direction. Descending, therefore, to the foam-covered bay before referred to, they searched its margin carefully, but for some time found nothing--not even a scrap of wreck. At last, just as they were about to give up in despair, and turn to some other method of obtaining food, they observed a portion of the wreck that had been driven high up on the beach into a cleft of rock. Running eagerly towards it, they found that it was only a plank. Bladud and the captain looked at it for a moment or two in silence, and Maikar gave vent to a groan of disappointment. "Never mind," said the prince, lifting the plank and laying it on his shoulder, in the quiet thoughtful way that was peculiar to him, "it will serve to make a fire and keep us warm." "But we need not to be kept warm, for the weather is fine and hot," said Maikar, with a rueful expression. "Moreover, we need food, and we cannot eat a plank!" The prince did not reply, but led the way towards a neighbouring cliff. "Don't you think we had better make our fire in the woods, Bladud?" asked the captain. "That would oblige one of us to watch in case natives or wolves should attack us, and none of us are in a fit state to watch. We must sleep." "But I can't sleep without first eating," said Maikar in a remonstrative tone. "Should we not go to the woods first and try to catch something?" "Can you on foot run down the hare, the deer, the bear, the wild-boar, or even the rabbit?" "Not I. My legs are swift enough, though short, but they are not equal to that." "Well, then, as we have neither bow nor shaft, and my good sword would be of little use against such game, why waste our time and strength in the woods?" "But we might find honey," suggested Maikar. "And if we did not find honey, what then?" "Berries," answered the little man. "Berries are not nearly ripe yet." "True, I forgot that." "Say you did not know it, man," interposed the captain with a laugh; "never be ashamed of confessing ignorance in regard to things that you're not bound to know. Lead on, Bladud, we will follow. You know more of woodcraft than either of us. If it were the sea we had to do battle with I would claim to lead. On land, being only a babe, I freely resign the helm to one who knows how to steer." Agreeing to this arrangement, Bladud led his companions up the steep face of a cliff until a projecting ledge was reached, which was just wide enough to form a camping-ground with a perpendicular cliff at the back, and with its other sides so precipitous as to render the approach of enemies--whether two or four-legged--exceedingly difficult. By piling a few stones at the head of the path by which it was reached, they rendered it impossible for any one to approach without awakening the sleepers. Bladud then, using his sword as a hatchet, chipped off some pieces of the plank, and directed his companions to cut away the wet parts of these and reduce the dry parts to shavings. They obeyed this order in silence, and wonderingly, for a fire seemed useless, their encampment being well sheltered from the wind, and, as we have said, the weather was warm. By means of a cord, a rude bow, and a drill made of a piece of dry wood, their leader soon procured fire, and, in a few minutes, a bright flame illumined their persons and the cliff behind them. As the shades of evening were falling by that time, the aspect of things was much improved by the change. "Now, comrades," said the prince, undoing the breast of his tunic, and drawing from either side a flat mass of dark substance that resembled old dried cow-hide, "we shall have supper, and then--to rest." "Dried meat!" exclaimed little Maikar, his eyes--and indeed his whole visage--blazing with delighted surprise. "Right. Maikar. I knew that you would be hungry when we got ashore, so I caught up two pieces of meat and stuffed them into my breast just as we were leaving--one for Arkal and me; the other for you. It may not be quite enough, perhaps, but will do, I hope, to keep you quiet till morning." "Nay, I shall content me with my fair share, it I may claim a share at all of what I had no hand in procuring. It was wise of you to do this. How came you to think of it?" "To say truth, I can lay claim to neither wisdom nor forethought," answered the prince, dividing the food into equal portions. "The meat chanced to be lying close to my hand as I was about to leap into the sea. Had I seen it sooner, I would have advised all to take some in the same way. There, now, set to and cook it. For myself, I feel so sleepy that I'm half inclined to eat it raw." The jerked or dried meat which had been thus opportunely brought away, may be said to have been half cooked in the drying process, and indeed, was sometimes eaten in its dried condition, when it was inconvenient to cook it. In a few minutes, therefore, the supper was ready, and, in a few minutes more, it was disposed of--for strong jaws, sound teeth and good appetite make short work of victuals. By that time the night had set in; the gale was moderating; the stars had come out, and there seemed every prospect of a speedy and favourable change in the weather. With darkness came the wolves and other creatures of the night, both furred and feathered. Against the former the party was protected by the steep ascent and the barricade, but the latter kept swooping down out of darkness, ever and anon, glaring at them for a moment with round inquiring eyes and sweeping off, as if affrighted, in unearthly silence. Little heed was paid to these sights and sounds, however, by our adventurers, who were filled with sadness at the loss of their ship and comrades. They spoke but little during the meal, and, after partially drying themselves, lay down with their feet towards the fire, and almost instantly fell asleep. Being trained to a hardy life, they did not feel the want of couch or covering, and healthy exhaustion prevented dreams from disturbing their repose. Gradually the fire died down; the howling of the wolves ceased; the night-birds betook them to their haunts, and no sound was heard in or around the camp except the soft breathing of the sleepers and the booming of the distant waves. CHAPTER SIX. FIRST ANXIETIES AND TROUBLES. The day that followed the wreck was well advanced before the sleepers awakened. Their first thoughts were those of thankfulness for having escaped with life. Then arose feelings of loneliness and sorrow at the sad fate of the crew of the _Penelope_, for though it was just possible that some of their comrades had reached the shore on the beach that extended to the westward, such an event was not very probable. Still the bare hope of this induced them to rise in haste. After a hurried breakfast on the remnants of the previous night's supper, they proceeded along the coast for several miles, carefully searching the shores of every bay. About noon they halted. A few scraps of the dried meat still remained, and on these they dined, sitting on a grassy slope, while they consulted as to their future proceedings. "What is now to be done?" asked the captain of Bladud, after they had been seated in silence for some minutes. "I would rather hear your opinion first," returned his friend. "You must still continue to act as captain, for it is fitting that age should sit at the helm, while I will act the part of guide and forester, seeing that I am somewhat accustomed to woodcraft." "And the remainder of our band," said little Maikar, wiping his mouth after finishing the last morsel, "will sit in judgment on your deliberations." "Be it so," returned Bladud. "Wisdom, it is said, lies in small compass, so we should find it in you." Captain Arkal, whose knitted brows and downcast eyes showed that his thoughts were busy, looked up suddenly. "It is not likely," he said, "that any ships will come near this coast, for the gale has driven us far out of the usual track of trading ships, and there are no towns here, large or small, that I know of. It would be useless, therefore, to remain where we are in the hope of being picked up by a passing vessel. To walk back to our home in the east is next to impossible, for it is not only far distant, but there lie between us and Hellas far-reaching gulfs and bays, besides great mountain ranges, which have never yet been crossed, for their tops are in the clouds and covered, summer and winter, with eternal snow." "Then no hope remains to us," said Maikar, with a sigh, "except to join ourselves to the wild people of the land--if there be any people at all in it--and live and die like savages." "Patience, Maikar, I have not yet finished." "Besides," interpolated Bladud, "a wise judge never delivers an opinion until he has heard both sides of a question." "Now, from my knowledge of the lie of coast-lands, I feel sure that the Isles of the Cassiterides must lie there," continued the captain, pointing westward, "and if we travel diligently, it is not unlikely that we shall come down upon the coast of this land almost opposite to them. There we may find, or perhaps make, a boat in which we could cross over--for the sea at that part is narrow, and the white cliffs of the land will be easily distinguished. Once there, I have no doubt that we shall find a ship belonging to one of my countrymen which will take Maikar and me back to our homes, while you, prince, will doubtless be able to return to your father's court on foot." It will be seen from this speech that the Phoenician captain included the southern shore of England in his idea of the Cassiterides. His notion of the direction in which the islands lay, however, was somewhat incorrect, being founded partly on experience, but partly also on a misconception prevalent at the time that the islands referred to lay only a little way to the north of Spain. "Your plan seems to me a good one," said Bladud, after some thought, "but I cannot help thinking that you are not quite right in your notion as to the direction of the tin islands. When I left Albion, I kept a careful note of our daily runs--being somewhat curious on such points-- and it is my opinion that they lie _there_." He pointed almost due north. The captain smiled and shook his head. Bladud looked at Maikar, who also smiled and shook his head. "If you want my opinion," said the little man, gravely, "it is that when two great, good and wise men differ so widely, it is more than likely the truth lies somewhere between them. In _my_ judgment, therefore, the Cassiterides lie yonder." He pointed with an air of confidence in a north-west direction. "It does seem to me," said Bladud, "that Maikar is right, for as you and I seem to be equally confident in our views, captain, a middle course may be the safest. However, if you decide otherwise, I of course submit." "Nay," returned the captain, "I will not abuse the power you have given me. Let us decide the matter by lot." "Ay, let us draw lots," echoed Maikar, "and so shove the matter off our shoulders on to the shoulders of chance." "There is, there can be, no such thing as chance," said Bladud in a soliloquising tone. "However, let it be as you wish. I recognise the justice of two voices overriding one." Lots were drawn accordingly, and the longest fell to the little seaman. Without further discussion, therefore, the course suggested by him was adopted. "And now, comrades," said the prince, rising and drawing his knife-- which, like his sword, had been procured in Egypt, and was of white metal--"we must set to work to make bows and arrows, for animals are not wont to walk up to man and request to be killed and cooked, and it won't be long before Maikar is shouting for food." "Sorry am I that the good javelin of my grandfather went down in the carcase of the pirate chief," remarked the captain, also rising, "for it seems to me by the way you handled it, Bladud, that you could have killed deer with it as well as men." "I have killed deer with such before now, truly, but the arrow is handier and surer." "Ay, in a sure hand, with a good eye to direct it," returned Arkal, "but I make no pretence to either. A ship, indeed, I can manage to hit--when I am cool, which is not often the case in a fight--and if there are men in it, my shafts are not quite thrown away, but as to deer, boars, and birds, I can make nothing of them. If I mistake not, Maikar is not much better than myself with the bow." "I am worse," observed the little man quietly. "Well then," said Bladud, with a laugh, "you must make me hunter to the party." While conversing thus they had entered the forest, and soon found trees suitable to their purpose, from which they cut boughs,--using their swords as hatchets. We have already shown that the prince had brought his sword, shield, and knife on shore with him. Captain Arkal and Maikar had also saved their swords and knives, these having been attached to their girdles at the time they leaped from the wreck. They were somewhat inferior weapons to those worn by Bladud, being made of bronze. The swords of the seamen, unlike that of the prince, were short and double-edged, shaped somewhat like those used long afterwards by the Romans, and they made up in weight for what they lacked in sharpness. It did not take many hours for the party, under the direction of the prince, to form three strong and serviceable bows, with several arrows, the latter being feathered with dropped plumes, and shod with flint, according to the fashion of the times. Bowstrings had to be made at first out of the tough fibrous roots of a tree, split into threads and plaited together. "Of course they are not so good as deer-sinews for the purpose," remarked Bladud, stringing one of the bows and fitting an arrow to it, "but we must be content until we kill a deer or some other animal. Perhaps we shall have an opportunity soon." The remark seemed to have been prophetic, for, as the last word passed his lips, a fawn trotted out of a glade right in front of the party and stood as if paralysed with surprise. The captain and Maikar were reduced to much the same condition, for they made no attempt to use their bows. "Ho!--" exclaimed the former, but he got no further, for at the moment Bladud's bow twanged, and an arrow quivered in the breast of the fawn, which fell dead without a struggle. "Well done!" exclaimed the captain heartily. "If such luck always attends you, prince, we shall fare well on our journey." "It was not altogether luck," returned the other. "See you that spot on the bark of yonder tree--about the size of Maikar's mouth as it now gapes in astonishment?" "I see it, clear enough--just over the--" He stopped abruptly, for while he was yet speaking an arrow quivered in the centre of the spot referred to. After that the captain talked no more about "luck," and Maikar, shutting his mouth with a snap, as if he felt that no words could do justice to his feelings, sprang up and hastened to commence the operation of flaying and cutting up the fawn. Having thus provided themselves with food, they spent the rest of the day in preparing it for the journey by drying it in the sun; in making tough and serviceable bowstrings out of the sinews of the fawn, fitting on arrow-heads and feathers, and otherwise arranging for a prolonged march through a country which was entirely unknown to them, both as to its character and its inhabitants. "It comes into my head," said the captain, "that Maikar and I must provide ourselves with shields and spears of some sort, for if the people of the land are warlike, we may have to defend ourselves." "That is as you say," returned the prince, rising as he spoke and going towards a long straight bough of a neighbouring tree, on which he had fixed a critical gaze. With one sweep of his heavy sword he severed it from the stem and returned to his companions. "Have you taken an ill-will at that tree, or were you only testing the strength of your arm?" asked Maikar. "Neither, my friend; but I must have a javelin to make my equipment complete, and I would advise you and the captain to provide yourselves with like weapons, for we may meet with four-footed as well as two-legged foes in these parts. I will show you how to point the things with flint." "That is well said," returned the seaman, rising and going into the woods in search of a suitable branch, followed by the captain. It was late that night before the weapons were shaped and pointed with flint and all ready for a start on the following morning--the only thing wanting to complete their armament being a couple of shields. "We are sure to meet with a wild boar or a bull before long, or it may be a bear," said Maikar, "and the hides of any of these will serve our purpose well." "That is, if we use them well," remarked the captain. "No one said otherwise," retorted Maikar. "Some people are so full of wise thoughts that they blurt them out, without reason, apparently to get rid of them." "Just so, Maikar, therefore blurt out no more, but hold thy tongue and go to sleep. Good-night." CHAPTER SEVEN. CONVERSE AND ADVENTURES BY THE WAY. Day was just beginning to break in the east when the prince raised his head from the bundle of leaves that had formed his pillow, and looked sleepily around him. His companions lay still, sound asleep and sprawling, in all the _abandon_ characteristic of the heroes of antiquity. Some of these characteristics were wonderfully similar to those of modern heroes. For instance, the captain lay flat on his back with his mouth wide open, and a musical solo proceeding from his nose; while Maikar lay on his side with his knees doubled up, his arms extended at full length in front of him, and his hands tightly clasped as if, while pleading with some one for mercy, he was suddenly petrified and had fallen over on his side. Rising softly, Bladud took up his bow and quiver, and, buckling on his sword, left the encampment without disturbing the sleepers. He had not proceeded more than a mile when he startled several wild turkeys or birds of that species from their rest. One of these he instantly brought down. Following them up he soon shot another, and returned to camp, where he found his comrades as he had left them--the musical nose being if anything more emphatic than before. Although naturally a grave man, Bladud was by no means destitute of a sense of humour, or disinclined on occasion to perpetrate a practical joke. After contemplating the sleepers for a moment he retired a few paces and concealed himself in the long grass, from which position he pitched one of the huge birds into the air, so that it fell on the captain's upturned visage. The snore changed at once into a yell of alarm, as the mariner sprang up and grasped his sword, which, of course, lay handy beside him. Electrified by the yell, Maikar also leaped to his feet, sword in hand. "What d'ye mean by that?" cried the captain, turning on him fiercely. "What mean _you_ by it?" replied Maikar with equal ferocity. He had barely uttered the words, when the second turkey hit him full in the face and tumbled him over the ashes of the fortunately extinguished fire. "Come, come!" interposed the prince, stepping forward with a deprecating smile; "there should be no quarrelling among friends, especially at the beginning of a long journey. See, I have fetched your breakfast for you. Instead of tumbling on the fire and putting it out, Maikar, I think it would be wiser to see if there is a spark left and blow it into a flame. Quick! I am hungry." It need hardly be said that these orders were received with a laugh and a prompt obedience on the part of the little man. "Yes--there is fire," he said, blowing with tremendous energy until flame was produced. "And, do you know, there is something within me that has a loud voice, but only utters one word--`Food! food! food!' There, now, you may get the birds ready, for the fire will be ready for them in two winks." There was no occasion, however, to give this advice to his friends, for already the birds had been plucked, split open at the breast, laid flat, and their interiors scraped out in a summary manner. The plucking was not, indeed, all that could be wished, but what fingers failed to do a singe in the flames accomplished to the perfect satisfaction of men who were in no way particular. Sharp-pointed sticks were then thrust through the expanded carcases, and they were stuck up in front of the blaze to roast. Underdone meat is an abomination to some, a luxury to others--reminding one of that very ancient proverb, "Tastes differ." We cannot say whether on this occasion the uniformity of action in our heroes was the result of taste or haste, but certain it is that before the fowls were only half-roasted on one side, they were turned over so as to let the fire get at the other, and breakfast was begun while the meat was yet frightfully underdone. Thereafter the three men arose, like giants refreshed--if we may say so, for Maikar was indeed mentally, though not physically, a giant--buckled on their swords, slung bows and quivers on their backs, along with the turkey remains, and took up shields and javelins. Having laid their course by the stars the night before, they set out on their journey through the unknown wilderness. The part of the country through which they passed at the beginning of the march was broken and diversified by hill and dale; in some places clothed with forests, in others covered with grass, on which many wild animals were seen browsing. These, however, were remarkably timid, and fled at the first sign of the approaching travellers, so that it was impossible to get within bow-shot of them. "From this I judge that they are much hunted," said Bladud, halting on a ridge to note the wild flight, of a herd of deer which had just caught eight of them. "If so, we are likely to fall in with the hunters before long, I fear," remarked the captain. "Why do you fear?" asked Maikar. "Because they may be numerous and savage, and may take a fancy to make slaves of us, and as we number only three we could not resist their fancy without losing our lives." "That would be a pity," returned Maikar, "for we have only one life to lose." "No; we have three lives to lose amongst us," objected the captain. "Which makes one each, does it not?" retorted the seaman. "True, Maikar, and we must lose them all, and more if we had them, rather than become slaves." "You are right, captain. We never, _never_ shall be slaves," said Bladud. They say that history repeats itself. Perhaps sentiment does the same. At all events, the British prince gave utterance that day to a well-known sentiment, which has been embalmed in modern song and shouted by many a Briton with tremendous enthusiasm--though not absolute truth. "Captain Arkal," said the little seaman, as they jogged quietly down the sunny slope of a hill, at the bottom of which was a marsh full of rushes, "how do you manage to find your way through such a tangled country as this?" "By observing the stars," answered the captain. "But I have observed the stars since I was a little boy," objected Maikar, "and I see nothing but a wild confusion of shining points. How can these guide you? Besides, there are no stars in the daytime." "True, Maikar; but we have the sun during the day." Maikar shook his head perplexedly. "Listen," said the captain, "and I will try to enlighten your dark mind; but don't object else you'll never understand. All stars are not alike--d'ye understand that?" "Any fool could understand that!" "Well, then, of course _you_ can understand it. Now, you have noticed, no doubt, that some stars are in groups, which groups may alter their position with regard to other groups, but which never change with regard to each other." "Each other," repeated Maikar, checking off each statement with a nod and a wave of his javelin. "Well," continued the captain, "there's one group of stars--about six-- plainly to be seen on most fine nights, two stars of which are always pretty much in a line with a little star a short way in front of them-- d'ye see?" "Yes." "Well, that star shows exactly where the cold regions lie--over _there_ (extending his arm and pointing), and of course if you know that the cold regions lie _there_, you know that the hot regions must lie at your back--there, and it follows that the Pillars of Hercules lie _there_ (pointing west), and home lies somewhere about _there_ (pointing eastward)." "Stop!" cried Maikar in great perplexity--for although a seaman he was densely ignorant. "Hot regions, _there_, cold, _there_, home and the Pillars, _there_, and _there_, and _there_ (thrusting his arms out in all directions). I've no more idea of where you've got me to now than-- than--" "Oh, never mind," interrupted the captain, "it doesn't matter, as you are not our guide. But, ho! look! look! down in the hollow there--among the rushes. What's that?" "A boar!" said Bladud, in a low whisper, as he unslung his bow. "Come, now, it will take all our united force to slay that brute, for, if I have not lost my power of judging such game, I'm pretty sure that he's a very big old boar with formidable tusks." While the prince was speaking, his comrades had also prepared their weapons, and looked to their guide for directions. These were hastily but clearly given. As the boar was evidently asleep in his lair, it was arranged that the three friends should stalk him, as the broken ground was specially favourable for such a mode of attack. "We will advance together," said Bladud, "with our bows ready. I will lead; you follow close. When we get within range you will do as you see me do, and be sure that you aim at the brute's side--not at his head. Send your arrows with all the force you can. Then drop the bows and get your javelins ready." With eager looks the captain and little sailor nodded assent. They were much excited, having often heard tales of boar-hunting, though neither of them had ever taken part in that work. A few minutes' walk brought them to the edge of the rushes, where they had a fair view of the monstrous animal as it lay fully extended on its side, and not more than thirty yards distant. "Take him just behind the fore-leg," whispered Bladud, as he drew his bow. His companions followed his example. Two of the bows twanged simultaneously, but the third--that of Maikar--was pulled with such vigour that it broke with a crash that would have awakened the sleepiest of wild boars, had there been nothing else to arouse him. As it was, other things helped to quicken his sensibilities. Bladud's unfailing arrow went indeed straight for the heart, but a strong rib caught and checked its progress. The captain's shaft, probably by good luck, entered deep into the creature's flank not far from the tail. To say that the forest was instantly filled with ear-splitting shrieks is to express the result but feebly. We might put it as a sort of indefinite question in the rule of three, thus--if an ordinary civilised pig with injured feelings can yell as we all know how, what must have been the explosion of a wild-boar of the eighth century BúCú, in circumstances such as we have described? Railway whistles of the nineteenth century, intermittently explosive, is the only possible answer to the question, and that is but an approximation to the truth. For one instant the infuriated creature paused to look for its assailants. Catching sight of them as they were fitting arrows to their bows, it gave vent to a prolonged locomotive-express yell, and charged. Bladud's arrow hit it fair between the eyes, but stuck in the impenetrable skull. The shaft of the captain missed, and the javelin of Maikar went wildly wide of the mark. By order of Bladud the three had separated a few yards from each other. Even in its rage the monster was perplexed by this, for it evidently perceived the impossibility of attacking three foes at the same moment. Which to go for was the question. Like an experienced warrior it went for the "little one." Maikar had drawn his last weapon--the short sword of bronze--and, like a brave man as he was, "prepared to receive boarelry." Another instant and the enemy was upon him. More than that, it was over him, for, trusting to his agility--for which he was famed--he tried to leap to one side, intending to make a vigorous thrust at the same moment. In doing so his foot slipped; he fell flat on his side, and the boar, tripping over him, just missed ripping him with its fearful tusks. It fell, with a bursting squeak, beyond. To leap up and turn was the work of an instant for the boar, and would have been the same for the man if he had not been partially stunned by the fall. As it was, the captain, who was nearest, proved equal to the emergency, for, using his javelin as a spear, he plunged it into the boar's side. But that side was tougher than he had expected. The spear was broken by a sharp twist as the animal turned on its new foe, who now stood disarmed and at its mercy. Bladud's ponderous sword, however, flashed in the air at that moment, and fell on the creature's neck with a force that would have made Hercules envious if he had been there. Deep into the brawn it cut, through muscle, fat, and spine, almost slicing the head from the trunk, and putting a sudden stop to the last yell when it reached the windpipe. The boar rolled head over heels like a shot hare, almost overturning Bladud as it wrenched the sword from his hand, and swept the captain off his legs, carrying him along with it in a confusion of blood and bristles. It was truly a terrific encounter, and as the prince stood observing the effect of his blow, he would probably have burst into a fit of laughter, had he not been somewhat solemnised by Captain Arkal's fearful appearance, as he arose ensanguined, but uninjured, from the ground. CHAPTER EIGHT. DISCOVERY AND FLIGHT. Being now provided with material for making shields, they resolved to spend a day in camp. This was all the more necessary, that the shoes or sandals which they had worn at sea were not well suited for the rough travelling which they had now to undertake. Accordingly they selected a spot on the brow of a hill from which the surrounding country could be seen in nearly all directions. But they were careful also to see that several bushes shielded themselves from view, for it was a matter of uncertainty whether or where natives might make their appearance. Here, bathed in glorious sunshine, with a lovely prospect of land and water, tangled wood and flowery plains, to gladden their eyes, and the savoury smell of pork chops and turkey to tickle their nostrils, they spent two days in manufacturing the various necessary articles. Captain Arkal provided himself with a new javelin. Maikar made another bow, and both fabricated tough round shields with double plies of the boar's hide. Out of the same substance Bladud made a pair of shoes for each of them. "The sandals you wear at home," he said, "are not so good as those used by us in Albion. They don't cover the feet sufficiently, and they expose the toes too much. Yet our sandals are easily and quickly made. Look here--I will show you." His companions paused in their labour and looked on, while the prince took up an oblong piece of boar-hide, over a foot in length and six inches broad, which had been soaking in water till it had become quite soft and limp. Placing one of his feet on this he drew the pattern of it on the skin with a pointed stick. Around this pattern, and about a couple of inches from it, he bored a row of holes an inch or so apart. Through these holes he rove a thong of hide, and then rounded away the corners of the piece. "There," said he, placing his foot in the centre of it and drawing the thong, "my sandal is ready." The tightening of the thong drew up the edges of the shoe until they overlapped and entirely encased his foot. "Good," said the captain, "but that kind of sandal is not new to me. I've seen it before, not only in your country, but in other lands." "Indeed? Well, after all, it is so simple, and so likely to hit the minds of thoughtful men, that I doubt not it is used wherever travelling is bad or weather cold. We shall need such sandals in this land, for there is, no doubt, great variety of country, also of weather, and many thorns." While our travellers were thus labouring and commenting on their work, unseen eyes were gazing at them with profound interest and curiosity. A boy, or youth just emerging from the state of boyhood, lay low in a neighbouring thicket with his head just elevated sufficiently above the grass to enable his black eyes to peer over it. He was what we of the nineteenth century term a savage. That is to say, he was unkempt, unwashed, and almost naked--but not uneducated, though books had nothing to do with his training. The prince chanced to look round, and saw the black eyes instantly, but being, as we have said, an adept in woodcraft--including savage warfare--he did not permit the slightest evidence of recognition to escape him. He continued his gaze in the same direction, allowing his eyes slowly to ascend, as if he were looking through the tree-tops at the sky. Then turning his head quietly round he resumed his work and whistled--for whistling had been invented even before that time. "Comrades," he said, after a few minutes, "don't look up from your work, but listen. We are watched. You go on with your occupations as if all was right, and leave me to deal with the watcher." His comrades took the hint at once and went quietly on with their labours, while the prince arose, stretched himself, as if weary of his work. After a few minutes of looking about him, as though undecided what to do next, he sauntered into the bush at the side of their encampment opposite to that where the watcher lay. The moment he got out of range of the boy's eyes, however, his careless air vanished, and he sped through the underwood with the quietness and something of the gait of a panther--stooping low and avoiding to tread on dead twigs. Making a wide circle, he came round behind the spot where the watcher was hid. But, trained though he had been in the art of savage warfare, the boy was equal to him. From the first he had observed in Bladud's acting the absence of that "touch of nature which makes the whole world kin," and kept a bright look-out to his rear as well as in his front, so that when Bladud, despite his care, trod on a dry stick the boy heard it. Next moment he was off, and a moment after that he was seen bounding down the hill like a wild-cat. The prince, knowing the danger of letting the boy escape and carry information to his friends, dashed after him at full speed--and the rate of his running may be estimated when it is remembered that many a time he had defeated men who had been victors at the Olympic games. But the young savage was nearly his match. Feeling, however, that he was being slowly yet surely overtaken, the boy doubled like a hare and made for a ridge that lay on his left. By that time the chase was in full view of the two men in camp, who rose and craned their necks in some excitement to watch it. "He's after something," said the captain. "A boy!" said Maikar. "Ay, and running him down, hand over hand." "There seems to be no one else in sight, so we don't need to go to his help." "If he needs our help he'll come for it," returned the captain with a laugh, "and it will puzzle the swiftest runner in the land to beat his long legs. See, he's close on the lad now." "True," responded the other, with a sigh of disappointment, "but we shan't see the end of it, for the boy will be over the ridge and out of sight before he is caught." Maikar was right. Even while he spoke the youthful savage gained the summit, where his slim, agile figure was clearly depicted against the sky. Bladud was running at full speed, not a hundred yards behind him, yet, to the amazement of the spectators, the boy suddenly stopped, turned round, and waved his hand with a shout of defiance. Next moment he was over the ridge and gone. A few seconds later the prince was seen to halt at the same point, but instead of continuing the pursuit, he remained immovable for a few minutes gazing in front of him. Then he returned toward the encampment with a somewhat dejected air. "No wonder you look surprised," he said, on arriving. "The other side of that ridge is a sheer precipice, down which I might have gone if I had possessed wings. There was no track visible anywhere, but of course there must have been a well-concealed one somewhere, for soon after I reached the top I saw the young wild-cat running over the plain far below. On coming to the edge of a long stretch of forest, he stopped and capered about like a monkey. I could see, even at that distance, that he was making faces at me by way of saying farewell. Then he entered the woods, and that was the end of him." "I wish it was the end of him," observed the captain, with something like a growl--for his voice was very deep, and he had a tendency to mutter when disturbed in temper. "The monkey will be sure to run home and tell what he's seen, and so bring all his tribe about our ears." "Ay, not only his tribe," remarked Maikar, "but his uncles, brothers, fathers, nephews, and all his kin to the latest walkable generation." "Are your weapons ready?" asked Bladud, taking up his sword and putting on his helmet. "All ready," answered the captain, beginning to collect things--"I have just finished two head-pieces out of the boar-hide for myself and Maikar, which will turn an arrow or a sword-cut, unless delivered by a strong arm. Don't you think them handsome?" "They are suitable, at any rate," said Maikar, "for they are as ugly as our faces." "Come, then, we must make haste, for wild men are not slow to act," rejoined Bladud. "By good fortune our way does not lie in the direction the boy took. We shall get as far away from them as possible, and travel during the night." In a few minutes the little party--by that time fully equipped for the chase or war--were hurrying down the hillside in the direction of the setting sun. It was growing late in the evening, and as they reached the bottom, they had to cross a meadow which was rather swampy, so that their feet sank in some parts over the ankles. "I say, guide," observed Maikar, who, like his nautical commander, had small respect for rank, and addressed the prince by what he deemed an appropriate title, "it has just come into my head that we are leaving a tremendous trail behind us. We seafaring men are not used to trouble our heads on that score, for our ships leave no track on the waves, but it is not so on the land. Won't these naked fellows follow us up and kill us, mayhap, when we're asleep?" "Doubtless they will try," answered Bladud, "but we land-faring men are in the habit of troubling our heads on that score, and guarding against it. Do you see yonder stream, or, rather, the line of bushes that mark its course?" "Ay, plainly." "Well, when we reach that, you shall see and understand without explanation." On reaching the stream referred to, they found that it was a small, shallow one, with a sluggish current, for the plain through which it flowed was almost flat. "You see," said Bladud, pausing on the brink, "that it flows towards the sea in the direction we have come from. Now step into the water and follow me down stream." "Down?" exclaimed the captain in surprise, and with some hesitation. "We don't want to return to the sea whence we have just come, do we?" "Captain Arkal," returned Bladud, sternly, "when you give orders on board ship, do you expect to have them questioned, or obeyed?" "Lead on, guide," returned the captain, stepping promptly into the water. For about a quarter of a mile the prince led his followers in silence and with much care, for it was growing very dark. Presently they came to a place where the banks were swampy and the stream deep. Here their guide landed and continued to walk a short distance down the bank, ordering his followers to conceal their track as much as possible, by closing the long grass over each footprint. The result, even to the unpractised eyes of the seamen, did not seem satisfactory, but their leader made no comment. After proceeding about fifty yards further, he re-entered the stream and continued the descent for about a mile. Then he stopped abruptly, and, turning round, said, "Now, comrades, we will land for a moment, then re-enter the stream and ascend." The astonishment of Captain Arkal was so great, that he was again on the point of asking an explanation, for it seemed to him that wandering down the bed of a stream for the mere purpose of turning and wandering up it, when haste was urgent, could only be accounted for on the supposition that the prince had gone mad. Remembering his previous rebuff, however, he kept silence. On reaching the swampy part of the bank their leader did not land, but held straight on, though the water reached nearly to their armpits. They were somewhat cooled, but not disagreeably so, for the night was warm. In course of time they reached the spot where they had first entered the stream. Passing it, without landing, they held on their course for a considerable distance, until they came to a place where the stream was not more than ankle-deep. Here Bladud paused a few moments and turned to his companions. "Now, captain," he said, with a smile that may be said to have been almost audible though not visible, "do you understand my proceedings?" "Not quite, though, to say truth, I begin to think you are not just so mad as you seemed at first." "Don't you see," continued the prince, "that when we first came to the stream, I entered it so that our footprints on the bank would show clearly that we had gone downwards. This will show our pursuers, when they arrive here, that, though we are wise enough to take to the water because it leaves no footprints, we are not experienced enough to be careful as to concealing the direction we have taken. When they reach the swampy bank and deep water, they will be led to think we did not like getting wet, and the effort made to cover our footprints, will make them think that we are very ignorant woodsmen. Then, with much confidence, they will continue to follow down stream, looking on the banks now and then for our footprints, until they begin to wonder whether we intend to make a highroad of the river all the way to the sea. After that they will become perplexed, astonished, suspicious as to our stupidity, and will scurry round in all directions, or hold a council, and, finally they will try up stream; but it will be too late, for by that time we shall be far away on our road towards the setting sun." "Good!" ejaculated Maikar, when this explanation was finished. "Good!" echoed the captain, with an approving nod. "You understand your business, I see. Shove out your oars. We follow." Without further remark Bladud continued his progress up stream. It was necessarily slow at first, but as night advanced the moon rose, in her first quarter, and shed a feeble but sufficient light on their watery path. At last they came to a place where the leader's sharp eye observed signs of the presence of man. Stopping short and listening intently, they heard subdued voices not far from the spot where they stood. "Stay where you are," whispered Bladud. "Don't move. I'll return immediately." He entered the bushes cautiously and disappeared. Standing there without moving, and in profound silence, under the dark shadow of an overhanging bush, it is no wonder that the captain and his comrade began to think the time very long, yet it was only a few minutes after he had left them that their guide returned. "Only a single family," he whispered--"three men, two women, and four children. We have nothing to fear, but we must pass on in silence." The discovery of those natives obliged them to continue the march up the bed of the stream much longer than they had intended, and the night was far advanced before they thought it prudent to leave the water and pursue the journey on dry land. Fortunately the country was open and comparatively free from underwood, so that they made progress much more rapidly; nevertheless, it was not thought safe to take rest until they had placed many a mile between them and the natives, who, it was thought probable, would be started in pursuit of them by the youth to whom Bladud had given chase. Much wearied, and almost falling asleep while they advanced, the travellers halted at last in a dense thicket, and there, lying down without food or fire, they were soon buried in profound repose. CHAPTER NINE. HOMECOMING. It is beyond the scope of this tale to describe minutely all that befell our adventurers on their long, fatiguing, and dangerous march through ancient Gaul, which land at that time had neither name nor history. Suffice it to say that, after numerous adventures with savage beasts, and scarcely less savage men, and many hair-breadth escapes and thrilling incidents by flood and field, they at last found themselves on the shores of that narrow channel which separated the northern coast of Gaul from the white cliffs of Old Albion. They were guided thereto, as we have said, by the Pole-star, which shone in our sky in those days with its wonted brilliancy, though, probably, astronomers had not yet given to it a local habitation in their systems or a distinctive name. Of course their passage through the land had been attended with great variety of fortune, good and bad. In some parts they met with natives who received them hospitably and sent them on their way rejoicing. Elsewhere they found banditti, fortunately in small bands, with whom they had to fight, and once they were seized and imprisoned by a tribe of inhospitable savages, from whom they escaped, as it were, by the skin of their teeth. In all these vicissitudes the gigantic frame and the mild, kindly looks of Bladud went far to conciliate the uncertain, attract the friendly, and alarm the savage, for it is a curious fact, explain it how we may, that the union of immense physical power with childlike sweetness of countenance, has a wonderful influence in cowing angry spirits. It may be that strong, angry, blustering men are capable only of understanding each other. When they meet with strong men with womanlike tenderness they are puzzled, and puzzlement, we think, goes a long way to shake the nerves even of the brave. At all events it is well known that a sudden burst of wrath from one whose state of temper is usually serene, exerts a surprising and powerful effect on average mankind. Whatever be the truth as to these things, it is certain that nearly every one who looked up at the face of Bladud liked him, and more than once when his ponderous sword sprang from its sheath, and his blue eyes flashed, and his fair face flushed, and his magnificent teeth went together with a snap, he has been known to cause a dozen men to turn and flee rather than encounter the shock of his onset. Little Maikar, who was himself as brave as a lion, nearly lost his life on one occasion, because he was so taken up and charmed with the sight of one of Bladud's rushes, that he utterly forgot what he was about, and would have been crushed by the smite of a savage club, if the captain had not promptly turned aside the blow and struck the club-man down. "At last!" exclaimed the prince, with a gaze of enthusiasm at the opposite cliffs, "my native land! Well do I love it and well do I know it, for I have stood on this shore and seen it from this very spot when I was quite a boy." "Indeed! How was that?" asked Arkal. "I used to be fond of the sea, and was wont to travel far from my father's home to reach it. I made friends with the fishermen, and used to go off with them in their little skiffs. One day a storm arose suddenly, blew us off shore, and, when we were yet a long distance from this coast, overturned our skiff. What became of my companions I know not. Probably they were drowned, for I never more saw them; but I swam ashore, where I think I should have died of exhaustion if I had not been picked up by an old fisherman of this land, who carried me to his hut and took care of me. With the old man I remained several months, for the fishermen on the two sides of the channel had been quarrelling at the time, and the old man did not dare to venture across. I did not care much, for I enjoyed playing with his grandson, and soon learned their language. After a time the quarrelling ceased, and the old man landed me on my own side." "That is interesting. I only wish the old fisherman was here now with his skiff, for there is no village in sight and no skiff to be seen, so how we are to get over I cannot tell,--swimming being impossible and wings out of the question." "Ay, except in the case of fish and birds," observed Maikar. "True, and as we are neither fish nor birds," rejoined the captain, "what is to be done?" "We must find a skiff," said the prince. "Good, but where?" "On the other side of yon bluff cape," replied Bladud. "It was there that my friend the old fisherman lived. Mayhap he may live there still." Pushing on along shore they passed the bold cape referred to, and there, sure enough, they found the old man's hut, and the old man himself was seated on a boulder outside enjoying the sunshine. Great was his surprise on seeing the three strangers approach, but greater was his joy on learning that the biggest of the three was the boy whom he had succoured many years before. After the first greetings were over, Bladud asked if he and his friends could be taken across in a skiff. The old man shook his head. "All that I possess," he said, "you are welcome to, but my skiff is not here, and if it was I am too old to manage it now. My son, your old companion, has had it away these two days, and I don't expect him home till to-morrow. But you can rest in my poor hut till he comes." As there seemed nothing better to be done, the travellers agreed to this. Next day the son arrived, but was so changed in appearance, that Bladud would not have recognised his old playmate had not his father called him by name. The skiff, although primitive and rude in its construction, was comparatively large, and a considerable advance on the dug-outs, or wooden canoes, and the skin coracles of the period. It had a square or lug-sail, and was steered by a rudder. "My son is a strange man," remarked the old fisherman, as the party sauntered down to the shore, up which the skiff had been dragged. "He invented that skiff as well as made it, and the curious little thing behind that steers it." "Able and strange men seem to work their minds in the same way," returned Bladud; "for the thing is not altogether new. I have seen something very like it in the East; and, to my mind, it is a great improvement on the long oar when the boat is driven through the water, but it is of no use at all when there is no motion." "No; neither is it of use when one wishes to sweep round in a hurry," observed the captain, when this was translated to him. "If it had not been for my steering-oar bringing you sharp round when we were attacking the pirate, you would hardly have managed to spit the chief as you did, strong though you be." It was found that the new style of skiff was a good sailer, for, although the wind was light, her lug-sail carried her over to the coast of Albion in about four hours. "There has been some bad feeling of late between the men from the islands and the men of our side--there often is," said the young fisherman, who steered. "I am not sure that it will be safe to land here." "If that be so, hold on close along the shore in the direction of the setting sun," returned Bladud, "and land us after nightfall. I know the whole country well, and can easily guide my comrades through the woods to my father's town on the great river." The young fisherman did not reply for a few seconds. He seemed in doubt as to this proposal. "There has been war lately," he said, "between your father and the southern tribes, and it may be dangerous for so small a party to traverse the lands of the enemy. I would gladly go and help you, but what could one arm more do to aid you against a host? Besides, my father is dependent on me now for food. I may not forsake the old one who has fed and guarded me since I was a little boy." "Concern yourself not about that, friend," replied the prince. "We need no help. During many days we have travelled safely enough through the great woods of the interior, and have held our own against all foes." "Without doubt we are well able to take care of ourselves," remarked the captain, "though it is but fair to admit that we have had some trouble in doing so." "Ay, and some starvation, too," added Maikar; "but having come safe over the mainland, we are not afraid to face the dangers of the isles, young man." "I said not that you were afraid," rejoined the fisherman, with something of dignified reproof in his manner; "but it is not disgraceful for brave men to act with caution." "Well said, my old comrade!" exclaimed Bladud; "and so we shall be pleased if you will land us here. But your speech leads me to understand that you have had news of my father's doings lately. Is the old man well?" "Ay, King Hudibras is well, and as fond of fighting as ever, besides being well able for it. I am not sure that he would be pleased if he heard you call him the `old man.'" "Indeed? Yet nearly fifty winters have passed over his head, and that is somewhat old for a warrior. And my mother and sister--have you heard of them?" "Excellently well, I believe. At least, so I have been told by the Hebrew merchant who came over sea with one of the Phoenician ships, and wanders over the whole land with his pack of golden ornaments--which so take the fancy of the women, indeed of the men also. How the fellow escapes being robbed on his journeys is more than I can tell. It is said that he travels by night and sleeps in caves during the day. Some people even think that he is in league with evil spirits. I doubt that; but he told me the other day, when I met him on our side of the channel, that your sister is about to be married to a neighbouring chief--I forget his name--Gunrig, I think--with whom your father wishes to be on friendly terms." "Married!" exclaimed Bladud, with a troubled look. "Ay, and it is said she does not like the match." "Does my mother approve of it?" "I think not, though the Hebrew did not seem to feel quite sure on that point. But your father seems resolved on it, and you know he is not easily turned from his purpose when determined to have his way. He is more difficult to move than a woman in that matter." "Come, friend," said Bladud gravely, "don't be too free in your remarks on my father." "And don't be too hard on the women-folk," added the captain, with a grim smile, "they are not all alike. At least there is one that I know of in the East, whose spirit is like that of the lamb, and her voice like the notes of the songbird." Maikar looked as if he were on the point of adding something to the conversation, but his thoughts seemed too deep for utterance, for he only sighed. "Land us in yon creek," said Bladud promptly. "It seems that I have not returned home a moment too soon. There, under the cliff--so." The skiff ran alongside of a ledge of rock as he spoke, and next moment the prince leaped upon the shores of his native land. With a brief farewell to his old playmate, he turned, led his companions up the neighbouring cliff, and, plunging into the forest, set off at a pace which betrayed the urgency of his desire to reach home. Although they travelled almost night and day, it took them the better part of two weeks to reach the river, on the banks of which King Hudibras' chief town was built. They arrived at the eastern bank without mishap, and found that people were crowding over from the western side to attend some display or fete which was obviously going on there. Mingling with the crowd they went to the river's edge, where numerous wooden canoes and coracles were busily engaged in ferrying the people over. Approaching a man, whose apparel betokened him one of the poorer class, Bladud addressed him-- "Can you tell me, friend, what is going on here to-day?" "Truly you must be a stranger if you know not, for every one--far and near--has heard of the wedding of our king's pretty daughter." "Is she, then, married?" asked the prince, scarcely able to conceal his anxiety. "Not yet, but she is to be married to-morrow--if no champion comes to claim her." "How? What mean you?" "I mean what I say. Gunrig, the great chief whom she is to wed, is a proud and a stout man. Many chiefs have been courting the fair princess, and, in his pride of heart and strength, Gunrig has challenged any one to fight him in single combat, promising that the bride shall be given to the conqueror." "And does my--does the king agree to such a base proposal?" "Well, he objected to it at first, but Gunrig is such a dangerous enemy, and his tribe so powerful, that the king has given in at last. Besides, he knows that the chief is so strong and big, and so well able to use his weapons, that none of the other chiefs are likely to venture a trial with him, or, if they do, they are sure to get the worst of it." "You don't seem to like this Gunrig, I think." "No. I hate him. Everybody hates him; he is such a proud brute, but what can _we_ do? when the king commands, all must obey. If I was as big and stout as you are," added the man with a steady gaze at the prince, "I'd go at this fellow and win the fair princess myself." "Perchance I may have a try," returned Bladud with a light laugh. "Does the princess hate him? and the queen?" "Ay, worse than poison." "Come, let us go and see the sport," said the prince to his companions, as he hurried away from the river. "You know our language well enough, I think, captain, to understand what has been said?" "Ay, the most of it; and there is no doubt you are much wanted at this feast." In a few minutes our travellers arrived at the suburbs of the little town, which was embosomed among trees and green fields. As hundreds of people had come in from all the country round, and some of them were Phoenician mariners from ships then in port, our three adventurers might not have attracted much attention, had it not been for the towering height, stalwart frame, and noble bearing of Bladud. As it was, people commented on them, bestowing looks of admiration particularly on the prince, but they did not address or molest them in any way--supposing, of course, that they had come from a distance to see the show; though many wondered that such a strapping fellow as the tall one could have come to the land without having been heard of. "Perhaps he has only just arrived in one of the ships," was the sagacious remark of one. "But the ships have been here a long time, and we have seen all their crews," was the comment of another. On arriving at the scene of festivities, they found that an immense assemblage encircled the arena, in which a number of young men were competing in athletic sports. The captain and Maikar gently elbowed their way to the front, where they could see what was going on. "I will remain in the back row where I can see well enough," said Bladud. "Keep a look-out for me when you feel lost. I don't mean to make myself known just yet." CHAPTER TEN. THE SPORTS. At the further end of the ground enclosed for the sports, a slightly raised platform had been prepared for the king and his household. The royal party ascended it soon after the travellers arrived, but the distance was too great to permit of faces being distinguished. Bladud could easily perceive, however, the tall form of his father, and the graceful figure of his mother, as they took their places, closely followed by the chief warriors. These, however, did not bring their women--that privilege being reserved for the household of the king only. Close behind the king and queen walked the young Princess Hafrydda. She was not only graceful, but beautiful, being very fair like her mother, with light-blue eyes like those of her brother Bladud; she had peach-bloom cheeks, and a brow of snow, save where her cap failed to protect it from the sun. After the princess, and shrinking behind her as if to escape the gaze of the courtiers, or rather warriors, who crowded the platform, came a girl of about nineteen summers, the companion of Hafrydda. Branwen was a complete contrast to her friend in complexion. She was the daughter of a famous northern chief, and was quite as beautiful as the princess, while her jet-black eyes and curly brown hair gave more of force and character to features which were delicately moulded. There was reason for poor Branwen's desire to escape observation, for the proud Gunrig was paying her attentions which were far too pointed and familiar in one who was about to marry the king's daughter. Indeed, it was whispered that he had changed his mind since he had seen Branwen, and would have even resigned the princess in her favour, if he had dared to offer such an affront to the king. Hudibras himself was the last to ascend the platform. He was a fine-looking, portly man, with a great shock of black hair, a long beard, and limbs so well proportioned that he did not seem taller than other men until he stood beside them. He was a worthy sire of such a son as Bladud, though three inches shorter. There was a sort of barbaric splendour in the costumes of both men and women, combined with some degree of graceful simplicity. The king was clothed in a softly-dressed deer-skin jacket, over which he wore a wolf-skin with the hair outside. A tunic of purple cotton, brought by Phoenician ships from the far East, covered him as far down as the knees, which were bare, while his lower limbs were swathed in strips of scarlet cloth. Leather sandals, resembling those made by Bladud while in Gaul, protected his feet. No crown or other token of royalty rested on his brow, but over his dark and grizzled locks he wore a species of leather skull-cap which, being exceeding tough, served the purpose of a helmet. On his breast was a profusion of ornaments in the form of beads and bosses of gold and tin, the former of which had been brought from the East, the latter from the mines of his native land. A bronze sword with an ivory sheath, inlaid with gold, hung at his left side, and a knife of the same material at his right. Altogether King Hudibras, being broad and strong in proportion to his height, presented a very regal appearance indeed, and bore himself with becoming dignity. He had married the daughter of a Norse Jarl; and his two children, Bladud and Hafrydda, had taken after their gentle mother in complexion and disposition, though they were not altogether destitute of a sub-current of their father's passionate nature. The nobles, or rather warriors--for ability to fight constituted nobility in those days--were clothed in garments which, with sundry modifications, resembled those of the king. As for the women of the court, their costumes were what may be styled flowing, and therefore graceful, though difficult to describe. Like their lords, they were profusely ornamented with precious metals and bands and loops of coloured cloth. Hafrydda and her companion Branwen allowed their hair to fall, after the manner of the times, in unrestrained freedom over their shoulders--that of the former resembling a cataract of rippling gold, while that of the latter was a wavy mass of auburn. Both girls wore wild flowers among their tresses. Of course the queen had rolled up her slightly grey hair in the simple knot at the back of the head, which is more becoming to age, and she wore no ornament of any kind on her head. Public games are pretty much the same in all lands, and have probably been similar in all times. We shall not weary the reader by describing minutely all that went on. There was racing, of course, and jumping both with and without a run, as well as over a willow-wand held high. There was also throwing the heavy stone, but the method pursued in this feat was not in accordance with modern practice, inasmuch as the competitor turned his back to the direction in which the stone was to be thrown, heeled instead of toed the line, seized the stone with both hands and hurled it backwards over his head. As the games proceeded it was evident that the concourse became much excited and deeply interested in the efforts of the various competitors--the king and his court not less so than the people. After the conclusion of one of the races, Captain Arkal left the front row, and pushing his way towards Bladud, whispered-- "It seems to me that you could easily beat the winner of that race, smart though he be. What say you? Will you try?" "I fear being discovered by my father if I go so prominently before him, and I wish to announce myself in private." "Pooh! discovery is impossible! Have you not told me that you were a smooth-chinned boy, and not grown to near your present height when you left home? How can they ever recognise one who returns a sunburnt giant, with a beard that covers half his face?" "Perhaps you are right," returned the prince, looking as if uncertain how to act; but the advice of little Maikar corresponding with that of the captain decided him. In those primitive times the rules and ceremonies connected with games were few and simple. "Entries" were not arranged beforehand; men came and went, and competed or refrained, as they pleased, though, of course, there were a few well-known greyhound-like men and athletes who competed more or less in all games of the various districts around, and whose superlative powers prevented other ambitious men from becoming too numerous. These were, we may say, the "professionals" of the time. No special costumes were worn. Each man, as he stepped to the front, divested himself of wolf-skin, deer-skin, boar-skin, or cat-skin mantle, and, perchance, also of his upper coat, and stood forth in attire sufficiently light and simple to leave his limbs unhampered. A long race--ten times round the course--was about to come off, and the men were being placed by the judges, when Bladud pushed through the crowd and made his way to the starting-point. There was a murmur of admiration as his tall and graceful figure was seen to join the group of competitors in front of the royal stand. He gave the Greek letter Omicron as his name, and no further questions were asked him. Divesting himself of the rug or mantle, which he wore thrown over one shoulder after the manner of a plaid, he stood forth in the thin loose tunic which formed his only garment, and tightened his belt as he toed the line. It was with a feeling of satisfaction that he observed several of the king's warriors among the runners, and one of these was Gunrig. Being an agile as well as a stout man, he did not consider it beneath his dignity to join in the sports. The king himself gave the signal to start. He descended from his stand for the purpose, and Bladud was greatly pleased to find that though he looked at him he evidently failed to recognise him. At the signal, about twenty powerful fellows--mostly young, though some were in the prime of life--started out at full speed for a short distance, as if to test each other; then they began to slow, so as not to break their wind by over-exertion at the beginning. Bladud felt at once that he was more than a match for the best of them, unless any one should turn out to have been concealing his powers. He therefore placed himself alongside of Gunrig, and kept at his elbow about half a foot behind him the first two rounds of the course. At first Gunrig took no notice of this, but when he perceived that the tall stranger continued to keep the same position, he held back a little, intending to reverse the position for a time. But Bladud also held back and frustrated his intention. Exasperated by this, Gunrig put on what we in these times call a "spurt," and went ahead at a pace which, in a few seconds, left most of the runners a good way behind. This was received by the spectators with a cheer, in which surprise was fully as prominent as satisfaction, for although they knew that the chief was celebrated for his speed of foot, few of them had actually seen him run before that day, and it at once became evident that if his endurance was equal to his speed, it would go hard with his competitors. Bladud was left behind a few yards, but, without making a spurt, he lengthened his stride a little, and in a moment or two had resumed his former position at his rival's elbow. A wild cheer of delight ensued, for now it was recognised that in all probability the race would lie between these two. As, however, all this occurred in the third round of the course, and all the other runners seemed to be doing their work with steady resolution, there was still the possibility of one or more of them proving themselves, by endurance perhaps, more than a match for the swift-footed. The excitement, therefore, became intense, and, as round after round of the course was completed the relative position of the various men changed considerably. At the seventh round some, who had been husbanding their strength, let out, and, passing others with great ease, came close upon the heels of Gunrig and Bladud. This was, of course, a signal for enthusiastic cheering. Others of the runners, feeling that their chance of taking a respectable place was hopeless, dropped out of the race altogether and were cheered vociferously as they retired. At last, in the eighth round, it became practically, as had been anticipated, a race between the leading two, for they were far ahead of all the others by that time, but occupied exactly the same relative position as before. Gunrig became so exasperated at this, that on commencing the ninth round, he made a sudden effort which carried him five or six yards ahead of his rival. The spectators could not avoid cheering him at this, but the cheer was feeble. "The tall man is losing wind," cried one in a disappointed tone. "I feared his legs were too long," observed another. Most of the people, however, looked on in anxious silence. "I did not think he would give in so easily," murmured little Maikar regretfully. "He has not given in yet," returned the captain, with a satisfied nod. "See--he pulls up!" This was true. To the unbounded surprise of the spectators, Bladud had actually stopped a moment to tighten his belt at the beginning of the tenth round. Then, to their still greater amazement, he put on what we may call an Olympic spurt, so that he overtook his rival in less than a quarter of a minute; passed him easily, ran over the rest of the course at a rate which had not been equalled since Old Albion was created, and passed the winning-post full five hundred yards in advance of Gunrig, amid yells of delight and roars of laughter, which continued for some time--bursting forth again and again as the novelty and surprise of the thing became more and more forced home to the spectators' minds. "You have met more than your match to-day, Gunrig," remarked the king, with a laugh, as the defeated man strode angrily up to the platform. "I have met foul play," replied the chief angrily. "He pretended that he could not run, else would I have put on more force. But it matters not. I will have another opportunity of trying him. Meanwhile, there is yet the heavy stone to throw. How now, wench?" he added, turning fiercely on Branwen, who had nearly hidden her face in her shawl, "do you try to hide that you are laughing at me?" Poor Branwen was in anything but a laughing mood. She was too much afraid of the fiery chief for that, and had merely covered her face, as a modern beauty might drop her veil, to avoid his gaze. The fair-haired Hafrydda, however, was not so timid, her smile was evidently one of amusement at his defeat, which angered him all the more. "Gunrig," said the king, drawing himself up, and speaking impressively, "remember that you are my guest, and that it ill becomes you to insult my women before my face." "Pardon me," replied the chief, with an effort to recover himself. "You must remember that I am not accustomed to defeat." "True," returned the king blandly, "so now you had better take to the heavy stone and come off the victor." Gunrig at once went down into the arena and sent a challenge to Bladud. The latter had returned to his place among the spectators, but his height rendered him easy to find. He accepted the challenge at once, and, as no other competitor for the heavy stone offered, the two had it all to themselves. This was no matter of wonder, for the heaviest stone among those laid out for trial was of a weight that many of the young men or warriors could barely lift, while the stoutest of them could not have thrown it more than a few feet. Boiling over as he was with indignation, Gunrig felt as if he was endued with more than usual strength. He lifted the stone with ease, faced the platform, heeled the line, and hurled the stone violently over his head, so that it fell with a heavy thud far behind him. Then Bladud took it up. "Oh! what a stout man he is!" whispered Branwen to Hafrydda, "and what a handsome face!" "That is true; and I hope he will win," replied the princess. "Hush! child, the king will be displeased if he hears you," said her mother earnestly. "What ever you think, keep silence." The queen spoke with such unwonted energy that Hafrydda was surprised, but her thoughts were instantly diverted to Bladud, who made a magnificent cast and sent the stone a yard further than his opponent. But Gunrig seized it again and hurled it a foot beyond that. "Well done," said the king. "Go on. It is the best in three heaves that wins." Bladud grasped the stone and hurled it back over his head with all his force. Up and up it went as if it had resolved to become an aerolite and visit the moon! Then down it came with a mighty thud ten yards beyond Gunrig's mark. Once more the air rang with the enthusiastic plaudits of the multitude, while the king ordered the victor to approach the stand. Bladud did so with some trepidation, for now he knew that he would have to speak, and feared that though his appearance had not betrayed him, his voice would probably do so. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A NOTABLE DUEL FOLLOWED BY CHANGES AND PLOTS. Every eye was riveted with admiration and curiosity on the young stranger as he approached. "You have acquitted yourself well, young man," said the king, "and it becomes us to invite you to our palace and to ask if we can serve you in any way." Bladud had a deep voice, and, by way of increasing his chances of concealing his identity, he pitched it a note or two lower than usual as he replied. "I thank you, sir, for your hospitality and gladly accept it. As to your offer to serve me, I would count it a favour if you will permit me to enter into combat with one of your friends." "Indeed!" exclaimed the king, in great surprise, "that is a strange request, but I may not deny you. Which of my warriors may it be?" "It is none of your warriors, sir," answered Bladud, "but one of your guests who has, I am told, challenged whoever will to fight him for the hand of your fair daughter. I am here now to accept that challenge and to fight with Gunrig if he will." "Assuredly, young man, your ambition or presumption seems equal to your prowess," returned the king with an offended look; "know ye not that this challenge was delivered to chiefs of this country, not to unknown strangers, and although I admit that your tongue seems well accustomed to our language, it has a foreign smack about it which does not belong to those who are home-bred." "I am a chief," answered Bladud, proudly, "and this is my native land." "What is your name, then, and where come ye from?" demanded the king. "That I may not answer just now, but I am here, in your power, if what I say be not found true, you may do what you will with me. Meanwhile I ask permission to accept the challenge." At this point Gunrig, unable to restrain himself longer, sprang forward. "Grant him permission, king," he cried. "If I were not ready to abide by my word I were not worth my salt. Nay, indeed, whether you grant him permission or not I will fight him, for he has twice beaten me this day, and now insults me, therefore there is a deadly feud between us." "You were always a hot-head, Gunrig," replied the king, with a grim smile. "But have your way. Only it does not follow that if you lose the day I will give my child to the conqueror." "Be that as you choose," said Gunrig, "I am now ready." As he spoke the fiery chief grasped his shield, leaped down into the arena and drew his sword. Bladud was not slow to follow. In those days action usually followed close on the heels of purpose, and as the laws of chivalry had not yet been formulated there was no braying of trumpets or tedious ceremonial to delay the combat. "Oh! I do hope he will conquer," whispered the Princess Hafrydda to her dark-eyed companion, "and save me from that horrid man." "I hope so too," returned Branwen, in a subdued voice, "but--" She stopped abruptly, and a blush deepened the rich colour of her cheek, which she sought to conceal by drawing her shawl still closer over it. This was needless, for the clash of swords at the moment, as the combatants met in deadly conflict, claimed the exclusive attention of the damsels, and caused the entire concourse to press close around the barricades with eager interest. "A strange way to mark his home-coming," muttered Captain Arkal, thrusting himself as near to the scene of action as possible, closely followed by Maikar, who, being little, kept easily in his wake. "He knows well what he's about," returned the little man, whose admiration for Bladud was great, and his belief in him unbounded. Maikar was one of those men--of whom there are no doubt thousands--who powerfully appreciate, almost venerate, and always recognise, the spirit of justice when displayed by their fellows, although they may not always be aware of the fact that they do recognise it--hence his belief in the prince. "A good day for the land if that long-legged fellow slays him," remarked one of the crowd. "That's true," said another. Indeed, this seemed to be the opinion of most of the spectators; there was also a general expression of confidence that the stranger was sure to be victorious, but some objectors--of whom there are, and necessarily must be a considerable number in the world--held that Gunrig was a stout man to tackle, and it was not always length of limb that gained the day. Such comments, however, were not numerous, for the concourse soon became too deeply absorbed to indulge in speech. The fight that now ensued gave some weight to the objectors' views. At first the combatants rushed at each other with the ferocity of men who mean to settle a dispute by instant and mutual destruction, and there was a sort of gasp of excited surprise among the people as the two swords fell at the same moment with something like a thunderclap on the respective shields. Feeling that neither could overcome the other by the might of a resistless blow, each, after one or two rapid cuts, thrusts, and guards, ascertained that his adversary was so nearly his match as to render great care needful. They retired a few paces, and then advancing, settled down to their work, point to point and foot to foot. Gunrig, although inferior in stature to the prince, was about equal to him in strength and weight, and, being a trained warrior in the prime of life, was possessed of a sturdy endurance which, to some extent, made up for the other's superior agility. In other respects they seemed well matched, for each was highly trained and expert in the use of his weapons. After a second onset, somewhat similar to the first, and with much the same result, the two went at each other with cut and thrust so rapidly that it was almost impossible to distinguish their swords as they flashed like gleaming flames in the sunshine. Suddenly Gunrig drew back, and, springing at the prince with uplifted weapon, as if to cut him down, changed the attack into a quick thrust which, passing under the youth's uplifted shield, went straight to his breast. But the quick eye of Bladud detected the intention in time. Leaping lightly backward, he caused the thrust to come short; at the same time he returned with a quick thrust at the chief's right shoulder which took effect slightly. Giving him no time to recover, he made a sweeping cut at Gunrig's neck, which, had it fallen, would have shorn his head from his shoulders, but the chief, instead of guarding it, suddenly stooped, and, as the sword passed whistling above him, returned with a thrust so fierce that it pierced right through the thick shield opposed to it. Here was an opportunity of which Bladud was not slow to avail himself. Although the arm which held it was slightly wounded, he gave the shield a violent and sudden twist, which not only held the weapon fast but nearly wrenched it out of the chief's hand. An ordinary sword would have been snapped, but Gunrig's weapon was a big bronze one that had done service in many a fray, and its owner's hand was strong. He held it fast, but before he could withdraw it and recover himself Bladud cut him fair over the head. Whether it was accident or design no one could tell, but the flat instead of the edge of his sword descended on the headpiece, and the blow which should otherwise have cleft his adversary to the chin only stretched him insensible on the field. A great sigh of relief, mingled with wild cheers of satisfaction, greeted this effective termination of the fight, and the king was evidently not ill-pleased. "Pick him up, some of you," he said, pointing to the prostrate Gunrig, "and carry him to the palace. See that he is well cared for. Go, Branwen, and see that everything is properly done for him." Branwen at once left the stand, and the king, descending into the arena, proceeded to congratulate the victor. Before he could do so, however, to his unbounded surprise, the queen also descended with her daughter and threw her arms round the prince's neck, while Hafrydda seized his hand and covered it with kisses. "Body of me! am I dreaming?" cried the king, after a few moments of speechless amazement. "Oh! Bladud," exclaimed the queen, looking up in his smiling face, "did you really think you could deceive your own mother? Fie, fie, I would have recognised you if you had come with your face painted black." By this time the king had recovered, and realised the fact that his long-lost son had returned home. He strode towards him, and, grasping his hand, essayed to speak, but something in his throat rendered speech impossible. King Hudibras was a stern man, however, and scorned to show womanly weakness before his people. He turned suddenly round, kicked a few courtiers out of his way, remounted the platform, and, in a loud voice, announced the conclusion of the sports. Great was the rejoicing among the people assembled there, when the news spread that the long-lost Prince Bladud had returned home, and that the tall youth who had defeated Gunrig was he, and they cheered him with even more zest and energy than they had at the moment of his victory. Meanwhile Gunrig, having been conveyed to the residence of the king, was laid on a couch. The palace was, we need scarcely say, very unlike our modern palaces, being merely a large hut or rude shanty of logs, surrounded by hundreds of similar but smaller huts, which composed this primitive town. The couch on which the chief lay was composed of brushwood and leaves. But Gunrig did not lie long upon it. He was a tough man, as well as a stout, and he had almost recovered consciousness when the princess, returning from the games, arrived to assist her friend in attending to the king's commands. She found Branwen about to enter the chamber, in which the chief lay, with a bandage. "Hast heard the news?" she asked, with a gladsome smile. "Not I," replied Branwen, in a rather sharp tone. "Whatever it is, it seems to have made you happy." "Truly it has. But let us go in with the bandages first. The news is too good to be told in a hurry." The sound of their voices as they entered aroused Gunrig completely, and he rose up as they approached. "My father sent us," said the princess in some confusion, "to see that you are well cared for. Your wounds, I hope, are not dangerous?" "Dangerous, no; and they will not prevent me from speedily avenging myself on the young upstart who has appeared so suddenly to claim you for a bride. Stay, you need not go so quickly, or toss your head in pride. I will stand by my word, and let him keep who wins. But I have a word to say to you, Branwen. Come along with me." Wooers among the ancient Albionites were not, it would seem, celebrated for politeness--some of them, at least! The chief seized the shrinking girl by the wrist as he spoke, and led her out of the house and into a neighbouring thicket, where he bade her sit down on a fallen tree. "Now," he said, sitting down beside her, and putting his arm round her waist, despite her objections, "this young turkey-cock has fairly won Hafrydda, and he is welcome to her for all that I care--that is, if he lives to claim her hand after our next meeting, for, since I've seen your pretty face, Branwen, I would rather wed you than the fairest lass that ever owned to Norland blood. What say you to take the princess's place and become my wife?" "Oh! no, no," exclaimed Branwen, in great distress, trying to disengage his arm, "you love Hafrydda, and it is impossible that you can love us both! Let me go." "I'm not so sure that I ever really cared for the princess," replied the chief; "but of this I am quite sure, that I never loved her half as much as I love you, Branwen." The girl tore herself away from him, and, standing up with flushed face and flashing eyes, exclaimed-- "Shame would crush you, if you were a brave man, for uttering such a speech. But you are _not_ brave; you are a coward, and your late opponent will teach you that. Be sure that I will never consent to wed one who is a disgrace to manhood." A fierce scowl crossed Gunrig's swarthy countenance, but it passed in a moment, and a look of admiration replaced it as he looked up with a smile. "I like maids with your temper," he said, still keeping his seat, "but you forget that if the king so wills it, you shall be compelled to accept me, and I think the king will scarce dare to thwart my wishes, especially now that another man has a right to the princess." "I defy you," returned the girl, still at a white heat of indignation, "and if the king tries to force me to wed you, I will defy him too! The young stranger will be my champion--or, if he should refuse, there are other ways by which a helpless girl may escape from tyrants." She turned with these words and fled. Gunrig sprang up to pursue, but, fortunately for the girl, a modest bramble, that scarce ventured to raise its branches above the ground, caught his foot and sent him headlong into a rotten stump, which seemed only too ready to receive him. Extracting his head from its embrace, he stood up in a bewildered frame of mind, found that the light-footed Branwen had escaped him, and sat down again on the fallen tree to recover his equanimity. Meanwhile the poor girl ran back to the palace, rushed into Hafrydda's room, threw herself on a couch, and burst into tears. This was such an unwonted exhibition of weakness in Branwen that the princess stood looking at her for a few moments in silent surprise. Then she sought to comfort her, and made her relate, bit by bit, with many a sob between, what had occurred. "But why do you cry so bitterly?" asked Hafrydda. "It is so unlike you to give way to despair. Besides, you defied him, you say, and you were right to do so, for my dear father will never force you to wed against your wishes." "I know better," returned the other, with some bitterness. "Did he not intend to make _you_ wed against your wishes?" "That is true," replied the gentle Hafrydda, with a sigh. "But I am saved from that now," she added, brightening up suddenly, "and that reminds me of the good news. Do you know who the handsome youth is who rescued me from this monster?" "No, I don't; and I'm sure I don't care," answered Branwen, with a touch of petulance. "At all events, I suppose you will be glad of the change of husbands." "He will never be my husband," returned the princess, somewhat amused by her friend's tone, for she suspected the cause. "He is my brother Bladud--my long-lost brother!" The change that came over Branwen's pretty face on hearing this was remarkable. "Your brother!" she exclaimed. "No wonder that he is beautiful, as well as brave!" A merry laugh broke from the princess as she kissed her friend. "Well, but," she said, "what will you do? You know that always, when I have been perplexed or in trouble, I have come to you for help and advice. Now that things are turned the other way, I know not what advice to give you." "I have settled what to do," answered Branwen, drying her eyes, and looking up with the air of one whose mind has been suddenly and firmly made up. "Your father, I know, will consent to Gunrig's wishes. If he did not, there would be war again--horrible war--between the tribes. I will never be the cause of that if I can help it. At the same time, it would kill me to wed with Gunrig. I would rather die than that; therefore--I will run away." "And leave me?" exclaimed the princess anxiously. "Well, I should have to leave you, at any rate, if I stay and am compelled to marry Gunrig." "But where will you run to?" "That I will not tell, lest you should be tempted to tell lies to your father. Just be content to know that I shall not be far away, and that in good time you shall hear from me. Farewell, dear Hafrydda, I dare not stay, for that--that monster will not be long in hatching and carrying out some vile plot--farewell." CHAPTER TWELVE. PLOTS AND PLANS. About three miles beyond the outskirts of King Hudibras' town--the name of which has now, like many other things, been lost in the proverbial mists of antiquity--an old man dwelt in a sequestered part of the forest. His residence was a dry cave at the foot of a cliff, or, rather, a rude hut which, resting against the cliff, absorbed the cave, so to speak, into its rear premises. The old man had a somewhat aquiline nose, a long white beard, and a grave, but kindly, expression of countenance. He was one of the sons of Israel--at that time _not_ a despised race. Although aged he was neither bowed nor weak, but bore himself with the uprightness and vigour of a man in his prime. When at home, this man seemed to occupy his time chiefly in gathering firewood, cooking food, sleeping, and reading in a small roll of Egyptian papyrus which he carried constantly in his bosom. He was well known, far and near, as Beniah the merchant, who trafficked with the Phoenician shipmen; was a sort of go-between with them and the surrounding tribes, and carried his wares from place to place far and wide through the land. He was possessed of a wonderful amount of curious knowledge, and, although he spoke little, he contrived in the little he said to make a favourable impression on men and women. Being obliging as well as kind, and also exceedingly useful, people not only respected Beniah, but treated him as a sort of semi-sacred being who was not to be interfered with in any way. Even robbers--of whom there were not a few in those days--respected the Hebrew's property; passed by his hut with looks of solemnity, if not of awe, and allowed him to come and go unchallenged. Most people liked Beniah. A few feared him, and a still smaller number--cynics, who have existed since the days of Adam--held him to be in league with evil spirits. He was a tall, stalwart man, and carried a staff of oak about six feet long, as a support during his travels. It had somehow come to be understood that, although Beniah was pre-eminently a man of peace, it was nevertheless advisable to treat him with civility or to keep well out of the range of that oaken staff. Possibly this opinion may have been founded on the fact that, on one occasion, three big runaway Phoenician seamen, who thought they would prefer a life in the woods to a life on the ocean wave, had one evening been directed to Beniah's hut as a place where strangers were never refused hospitality when they asked it with civility. As those three seamen made their appearance in the town that same evening, in a very sulky state of mind, with three broken heads, it was conjectured that they had omitted the civility--either on purpose or by accident. Be this as it may, Beniah and his six-foot staff had become objects of profound respect. Evening was drawing on and Beniah was sitting on a stool beside his open door, enjoying the sunshine that penetrated his umbrageous retreat, and reading the papyrus scroll already referred to, when the figure of a woman approached him with timid, hesitating steps. At first the Hebrew did not observe her, but, as she drew nearer, the crackling of branches under her light footsteps aroused him. He looked up quickly, and the woman, running forward, stood before him with clasped hands. "Oh! sir," she exclaimed, "have pity on me! I come to claim your protection." "Such protection as you need and I can give you shall have, my daughter; but it is a strange request to make of such a man, in such a place, and at such a time. Moreover, your voice is not quite strange to me," added the old man with a perplexed look. "Surely I have heard it before?" "Ay, Beniah, you know my voice and have seen my face," said the woman, suddenly removing her shawl and revealing to the astonished eyes of the old man the pretty head and face of Branwen with her wealth of curling auburn hair. "Child," exclaimed the Hebrew, rising and letting fall his roll, while he took her hand in both of his, "what folly have you been guilty of, for surely nothing but folly could move you thus to forsake the house of your friends?" "Ay, father, you say truth," returned the girl, her courage returning as she noted the kindly tone of the old man's voice. "Folly is indeed the cause of it, but it is the folly of man, not of women." Branwen then gave him a detailed account of the duel between Bladud and Gunrig, as well as of the subsequent proceedings of the latter, with regard to herself. The face of the old man elongated as she proceeded with her narration, and as it was long by nature--the face, not the narration--its appearance when she had concluded was solemnising in the extreme. "Assuredly you are right, my child, for it is amazing folly in such a man as Gunrig to suppose he is a fitting mate for you,--though it is no folly in him to wish to get you for a wife,--and it is no folly in you to flee from such an undesirable union. But how to help you in this matter is more difficult to conceive than anything that has puzzled my brain since the day I left Tyre." "Can you not conceal me here till we have time to think what is best to be done?" asked Branwen simply, "for I will die rather than wed this-- this monster Gunrig!" The Hebrew smiled pitifully, for he saw in the maiden's face and bearing evidence of a brave, resolute spirit, which would not condescend to boasting, and had no thought of using exaggerated language. "Truly I will conceal you--for a time. But I cannot leave you here alone when I go on my wanderings. Besides, the king will send out his hunters all over the land--men who are trained to note the slightest track of bear, deer, and wolf, and they will find it easy work to discover your little footprints. No doubt, near the town, and even here where many wanderers come and go, they will fail to pick up the trail, but if you venture into the lonely woods the footmarks will certainly betray you, and if I go with you, my doom will be fixed, for my big sandal is as well known to the king's hunters as the big nose on my face, or the white beard on my chin." Poor Branwen became, and looked, very miserable on hearing this, for the idea of hunters and footprints had not once occurred to her. "Oh what, then, is to be done?" she asked with a helpless yet eager look. For some time the old man sat in silence, with closed eyes as if in meditation. Then he said, with a sad smile, that he supposed there was nothing for it but to reveal one of his secrets to her. "I have not many secrets, Branwen," he said, "but the one which I am about to reveal to you is important. To make it known would be the ruin of me. Yet I feel that I may trust you, for surely you are a good girl." "No, I'm _not_," cried Branwen, with a look of firmness, yet of transparent honesty, that amused her companion greatly; "at least," she continued in a quieter tone, "I don't _feel_ good, and the queen often tells me that I am _very_ naughty, though I sometimes think she doesn't mean it. But when I think of that--that monster and his insult to my dear Hafrydda, and his impudence in wanting me. Oh! I could tear him limb from limb, and put the bits in the fire so that they could never come together again!" "My dear child," returned Beniah remonstratively, while she paused with flashing eyes and parted lips, as though she had not yet given vent to half her wrath, "whatever other folk may say or think of you, you are good enough in my esteem, but it is wrong to give way thus to wrath. Come, I will reveal my little secret, and it behoves us to be quick, for they will soon miss you and send the hunters on your track." As he spoke the Hebrew led the refugee through his hut and into the cave beyond, the darkness at the further end of which was so great, that it would have been impossible to see but for a stone lamp which stood in a recess in the wall. This revealed the fact that the place was used as a kitchen. "That is my chimney," said Beniah, taking up the lamp and holding it so that a large natural hole or crack could be seen overhead, it formed an outlet to the forest above--though the opening was beyond the reach of vision. The same crack extended below in the form of a yawning chasm, five or six feet wide. There seemed to be nothing on the other side of this chasm except the wall of the cliffs; but on closer inspection, a narrow ledge was seen with a small recess beyond. Across the chasm lay a plank which rested on the ledge. "This is my secret--at least part of it," said the Hebrew, pointing to the plank which bridged the chasm. "Give me your hand; we must cross it." Branwen possessed a steady as well as a pretty head. Placing her hand unhesitatingly in that of her guide, she quickly stood on the ledge, close to a short narrow passage, by which they reached a smaller cave or natural chamber in the solid rock. Here, to the girl's intense surprise, she found herself surrounded by objects, many of which she had never seen before, while others were familiar enough. Against the wall were piled webs of cloth of brilliant colours, and garments of various kinds. In one corner was a heap of bronze and iron weapons, shields and other pieces of Eastern armour, while in a recess lay piled in a confused heap many Phoenician ornaments of gold, silver, and bronze, similar to those which were worn by the warriors and chief men of King Hudibras' court. It was, in fact, the stock in trade of the Hebrew--the fount at which he replenished his travelling pack; a pack which was a great mystery to most of his friends, for, however much they might purchase out of it, there seemed to be no end to its inexhaustible power of reproduction. "Here," said Beniah, amused at the girl's gaze of astonishment, "ye will be safe from all your foes till a Higher Power directs us what shall be done with you, for, to say truth, at this moment my mind is a blank. However, our present duty is not action but concealment. Water and dried fruit you will find in this corner. Keep quiet. Let not curiosity tempt you to examine these things--they might fall and cause noise that would betray us. When danger is past, I will come again. Meanwhile, observe now what I am about to do, and try to imitate me." He returned to the entrance, and, taking up the plank-bridge, drew it into the passage, guiding its outer end on a slight branch, which seemed to have fallen across the chasm accidentally, but which in reality had been placed there for this purpose. Then, sliding it out again, he refixed it in position. "Is that too hard for you? Try." Branwen obeyed, and succeeded so well, that old Beniah commended her on her aptitude to learn. "Now be careful," he added, when about to re-cross the bridge. "Your life may depend on your attention to my instructions." "But what if I should let the plank slip?" said she in sudden anxiety. "There is another in the cave on the floor. Besides, I have two or three planks in the forest ready against such a mishap. Fear not, but commit yourself to the All-seeing One." He crossed over alone, leaving the girl on the other side, and waited till she had withdrawn the bridge, when he returned to the mouth of the outer cave, and sat down to continue the perusal of his roll. Branwen meanwhile returned to the inner cave, or store, and sat down to meditate on thoughts which had been awakened by the Hebrew's reference to the All-seeing One. She wondered if there was an All-seeing One at all, and, if there was, did He see all the wickedness that was done by men-- ay, and even by women! and did He see the thoughts of her mind and the feelings of her heart? It will be gathered from this, that the maiden was considerably in advance of the uncivilised age in which she lived, for the ancient inhabitants of Albion were not addicted to the study of theology, either natural or speculative. "If I but knew of such an All-seeing One," she murmured, "I would ask Him to help me." Raising her eyes as she spoke, she observed the goods piled round the walls, and the light of the lamp--which had been left with her-- glittered on the trinkets opposite. This was too much for her. It must be remembered that, besides living in a barbarous age, she was an untutored maiden, and possessed of a large share of that love for "pretty things," which is--rightly or wrongly--believed to be a peculiar characteristic of the fair sex. Theology, speculative and otherwise, vanished, she leaped up and, forgetting her host's warning, began to inspect the goods. At first conscience--for she had an active little one--remonstrated. "But," she replied, silently, with a very natural tendency to self-justification, "although Beniah told me not to touch things, I did not _promise_ not to do so?" "True, but your silence was equivalent to a promise," said something within her. "No, it wasn't," she replied aloud. "Yes, it was," retorted the something within her in a tone of exasperating contradiction. This was much too subtle a discussion to be continued. She brushed it aside with a laugh, and proceeded to turn over the things with eager admiration on her expressive face. Catching up a bright blue-and-scarlet shawl, large enough to cover her person, she threw it over her and made great, and not quite successful, efforts to see her own back. Suddenly she became motionless, and fixed her lustrous brown eyes on the roof with almost petrified attention. A thought had struck her! And she resolved to strike it back in the sense of pursuing it to a conclusion. "The very thing," she said, recovering from petrification, "and I'll _do_ it!" The preliminary step to doing it seemed to be a general turn over of the Hebrew's shawls, all of which, though many were beautiful, she rejected one after another until she found an old and considerably worn grey one. This she shook out and examined with approving nods, as if it were the finest fabric that ever had issued from the looms of Cashmere. Tying her luxuriant hair into a tight knot behind, and smoothing it down on each side of her face, and well back so as not to be obtrusive, she flung the old shawl over her head, induced a series of wrinkles to corrugate her fair brow; drew in her lips so as to conceal her teeth, and, by the same action, to give an aquiline turn to her nose; bowed her back, and, in short, converted herself into a little old woman! At court, Branwen had been celebrated for her powers of mimicry, and had been a source of great amusement to her companions in the use--sometimes the abuse--of these powers; but this was the first occasion on which she had thought of personating an old woman. Having thus metamorphosed herself, she looked eagerly round as if in search of a mirror. It need scarcely be said that glass had not been heard of by the natives of the Tin Islands or of Albion at that time, nevertheless, mirrors were not unknown. Espying in a corner, a great bronze shield, that might once have flashed terror at the siege of Troy--who knows--she set it up against the wall. It was oval in shape, and presented her face with such a wide expanse of cheeks, that she laughed lightly and turned it the other way. This arrangement gave her visage such lengthened astonishment of expression, that she laughed again, but was not ill pleased at her appearance on the whole. To make the illusion perfect, she sought and found an article of dress, of which the Albionic name has been forgotten, but which is known to modern women as a petticoat. It was reddish brown in colour, and, so far, in keeping with the grey old shawl. While she was busy tying on this garment, and otherwise completing her costume, almost quite forgetful in her amusement of the danger which had driven her to that strange place, she heard voices in the outer cave, and among them one which turned her cheeks pale, and banished every thought of fun out of her heart. It was the voice of Gunrig! That doughty warrior--after having partially regained the equanimity which he had sat down on the fallen tree to recover--arose, and returned to his apartment in the palace for the double purpose of feeding and meditation. Being a robust man, he did not feel much the worse for the events of the morning, and attacked a rib of roast beef with gusto. Hearing, with great surprise, that his late antagonist was no other than Bladud, the long-lost son of the king, he comforted himself with another rib of roast beef, and with the reflection that a prince, not less than a man-at-arms, is bound to fight a duel when required to do so. Having finished his meal, he quaffed a huge goblet of spring water, and went out to walk up and down with his hands behind his back. Doubtless, had he lived in modern days, he would have solaced himself with a glass of bitter and a pipe, but strong drink had not been discovered in those islands at the time, and smoking had not been invented. Yet it is generally believed, though we have no authentic record of the fact, that our ancestors got on pretty well without these comforts. We refrain, however, from dogmatising on the point, but it is our duty to state that Gunrig, at all events, got on swimmingly without them. It is also our duty to be just to opponents, and to admit that a pipe might possibly have soothed his wrath. Of course, on hearing of Branwen's flight, the indignant king summoned his hunters at once, and, putting the enraged Gunrig himself at the head of them, sent him fuming into the woods in search of the runaway. They did not strike the trail at once, because of, as already explained, the innumerable footprints in the neighbourhood of the town. "We can't be long of finding them now," remarked the chief to the principal huntsman, as they passed the entrance to Beniah's retreat. "It may be as well to run up and ask the old man who lives here if he has seen her," replied the huntsman. "He is a man with sharp eyes for his years." "As you will," said Gunrig sternly, for his wrath had not yet been appreciably toned down by exercise. They found the Hebrew reading at his door. "Ho! Beniah, hast seen the girl Branwen pass this way to-day?" cried Gunrig as he came up. "I have not seen her pass," replied the Hebrew, in a tone so mild that the angry chief suspected him. "She's not in your hut, I suppose?" he added sharply. "The door is open, you may search it if you doubt me," returned the Hebrew with a look of dignity, which he knew well how to assume. The chief entered at once, and, after glancing sharply round the outer room entered the kitchen. Here Beniah showed him the chimney, pointed out the yawning chasm below, and commented on the danger of falling into it in the dark. "And what is there beyond, Hebrew?" asked the chief. Beniah held up the lamp. "You see," he said, "the rock against which my poor hut rests." Then the old man referred to the advantages of the situation for supplying himself with food by hunting in the forest, as well as by cultivating the patch of garden beside the hut, until his visitor began to show signs of impatience, when he apologised for intruding his domestic affairs at such a time, and finally offered to join and aid the search party. "Aid us!" exclaimed Gunrig in contempt. "Surely we need no aid from you, when we have the king's head-huntsman as our guide." "That may be true, chief, nevertheless in the neighbourhood of my own hut I could guide you, if I chose, to secret and retired spots, which it would puzzle even the head-huntsman to find. But I will not thrust my services upon you." "You are over-proud for your station," returned the chief angrily, "and were it not for your years I would teach you to moderate your language and tone." For a moment the eyes of the old man flashed, and his brows contracted, as he steadily returned the gaze of Gunrig. In his youth he had been a man of war, and, as we have said, his strength was not yet much abated by age, but years and deep thought had brought wisdom to some extent. With an evident effort he restrained himself, and made no reply. The chief, deeming his silence to be the result of fear, turned contemptuously away, and left the hut with his followers. During this colloquy, poor Branwen had stood in the dark passage, listening and trembling lest her hiding-place should be discovered. She was a strange compound of reckless courage and timidity--if such a compound be possible. Indignation at the man who had slighted her bosom friend Hafrydda, besides insulting herself, caused her to feel at times like a raging lion. The comparative weakness of her slight and graceful frame made her at other times feel like a helpless lamb. It was an exasperating condition! When she thought of Gunrig, she wished with all her heart and soul that she had been born a big brawny man. When she thought of Bladud, nothing could make her wish to be other than a woman! As she stood there listening, there occurred a slight desire to clear her throat, and she almost coughed. The feeling came upon her like a shock--what if she had let it out! But a sneeze! It was well known that sneezes came even to people the most healthy, and at moments the most inopportune, and well she knew from experience that to repress a sneeze would ensure an explosion fit to blow the little nose off her face. If a sneeze should come at that moment, she was lost! But a sneeze did not come. The olfactory nerves remained placid, until the visitors had departed. Then she retreated to the inner cave, drew the grey shawl over her head, and awaited the development of her plans. Presently she heard footsteps, and the voice of the Hebrew calling to her softly, but she took no notice. After a moment or two it sounded again, somewhat louder. Still no answer. Then Beniah shouted, with just a shade of anxiety, "Branwen!" Receiving no reply, he ran in much alarm for one of his spare planks; thrust it over the chasm; crossed, and next moment stood in the inner cave the very embodiment of astonished consternation, for Branwen was gone, and in her place stood a little old woman, with a bowed form, and a puckered-up mouth, gazing at him with half-closed but piercingly dark eyes! The Hebrew was almost destitute of superstition, and a man of great courage, but this proved too much for him. His eyes opened with amazement; so did his mouth, and he grew visibly pale. The tables were turned at this point. The man's appearance proved too much for the girl. Her eyes opened wide, her brilliant teeth appeared, and, standing erect, she burst into a fit of merry laughter. "Child!" exclaimed Beniah, his usually grave mouth relaxing into a broad smile, which proved that his teeth were not less sound than his constitution, "you have shown to me that fear, or something marvellously like it, is capable of lurking within my old heart. What mean you by this?" "I mean that there is an idea come into my head which I shall carry out--if you will allow me. I had thought at first of staying with you as your grand-daughter or your niece, but then it came into my head that I could not live long here in such a character without some one who knew me seeing me and finding me out--though, let me tell you, it would not be easy to find me out, for I can change my look and voice so that none but those who know me well could discover me. Then the idea of being an old woman came into my head, and--you can speak to my success. There is nothing more natural than that you should have an old woman to take care of your house while you go on your travels; so I can stay till you go and see my father and tell him to send for me." "Your father lives very far from here," returned the Hebrew, with the lines of perplexity still resting on his brow. "That is true; but Beniah's legs are long and his body is strong. He can soon let my father know of his daughter's misfortune. You know that my father is a powerful chief, though his tribe is not so strong in numbers as the tribe of King Hudibras, or that--that fiend Gunrig. But his young men and my brothers are very brave." "Well, let it be as you say, for the present, my child, and you may consider this cave your private chamber while you remain in my house. But let me advise you to keep close when I am absent, and do not be tempted to prove the strength of your disguise. It may not be as perfect as you think, and your voice may betray you." Having agreed upon this temporary plan, the Hebrew departed to make preparations for a long journey, while Branwen busied herself in arranging the apartment in which, for some time at least, she hoped to remain in hiding. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MOTHER AND SON. We need scarcely say that the search for Branwen proved fruitless. Gunrig and the hunters returned to town crestfallen at being unable to discover the trail of a girl, and the chief went off in undiminished wrath to his own home--which was distant about a day's journey on foot from the capital of King Hudibras. Even in those savage times warriors were not above taking counsel, occasionally, with women. The king went to consult on the situation with the queen, the princess, and Bladud; while Gunrig sought advice and consolation from his mother. Of course neither of these men would for a moment have admitted that he needed advice. They only condescended to let their women-folk know what had occurred, and hear what they had to say! "Why, do you think, has the ungrateful child fled?" asked the king in some indignation. "I cannot imagine," answered the queen. "We have all been so kind to her, and she was so fond of us and we of her. Besides, her visit was not half over, and her father would not be pleased if she were to return home so soon and so unexpectedly." Of course Hafrydda knew the cause, but she maintained a discreet silence. "Return home!" echoed the king in contempt, "how can a little delicate thing like her return home through miles and miles of forest swarming with wild beasts and not a few wilder men? Impossible! My hunters must go out again, every day, till she is found. I will lead them myself since they seem to have lost the power of their craft." "Is this `little delicate thing' as beautiful as my sister describes her to be?" asked Bladud, somewhat amused by his father's tone and manner. "Ay, that she is," answered the king. "Beautiful enough to set not a few of my young men by the ears. Did you not see her on the platform at the games--or were you too much taken up with the scowling looks of Gunrig?" "I saw the figure of a young woman," answered the prince, "but she kept a shawl so close round her head that I failed to see her face. As to Gunrig, I did not think it worth my while to mind him at all, so I saw not whether his looks were scowling or pleased." "Ha! boy--he gave you some trouble, notwithstanding." "He has gone away in anger at present, however, so we will let him be till he returns for another fight." Gunrig, meanwhile, having reached his town or village, went straight to the hut in which his mother dwelt and laid his troubles before her. She was a calm, thoughtful woman, very unlike her passionate son. "It is a bad business," she remarked, after the chief had described the situation to her, and was striding up and down the little room with his hands behind his back, "and will require much care in management, for King Hudibras, as you know, is very fierce when roused, and although he is somewhat afraid of you, he is like to be roused to anger when he comes to understand that you have jilted his daughter." "But I have not jilted her," said Gunrig, stopping abruptly in his walk, and looking down upon his parent. "That ass Bladud won her, and although he does turn out to be her brother, that does not interfere with his right to break off the engagement if so disposed. Besides, I do not want to wed the princess now. I have quite changed my mind." "Why have you changed your mind, my son?" "Because I never cared for her much; and since I went to visit her father I have seen another girl who is far more beautiful; far more clever; more winning, in every way." The woman looked sharply at the flushed countenance of her son. "You love her?" she asked. "Ay, that do I, as I never loved woman before, and, truly, as I think I never shall love again." "Then you must get her to wife, my son, for there is no cure for love." "Oh, yes, there is, mother," was the light reply of the chief, as he recommenced to pace the floor. "Death is a pretty sure and sharp cure for love." "Surely you would not kill yourself because of a girl?" Gunrig burst into a loud laugh, and said, "Nay, truly, but death may take the girl, or death may take me--for, as you know, there is plenty of fighting among the tribes, and my day will surely come, sooner or later. In either case love will be cured." "Can you guess why this girl has fled?" asked the woman. Gunrig's brows contracted, and a grim smile played on his lips as he replied, after a brief pause-- "Well, I am not quite sure, mother. It may be that she is not too fond of me--which only shows her want of taste. But that can be cured when she finds out what a fine man I am! Anyhow, I will have her, if I should have to hunt the forest for a hundred moons, and fight all the tribes put together." "And how do you propose to go about it, my son?" "That is the very thing I want you to tell me. If it were fighting that had to be done I would not trouble you--but this is a matter that goes beyond the wisdom of a plain warrior." "Then, if you would gain your end, my son, I should advise you to send a message to King Hudibras by one of your most trusty men; and let the message be that you are deeply grieved at the loss of his daughter's hand; that--" "But I'm nothing of the kind, mother, so that would not be true." "What does it matter whether true or not, if the king only believes it to be true?" "I don't quite agree, mother, with your notions about truth. To my mind a warrior should always be straightforward and say what he means." "Then go, my son, and tell the king what you have just told me, and he will cut your head off," replied the dame in a tone of sarcasm. "If I act on that advice, I will take my warriors with me and carry my sword in my hand, so that his head would stand as good a chance of falling as mine," returned Gunrig with a laugh. "But go on with your advice, mother." "Well, say that you feel in honour bound to give up all claim to his daughter's hand, but that, as you want a wife very much to keep your house as your mother is getting too old, you will be content to take his visitor, Branwen, and will be glad to help in the search for her. Will you send that message?" "It may be that I will. In any case I'll send something like it." So saying the chief turned abruptly on his heel and left the room. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A TERRIBLE CALAMITY. It may be imagined that the return home of Prince Bladud was the cause of much rejoicing in the whole district as well as in his father's house. At _first_ the king, being, as we have said, a very stern man, felt disposed to stand upon his dignity, and severely rebuke the son who had run away from home and remained away so long. But an undercurrent of tenderness, and pride in the youth's grand appearance, and great prowess, induced him to give in with a good grace and extend to him unreserved forgiveness. As for the queen, she made no attempt to conceal her joy and pride, and the same may be said of the princess. There was instituted a series of fetes and games in honour of the return of the prodigal, at which he was made--not unwillingly--to show the skill which he had acquired from practising with the competitors at the Olympic games, about which the islanders had heard from Phoenician traders from time to time, and great was the interest thus created, especially when he showed them, among other arts, how to use their fists in boxing, and their swords in guarding so as to enable them to dispense with a shield. But these festivities did not prevent him from taking an interest in the search that his father and the hunters were still making for Branwen. When many days had passed, however, and no word of her whereabouts was forthcoming, it was at last arranged that a message regarding her disappearance should be sent to her father's tribe by a party of warriors who were to be led by the prince himself. "I will go gladly," he said to his sister, a day or two before the party was to set out. "For your sake, Hafrydda, I will do my best to clear up the mystery; and I think it highly probable that I shall find the runaway safely lodged in her father's house." "I fear not," returned Hafrydda, with a sad look. "It seems impossible that she could have made her way so far alone through the wild forests." "But she may not have been alone. Friends may have helped her." "She had no friends in the town, having been here but a short time," objected the princess. "But do your best to find her, Bladud, for I feel quite sure that you will fall in love with her when you see her." The youth laughed. "No fear of that," he said, "many a pretty girl have I seen in the East; nevertheless I have, as you see, left them all without a thought of ever returning again." "But I did not say you would fall in love with Branwen because she is pretty. I feel sure that you will, because she is sweet, and merry, and good--yet thoughtful--wonderfully thoughtful!" "Ay, and you may add," said the queen, who came into the room just then, "that she is sometimes thoughtless and wonderfully full of mischief." "Nay, mother, you are not just," returned the princess. "Her mischief is only on the surface, her thoughtfulness lies deep down." "Well, well, whatever may be the truth regarding her, I shall not trouble my head about her; for I have never yet felt what men call love, and I feel sure I never shall." "I like to hear you say that, brother," rejoined Hafrydda; "for I have noticed, young though I am, that when men say they will never fall in love or marry, they are always pretty near the point of doing one or both." But poor Bladud was destined to do neither at that time, for an event was hanging over him, though he knew it not, which was to affect very seriously the whole of his after life. For several days previous to the above conversation, he had felt a sensation that was almost new to him--namely, that of being slightly ill. Whether it was the unwonted exertions consequent on his efforts at the games, or the excitement of the return home, we cannot say, but headache, accompanied by a slight degree of fever, had troubled him. Like most strong men in the circumstances, he adopted the Samsonian and useless method of "shaking it off"! He went down into the arena and performed feats of strength and agility that surprised even himself; but the fever which enabled him to do so, asserted itself at last, and finally compelled him to do what he should have done at first--pocket his pride and give in. Of course we do not suggest that giving in to little sensations of ailment is either wise or manly. There are duties which call on men to fight even in sickness--ay, in spite of sickness--but "showing off" in the arena was not one of these. Be this as it may, Bladud came at last to the condition of feeling weak--an incomprehensible state of feeling to him. He thereupon went straight home, and, flinging himself half petulantly on a couch, exclaimed--"Mother, I am ill!" "My son, I have seen that for many days past, and have waited with some anxiety till you should come to the point of admitting it." "And now that I have admitted it," returned the youth with a languid smile, "what is to be done?" The answer to that question was not the simple one of modern days, "Send for the doctor," because no doctors worthy of the name existed. There was, indeed, a solemn-visaged, long-headed, elderly man among King Hudibras' followers who was known as the medicine-man to the royal household, but his services were not often in request, because people were seldom ill, save when they were going to die, and when that time came it was generally thought best to let them die in peace. This medicine-man, though a quack in regard to physic, was, however, a true man, as far as his knowledge went in surgery--that is to say, he was expert at the setting of broken bones, when the fractures were not too compound; he could bandage ordinary wounds; he had even ventured into the realm of experimental surgery so far as to knock out a decayed back tooth with a bronze chisel and a big stone. But his knowledge of drugs was naturally slight, and his power of diagnosis feeble. Still, unworthy though he may be of the title, we will for convenience style him the doctor. "My poor boy," said the queen, in answer to his question, and laying her hand on his hot brow, "I am so sorry that we cannot have the services of our doctor, for he is away hunting just now--you know he is very fond of the bow and line. Perhaps he may--" "Oh, never mind the doctor, mother," said Bladud impatiently, with that slighting reference to the faculty which is but too characteristic of youth; "what do _you_ think ought to be done? You were always doctor enough for me when I was little; you'll do equally well now that I am big." "Be not hasty, my son. You were always hot-headed and--" "I'm hot-headed _now_, at all events, and argument won't tend to cool it. Do what you will with it, for I can stand this no longer. Cut it off if you like, mother, only use a sharp knife and be quick about it." In those days, far more than in this our homeopathic era, it was the habit of the mothers of families to keep in store certain herbs and roots, etcetera, which, doubtless, contained the essences now held in modern globules. With these they contrived decoctions that were unquestionably more or less beneficial to patients when wisely applied. To the compounding of something of this sort the queen now addressed herself. After swallowing it, the prince fell asleep. This was so far well; but in the morning he was still so far from well, that the visit to Branwen's father had to be postponed. Several days elapsed before the doctor returned from his hunting expedition. By that time the fever had left the prince. He began to get somewhat better, and to go about, but still felt very unlike his old self. During this what we may style semi-convalescent period, Captain Arkal and little Maikar proved of great use and comfort to him, for they not only brought him information about the games--which were still kept up--but cheered him with gossipy news of the town in general, and with interesting reminiscences of their late voyage and the Eastern lands they had so recently left. One day these faithful friends, as well as the queen and princess, were sitting by Bladud's couch--to which unaccountable fits of laziness confined him a good deal--when the medicine-man was announced. He proceeded at once to examine the patient, while the others stood aside and looked on with that profound respect which ignorance sometimes, though not always, assumes in the presence of knowledge. The doctor laid his hand on Bladud's brow, and looked earnestly into his eyes. Then he tapped his back and chest, as if to induce some one in his interior to open a door and let him in--very much as doctors do now-a-days. Then he made him remove his upper garments, and examined his broad and brawny shoulders. A mark, or spot, of a whitish appearance between the left shoulder and the elbow, at once riveted his attention, and caused an almost startled expression on his grave countenance. But the expression was momentary. It passed away and left the visage grave and thoughtful--if possible, more thoughtful than before. "That will do," he said, turning to the queen. "Your treatment was the best that could have been applied. I must now see his father, the king." "Alone?" asked the queen. "Alone," replied the doctor. "Well, what think ye of Bladud?" asked the king, when his physician entered his chamber, and carefully shut the door. "He is smitten with a fatal disease," said the doctor in a low, earnest voice. "Not absolutely fatal?" cried the king, with sudden anxiety. "As far as I know it is so. There is no cure that I ever heard of. Bladud is smitten with leprosy. It may be years before it kills him, but it will surely do so at last." "Impossible--impossible!" cried the king, becoming fierce and unbelieving in his horror. "You are too confident, my medicine-man. You may, you must, be mistaken. There is a cure for everything!" "Not for leprosy," returned the doctor, with sad but firm emphasis. "At least I never heard of a cure being effected, except by some of the Eastern wise men." "Then, by all the gods that protect our race and family, my son shall return to the East and one of these wise men shall cure him--else-- else--Have ye told the queen?" "Not yet." "That is well. I will myself tell her. Go!" This summary dismissal was nothing new to the doctor, who understood the king well, and sympathised with his obvious distress. Pausing at the door, however, he said-- "I have often talked with Phoenician captains about this disease, and they tell me that it is terribly infectious, insomuch that those who are smitten with it are compelled to live apart and keep away from men. If Bladud remains here the disease will surely spread through the house, and thence through the town." Poor Hudibras fell into a chair, and covered his face with both hands, while the doctor quietly retired. It is impossible to describe the consternation that ensued when the terrible fact was made known. Of course the news spread into the town, and the alarm became general, for at various times the Phoenician mariners had entertained the islanders with graphic descriptions of the horrors connected with this loathsome disease, and it soon became evident, that even if the king and his family were willing to run the risk of infection by keeping Bladud near them, his people and warriors would insist on the banishment of the smitten man. To Bladud himself the blow was almost overwhelming--almost, but not quite, for the youth was possessed of that unselfish, self-sacrificing spirit which, in all ages of the world's history, has bid defiance to misfortune, by bowing the head in humble submission to the will of God. He knew well the nature of the dread disease by which he had been attacked, and he shuddered at the thought that, however long he might be spared to live, it would sap his strength, disfigure his person, and ultimately render his face hideous to look upon, while a life of absolute solitude must from that day forward be his portion. No wonder that in the first rush of his dismay, he entertained a wild thought of putting an end to his own existence. There was only one gleam of comfort to him, and that was, the recollection that he had caught the disease in a good cause--in the rescue of a poor old woman from destruction. The comfort of the thought was not indeed great, still it was something in the awful desolation that overwhelmed him at the time. While travelling in the East, a short time previous to setting sail for home, he had come across an old woman who was being chased by a wild bull. Her flight would have been short-lived in any case, for there chanced to be a steep precipice not far from her, towards which she ran in her terror and scrambled hastily down until she reached a spot where she could go no further without losing her foothold. To the rock she clung and screamed in her despair. It was her screams that first attracted Bladud's attention. Rushing forward, he was just in time to see the bull--which could not check its mad career--plunge over the cliff, at the bottom of which it was killed by the fall. Bladud at once began to descend to the help of the poor woman. As he did so, the words "unclean! unclean!" met his ear. The woman was a leper, and, even in her dire extremity, the force of habit caused her to give the usual warning which the Eastern law requires. A shudder passed through the prince's frame, for he knew well the meaning of the cry--but as he looked down and saw the disfigured face and the appealing eyes turned towards him, a gush of intense pity, and of that disregard of self which is more or less characteristic of all noble natures, induced him to continue his descent until he reached the poor creature. Grasping her tightly round the waist, he assisted her up the perilous ascent, and finally placed her in safety at the top of the cliff. For a time Bladud felt some anxiety as to the result of the risk he had run, but did not mention his adventure to any one. Gradually the fear wore off, and at length that feeling of invulnerability which is so strong in youth, induced him to dismiss the subject from his thoughts altogether. He had quite forgotten it until the doctor's statement fell upon him with the stunning violence of a thunder-clap. It is usually when deep sorrows and great difficulties are sent to them, that men and women find out the quality of their natures. Despair, followed by listless apathy, might well have seized on one who, a few days before, possessed all the advantages of great physical strength and manly beauty, with what appeared to be sound health and a bright life before him. But, instead of giving way, he silently braced himself for a lifelong conflict. He did not turn, in his extremity, to the gods of his fathers--whatever these might be--for he did not believe in them, but he did believe in one good supreme Being. To Him he raised his heart, offered an unspoken prayer, and felt comforted as well as strengthened in the act. Then, being a man of prompt action, he thoughtfully but quickly formed his plans, having previously made fast his door--for well he knew that although his strong-minded father might keep him at arm's-length, his loving mother and sister would not only come to talk with him, but would, despite all risks, insist on embracing him. That he was not far wrong was proved the same evening, for when the king revealed the terrible news to his wife and daughter, they went straight to Bladud's door and knocked for admission. "Who goes there?" demanded the prince. "Your mother. Let me in, Bladud." "I may not do so just now, dear mother. Tomorrow you shall know all. Rest content. I feel better." In the dead of night Bladud went out softly and sought the hut where Captain Arkal and Maikar slept. He found them conversing in great sorrow about the terrible calamity that had overtaken their friend when he entered. They started up in surprise to receive him. "Keep off," he said, shrinking back. "Touch me not! I know not whether the disease may not be catching even at its present stage. Sit down. I will stand here and tell you what I want you to tell my mother in the morning." The two men silently obeyed, and the prince continued. "I am on the point of leaving home--it may be for ever. The Disposer of all things knows that. The disease, as you know, is thought to be incurable. If so, I shall die where no one shall find me. If health returns I shall come back. It will be of no use to search for me; but I think that will not be attempted. Indeed, I know that my father would be compelled to banish me if I wished to remain at home. It is partly to spare him the pain of doing so that I banish myself of my own accord; and partly to avoid leaving infection behind me that I go without farewell. Let my dear mother and sister understand this clearly--and-- comfort them if you can." "But where will you go to and what will you do?" asked the captain anxiously. "That I do not yet know. The forests are wide. There is plenty of room for man and beast. This only will I reveal to you. To-night I shall call at the hut of Beniah the Hebrew. He is a wise man and will advise me. If I send news of myself it shall be through him. But tell not this to any one. It would only bring trouble on the old man. Farewell, my comrades. I will remember you as brothers--always. May the All-powerful One watch over us." Unable to restrain himself, little Maikar sprang up with the obvious intention of rushing at his friend and seizing his hand, but the prince stepped back, shut the door against him, and, in another moment, was gone. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. AN EAVESDROPPER IN THE CAVE. An hour later Beniah the Hebrew, who had been obliged to postpone for a time his journey to the North, was startled by hearing footsteps approaching his hut in the dell. It was so unusual an event at that hour of the night, that he arose quickly and grasped the six-foot staff which was his only weapon. At a much earlier hour Branwen had retired to rest in the inner cave, and was buried in that profound sleep which proverbially accompanies innocence and youth. The noise in the outer cave partially aroused her, but, turning on her other side with a profound sigh, she prepared for a little more of the perquisites of innocence and youth. Presently she was startled into a condition of absolute wide-awakeness by the sound of a well-known voice, but it suddenly changed into that of the Hebrew. "I've dreamt it, I suppose," she muttered, in a tone of regret; nevertheless, she listened. "Come in," said Beniah, evidently to some one outside of his door. "I may not enter--I am a leper," answered the first voice; and Branwen sat up, with her great beautiful eyes opened to the utmost, and listening intently, though she could not make out clearly what was said. "It matters not; I have no fear. Come in. What! Prince Bladud!" exclaimed Beniah in astonishment as our hero entered. "Even so. But how is it that you know me?" "I saw you once, and, once seen, you are not easily forgotten. But what mean ye about being a leper?" "Keep at a safe distance, and I will tell you." Hereupon the prince began to give the old man an account of his illness; the opinion expressed by the doctor as to its nature; and the determination he had formed of forsaking home, and retiring to the solitude of some unfrequented part of the forest for the remainder of his life. It would have been a sight worth looking at--had there been light to see it--the vision of Branwen, as she stood in the passage in partial _deshabille_, with her eyes wide, her lips parted, her heart beating, and a wealth of auburn hair curling down her back, listening, as it were, with every power of her soul and body. But she could not hear distinctly. Only a disconnected word reached her now and then. In a state of desperate curiosity she returned to her cave. A few minutes later a noise was heard by the two men in the outer cave; and a little old woman in a grey shawl was seen to thrust a plank over the chasm and totter across towards them. Poor Beniah was horrified. He did not know what to do or say. Happily he was one of those men whose feelings are never betrayed by their faces. The old woman hobbled forward and sat down on a stool close to them. Looking up in their faces, she smiled and nodded. In doing so she revealed the fact that, besides having contorted her face into an unrecognisable shape, she had soiled it in several places with streaks of charcoal and earth. "Who is this?" asked Bladud in surprise. Before the old man could reply, the old woman put her hand to her ear, and, looking up in the prince's face, shouted, in tones that were so unlike to her own natural voice that Beniah could scarce believe his ears-- "What say you, young man? Speak out; I'm very deaf." With a benignant smile Bladud said that he had merely asked who she was. "Haven't you got eyes, young man? Don't you see that I'm a little old woman?" "I see that," returned the prince, with a good-humoured laugh; "and I fear you're a deaf old woman, too." "Eh?" she said, advancing her head, with her hand up at the ear. "You seem indeed to be extremely deaf," shouted the prince. "What does he say?" demanded the old woman, turning to the Hebrew. By this time Beniah had recovered his self-possession. Perceiving that the maiden was bent on carrying out her _role_, and that he might as well help her, he put his mouth close to her ear, and shouted in a voice that bid fair to render her absolutely deaf-- "He says he thinks you are extremely deaf; so I think you had better hold your tongue and let us go on with our conversation." "Deaf, indeed!" returned the woman in a querulous tone; "so I am, though I hear you well enough when you shout like that. Perhaps he'll be as deaf as I am when he's as old. There's nothing like youth for pride and impudence. But go on, never mind me." "She's a poor creature who has sought refuge with me from her persecutors," said Beniah, turning to the prince, while the old woman fell to crooning a wild song in a low voice, accompanying the music--if such it may be called--by a swaying motion of her body to and fro. Seeing that she meant to sit there, and that she apparently heard nothing, Bladud resumed the conversation where it had been interrupted. "Now, as I was saying, you know the country in all directions, and can tell me of the most likely part where I can find what I want--a solitude where I shall be able to escape from the face of man, and build a hut to live in till I die. It may be long, it may be short, before death relieves me. Meanwhile, I can hunt and provide myself with food till the time comes." The crooning of the old woman stopped at this point, and she sank her face on her hands as if she had fallen asleep. "I know of a man--a hunter," said Beniah, "a wild sort of being, who lives a long way from here, in a beautiful part of the land, where there is a wonderful swamp with a hot spring in the midst of it. Besides hunting, the man who lives there cultivates the ground a little, and keeps a few cattle and pigs. It may be that he can put you in the way of finding what you want; and you need not tell him about your disease, for you are not yet sure about it. Thus you will have an opportunity of keeping out of the way of men until you find out whether the doctor is right about it. He may be wrong, you know. Diseases sometimes resemble each other without being the same." Bladud shook his head. "There can be no doubt that I am doomed," he said. "I know the disease too well." The Hebrew also believed that, if the doctor was right in his opinion, there was no hope for the youth. Being unwilling, however, to dwell upon this point, he asked-- "How did you come by it?" "Very simply," answered the prince, who thereupon entered into a graphic account of the incident which we have already recorded. Having done so, he made up his mind, after some further talk, to pay a visit to the hunter who dwelt in the region of the Hot Swamp. "But you will not surely go without arms?" said Beniah. "Why not? If I am doomed to die at any rate, why should I take the life of any man to save my own?" "Let me at least give you a bow and a sheaf of arrows. You cannot procure food without these." "Well, you are right. I will accept your kind offer. To say truth, my heart was so crushed at first by this blow, that such matters did not occur to me when I left; for it is terrible to think of having to die of a slow disease without father, mother, or sister to comfort one!" "It is indeed, my son," returned Beniah with much feeling. "If you will accept it, I can give you a word of comfort." "Give it me," said Bladud; "for I need it much,--if it be but true." "It is true," returned the Hebrew earnestly; "for in one of the books of our holy men who spoke for the All-Father, it is written, `When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.'" "It is a good word," returned the prince; "and I can well believe it comes from the All-Father, for is He not also All-Good? Yet I can scarcely claim it as mine, for my father and mother have not forsaken me, but I them." A few minutes more, and Bladud rose to depart. He took the bow and arrows in his left hand, and, totally forgetting for the moment the duty of keeping himself aloof from his fellow-men, he shook hands warmly with Beniah, patted the old woman kindly on the shoulder, and went out into the dark night. The moment he was gone Branwen started up with flashing eyes that were still bedewed with tears, and seized the old man's hand. "Child," he said, "thou hast been weeping." "Who could listen to his telling of that old woman's escape from the bull and the precipice without tears?" she replied. "But tell me, what is this terrible disease that has smitten the prince?" "It is one well known and much dreaded in the East--called leprosy." Here the Hebrew went into a painfully graphic account of the disease; the frightful disfigurement it caused, and its almost, if not quite, certain termination in death. "And have the queen and Hudibras actually let him go away to die alone?" she exclaimed. "Not so, my child. Before you interrupted us he told me that he had left home by stealth on purpose. But, Branwen," continued the old man with some severity, "how could you run such a risk of being discovered?" "I ran no risk," she replied, with a laugh. "Besides, it was not fair to pretend to be deaf and thus obtain all his secrets." "I don't care whether it was fair or not," replied the girl with a wilful shake of her head. "And was it fair of you to back me up as you did?" "Your rebuke is just, yet it savours of ingratitude. I should not have done so, but I was completely taken aback. Do you know that your face is dirty?" "I know it. I made it so on purpose. Now tell me--when are you going away to tell my father and brothers about me?" "I shall probably start to-morrow. But many days must pass before I can bring them here, for, as you know, their town is a long way off. But, child, you do not seem to reflect that you have betrayed me." "How?" asked Branwen, wonderingly. "Did you not thrust out the plank and cross over before the very eyes of Bladud?" Branwen pursed her lips into the form of an O and opened her eyes wide. "I never thought of that!" she said. "But after all it does not matter, for the prince took no notice of the plank, and _he_ is not the man to go and betray secrets!" The Hebrew laughed, patted the girl on the head and sent her off to rest. Then he busied himself in making preparation for his too long-delayed journey. Next morning, before daybreak, he set off, leaving Branwen in charge of the hut, with strict orders to keep well out of sight. If any one should come to it she was to retreat to the inner cavern and withdraw the bridge. "They may do as seemeth to them good in the outer hut. There is nothing there worth stealing, and they are welcome to make themselves at home." The Hebrew went on his mission; arrived in due time at his journey's end; reported Branwen's dilemma; guided a party of stout warriors under her father Gadarn, and led them to his hut in the dell in the dead of a dark night, for it was no part of the programme to abduct the girl by main force, unless peaceful or stealthy measures should prove unsuccessful. When, however, he reached the dell and entered his dwelling, he found that the bird had flown! Every nook and cranny of the place was carefully searched; but, to the consternation of the Hebrew, and the wrath of Gadarn and his men, not a vestige of Branwen was to be found. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. ADVENTURES IN THE FORESTS. Poor Branwen! it was an unfortunate day for her when, in her youthful ignorance and recklessness, she took to the wild woods, resolved to follow Bladud to his destination and secretly wait there and watch over him like a guardian angel, as it were, until the terrible disease should lay him on his deathbed, when she would reveal herself and nurse him to the end! Let not the reader suppose there was any lack of maiden modesty in this resolve. It must be borne in mind that Branwen was little more than a child in experience; that she was of an age at which the world, with all its affairs, is enveloped in a halo of romance; that her soul had been deeply stirred by the story of the rescue of the leprous old woman, and her pity powerfully aroused by the calm, though hopeless, tones of the doomed man when he spoke of his blighted prospects. Rather than leave him to die in absolute solitude she would sacrifice everything, and, in spite of infection and disfigurement, and the horrible nature of a disease which eats away the features before it kills, she would soothe his dying hours. Besides this, it must be remembered that our ancestors' notions of propriety were somewhat different from ours, and-- well, it was about eight hundred years BúC! Whether love was a factor in her resolve we cannot say, but we are firmly convinced that, if it were, she was ignorant of the fact. It is, however, one thing to resolve--quite another thing to carry resolution into effect. Branwen had, in an incidental way, obtained from her protector, Beniah, information as to the direction in which the hunter of the Hot Swamp lived, and the distance to his dwelling; but when she actually found herself in the forest, with nothing to guide her save the position of the sun--and, on cloudy days not even that--she began to realise somewhat of the difficulties that attended her enterprise, and when, on the first night, she crouched among the forked branches of an old oak, and heard the cries of wolves and other wild creatures, and even saw them prowling about by the light of the moon as it flickered through the foliage, she began to appreciate the dangers. She had not, indeed, been so foolish as to set out on her expedition without a certain amount of forethought--what she deemed careful and wise consideration. She knew that by noting the position of the sun when at its highest point in the sky she could follow pretty closely the direction which Beniah had pointed out to her. She was quite aware that food was absolutely necessary to life, and had packed up a large bundle of dried meat, and also provided herself with one of her host's bows and a sheaf of arrows. Besides this, she knew, like every girl of the period, how to snare rabbits, and was even expert in throwing stones, so that, if it should come to the worst, she could manage to subsist on little birds. As to sleeping at night, she had been accustomed, as a little girl, to climb trees, which faculty had not yet departed from her, and she knew well that among the branches of many kinds of trees there were cosy resting-places where neither man nor beast would be likely to discover her. She had also some idea of what it is to follow a trail, for she had often heard the king's chief hunter refer to the process. As it was certain that Bladud, being an enormously big man, would leave a very obvious trail behind him, she would follow that--of course keeping well in the rear, so that he might never dream of her existence or intentions until the fatal time arrived when she should have to appear like a guardian angel and nurse him till he died. Poor Branwen felt dreadfully depressed when she thought of this termination, and was quite unlike her gay reckless self for a time; but a vague feeling of unbelief in such a catastrophe, and a determination to hope against hope kept her from giving way to absolute despair, and nerved her to vigorous exertion. It was in this state of mind that she had set the Hebrew's house in order; carried everything of value to the inner cave; removed the plank bridge; closed the outer door, and had taken her departure. As already said, she concealed herself among the branches of an old oak the first night, and, although somewhat alarmed by the cries of wild animals, as well as by the appalling solitude and darkness around, she managed to make a fair supper of the dried meat. Then,--she could not tell when,--she fell into a profound slumber, which was not broken until the sun had risen high, and the birds were whistling gaily among the branches--some of them gazing at her in mute surprise, as if they had discovered some new species of gigantic acorn. She arose with alacrity, her face flushed with abounding health, and her eyes dancing with a gush of youthful hope. But memory stepped in, and the thought of her sad mission caused a sudden collapse. The collapse, however, did not last long. Her eyes chanced to fall on the bundle of dried meat. Appetite immediately supervened. Falling-to, she made a hearty breakfast, and then, looking cautiously round to see that no danger was near, she slipped down from her perch, took up the bow and quiver and bundle of food, threw her blanket, or striped piece of Phoenician cloth, over her shoulder, and resumed her journey. It was soon after this that Branwen found out the misfortune of ignorance and want of experience. Ere long she began to feel the cravings of thirst, and discovered that she had forgotten to take with her a bottle, or any other sort of receptacle for water. About noon her thirst became so great that she half repented having undertaken the mission. Then it became so intolerable that she felt inclined to sit down and cry. But such an act was so foreign to her nature that she felt ashamed; pursed her lips; contracted her brows; grasped her bow and strode bravely on. She was rewarded. The tinkling of water broke upon her senses like celestial music. Running forward she came to a little spring, at which she fell on her knees, put her lips to the pool, and drank with thankfulness in her heart. Arising refreshed, she glanced upward, and observed a bird of the pheasant species gazing fixedly down. "How fortunate!" exclaimed the maiden, fitting an arrow to her bow. It was not fortunate for the pheasant, evidently, whatever Branwen may have meant, for next moment the bird fell dead--transfixed with an arrow. Being high noon by that time, the demands of nature made our huntress think of a mid-day meal. And now it was that she became aware of another omission--the result, partly, of inexperience. Having plucked and cleaned the bird, she prepared to roast it, when a sudden indescribable gaze overspread her pretty face. For a moment she stood as if petrified. Then she suddenly laughed, but the laugh was not gleeful, for it is trying to human nature to possess a good appetite and a good dinner without the means of cooking! She had forgotten to take with her materials for producing fire. She knew, indeed, that sticks and friction and fungus were the things required, but she knew not what sort of sticks, or where to find the right kind of fungus, or tinder. Moreover, she had never tried her hand at such work before, and knew not how to begin. Laying the bird on a bank, therefore, she dined off the dried meat--not, however, so heartily as before, owing to certain vague thoughts about supply and demand--the rudimentary ideas of what now forms part of the science of Political Economy. The first fittings of a careworn expression across her smooth brow, showed, at all events, that domestic economy had begun to trouble her spirit. "For," she thought to herself, "the dried meat won't last long, and I can't eat raw things--disgusting!--and I've a long, long way to go." Even at this early period of her mission, her character was beginning to develop a little and to strengthen. For several days she continued her journey through the great solitudes lying to the north-west of King Hudibras' town, keeping carefully out of the way of open places, lest wandering hunters should find her, and sleeping in the forked branches of trees at night. Of course the necessity of thus keeping to the dense woods, and making her way through thorny thickets, rendered her journey very fatiguing; but Branwen was unusually strong and healthy, though the grace of her slender frame gave her a rather fragile appearance, and she did not find herself exhausted even at the end of a long day's march; while her dressed-deerskin skirt and leggings bid defiance to thorns. So did the rude but serviceable shoes which her friend Beniah had constructed for her out of raw hide. One thing that troubled the poor girl much was the fact that she had not yet discovered the trail of Bladud. In reality, she had crossed it more than once, but, not being possessed of the keen eye of the hunter, she had not observed it, until she came to a muddy swamp, on the edge of which there was an unmistakable track--a trail which a semi-blind man could hardly have missed. Stopping for a few minutes to take particular note of it, she afterwards went on with renewed hope and energy. But this state of things did not last, for the trail became to her indistinguishable the moment the swamp was passed, and at last, during a very dark wet day, she lost herself as well as the trail. At evening of the same day she climbed into a tree. Opening out her bundle of dried meat, she began to eat and bemoan her fate. Tears were in her eyes, and there was a slight tendency to sob in her voice, as she muttered to herself-- "I--I wouldn't mind being lost so much, if I only knew what to do or where to go. And this meat won't hold out another week at the rate I've been eating. But I could hardly help it--I have been _so_ hungry. Indeed, I'm hungry _now_, but I must not eat so much. Let me see. I shall divide it into two parts. That will last me twelve days or so, by which time I should be there--if I'm still going in the right direction. And now, divide the half into six--there--each of these will do for-- Oh! but I forgot, that's only enough for breakfast. It will need two portions for each day, as it will be impossible to do without supper. I must just eat half of to-night's portion, and see how it feels." With this complicated end in view, she dried her eyes and began supper, and when she had finished it she seemed to "see" that it didn't "feel" enough, for, after much earnest consideration, she quietly began to eat the second portion, and consumed it. She was putting away the remnants, and feeling altogether in a more satisfactory state of mind, when her eyes fell upon an object which caused her heart to bound with alarm, and drove all the colour from her cheeks. At the foot of the tree, looking up at her in blank amazement--open-eyed and mouthed--stood a man; a big, rough-looking man, in hairy garments and with a hairy face, which was topped by a head of hair that rendered a cap needless. He stood with his feet apart and an arrow across his bow, like one who sees a lovely bird which he is about to bring down. "Oh! don't shoot!" she cried, becoming suddenly and alarmingly aware of the action--"don't shoot! It's me! I--I'm a girl--not a beast!" To make quite sure that the man understood her, Branwen jumped to the ground quickly and stood before him. Recovering himself, the man lowered his bow and said something in a dialect so uncouth, that the poor girl did not understand him. Indeed, she perceived, to her horror, that he was half-witted, and could articulate with difficulty. "I don't know what you say, good man, but I am lost in this forest, and belong to King Hudibras' town. I am on my way to visit the hunter of the Hot Swamp, and I would think it so very, _very_ kind if you would guide me to his hut." The idiot--for such he was--evidently understood the maiden, though she did not understand him, for he threw back his head, and gave vent to a prolonged gurgling laugh. Branwen felt that her only chance was to put a bold face on matters. She, therefore, by a violent effort, subdued her emotion and continued. "You know King Hudibras?" The man nodded and grinned. "Then I am quite sure that if you behave well, and show me the way to the Hot Swamp, he will reward you in a way that will make your heart dance with joy. Come, guide me. We have a good deal of the day still before us." Thus speaking, she put her hand quietly within that of the idiot, and in a voice of authority said--"lead on!" Regarding the girl with a look of mute surprise, the man obeyed, but, instead of leading her to the region named, he conducted her over a neighbouring ridge, into what appeared to her to be a robber's den. There was nothing for it now but to carry out the _role_ which she had laid down. The desperate nature of the case seemed to strengthen her to play her part, for, as she was led into the circle of light caused by a camp-fire, round which a band of wild-looking men were standing, a spirit of calm determination seemed to take possession of her soul. "What strange sort of animal is this you have caught, lad?" demanded one of the band. Before an answer could be given, a tall, fierce-looking woman came out of a booth, or temporary hut, close to the camp-fire, pushed her way through the crowd of men, who fell back respectfully, and, going up to Branwen, grasped her by the wrist. "Never ye mind what animal she is," cried the woman, shaking her fist at the man who had spoken, "she is my property." Then, turning to her captive as she led her into the hut, she said: "Don't be afraid, my dear. Black-hearted though some of them are, not one will dare to touch you as long as you are under my protection." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. BRANWEN IN IMMINENT DANGER. It is a wonderful, but at the same time, we think, a universal and important fact, that love permeates the universe. Even a female snail, if we could only put the question, would undoubtedly admit that it loves its little ones. At least we have the strongest presumption from analogy that the idea is correct, for do we not find lions and tigers, apes and gorillas, engaged in lovingly licking--we don't mean whipping--and otherwise fondling their offspring? Even in Hades we find the lost rich man praying for the deliverance of his brethren from torment, and that, surely, was love in the form of pity. At all events, whatever name we may give it, there can be no doubt it was unselfish. And even selfishness is love misapplied. Yes, let us be thankful that in one form or another love permeates the universe, and there is no place, however unfavourable, and no person, however unlikely, that can altogether escape from its benign influence. We have been led to these reflections by the contemplation of that rugged, hard-featured, square-shouldered, angry old woman who so opportunely took Branwen under her protection. Why she did so was a complete mystery to the poor girl, for the woman seemed to have no amiable traits of character about her, and she spoke so harshly to every one--even to her timid captive--that Branwen could not help suspecting she was actuated by some sinister motive in protecting her. And Branwen was right. She had indeed a sinister end in view--but love was at the bottom even of that. The woman, whose name was Ortrud, had a son who was to the full as ugly and unamiable as herself, and she loved that son, although he treated her shamefully, abused her, and sometimes even threatened to beat her. To do him justice, he never carried the threat into execution. And, strange to say, this unamiable blackguard also loved his mother--not very demonstratively, it is true, except in the abusive manner above mentioned. This rugged creature had a strong objection to the wild, lawless life her son was leading, for instead of sticking to the tribe to which he belonged, and pillaging, fighting with, and generally maltreating every other tribe that was not at peace with his, this mistaken young man had associated himself with a band of like-minded desperadoes--who made him their chief--and took to pillaging the members of every tribe that misfortune cast in his way. Now, it occurred to Ortrud that the best way to wean her son from his evil ways would be to get him married to some gentle, pretty, affectionate girl, whose influence would be exerted in favour of universal peace instead of war, and the moment she set eyes on Branwen, she became convinced that her ambition was on the point of attainment. Hence her unexpected and sudden display of interest in the fair captive, whom she meant to guard till the return of her son from a special marauding expedition, in which he was engaged at the time with a few picked men. Whatever opinion the reader may have by this time formed of Branwen, we wish it to be understood that she had "a way with her" of insinuating herself into the good graces of all sorts and conditions of men-- including women and children. She was particularly successful with people of disagreeable and hardened character. It is not possible to explain why, but, such being the case, it is not surprising that she soon wormed herself into the confidence of the old woman, to such an extent, that the latter was ere long tempted to make her more or less of a confidant. One day, about a week after the arrival of our heroine in the camp, old Ortrud asked her how she would like to live always in the green woods. The look of uncertainty with which she put the question convinced the captive that it was a leading one. "I should like it well," she replied, "if I had pleasant company to live with." "Of course, of course, my dear, you would need that--and what company could be more pleasant than that of a good stout man who could keep you in meat and skins and firewood?" Any one with a quarter of Branwen's intelligence would have guessed at once that the woman referred to her absent son, about whose good qualities she had been descanting at various times for several days past. The poor girl shuddered as the light broke in on her, and a feeling of dismay at her helpless condition, and being entirely in the power of these savages, almost overcame her, but her power of self-restraint did not fail her. She laughed, blushed in spite of herself, and said she was too young to look at the matter in _that_ light! "Not a bit; not a bit!" rejoined Ortrud. "I was younger than you when my husband ran away with me." "Ran away with you, Ortrud?" cried Branwen, laughing outright. "Ay; I was better-looking then than I am now, and not nigh so heavy. He wouldn't find it so easy," said the woman, with a sarcastic snort, "to run away with me now." "No, and he wouldn't be so much inclined to do so, I should think," thought Branwen, but she had the sense not to say so. "That's a very, very nice hunting shirt you are making," remarked Branwen, anxious to change the subject. The woman was pleased with the compliment. She was making a coat at the time, of a dressed deer-skin, using a fish-bone needle, with a sinew for a thread. "Yes, it is a pretty one," she replied. "I'm making it for my younger son, who is away with his brother, though he's only a boy yet." "Do you expect him back soon?" asked the captive, with a recurrence of the sinking heart. "In a few days, I hope. Yes, you are right, my dear; the coat is a pretty one, and he is a pretty lad that shall wear it--not very handsome in the face, to be sure; but what does that matter so long as he's stout and strong and kind? I am sure his elder brother, Addedomar, will be kind to you though he _is_ a bit rough to me sometimes." Poor Branwen felt inclined to die on the spot at this cool assumption that she was to become a bandit's wife; but she succeeded in repressing all appearance of feeling as she rose, and, stretching up her arms, gave vent to a careless yawn. "I must go and have a ramble now," she said. "I'm tired of sitting so long." "Don't be long, my dear," cried the old woman, as the captive left the hut, "for the ribs must be nigh roasted by this time." Branwen walked quickly till she gained the thick woods; then she ran, and, finally sitting down on a bank, burst into a passion of tears. But it was not her nature to remain in a state of inactive woe. Having partially relieved her feelings she dried her tears and began to think. Her thinking was seldom or never barren of results. To escape somehow, anyhow, everyhow, was so urgent that she felt it to be essential to the very existence of the universe--her universe at least--that she should lift herself out of the Impossible into the Stick-at-nothing. The thing _must_ be done--by miracle if not otherwise. And she succeeded--not by miracle but by natural means--as the reader shall find out all in good time. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE PRINCE UNDERTAKES STRANGE WORK. When Prince Bladud entered upon what he really believed would be his last journey, he naturally encountered very different experiences, being neither so ignorant, so helpless, nor so improvident as his helpless follower. After a good many days of unflagging perseverance, therefore, he reached the neighbourhood of the Hot Swamp, in good spirits and in much better health than when he set out. He was, indeed, almost restored to his usual vigour of body, for the fever by which he had been greatly weakened had passed away, and the constant walking and sleeping in fresh air had proved extremely beneficial. We know not for certain whether the leprosy by which he had been attacked was identical in all respects with the fatal disease known in the East, or whether it was something akin to it, or the same in a modified form. The only light which is thrown by our meagre records on this point is that it began with fever and then, after a period of what seemed convalescence, or inaction, it continued to progress slowly but surely. Of course the manner in which it had been caught was more than presumptive evidence that it was at least of the nature of the fatal plague of the East. Although his immunity from present suffering tended naturally to raise the spirits of the prince, it did not imbue him with much, if any, hope, for he knew well he might linger for months--even for years--before the disease should sap all his strength and finally dry up the springs of life. This assurance was so strong upon him that, as we have said, he once-- indeed more than once--thought of taking his own life. But the temptation passed quickly. He was too conscientious and too brave to do that; and had none of that moral cowardice which seeks escape from the inevitable in hoped-for oblivion. Whether his life was the gift of many gods or of one God, he held that it was a sacred trust which he was bound in honour to guard. Therefore he fought manfully against depression of spirits, as one of the destroyers of life, and even encouraged hope, frequently looking at the fatal white spot on his shoulder, and trying to persuade himself that it was not spreading. In this state of mind Bladud arrived one day at the abode of the hunter of the Hot Swamp. It was not, indeed, close to the springs which caused the swamp, but stood in a narrow sequestered gully quite five miles distant from it. The spot had been chosen as one which was not likely to be discovered by wanderers, and could be easily defended if it should be found. Moreover, its owner, as Bladud had been warned, was a fierce, morose man, who loved solitude and resented interference of any kind, and this was so well known in the thinly-peopled neighbourhood that every one kept carefully out of his way. Sometimes this eccentric hunter appeared at the nearest village--twenty miles distant from his home--with some pigs to barter for the few commodities which he wanted from time to time; but he and his horse, cow, and dogs ate up all the remaining produce of his small farm--if such it might be called. It was a beautiful evening when the prince walked up to the door of the little hut, in front of which its owner was standing, eyeing him with a forbidding scowl as he approached. He was in truth a strange and formidable man, such as one would rather not meet with in a lonely place. There appear to have been giants in those days; for this hunter of the Hot Swamp was nearly, if not quite, as tall as Bladud himself, and to all appearance fully as strong of limb. A mass of black hair covered his head and chin; a skin hunting-shirt his body, and a hairy boar-skin was thrown across his broad shoulders. Altogether, he seemed to his visitor the very personification of ferocity. A huge bow, ready strung, leaned against his hut. As Bladud advanced with his own bow unstrung, the man apparently scorned to take it up, but he grasped and leaned upon a staff proportioned to his size. Anxious to propitiate this mysterious being, the prince approached with steady, unaffected ease of manner, and a look of goodwill which might have conciliated almost any one; but it had no effect on the hunter. "What want ye here?" he demanded, when his visitor was near enough. "To enter your service." "_My_ service!" exclaimed the man with a look of surprise that for a moment banished the scowl. "I want no servant. I can serve myself well enough. And, truly, it seems to me that a man like you should be ashamed to talk of service. You are more fitted for a master than a servant. I trow you must have some bad motive for seeking service with a man like me. Have you murdered any one, that you flee from the face of your fellows and seek to hide you here?" "No, I am not a murderer." "What then? Are you desirous of becoming one, and making me your victim?" asked the hunter, with a look of contempt; "for you will find that no easy job, stout though you be. I have a good mind to crack your crown for coming here to disturb my solitude!" "Two can play at that game," replied Bladud, with a seraphic smile. "But I am truly a man of peace. I merely want to look after your cattle for occupation; I will gladly live in the woods, away from your dwelling, if you will let me serve you--my sole desire being, like your own, to live--and, if need be, to die--alone." For a few moments there was a softened expression on the hunter's face as he asked, in a tone that had something almost of sympathy in it-- "Is there a woman at the bottom of this?" "No. Woman has nothing to do with it--at least, not exactly--not directly," returned Bladud. "Hah!" exclaimed the man, paying no regard to the modification implied in the answer; and advancing a step, with eager look, "did she tempt you on and then deceive you; and scorn you, and forsake you for another man?" "You mistake me. The poor woman I was thinking of was an old one, labouring under a deadly disease." On hearing this the hunter's softened look vanished, and his former scowl returned. "Go!" he said, sternly; "I can take care of the cattle myself, without help. But stay, a man of your peaceful nature and humility may, perchance, not be too proud to take charge of pigs." Bladud flushed--not so much because of the proposal as the tone of contempt in which it was uttered; but, remembering his condition and his object, he mastered his feelings. "I am willing to take charge of your pigs," he said, in a quiet tone; "where do they feed?" "A goodish bit from here. Not far from the Hot Swamp, that lies on the other side of the hill." The man pointed to a high ridge, just visible beyond the gully in which his hut lay concealed, which was clothed from base to summit with dense forest. "There are plenty of pigs there," he continued in a milder tone. "How many I don't know, and don't care. I brought the old ones here, and they have multiplied. If you choose to keep them together, you are welcome. I want only a few of them now and then. When I do, I hunt them together and drive them with my dogs. You may kill and eat of them as you please; but don't come nigh my hut, mind you, else will I put an arrow in your heart." "Good, I will take care," returned the prince gravely. "And if you come nigh _my_ dwelling, is it understood that I am to put an arrow in _your_ heart? I could easily do it, for I am a fair marksman." Something approaching almost to a smile crossed the hunter's swart visage at this reply. It did not last, however. "Go!" he said. "Keep your jesting for the pigs, if they have a mind to listen." "I will try them. Mayhap they are more sociable than their owner. And now, master, might I ask for the loan of one of your dogs? It might be useful in herding." "None of them would follow you. Yet--yes, the pup might do so. It has not yet come to care for me much." So saying, the man went to the rear of his hut, and, from the kennel there, fetched a young but full-grown dog, somewhat resembling a retriever, which gambolled joyously at the prospect of being let out for a run. "There, take him. He comes of a good breed. Keep the leash on his neck till you have given him his first feed; he'll follow you after that." "What is his name?" asked the prince. "No name. Like his master in that!" Taking the leash in his hand, Bladud said farewell, and went away into the woods, while the hunter of the Swamp, turning round, stooped as he entered his hut, and shut the door behind him. It may seem strange that the prince should thus voluntarily seek for menial occupation, but, in truth, he shrank from the idea of living absolutely to himself alone, and felt a strong desire to have some sort of responsibility in connection with a human being, however short his life on earth might be, or however uncouth the individual with whom he might have to do--for man is intensely social, as only those who have dwelt in absolute solitude can thoroughly understand. CHAPTER NINETEEN. PRINCE BLADUD TAKES POSSESSION OF HIS ESTATE AND BEGINS BUSINESS. Pondering over the circumstances of the strange being from whom he had just parted, Bladud proceeded to the summit of the hill, or ridge of high land, on the other side of which lay the region in which he had made up his mind to end his days. It took him full two hours to make his way through the dense underwood to the top; but when this point was reached, the magnificent panorama of land and water which met his view was a feast to his eyes, which for a time caused him to forget his forlorn condition. In all directions, wherever he gazed, ridges and knolls, covered with dense woods and richest vegetation, were seen extending from his elevated outlook to the distant horizon. Cliffs, precipices, dells, and bright green open spaces varied the landscape; and in the bottom of the great valley which lay immediately beneath his feet there meandered a broad river, in whose waters were reflected here and there the overhanging trees, or green patches of its flower-bespangled banks, or the rich browns and yellows of spots where these banks had been broken away by floods; while, elsewhere, were seen glittering patches of the blue sky. Far away in the extreme distance a soft cloud of thin transparent vapour hung steadily over a partially open space, which he rightly conjectured to be the Hot Swamp, of which he had often heard wondrous stories in his boyhood, but which he had not been permitted to visit, owing to the tribes living near the springs having been at war with his father. During his absence in the East, King Hudibras had attacked and almost exterminated the tribes in question, so that the Hot Swamp region, just at the time when the prince arrived, was a land of desolation. Though desolate, however, it was, as we have tried to show, exceeding lovely, so that our wanderer was ravished with the prospect, and seated himself on a bank near the top of the ridge to contemplate its beauties in detail. His canine companion sat down beside him, and looked up inquiringly in his face. During the first part of the journey the pup had strained a good deal at the leash, and had displayed a strong desire to return to its former master, as well as a powerful objection to follow its new one. It had also, with that perversity of spirit not uncommon in youth, exhibited a proneness to advance on the other side of bushes and trees from its companion, thus necessitating frequent halts and numerous disentanglements. On all of these occasions Bladud had remonstrated in tones so soft, and had rectified the error so gently, that the pup was evidently impressed. Possibly it was an observant pup, and appreciated the advantages of human kindness. Perhaps it was a sagacious pup, and already recognised the difference between the old master and the new. Be this as it may, Bladud had not been long seated there in a state of dreamy abstraction, when he became conscious of the inquiring look. Returning it with interest, but without speaking, he gazed steadily into the soft brown eyes that were turned up to his. At last the prince opened his lips, and the dog, turning his head slightly to one side with a look of expectancy, cocked his ears. "Browneyes," he said, "you'll grow to be a fine dog if you live." There was the slightest possible tremor in the pup's tail. Of course there might have been more than a tremor if the caudal appendage had been at liberty instead of being sat upon. It was enough, however, to indicate a tendency to goodwill. "Come here, Browneyes," said Bladud, holding out his hand. But the pup was hardly prepared for such a complete and sudden concession as the invitation implied. He repeated the tremor, however, and turned his head to the other side, by way of a change, but sat still. A happy thought occurred to the prince--justifying the remark of Solomon that there is nothing new under the sun. He opened his wallet, took out a small piece of meat, and held it out. "Here, Brownie, have a bit." Another justification of Solomon, for the natural abbreviation of names is not new! The pup advanced with confidence, ate the morsel, and looked inquiringly for more, at the same time wagging its tail with unqualified satisfaction. "Yes, Brownie, you shall have more." The second morsel was bestowed; the tail wagged effusively; the name of Brownie became irrevocably associated with food, and a loving look and tone with favours to come. Thus a title and a friendship were established which endured through life and was terminated only by death. So trivial sometimes are the incidents on which the great events of life are hinged! We pause here to deprecate the idea that this fine animal's affection was gained through its stomach. Many a time had its old master thrown it savoury junks and bones of food; but a scowl and sometimes a growl, had often been thrown into the mess, thereby robbing the gift of all grace, and checking the outflow of affection. Bladud's character similarly, was as clearly perceived by the manner of his gifts. Indeed, it would have been a poor compliment to the intelligence of Brownie--or of any dog, young or old--to suppose it capable of misunderstanding the gentle tone, the kindly glance, and the patting hand of Bladud. At all events, the result was that Brownie, with an expressive wag and bark, vowed fidelity from that date to the prince, and, in the same act, renounced allegiance to the hunter of the Hot Swamp. From that date, too, the master and the dog entered upon, and kept up at frequent though brief intervals, a species of conversation or mental intercourse which, if not profound, was equal to much that passes for intercourse among men, and was, at all events, a source of eminent satisfaction to both. Removing the leash, Bladud descended the hill, with Brownie gambolling delightedly round him. That night they slept together under the spreading branches of a magnificent oak. There was no need to keep watch against wild beasts, for Brownie slept, as it were, with one eye open, and the slightest symptom of curiosity among the wild fraternity was met by a growl so significant that the would-be intruder sheered off. The sun was high when the prince awoke and arose from his bed of leaves. The pup, although awake long before, had dutifully lain still, abiding his master's time. It now arose and shook itself, yawned, and looked up with an expression of "what next?" Having lighted a fire, Bladud set up the carcase of a wild duck to roast. He had shot it the day before on his way to the valley of the Swamp. As this was a proceeding in which the pup had a prospective interest, he sat by attentively. "Ah! Brownie," said his master, sitting down to wait for the cooking of the bird, "you little know what a sad life awaits you. No companionship but that of a doomed man, and I fear you will be a poor nurse when the end comes, though assuredly you will not be an unsympathetic one. But it may be long before the end. That's the worst of it. Come, have a bit." He threw him a leg as he spoke, and the two breakfasted peacefully together on the banks of the shining river, slaking their thirst, after it was finished, at the same pure stream. While doing so the prince observed with satisfaction that large trout were rising freely, and that several flocks of wild ducks and other aquatic birds passed both up and down the river. "Now, Brownie," he said, when the meal was concluded, "you and I must search for a convenient spot on which to build our hut." Before starting off, however, he uncovered his shoulder and looked anxiously at the white spot. It was as obvious as ever, but did not seem to him increased since he left home. A very slight matter will sometimes give hope to a despairing man. Under the influence of this negative comfort, Bladud took up his weapons and sallied forth, closely followed by the pup. In the haste of departure and the depressed state of his mind he had, as has been said, forgotten his sword, or deliberately left it behind him. The only weapon he now possessed, besides the bow and arrows given to him by the Hebrew, was a small bronze hatchet, which was, however, of little use for anything except cutting down small trees and branches for firewood. He carried a little knife, also, in his girdle, but it was much too small to serve the purpose of an offensive weapon, though it was well suited to skin wild animals and cut up his food. As for his staff, or club--it might be of use in a contest with men, but would be of little service against bears or wolves. Casting it aside, therefore, he cut for himself a ponderous oaken staff about five feet long, at one end of which there was a heavy knotted mass that gave it great weight. The other end he sharpened to a fine point. This formidable weapon he purposed to wield with both hands when using it as a club, while, if need should arise, he might also use it as a spear. "I was foolish, Brownie," he remarked, while rounding off the head of this club, "to leave my good sword behind me, for though I have no desire to kill men, there may arise a need-be to kill bears. However, it cannot be helped, and, verily, this little thing will be a pretty fair substitute." He twirled the little thing round his head with one hand, in a way that would have rejoiced the heart of a modern Irishman, had he been there to see, and induced the pup to jump aside in surprise with his tail between his legs. A few minutes later, and he was striding over the beautiful land in all directions, examining and taking possession, as it were, of his fair domain. In passing over a knoll which was crowned by several magnificent oaks, they came suddenly on a family of black pigs, which were luxuriating on the acorns that covered the ground. "My future care!" muttered the prince, with a grim smile, for he hardly believed in the truth of all he was going through, and almost expected to awake and find it was a dream. The pigs, headed by a huge old boar, caught sight of the intruders at the same time, and stood for a moment or two grunting in stolid astonishment. With all the gaiety of inexperience, the pup went at them single-handed, causing the whole herd to turn and fly with ear-splitting screams--the old boar bringing up the rear, and looking round, out of the corner of his little eyes, with wicked intent. Bladud, knowing the danger, sprang after them, shouting to the pup to come back. But Brownie's war-spirit had been aroused, and his training in obedience had only just begun. In a moment he was alongside the boar, which turned its head and gave him a savage rip with a gleaming tusk. Fortunately it just barely reached the pup's flank, which it cut slightly, but quite enough to cause him to howl with anger and pain. Before the boar could repeat the operation, Bladud sent his club whizzing in advance of him. It was well aimed. The heavy head alighted just above the root of the boar's curly tail. Instantly, as if anticipating the inventions of the future, fifty steam whistles seemed to burst into full cry. The other pigs, in sympathetic alarm, joined in chorus, and thus, yelling inconceivably, they plunged into a thicket and disappeared. Bladud almost fell to the ground with laughing, while Brownie, in no laughing mood, came humbly forward to claim and receive consolation. But he received more than consolation, for, while the prince was engaged in binding up the wound, he poured upon him such a flood of solemn remonstrance, in a tone of such injured feeling, that the pup was evidently cut to the heart--his self-condemned, appealing looks proving beyond a doubt that the meaning of what was said was plain to him, though the language might be obscure. On continuing the march, Brownie limped behind his master--a sadder and a wiser dog. They had not gone far when they came on another family of pigs, which fled as before. A little further on, another herd was discovered, wallowing in a marshy spot. It seemed to Bladud that there was no good feeding in that place, and that the creatures were dirtying themselves with no obvious end in view, so, with the pup's rather unwilling assistance, he drove them to more favourable ground, where the acorns were abundant. At this point he reached a secluded part of the valley, or, rather, an off-shoot from it, where a low precipice rose on one side, and thick flowering shrubs protected the other. The spot was considerably elevated above the level of the low ground, and from an opening in the shrubbery at the further extremity could be seen the larger valley with all its wealth of forest and meadow, its knolls, and slopes, and wooded uplands, with the river winding like a silver thread throughout its whole extent. Here the prince resolved to fix his abode, and, not a little pleased with the successful way in which he had commenced his amateur pig-herding, he set vigorously and patiently to work with the little bronze hatchet, to fell such trees as would be required in the construction of his future home. CHAPTER TWENTY. A STRANGE ABODE AND A WILD VISITOR. Bladud's idea of a palace worthy of a prince was not extravagant. He erected it in three days without assistance or tools, except the bronze axe and knife--Brownie acting the part of superintendent of the works. Until it was finished, he slept with the forest trees for a shelter and the sky for a canopy. The edifice was nothing better than a small hut, or booth, constructed of long branches bent in the shape of semi-hoops, the ends of which were thrust into the ground. The whole was thatched with dried grass and bound down with ropes made of the same material. It was further secured against the possible influence of high winds, by heavy branches being laid across it and weighted with stones. Dried grass also formed the carpeting on the floor. Of course it was not so high that its architect could stand up in it, but he could sit in it erect, and could lie down at full length without showing his heels outside. There was no door, but one end was left unfinished as a substitute. Neither was there a fireplace, the space in front sufficing for a kitchen. While engaged in its erection, Bladud was too busy to indulge in gloomy thoughts, but as soon as it was finished and he had lain down to rest under its shade, the terrible, almost incredible, nature of his position rushed upon him in full force. The opening of the hut had been so arranged as to present a view of the wide-spreading valley, and he gazed upon scenes of surpassing loveliness, in which all the sights that met the eye breathed of beauty and repose, while the sounds that broke upon the ear were suggestive of bird and beast revelling in the enjoyment of the gifts and sunshine of a bountiful Creator. But such sights and sounds only enhanced the misery of the poor man, and he started up, after a few minutes' contemplation, and rushed outside in the vain hope of escaping from his misery by energetic action. "This will drive me mad," he thought, as he paused and stood for a few minutes irresolute. "Better far to return to the East where tyrants reign and people dare not call body and soul their own, and die fighting in the front rank for liberty--but--but--who would let me join them, knowing my disease? `Unclean!' I may not even come within touch of my kind--" His head sank on his breast and he tried to banish thought altogether. At the same moment his eyes met the meek, patient look of Brownie. "Ah, pup," he exclaimed, stooping to fondle the soft brown head as he muttered to himself, "you teach me a lesson and put me to shame, despite your want of speech. You are awaiting my commands, ready to give unquestioning obedience--whether to go to the right, or left, or to lie down. And here am I, not only a prince, but supposed to be a reasoning man, rebelling against the decree of my Maker--my Spirit-Father! Surely there must be One who called my spirit into being--else had I never been, for I could not create myself, and it must be His will that I am smitten--and for a _good_ end, else He were not good!" For a few minutes longer he continued to meditate in silence. Then he turned quickly and picked up the axe which lay at the entrance of the hut. "Come, pup," he cried, cheerfully, "you and I must build another house. You see, we shall have plenty of game and venison soon to guard from the wolves, and it would be disagreeable to keep it in the palace along with ourselves--wouldn't it? So, come along, Brownie." Thus appealed to, the pup gave its assent by some violent tail activities, and, in a few minutes, had resumed its former post as superintendent of the works, while its master toiled like a second Samson in the hope of driving mental distress away through the pores of his skin. He was not indeed altogether unsuccessful, for so intimate is the mysterious connection between spirit and matter that he felt comparative relief--even to the extent of cheerfulness--when the muscles were in violent action and the perspiration was streaming down his brow; but when the second hut, or larder, was completed his depression returned in greater power than before. Then he took to hunting with tremendous energy, a plan which was highly approved of by his canine companion. He also devoted himself to his specific duties as swine-herd; collected the animals from all quarters into several large herds, counted them as well as he could, and drove them to suitable feeding-grounds. On retiring each day from this work, into which he threw all his power, he felt so fatigued as to be quite ready for supper and bed. Gradually he became accustomed to the life, and at length, after a considerable time of it, a feeling of resignation to his fate began to tell upon him. The effect of prolonged solitude also began even to numb the powers of his mind. He was fully aware of this, and tried to shake it off, for he shuddered more at the thought of mental than of physical decay. Among other things, he took to talking more frequently to Brownie, but although the pup was, in many respects, a most valuable and sympathetic companion, he could not prevent the conversation from being rather one-sided. By degrees the summer merged into autumn; the foliage assumed the tints of green and gold. Then it became russet, and finally the cold bleak winds of a northern winter shrieked through the valley and swept the leaves away. During all this time no human being had gone near that region, or paid the forlorn prince a visit, except once when the hunter of the Hot Swamp made his appearance. The rebellious tribes retained too vivid a recollection of the slaughter that had taken place during and after the fight with King Hudibras, to risk a second encounter with that monarch, so that the place was at that time absolutely deserted by human beings--though it was sufficiently peopled by the lower animals. On the occasion when the hunter unexpectedly appeared, he demanded of Bladud an account of his stewardship. The report was so satisfactory that the hunter became, for him, quite amiable; commended his swine-herd and drove off a number of the pigs to market. On his return, laden with the few household goods for which he had bartered them, he paid the prince another visit, and even condescended to accept an invitation to enter his hut and partake of a roast of venison which was at the time being prepared for the mid-day meal. He was still, however, very brusque and taciturn. "No one has been near me during the whole summer or autumn but yourself," observed Bladud with an involuntary sigh. "You must be pleased at that," returned the hunter, sharply; "you said you came here for solitude." "Truly I did; but I had not thought it would be so hard to bear." "Why do you seek it, then, if you don't like it?" asked the hunter in the same brusque, impatient manner which characterised all his words and actions. "I am forced to seek it by a Power which may not be resisted with impunity." "There is no such power!" exclaimed the hunter with a wild, demoniac laugh. "I can resist any power--all powers. There is nothing that I cannot resist and overcome." The gigantic man, with his dishevelled locks and shaggy beard, looked so fierce and powerful, as he sat on the opposite side of the fire glaring at his host, that Bladud became impressed with a hope that the maniac-- for such he evidently was--would not attempt to prove his resistless power there and then. In order to avert such a catastrophe, he assumed an air of the most perfect ease and indifference to the boast, and asked him with a bland smile if he would have another slice of venison. The hunter seemed to be disconcerted by the question, but, being a hungry man and a ravenous eater, he accepted the offer and began to eat the slice in moody silence. "Your good pup has been a real blessing to me," resumed the prince a few minutes later, during which time he had devoted himself to his own portion of food, "not only in the way of helping me to hunt and drive the pigs, but as a companion who can do all but speak." "He could speak if you would let him," returned the hunter. "I speak to my dogs continually, and they always answer--not with their tongues, for that is not dog-language, but with their eyes--and I know every word they speak. You would wonder how clever they are, and what droll things they say sometimes." He burst into a wild hilarious laugh at this point, as if the thought of the canine pleasantries were too much for him; then suddenly became grave, and scowled furtively at his host, as if he felt that he had committed himself. "You are right," replied Bladud, affecting not to observe the scowl. "My pup often speaks to me with his eyes, but I am not so good at understanding the language as you appear to be. No doubt I shall acquire it in time." "Then you don't like being alone?" said the hunter, after a pause, during which Bladud saw that he was eyeing him keenly, though he pretended not to observe this. "No, I don't like it at all, but it can't be helped." "Well, it might have been helped, for I could have sent them to you." "Sent whom?" "A man and a boy. They were not together, but came to my hut at different times inquiring for you, but, knowing your desire for solitude, I turned them away on the wrong scent." "I'm glad you did," returned the prince, "for I want to be troubled by neither man nor boy. Yet I wonder who they could be. Did they say why they wanted to find me?" "No, they did not say, and I would not ask; what cared I about their reasons?" "Yet you care enough for me, it appears, to say you would have sent them to me if you knew I had been lonely. What was the appearance of the man?" "He was old, but very strong, though not so big as me--or you. His hair was long and white; so was his beard. He wore a long dark robe, and carried a very big staff." Bladud had no difficulty in recognising the description of his friend the Hebrew. "And the boy; what was he like?" "Like all boys, active and impudent." "I am afraid," returned the prince with a slight smile, "that your acquaintance with boys cannot have been extensive--they are not all active and impudent." "Most of those that have crossed my path are so. At all events, this one was, for when I pointed out the direction you had gone--which was just the opposite way from here--he said, `I don't believe you!' and when I leaped on him to give him his deserts, he dodged me, and fled into the woods like a squirrel. It was as well, for I should have killed him." "I am not sorry he escaped you, then," said Bladud, with a laugh, "though I scarcely think you would have killed the poor lad even if you had caught him." "Oh yes, I would. And I'll kill _you_ if you venture to doubt my word." As he said this the hunter sprang to his feet, and, drawing his knife, seemed about to leap upon his host, who, however, sat perfectly still. "I should be sorry that you should die," said Bladud in a calm voice, while he kept his eyes steadily fixed on those of the maniac. "_You_ have heard, have you not, of that terrible disease of the East, called leprosy?" "Yes--the ship-captains have often spoken of it," said the madman, whose mind, like that of a child, could be easily turned into new channels. "Look! I have got that disease. The Power which you profess to despise has sent it to me. If you so much as touch me, your doom is fixed." He uncovered his shoulder as he spoke and displayed the white spot. Bladud felt quite uncertain how this would be received by the madman, but he was scarcely prepared for what followed. No sooner did the hunter see the spot and realise what it meant, than without a word he turned, caught up his bundle, uttered a yell of terror, and fled from the spot, closely followed by his dogs, which howled as if in sympathy. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER AND A FRIEND IN NEED. About a week after the events narrated in the last chapter, an incident occurred which, trifling in itself, was nevertheless the cause of momentous issues in the life of our hero. He was returning one evening from a long ramble with his dog, when the screams of a pig in evident distress attracted his attention. Hastening to the place he found that a small member of his charge had fallen over a cliff into a crevice in the rock, where it stuck fast and was unable to extricate itself. The violent nature of the porcine family is well known. Although very little hurt, this little pig felt its position so unbearable that it immediately filled the woods with agonising shrieks until Bladud dragged it out of the cleft, and carried it in his arms to the foot of the precipice, where he set it free. Then the whirlwind of its outcry came to a sudden stop, thereby proving beyond a doubt that passion, not pain, was the cause of its demonstrations. From that date many of the pigs became affected by a cutaneous disease, which gradually spread among all the herds. It was some time before Bladud observed this; but when he did notice it, he jumped at once to the conclusion that he must have communicated leprosy to his unfortunate herds while rescuing the little pig. Whether or not he was right in this conjecture, we cannot say; but the probability of his mere touch being so contaminating was sufficient to increase greatly the depression of spirits which had been stealing over him--a condition which was not a little aggravated by the fact that the white spot on his arm was slowly but surely spreading. Still the disease had not, so far, affected his general health or strength in any serious degree. About that time there set in a long period of fine sunny weather, during which Bladud busied himself in hunting and drying meat, as well as fish, which he stored in his larder for future use. He also cut a large quantity of firewood, and built another booth in which to protect it from the weather, and otherwise made preparation for the winter when it should arrive. One day he had wandered a considerable way into the forest, and was about to turn to retrace his steps homeward, when he was surprised to hear some creature crashing through the woods towards him. It could not have been startled by himself, else it would have run away from him. Stepping behind a tree, he strung his bow, called Brownie close to his heel, and waited. A few seconds later a deer dashed close past him, but, as his belt was already hung round with game, and home was still far distant, he did not shoot. Besides, he was curious to know what had startled the deer. A few minutes revealed that, for suddenly the sound of footsteps was heard; then the bushes opposite were parted, and a boy, or youth just emerging from boyhood, ran past him at full speed, with an arrow sticking through his left sleeve. He was unarmed, and gasped like one who runs for his life. Catching sight of the prince as he passed the tree that had concealed him, the boy doubled like a hare, ran up to Bladud, and, grasping one of his hands, cried--"O! save me!--save me!-- from robbers!" in the most agonising tones. "That will I, poor lad, if I can." He had barely time to make this reply when a man burst from the shrubbery on the other side of the tree, and almost plunged into his arms. So close was he, and so unexpected the meeting, that the prince had not time or space to use his bow, but saluted the man's forehead with such an Olympic crack from his fist, that he fell prone upon the ground and remained there. Bladud had dropped his bow in the act, but his club leant handily against the tree. Catching it up, he wheeled round just in time to face three tall and strong men, with bows in their hands. Seeing their leader on the ground, they simultaneously discharged three arrows, which were well aimed, and struck the prince full on the chest; but they did not penetrate far, for, in anticipation of some such possible encounter with foes, he had covered his chest with a breastplate of thick double-ply hide, which effectually checked them. Before they could draw other arrows Bladud rushed at them with a terrific shout, hurling his mighty club in advance. The weapon caught the nearest robber full in the chest and laid him flat on the grass. The other two, dropping their bows, turned and fled. "Guard them, Brownie!" cried Bladud, as he followed. The dog obediently took up a position between the two fallen men, and eyed them in a way and with an ominous growl, that meant mischief if they dared to stir. Bladud easily overtook the other two, grasped them by their necks, and, using their heads as battering-rams, rapped them together. They sank half-stunned upon their knees, and begged for mercy. "You shall have it," said Bladud, "on the condition that you go and tell your comrades that if they ever come within twenty miles of the Swamp, they shall find a man in the woods who will turn them inside out, and roast them all alive! Away!" They went precipitately, as may be readily believed, and, as the prince had intended, spread a report that gave to him thenceforth the rank of a sorcerer, and secured him from future annoyance. Returning to the tree, Bladud found the fallen robbers beginning to recover consciousness--the one being held in submission by the fugitive youth, who stood, bow in hand, pointing an arrow at his throat; the other by Brownie, who merely curled his nose, displayed his magnificent teeth, and uttered a low growl of remonstrance. "Get up!" he said to the one he had knocked down with his fist. But as the order was not obeyed with sufficient promptitude, he lifted the man up by the collar, like a kitten, and sent him staggering against the tree with a violence that astounded him. Calling off the dog, he gave a similar order to the second robber, who displayed much greater agility in his movements. Repeating the little threat with which he had dismissed their comrades, Bladud ordered them to be off. The second robber thankfully turned and took to his heels; but the first stooped to pick up his bow, whereupon Bladud wrenched it from his grasp, broke it over his head, and belaboured him with the wreck for a couple of hundred yards through the woods, while the robber ran as if he thought the evil spirit was at his heels. Returning somewhat blown from this unusual exercise, he found the youth in a state of great amusement and satisfaction. "Hah! you may laugh, my lad; but I can assure you it would have been no laughing matter if these scoundrels had caught you." "You speak but the sober truth," returned the boy, still smiling; "for well assured am I that it would have cost me my life if they had caught me. But, believe me, I am not only pleased to see such villains get a little of what they deserve, but am exceedingly grateful to you for so kindly and effectually coming to my aid." "As to that, I would aid any one in distress--especially if pursued by robbers. But, come, sit down and tell me how you fell into their power. This bout has winded me a little. I will sit down on this bank; do you sit on the bank opposite to me." "The explanation is simple and short," replied the boy; "I wanted to have my own way, like most other boys, so I left home without leave, or saying farewell." "That was bad," said the prince, shaking his head. He was on the point of advancing some profitable reflections on this head, but the memory of his own boyhood checked him. "I know it was bad, and assuredly I have been well punished," returned the boy, "for these robbers caught me and have kept me with them for a long time, so long that I have quite lost count of the days now." "Does your father live far from here?" "Yes, very, very far, and I know not where to go or what to do," answered the boy, with a pitiful look. "Never mind, you are safe at present, and no doubt I shall find means of having you sent safe home--though I see not the way just yet." "Is that blood on your coat?" asked the lad anxiously, as he pointed to the prince's breast. "It is. The arrow-heads must have gone through the breastplate and scratched the skin. I will look to it." "Let me help you," said the boy, rising and approaching. "Back! you know not what you do," said the prince sternly. "You must not touch me. You have done so once to-day. It may cost you your life. Ask not why, but obey my orders." Not less surprised at the nature of these remarks than at the severe tone in which they were uttered, the boy re-seated himself in silence, while Bladud removed the breastplate and examined his wounds. They were deeper than he had imagined, the three arrow-heads being half imbedded in his flesh. "Nothing serious," he said, drawing out the heads and stanching the flow of blood with a little moss. "Come, now, I will show you my home, and give you something to eat before you tell me more of your history. You shall have a couch in one of my outhouses. Have a care as you walk with me that you do not come against me, or touch me even with a finger. My reasons you may not know, but--remember what I say." Bladud spoke the last words with the severity that he had assumed before; then, dismissing the subject, he commented on the beauty of the landscape, the wickedness of robbers, the liveliness of animated nature and things in general with the cheerful air that had been habitual to him before he was compelled to flee the face of man. The pleasure he had felt in his brief intercourse with the gruff hunter of the Swamp had remained a bright spot in his lonely life. He naturally enjoyed with much greater zest the company of the lively boy who had thus unexpectedly crossed his path, but when he retired for the night--having told the lad to make for himself a couch in the fire-wood hut--the utter desolation of his life became, if possible, more deeply impressed on him. During the night his wounds inflamed and became much more painful, and in the morning--whether from this cause or not, we cannot say--he found himself in a high fever. His new friend, like most healthy boys, was a profound sleeper, and when the time for breakfast arrived he found it necessary to get up and awake him. "Ho! lad, rise," he cried at the entrance to the firewood hut, "you slumber soundly. Come out and help me to get ready our morning meal." The lad obeyed at once. "What is your name?" he asked, as the lad appeared. "Cormac," he replied. "Well, Cormac, do you roast the meat this morning. Truly, it seems that you have come just in the nick of time, for I feel so ill that my head seems like a lump of stone, and my skin is burning. It is not often that I have had to ask the aid of man in such matters. Will you get me a draught of water from the spring hard by? I will lie down again for a little." Cormac willingly ran to a neighbouring spring and filled thereat a cup made of the bark of the birch tree, with which he returned to Bladud's hut. "Just put it inside the door where I can reach it," shouted the prince. "Do not enter on any account." Lifting a corner of the skin that covered the entrance, the lad placed the cup inside, and then, sitting down by the fire outside, proceeded to prepare breakfast. When it was ready he called to Bladud to say whether he would have some, at the same time thrusting a savoury rib underneath the curtain; but the prince declined it. "I cannot eat," he said; "let me lie and rest if possible. My poor boy, this is inhospitable treatment. Yet I cannot help it." "Never mind me," returned Cormac, lightly. "I like to nurse the sick, and I'll keep you well supplied with water, and cook venison or birds too if you want them. I can even shoot them if required." "No need for that," returned Bladud, "there is plenty of food laid up for winter. But don't come inside my hut, remember. It will be death if you do!" All that day the lad sat by the fire or went to the well for water, of which his patient drank continuously. During the night the prince was very restless, and groaned a good deal, so the boy resolved to sit up and watch by the fire. Next morning Bladud was delirious, and as he could not rise even to fetch from the door the water for which he thirsted, Cormac resolved to disobey orders and risk the consequences. Entering the hut, therefore, and sitting down beside the patient, he tended him for many days and nights--taking what rest he could obtain by snatches beside the camp-fire. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE PIGS' CURE. It was not long before our hero recovered from his delirium. Leading, as he had been doing, an abstemious and healthy life, ordinary disease could not long maintain its grasp of him. His superabundant life seemed to cast it off with the ease with which his physical frame was able to cast aside human foes. But he could not thus shake off the leprosy. One of the first things he did on recovering consciousness was to uncover his arm. The fatal spot had increased considerably in size. With something of a shudder he looked round his little hut, endeavouring to remember where he was and to recall recent events. He was alone at the time, and he fancied the fight with the robbers and rescue of the boy must have been all a dream. The name Cormac, however, puzzled him not a little. Many a time before that had he dreamed of vivid scenes and thrilling incidents, but never in his recollection had he dreamt a name! Being thoughtfully disposed, he lay meditating listlessly on this point in that tranquil frame of mind which often accompanies convalescence, and had almost fallen asleep when a slight noise outside awoke him. The curtain-door was lifted, and Cormac, entering, sat quietly down on a block of wood beside him. Bladud became suddenly aware that he had not been dreaming, but he did not move. Through his slightly opened eyelids he watched the lad while he mixed some berries in a cup of water. As he lay thus silently observant, he was deeply impressed with the handsome countenance of his nurse and the graceful movements of his slight figure. Presently the thought of his disease recurred to him--it was seldom, indeed, absent from his mind--and the strict injunctions which he had given to his young companion. "Boy!--boy!" he cried suddenly, with a vigour that caused the boy to start off his seat and almost capsize the cup, "did I not forbid you to enter my hut or to touch me?" At first Cormac looked alarmed, but, seeing that a decided change for the better had taken place in his patient, his brow smoothed and he laughed softly. "How dared you to disobey me?" exclaimed Bladud again in stern tones. "I dared because I saw you were unable to prevent me," returned the lad, with a quiet smile. "Besides, you were too ill to feed yourself, so, of course, I had to do it for you. Do you suppose I am so ungrateful to the man who saved my life as to stand aside and let him die for want of a helping hand? Come, now, be reasonable and let me give you this drink." He approached as he spoke. "Keep off!--keep off, I say," shouted the prince in a voice so resolute that Cormac was fain to obey. "It is bad enough to come into my hut, but you _must not_ touch me!" "Why not?--I have touched you already." "How! when?" "I have lifted your head many a time to enable you to drink when you could not lift it yourself." A groan escaped Bladud. "Then it is too late! Look at this," he cried, suddenly uncovering his arm. "What is that?" asked the boy, with a look of curiosity. "It is--leprosy!" "I am not afraid of leprosy!" "Not afraid of it!" exclaimed the prince, "that may well be, for you have the air of one who fears nothing; but it will kill you for all that, unless the Maker of all defends you, for it is a dread--a terrible--disease that no strength can resist or youth throw off. It undermines the health and eats the flesh off the bones, renders those whom it attacks horrible to look at, and in the end it kills them. But it is possible that you may not yet have caught the infection, poor lad, so you must keep away from me now, and let not a finger touch me henceforth. Your life, I say, may depend on it." "I will obey you as to that," replied Cormac, "now that you are beginning to recover, but I must still continue to put food and water within your reach." "Be it so," rejoined the prince, turning away with a slight groan, for his excitement not less than the conversation had exhausted him. In a few minutes more he was asleep with an expression of profound anxiety stereotyped on his countenance. It was not long after the fever left him that returning strength enabled Bladud to crawl out of his hut, and soon after that he was able to ramble through the woods in company with Cormac, and with Brownie--that faithful friend who had lain by his master's side during all his illness. The sparkling river gladdened the eyes, and the bracing air and sunshine strengthened the frame of the prince, so that with the cheerful conversation of Cormac and the gambols of his canine friend he was sometimes led to forget for a time the dark cloud that hung over him. One day he was struck by something in the appearance of his dog, and, sitting down on a bank, he called it to him. After a few minutes' careful examination he turned to Cormac with a look of deep anxiety. "My boy," he said, "I verily believe that the hound is smitten with my own complaint. In his faithful kindness he has kept by me until I have infected him." "That cannot be," returned Cormac, "for, during my rambles alone, when you were too ill to move, I saw that a great many of the pigs were affected by a skin disease something like that on the dog, and, you know, you could not have infected the pigs, for you have never touched them." Bladud's anxiety was not removed but deepened when he heard this, for he called to remembrance the occasion when he had rescued one of the little pigs and carried it for some distance in his arms. "And, do you know," continued the lad, "I have observed a strange thing. I have seen that many of the pigs, affected with this complaint, have gone down to the place where the hot waters rise, and, after bathing there, have returned all covered with mud, and these pigs seem to have got better of the disease, while many of those which did not go down to the swamp have died." "That is strange indeed," returned the prince; "I must see to this, for if these waters cure the pigs, why not the dog?" "Ay," rejoined Cormac, "and why not the man?" "Because my disease is well known to be incurable." "Are you sure?" "We can hardly be sure of anything, not even of killing our mid-day meal," rejoined the prince. "See, there goes a bird that is big enough to do for both of us. Try your hand." "That will be but losing an opportunity, for, as you know, I am not a good marksman," returned the youth, fitting an arrow quickly to his bow nevertheless, and discharging it. Although the bird in question was large and not far off, the arrow missed the mark, but startled the bird so that it took wing. Before it had risen a yard from the ground, however, an arrow from Bladud's bow transfixed it. That night, after the bird had been eaten, when Brownie was busy with the scraps, and Cormac had retired to his couch in the firewood booth, Bladud lay in his hut unable to sleep because of what he had heard and seen that day. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast"--not less in the olden time than now. At all events it welled up in the breast of the royal outcast with unusual power as he waited anxiously for the first dawn of day. Up to this time, although living within a few miles of it, the prince had not paid more than one or two visits to the Hot Swamp, because birds and other game did not seem to inhabit the place, and the ground was difficult to traverse. He had, of course, speculated a good deal as to the cause of the springs, but had not come to any conclusions more satisfactory than have been arrived at by the scientific minds of modern days. That heat of some sort was the cause applied in one fashion or another to the water so as to make it almost boil he had no manner of doubt, but what caused the heat he could not imagine, and it certainly did not occur to him that the interior of the earth was a lake of fire-- the lovely world of vision being a mere crust. At least, if it did, he was never heard to say so. But now he went down to the swamp with a renewed feeling of hope that gave fresh impulse to his heart and elasticity to his tread. Arrived at the place, he observed that numbers of his porcine family were there before him. On seeing him they retreated with indignant grunts--their hasty retreat being accelerated by a few remarks from Brownie. Making his way to what he believed to be the main fountain of the spring, the prince and the dog stood contemplating it for some time. Then the former dipped his hand in, but instantly withdrew it, for he found the water to be unbearably hot. Following its course, however, and testing it as he went along, he soon came to a spot where the temperature was sufficiently cool to render it agreeable. Here, finding a convenient hole big enough to hold him, he stripped and bathed. Brownie, who seemed much interested and enlivened by his master's proceedings, joined him on invitation, and appeared to enjoy himself greatly. Thereafter they returned home to breakfast and found Cormac already up and roasting venison ribs before the fire. "I thought you were still sound asleep in your hut," he said in surprise, as they came up, "and I have been doing my best to make little noise, for fear of awaking you. Have you been bathing at the springs? I see the hound's coat is muddy." "Thanks for your care, Cormac. Ay, we have indeed had a bath--Brownie and I. You see I have taken your advice, and am trying the pigs' cure." "Right, Bladud. Wiser men have learned lessons from pigs." "Are you not presumptuous, my lad, to suggest that there may be a wiser man than I?" "Truly, no, for taking the advice of a mere stripling like me, is not a sign of wisdom in a man." "In the present case you are perhaps right, but there are some striplings whose wisdom is sufficient to guide men. However, I will hope that even you, with all your presumption, may be right this time." "That encourages me to offer additional advice," retorted the lad with a laugh, "namely, that you should devote your attention to these ribs, for you will find them excellent, and even a full-grown man can hardly fail to know that without food no cure can be effected." "You are right, my boy. Sit down and set me an example, for youth, not less than age, must be supported." Without more words they set to work, first throwing a bone to the hound, in order, as Bladud remarked, that they might all start on equal terms. From that day the health of the prince began to mend--slowly but steadily the spot on his arm also began to diminish and to assume a more healthy aspect. Brownie also became convalescent, and much to the joy of Bladud, Cormac showed no symptoms of having caught the disease. Still, as a precaution, they kept studiously apart, and the prince observed--and twitted the boy with the fact--that the more he gained in health, and the less danger there was of infection, the more anxious did he seem to be to keep away from him! Things were in this state when, one evening, they received a visit-- which claims a new chapter to itself. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. IN WHICH VERY PERPLEXING EVENTS OCCUR. The visitor referred to in the last chapter was a tall, broad-shouldered old man with a snowy head of hair and a flowing white beard, a long, loose black garment, and a stout staff about six feet long. Cormac had gone to a spring for water at the time he arrived, and Bladud was lying on his back inside his hut. "Is any one within?" demanded the stranger, lifting a corner of the curtain. "Enter not here, whoever you are!" replied the prince quickly, springing up--"stay--I will come out to you." "You are wonderfully inhospitable," returned the stranger, as the prince issued from the hut and stood up with an inquiring look which suddenly changed to one of astonishment. "Beniah!" he exclaimed. "Even so," replied the Hebrew, holding out his hand, but Bladud drew back. "What! will you neither permit me to enter your house nor shake your hand? I was not so churlish when you visited my dwelling." "You know well, old man, that I do not grudge hospitality, but fear to infect you." "Yes, I know it well," rejoined the Hebrew, smiling, "and knowing that you were here, I turned aside on my journey to inquire as to your welfare." "I have much to say about my welfare and strange things to tell you, but first let me know what has brought you to this part of the land--for if you have turned aside to see me--seeing me has not been your main object." "You are right. Yet it pleases me well to use this opportunity, and to see by your looks and bearing, that the disease seems to have been arrested." "Yes, thanks be to the All-seeing One, I am well, or nearly so. But proceed to explain the reason of your journey." "The cause of it is the unaccountable disappearance of the girl named Branwen." "What! she who is the bosom friend of my sister Hafrydda?" "The same. She had fled, you may remember, from your father's court for fear of being compelled to wed with Gunrig, the chief whose crown you cracked so deftly on the day of your arrival. She, poor thing, took refuge at first with me. I hid her for some time--" "Then," interrupted the prince, "she must have been hidden in your hut at the time of my visit!" "She was. But that was no business of yours." "Surely it was, old man, for my father's business is my business." "Yea, but it was not my business to enlighten you, or the king either, while I had reason to know that he meant unduly to coerce the maiden. However, there she was hidden, as I tell you. Now, you are aware that Branwen's father Gadarn is a great chief, whose people live far away in the northern part of Albion. I bade Branwen remain close in my hut, in a secret chamber, while I should go and acquaint her father with her position, and fetch him down with a strong band of his retainers to rescue her. You should have seen the visage of Gadarn, when I told him the news. A wild boar of the woods could scarce have shown his tusks more fiercely. He not only ordered an armed band to get ready, instantly, but he roused the whole country around, and started off that same day with all his followers armed to the teeth. Of course I led them. In due course we arrived at my hut, when--lo! I found that the bird was flown!" "I could see by the appearance of things," continued the Hebrew, "that the foolish girl had left of her own will, for there was no evidence of violence anywhere--which would doubtless have been the case if robbers had found her and carried her away, for they would certainly have carried off some of my goods along with her. The rage of her father on making this discovery was terrible. He threatened at once to cut off my old head, and even drew his sword with intent to act the part of executioner. But I reminded him that if he did so, he would cut off the only head that knew anything about his daughter, and that I had still some knowledge regarding her with which he was not acquainted. "This arrested his hand just in time, for I actually fancied that I had begun to feel the edge of his sword slicing into my spinal marrow. When he had calmed himself enough to listen, I told him that Branwen had spoken about paying a visit to the Hot Springs--that I knew she was bent on going there, for some reason that I could not understand, and that I thought it more than likely she had gone. `Axe-men, to the front! Form long line! hooroo!' yelled the chief--(or something of that sort, for I'm a man of peace, and don't understand warlike orders), and away went the whole host at a run, winding through the forest like a great snake; Gadarn and I leading them, except when the thickets became impenetrable, and then the axe-men were ordered to the front and soon broke them down. And so, in course of time, we came within a few miles of the Hot Swamp, and--and, as I have said, I have been permitted to turn aside to visit you." "Truly a strange tale," remarked the prince. "And is the armed host of Gadarn actually within a few miles of us?" "It is; and, to say truth, I have come out to search for you chiefly to inquire whether you have seen any young woman at all resembling Branwen during your wanderings in this region?" The Hebrew looked keenly at the prince as he put this question. "You forget I have never seen this girl, and, therefore, could not know her even if I had met her. But, in truth, I have not seen any woman, young or old, since I came here. Nor have I seen any human being save my mad master, Konar, and a poor youth whom I rescued some time ago from the hands of robbers. He has nursed me through a severe illness, and is even now with me. But what makes you think that Branwen intended to come to the Swamp?" "Because--because, she had reasons of her own. I do not profess to understand the workings of a young girl's mind," answered the Hebrew. "And what will you do," said Bladud, "now that you find she has not been here? Methinks that when Gadarn hears of your failure to find her at the Swamp, your spinal marrow and his sword will still stand a good chance of becoming acquainted." The Hebrew looked perplexed, but, before he could answer, Brownie came bounding gaily round the corner of the hut. Seeing a stranger, he stopped suddenly, displayed his teeth and growled. "Down, pup! He is not accustomed to visitors, you see," said his master apologetically. At that moment Cormac turned the corner of the hut, bearing an earthen jar of water on his shoulder. His eyes opened wide with surprise, so did those of the Hebrew, and the jar dropped to the ground, where it broke, and Brownie, quick to see and seize his opportunity, began to lap its contents. The prince--also wide-eyed--gazed from one to the other. It was a grand _tableau vivant_! The first to recover himself and break the spell was Cormac. Leaping forward, he grasped the old man by the hand, and turning so as to present his back to Bladud, gave the Hebrew a look so powerfully significant that that son of Israel was quite disconcerted. "My old, kind friend--is it--can it--be really yourself? So far from home--so unexpected! It makes me so glad to see you," said the youth. Then, turning to Bladud, "A very old friend of mine, who helped me once in a time of great distress. I am so rejoiced, for now he will guide me back to my own home. You know I have sometimes talked of leaving you lately, Bladud." "You say truth, my young friend. Frequently of late, since I have been getting well, you have hinted at a wish to go home, though you have not yet made it clear to me where that home is; and sad will be the day when you quit me. I verily believe that I should have died outright, Beniah, but for the kind care of this amiable lad. But it is selfish of me to wish you to stay--especially now that you have found a friend who, it would seem, is both able and willing to guard you through the woods in safety. Yet, now I think, my complaint is so nearly cured that I might venture to do that myself." "Not so," returned the lad, quickly. "You are far from cured yet. To give up using the waters at this stage of the cure would be fatal. It would perhaps let the disease come back as bad as before." "Nay, but the difficulty lies here," returned the prince, smiling at the boy's eagerness. "This good old man is at present engaged as guide to an army, and dare not leave his post. A foolish girl named Branwen fled some time ago from my father's house, intending, it is supposed, to go to some friends living not far from the Hot Swamp. They have been searching for her in all directions, and at last her father, with a host at his heels, has been led to within a few miles of this place, but the girl has not yet been discovered; so the search will doubtless be continued." "Is that so?" asked Cormac of the Hebrew, pointedly. "It is so." "What is the name of the chief whose daughter has been _so foolish_ as to run away from her friends?" "Gadarn," answered Beniah. "Oh! I know him!" exclaimed Cormac in some excitement, "and I know many of his people. I lived with them once, long, long ago. How far off is the camp, did you say?" "An hour's walk or so." "In _that_ direction?" asked Cormac, pointing. "Yes, in that direction." "Then I will go and see them," said the lad, picking up his bow and arrows. "You can wait here till I come back, Beniah, and keep Bladud company--for he is accustomed to company now! Who knows but I may pick up this _foolish_ girl on my way to the camp!" The lad hurried into the woods without waiting a reply; but he had not gone a hundred yards when he turned and shouted, "Hi, Beniah!" at the same time beckoning with his hand. The Hebrew hurried towards him. "Beniah," said the lad impressively, as he drew near, "go back and examine Bladud's arm, and let me know when we meet again what you think of it." "But how--why--wherefore came you--?" exclaimed the Hebrew, pausing in perplexity. "Ask no questions, old man," returned the youth with a laugh. "There is no time to explain--. He will suspect--robbers--old mother--bad son-- escape--boy's dress--fill up that story if you can! More hereafter. But--observe, if you say one word about _me to anybody_, Gadarn's sword is sharp and his arm strong! You promise?" "I promise." "Solemnly--on your word as a Hebrew?" "Solemnly--on my word as a Hebrew. But--?" With another laugh the boy interrupted him, turned, and disappeared in the woods. "A strange, though a good and affectionate boy," remarked Bladud when the Hebrew returned. "What said he?" "He bade me examine your arm, and tell him what I think of it on his return." "That is of a piece with all the dear boy's conduct," returned the prince. "You have no idea what a kind nurse he has been to me, at a time when I was helpless with fever. Indeed, if I had not been helpless and delirious, I would not have allowed him to come near me. You have known him before, it seems?" "Yes; I have known him for some time." From this point the prince pushed the Hebrew with questions, which the latter--bearing in remembrance the sharpness of Gadarn's sword, and the solemnity of his promise--did his best to evade, and eventually succeeded in turning the conversation by questioning Bladud as to his intercourse with the hunter of the Swamp, and his mode of life since his arrival in that region. Then he proceeded to examine the arm critically. "It is a wonderful cure," he said, after a minute inspection. "Almost miraculous." "Cure!" exclaimed the prince. "Do you, then, think me cured?" "Indeed I do--at least, very nearly so. I have had some experience of your complaint in the East, and it seems to me that a perfect cure is at most certain--if it has not been already effected." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. DESCRIBES AN ARDENT SEARCH. While the prince and the Hebrew were thus conversing, Cormac was speeding towards the camp of Gadarn. He quickly arrived, and was immediately arrested by one of the sentinels. Taken before one of the chief officers, he was asked who he was, and where he came from. "That I will tell only to your chief," said the lad. "_I_ am a chief," replied the officer proudly. "That may be so; but I want to speak with _your_ chief, and I must see him alone." "Assuredly thou art a saucy knave, and might be improved by a switching." "Possibly; but instead of wasting our time in useless talk, it would be well to convey my message to Gadarn, for my news is urgent; and I would not give much for your head if you delay." The officer laughed; but there was that in the boy's tone and manner that induced him to obey. Gadarn, the chief, was seated on a tree-stump inside of a booth of boughs, leaves, and birch-bark, that had been hastily constructed for his accommodation. He was a great, rugged, north-country man, of immense physical power--as most chiefs were in those days. He seemed to be brooding over his sorrows at the time his officer entered. "A prisoner waits without," said the officer. "He is a stripling; and says he has urgent business to communicate to you alone." "Send him hither, and let every one get out of ear-shot!" said Gadarn gruffly. A minute later Cormac appeared, and looked wistfully at the chief, who looked up with a frown. "Are you the pris--" He stopped suddenly, and, springing to his feet, advanced a step with glaring eyes and fast-coming breath, as he held out both hands. With a cry of joy, Cormac sprang forward and threw his arms round Gadarn's neck, exclaiming-- "Father!--_dear_ father!" For a few moments there was silence, and a sight was seen which had not been witnessed for many a day--two or three gigantic tears rolled down the warrior's rugged cheeks, one of them trickling to the end of his weather-beaten nose and dropping on his iron-grey beard. "My child," he said at length, "where--how came you--why, this--" "Yes, yes, father," interrupted the lad, with a tearful laugh. "I'll tell you all about it in good time; but I've got other things to speak of which are more interesting to both of us. Sit down and let me sit on your knee, as I used to do long ago." Gadarn meekly obeyed. "Now listen," said Cormac, putting his mouth to his father's ear and whispering. The chief listened, and the first effect of the whispering was to produce a frown. This gradually and slowly faded, and gave place to an expression of doubt. "Are you sure, child?--sure that you--" "Quite--quite sure," interrupted Cormac with emphasis. "But that is not all--listen!" Gadarn listened again; and, as the whispering continued, there came the wrinkles of humour over his rugged face; then a snort that caused Cormac to laugh ere he resumed his whispering. "And he knows it?" cried Gadarn, interrupting and suppressing a laugh. "Yes; knows all about it." "And the other doesn't?" "Has not the remotest idea!" "Thinks that you're a--" Here the chief broke off, got up, placed his hands on both his sides and roared with laughter, until the anxious sentinels outside believed that he had gone mad. With the energy of a strong nature he checked himself and became suddenly grave. "Listen!" he said; "you have made me listen a good deal to you. It is my turn now. Before the sun stands there (pointing), you will be on your way to the court of King Hudibras, while I remain, and make this Hebrew lead me all over the country in search of--ha! ha!--my daughter. We must search and search every hole and corner of the land; for we must--we must find her--or perish!" Again the chief exploded, but subdued himself immediately; and, going to the entrance of the booth, summoned his lieutenant, who started forward with the promptitude of an apparition, and with an expression of some curiosity on his countenance, for he also had heard the laughter. "Get ready forty men," said the chief; "to convey this lad in safety to the court of King Hudibras. He is well known there. Say not that I sent you, but that, in ranging the country, you found him lost in the woods, and, understanding him to belong to the household of the king, you brought him in." Without a word the lieutenant withdrew, and the plotters looked at each other with that peculiarly significant expression which has been the characteristic of intriguers in all ages. "Thou wilt know how to act, my little one," said the chief. "Yes, better even than you imagine, my big one," replied Cormac. "What! is there something beyond my ken simmering in thy noddle, thou pert squirrel?" "Perchance there is, father dear." A sound at the root of Gadarn's nose betrayed suppressed laughter, as he turned away. Quarter of an hour later a band of foot-soldiers defiled out of the camp, with Cormac in their midst, mounted on a small pony, and Gadarn, calling another of his lieutenants, told him to let it be known throughout the camp, that if any officer or man should allow his tongue to wag with reference to the lad who had just left the camp, his tongue would be silenced for all future time, and an oak limb be decorated with an acorn that never grew on it. "You know, and they know, that I'm a man of my word--away!" said the chief, returning to the privacy of his booth. While these events were happening at the camp, Bladud and Beniah were discussing many subjects--religion among others, for they were both philosophical as well as seriously-minded. But neither their philosophy nor their religion were profound enough at that time to remove anxiety about the youth who had just left them. "I wish that I were clear of the whole business," remarked the Hebrew uneasily, almost petulantly. "Why, do you fear that any evil can happen to the boy?" asked Bladud anxiously. "Oh! I fear not for him. It is not that. He will be among friends at the camp--but--but I know not how Gadarn may take it." "Take what?" demanded the prince in surprise. "Take--take my failure to find his daughter." "Ha! to be sure; he may be ill-pleased at that. But if I thought there was any chance of evil befalling Cormac in the camp, by all the gods of the east, west, north, and south," cried the prince, carried away by the strength of his feelings into improper and even boastful language, "I would go and demand his liberation, or fight the whole tribe single-handed." "A pretty boast for a man in present safety," remarked the Hebrew, with a remonstrative shake of the head. "Most true," returned the prince, flushing; "I spoke in haste, yet it was not altogether a boast, for I could challenge Gadarn to single combat, and no right-minded chief could well refuse to let the issue of the matter rest on that." "Verily he would not refuse, for although not so tall as you are, he is quite as stout, and it is a saying among his people that he fears not the face of any man--something like his daughter in that." "Is she so bold, then?" "Nay, not bold, but--courageous." "Humph! that is a distinction, no doubt, but the soft and gentle qualities in women commend themselves more to me than those which ought chiefly to characterise man. However, be this as it may, if Cormac does not return soon after daybreak to-morrow, I will hie me to the camp to see how it fares with him." As next morning brought no Cormac, or any news of him, Bladud started for the camp, accompanied by the anxious Hebrew. They found the chief at a late breakfast. He looked up without rising when they were announced. "Ha! my worthy Hebrew--is it thou? What news of my child? Have you heard of her whereabouts?" "Not yet, sir," answered Beniah with a look of intense perplexity. "But I had thought that--that is, by this time--" "What! no news?" cried the chief, springing up in fierce ire, and dropping the chop with which he had been engaged. "Did you not say that you felt sure you would hear of her from your friend? Is this the friend that you spoke of?" He turned a keen look of inquiry, with not a little admiration in it, on Bladud. "This is indeed he," answered Beniah, "and I have--but, but did not a lad--a fair youth--visit your camp yesterday?" "No--no lad came near the camp yesterday," answered the chief gruffly. Here was cause for wonder, both for the Hebrew and the prince. "Forgive me, sir," said the latter, with a deferential air that greatly pleased the warrior, "forgive me if I venture to intrude my own troubles on one whose anxiety must needs be greater, but this youth left my hut yesterday to visit you, saying that he knew you well, and if he has not arrived some evil must have befallen him, for the distance he had to traverse was very short." "That is sad," returned the chief in a tone of sympathy, "for he must either have been caught by robbers, or come by an accident on the way. Did you not follow his footsteps as you came along?" "We never thought of following them--the distance being so short," returned the prince with increasing anxiety. "Are you, then, so fond of this lad?" asked the chief. "Ay, that am I, and with good reason, for he has tended me with self-denying care during illness, and in circumstances which few men would have faced. In truth, I feel indebted to him for my life." "Say you so?" cried the chief with sudden energy; "then shall we search for _him_ as well as for my daughter. And you, Hebrew, shall help us. Doubtless, young man, you will aid us by your knowledge of the district. I have secured the services of the hunter of the Swamp, so we can divide into three bands, and scour the whole country round. We cannot fail to find them, for neither of them can have got far away, whether they be lost or stolen. Ho! there. Assemble the force, instantly. Divide it into three bands. My lieutenant shall head one. You, Bladud, shall lead another, and I myself will head the third, guided by Beniah. Away!" With a wave of both hands Gadarn dismissed those around him, and retired to his booth to arm himself, and prepare for the pending search. The Hebrew was sorely tempted just then to speak out, but his solemn promise to Branwen sealed his lips. The fact also that the girl seemed really to have disappeared, filled him with alarm as well as surprise, and made him anxious to participate in the search. In a perplexed state of mind, and unenviable temper, he went away with Bladud to the place where the force was being marshalled. "Strange that fate should send us on a double search of this kind," remarked the prince as they hurried along. "Whether fate sent us, or some mischievous sprite, I know not," growled the Hebrew, "but there is no need for more than one search." "How!" exclaimed Bladud sternly. "Think you that my poor lad's fate is not of as much interest to me as that of Gadarn's daughter is to him?" "Nay, verily, I presume not to gauge the interest of princes and chiefs," returned Beniah, with an exasperated air. "All I know is, that if we find the lad, we are full sure to find the lass not far off." "How? You speak in riddles to-day." "Ay, and there are like to be more riddles tomorrow, for what the upshot of it will be is more than I can tell. See you not that, as the two were lost about the same time, and near the same place, they will probably be found together?" "Your wits seem to be shaken to-day, old man," rejoined Bladud, smiling, "for these two were not lost about the same place or time." Fortunately for the Hebrew's peace of mind, an officer accosted them at that moment, and, directing the one to head a band just ready to march, led the other to the force which was to be commanded by the chief in person. In a few minutes the three bands were in motion, the main bodies marching north, south, and east, while strong parties were sent out from each to skirmish in all directions. "Think you we shall find them, Hebrew?" asked the chief, who seemed to be in a curiously impulsive state of mind. "I trust we may. It seems to me almost certain." "I hope so, for your sake as well as my own, old man; for, if we do not, I will surely cut your head off for bringing me here for nothing." "Does it not seem unjust to punish a man for doing his best?" asked Beniah. "It may seem so to you men of the east, but to the men of the west justice is not held of much account." Proceeding round by the Hot Springs, the party led by Gadarn made a careful inspection of every cavern, defile, glade, and thicket, returning at evening towards the camp from which they set out, it having been arranged that they were all to meet there and start again to renew the search, in a wider circle, on the following morning. "No success," remarked Gadarn sternly, unbuckling his sword and flinging it violently on the ground. "Not yet, but we may have better fortune tomorrow," said Beniah. "Don't you think the small footprints we saw near the Springs were those of the boy?" "They may have been." "And those that we saw further on, but lost sight of in the rocky ground--did they not look like those of a girl?" "They certainly did." "And yet strangely like to each other," said the chief. "Marvellously," returned Beniah. A slight sound in Gadarn's nose caused the Hebrew to look up quickly, but the chief was gazing with stern gravity out at the opening of his booth, where the men of his force could be seen busily at work felling trees, kindling fires, and otherwise preparing for the evening meal. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. MORE SECRETS AND SURPRISES. All went well with the party that conducted Branwen to King Hudibras' town until they reached the hut of Beniah the Hebrew, when the lad suggested to the leader of the escort that they should put up there, as it was too late to think of intruding on the king that night. As the lieutenant had been told to pay particular regard to the wishes of his charge, he at once agreed. Indeed, during the journey, Cormac (as we may here continue to call the girl) had expressed his wishes with such a quiet, matter-of-course air of authority that the officer in charge had come to the conclusion that the youth must be the son of some person of importance--perhaps even of King Hudibras himself. He therefore accorded him implicit obedience and deference. "The hut is too small for all of us," said Cormac; "the greater number of your men must sleep outside; but that does not matter on so fine a night." "True, it matters nothing," replied the officer. "We will all of us sup and sleep round the campfires." "Nay, you and your lieutenant will sup with me. Afterwards you can join the men. By-the-by, there is an old woman here, who takes charge--or ought to take charge--of the Hebrew's dwelling during his absence." "I have not seen her," said the officer. "True--but she will no doubt make her appearance soon. Let her come and go as she pleases without hindrance. It is not safe to thwart her, for her temper is none of the sweetest, and she is apt to scratch." Supper was soon over, for the party had travelled all day, and were weary. When it was finished Cormac again cautioned the officers not to interfere with the old woman, for she was dangerous. "I will have a care," said the officer, laughing, as he and his subaltern rose, bade their charge good-night, and took their leave. The instant they were gone Branwen pushed the plank-bridge across the chasm, and disappeared in the secret cave. Half an hour later the two officers were seated with some of the men at the camp-fire nearest the hut, making preparations for going to rest, when they were startled by the creaking of the hut door. To their intense surprise it opened wide enough to let a little old woman step out. She was much bent, wore an old grey shawl over her head, and leaned on a staff. For some moments she looked from side to side as if in search of something. "See! the old woman!" murmured the officer in a low whisper. "True, but we did not see her enter the hut," replied the sub with a solemn look. In those days witchcraft was implicitly believed in, so, when they saw the old creature hobble towards them, they experienced feelings of alarm that had never yet affected their manly bosoms in danger or in war. Their faces paled a little, but their courage stood the test, for they sat still till she came close enough to let her piercing dark eyes be seen peering at them like those of a basilisk from out the folds of the shawl that enveloped her. "Y-you are the--the old woman, I suppose?" said the officer in a deferential tone. "Yes, I am the old woman, young man, and you will be an old woman too when you reach my time of life," she replied, in a deep metallic voice. "I hope not," returned the officer, sincerely. "At all events you'll be a dead man before long if you don't attend to what I say," continued the woman. "Your young master in the hut there told me to tell you that he is tired and wants a good long rest, so you are not to disturb him in the morning till he calls you. D'you hear?" "I hear, and will obey." "Eh? What? Speak out. I'm deaf." "I hear, and will attend to your wishes." "Humph! it will be worse for you if you don't," muttered the old hag, as she turned away, hobbled into the woods, and slowly disappeared. It need scarcely be said that the lieutenant and his sub did not sleep much that night. They discussed the subject of witches, their powers and propensities, and the bad luck likely to attend those who actually had the misfortune to see them, until the hair on their heads betrayed a tendency to rise, and the grey dawn began to appear. Then they lay down and indulged in some fitful slumber. But the discomforts of the night were as nothing to the anxieties of the morning, for the lazy Cormac seemed to have gone in for an extent of slumber that was out of all reason, considering his circumstances. The ordinary breakfast hour arrived, but there was no intimation of his having awoke. Hours passed, but there was no call from the hut, and the officer, with ever-increasing anxiety, bade his men to kick up a row--or words to that effect. No command they ever received was more easy of fulfilment. They laughed and talked; they cut down trees and cleaned their breakfast utensils with overwhelming demonstration; they shouted, they even sang and roared in chorus, but without effect. Noon arrived and passed, still Cormac slept on. It was worse than perplexing--it was becoming desperate! The officer commanding the party was a brave man; so was the sub. Their native courage overcame their superstitious fears. "I'll be battle-axed!" exclaimed the first, using a very objectionable old British oath, "if I don't rouse him, though all the witches in Albion should withstand me." "And I'll back you up," said the sub with a frown that spoke volumes-- perhaps, considering the times, we should have written--rolls of papyrus. Accordingly the two went towards the hut, with pluck and misgiving contending for the mastery. "Perchance the witch may have returned while we slept," said the sub in a low voice. "Or she may have re-entered the hut invisibly--as she did at first," replied the other. The door was found to be on the latch. The lieutenant opened it a little and peeped in. "Ho! Cormac!" he shouted; "hi! ho! hooroo hooh!" but he shouted in vain. Becoming accustomed to the dim light, he perceived that there was no one within to answer to the call, so he suddenly sprang in, followed by the sub and a few of the more daring spirits among the men. A hasty search revealed the fact that the lad was not to be seen. A more minute and thorough inspection showed clearly that no one was there. They did not, of course, discover the cave, for the plank had been removed, but they gazed solemnly into the depths of the dark chasm and wondered if poor Cormac had committed suicide there, or if the witch had murdered him and thrown him in. Having neither rope nor ladder, and the chasm appearing to be bottomless, they had no means of settling the question. But now a point of far greater moment pressed on their consideration. What was to be said to King Hudibras about the disappearance of the lad? Would he believe them? It was not likely. And, on the other hand, what would Gadarn say? Would _he_ believe them? He might, indeed, for he knew them to be faithful, but that would not mitigate his wrath, and when he was roused by neglected duty they knew too well that their lives would hang on a thread. What was to be done? To go forward or backward seemed to involve death! One only resource was left, namely, for the whole band to go off on its own account and take to the woods as independent robbers--or hunters--or both combined. In an unenviable frame of mind the lieutenant and his sub sat down to the discussion of these knotty points and their mid-day meal. Meanwhile the witch, who had been the occasion of all this distress, having got out of sight in the woods, assumed a very upright gait and stepped out with a degree of bounding elasticity that would have done credit to a girl of nineteen. The sun was just rising in a flood of glorious light when she entered the suburbs of King Hudibras' town--having previously resumed her stoop and hobbling gait. The king was lazy. He was still a-bed snoring. But the household was up and at breakfast, when the witch--passing the guards who looked upon her as too contemptible to question--knocked at the palace door. It was the back-door, for even at that time palaces had such convenient apertures, for purposes, no doubt, of undignified retreat. A menial answered the knock--after wearisome delay. "Is the Princess Hafrydda within?" "She is," answered the menial, with a supercilious look, "but she is at breakfast, and does not see poor people at such an hour." "Would she see rich people if they were to call at such an hour?" demanded the witch, sharply. "Per--perhaps she would," replied the menial with some hesitation. "Then I'll wait here till she has finished breakfast. Is the king up?" "N-no. He still slumbers." "Hah! Like him! He was always lazy in the mornings. Go fetch me a stool." The manner of the old woman with her magnificent dark eyes and deep metallic voice, and her evident knowledge of the king's habits, were too much for the menial--a chord of superstition had been touched; it vibrated, and he was quelled. Humbly but quickly he fetched a stool. "Won't you step in?" he said. "No, I'll stop out!" she replied, and sat herself doggedly down, with the air of one who had resolved never more to go away. Meanwhile, in the breakfast room of the palace, which was on the ground floor--indeed, all the rooms of the palace were on the ground floor, for there was no upper one--the queen and her fair daughter Hafrydda were entertaining a stranger who had arrived the day before. He was an exceedingly handsome man of about six-and-twenty; moderately tall and strong, but with an air of graceful activity in all his movements that gave people, somehow, the belief that whatever he chose to attempt he could do. Both his olive complexion and his tongue betokened him a foreigner, for although the language he spoke was Albionic, it was what we now style broken--very much broken indeed. With a small head, short curly black hair, a very young beard, and small pointed moustache, fine intellectual features, and an expression of imperturbable good-humour, he presented an appearance which might have claimed the regard of any woman. At all events the queen had formed a very high opinion of him--and she was a woman of much experience, having seen many men in her day. Hafrydda, though, of course, not so experienced, fully equalled her mother, if she did not excel her, in her estimate of the young stranger. As we should be unintelligible if we gave the youth's words in the broken dialect, we must render his speech in fair English. "I cannot tell how deeply I am grieved to hear this dreadful news of my dear friend," he said, with a look of profound sorrow that went home to the mother's heart. "And did you really come to this land for the sole purpose of seeing my dear boy?" asked the queen. "I did. You cannot imagine how much we loved each other. We were thrown together daily--almost hourly. We studied together; we competed when I was preparing for the Olympic games; we travelled in Egypt and hunted together. Indeed, if it had not been for my dear old mother, we should have travelled to this land in the same ship." "Your mother did not wish you to leave her, I suppose?" "Nay, it was I who would not leave _her_. Her unselfish nature would have induced her to make any sacrifice to please me. It was only when she died that my heart turned with unusual longing to my old companion Bladud, and I made up my mind to quit home and traverse the great sea in search of him." A grateful look shot from Hafrydda's blue eyes, but it was lost on the youth, who sat gazing at the floor as if engrossed with his great disappointment. "I cannot understand," he continued, in an almost reproachful tone, "how you could ever make up your minds to banish him, no matter how deadly the disease that had smitten him." The princess's fair face flushed deeply, and she shook back her golden curls--her eyes flashing as she replied-- "We did not `make up our minds to banish him.' The warriors and people would have compelled us to do it whether we liked or not, for they have heard, alas! of the terrible nature of the disease. But the dear boy, knowing this, went off in the night unknown to us, and without even saying farewell. We have sent out parties to search for him several times, but without success." The youth was evidently affected by this burst of feeling. "Ah," he returned, with a look of admiration at the princess, "that was like him--like his noble, self-denying nature. But I will find him out, you may depend on it, for I shall search the land in all directions till I discover his retreat. If King Hudibras will grant me a few men to help me--well. If not, I will do it by myself." "Thank you, good Dromas, for your purpose and your sympathy," said the queen. "The king will be only too glad to help you--but here he comes to speak for himself." The curtain door was tossed aside at the moment, and Hudibras strode into the room with a beaming smile and a rolling gait that told of redundant health, and showed that the cares of state sat lightly on him. "Welcome, good Dromas, to our board. I was too sleepy to see much of you after your arrival last night. Mine eyes blinked like those of an owl. Kiss me, wife and daughter," he added, giving the ladies a salute that resounded through the room. "Have they told you yet about our poor son Bladud?" The visitor had not time to reply, when a domestic appeared and said there was an old woman at the door who would not go away. "Give her some cakes and send her off!" cried the king with a frown. "But she will not go till she has had converse with the princess." "I will go to her," said Hafrydda, rising. "Ay, go, my girl, and if thy sweet tongue fails to prevail, stuff her mouth with meat and drink till she is too stout to walk. Come, my queen, what have we this morning for breakfast? The very talking of meat makes me hungry." At this juncture several dogs burst into the room and gambolled with their royal master, as with one who is a familiar friend. When the princess reached the outer door she found the woman standing, and evidently in a rage. "Is this the way King Hudibras teaches his varlets to behave to poor people who are better than themselves?" "Forgive them, granny," said the princess, who was inclined to laugh, but strove to keep her gravity, "they are but stupid rogues at worst." "Nay, but they are sly rogues at best!" retorted the old woman. "The first that came, took me for a witch, and was moderately civil, but the second took away my stool and threatened to set the dogs at me." "If this be so, I will have him cow-hided; but tell me--what would you with me? Can I help you? Is it food that you want, or rest?" "Truly it is both food and rest that I want, at the proper times, but what I want with you now, is to take me to your own room, and let me talk to you." "That is a curious desire," returned Hafrydda, smiling, "but I will not deny you. Come this way. Have you anything secret to tell me?" she asked, when they were alone. "Ay, that have I," answered the woman in her natural voice, throwing off her shawl and standing erect. The princess remained speechless, for her friend Branwen stood before her. "Before I utter a word of explanation," she said, "let me say that your brother is found, and safe, and well--or nearly so. This is the main thing, but I will not tell you anything more, unless you give me your solemn promise not to tell a word of it all to any one, till I give you leave. Do you promise?" Hafrydda was so taken aback that she could do nothing for some time but gaze in the girl's face. Then she laughed in an imbecile sort of way. Then she burst into tears of joy, threw her arms round her friend's neck, hugged her tight, and promised anything--everything--that she chose to demand. When, an hour later, the Princess Hafrydda returned to the breakfast room, she informed the king and queen that the old woman was not a beggar; that she had kept her listening to a long story about lost men and women and robbers; that she was a thorough deceiver; that some of the servants believed her to be a witch, and that she had sent her away. "With an invitation to come back again, I'll be bound," cried the king, interrupting. "It's always your way, my girl,--any one can impose on you." "Well, father, she _did_ impose on me, and I _did_ ask her to come back again." "I knew it," returned the king, with a loud laugh, "and she'll come, for certain." "She will, you may be quite sure of that," rejoined the princess with a gleeful laugh, as she left the room. About the same time, the little old woman left the palace and returned to the hut of the Hebrew. Here, as she expected, she found that her escort had flown, and, a brief inspection of their footprints showed that, instead of proceeding towards the town, they had returned the way they came. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. FURTHER SEARCHINGS AND PERPLEXITIES. While these events were taking place at court, the bold chief Gadarn was ranging the country far and wide in search of his daughter Branwen. There was something in his manner which puzzled his followers not a little, for he seemed to have changed his character--at least to have added to it a strange, wild hilarity which suggested the idea that he enjoyed the hunt and was in no hurry that it should come to an end. Those who knew him best began at last to fear that anxiety had unsettled his reason, and Bladud, who liked the man's gay, reckless disposition and hearty good-humour, intermingled with occasional bursts of fierce passion, was not only puzzled but distressed by the wild inconsistency of his proceedings. The Hebrew, knowing to some extent the cause of what he did, and feeling bound by his promise to conceal his knowledge, was reduced to a state of mind that is not describable. On the one hand there was the mystery of Cormac's total disappearance in a short walk of three miles. On the other hand, there was the utter uselessness of searching for Branwen, yet the urgent need of searching diligently for Cormac. Then there was the fear of consequences when the fiery Gadarn should come to find out how he had been deceived, or rather, what moderns might style humbugged; add to which he was debarred the solace of talking the subject over with Bladud, besides being, in consequence of his candid disposition, in danger of blurting out words that might necessitate a revelation. One consequence was that, for the time at least, the grave and amiable Hebrew became an abrupt, unsociable, taciturn man. "What ails you just now, Beniah?" asked Bladud, one evening as they walked together to Gadarn's booth, having been invited to supper. "You seem out of condition mentally, if not bodily, as if some one had rubbed you the wrong way." "Do I?" answered Beniah, with a frown and something between a grin and a laugh. "Well, it is not easy to understand one's mental complaints, much less to explain them." Fortunately their arrival at the booth put a timely end to the conversation. "Ha! my long-legged prince and stalwart Hebrew!" cried the jovial chief in a loud voice, "I began to fear that you had got lost--as folk seem prone to do in this region--or had forgotten all about us! Come in and sit ye down. Ho! varlet, set down the victuals. After all, you are just in the nick of time. Well, Beniah, what think you of our search to-day? Has it been close? Is it likely that we have missed any of the caves or cliffs where robbers might be hiding?" "I think not. It seems to me that we have ransacked every hole and corner in which there is a chance that the lad could be found." "The _lad_!" exclaimed Gadarn. "I--I mean--your daughter," returned the Hebrew, quickly. "Why don't you say what you mean, then? One expects a man of your years to talk without confusion--or is it that you are really more anxious about finding the boy than my girl?" "Nay, that be far from me," answered the Hebrew. "To say truth, I am to the full as anxious to find the one as the other, for it matters not which you--" "Matters not!" repeated Gadarn, fiercely. "Well, of course, I mean that my friendship for you and Bladud makes me wish to see you each satisfied by finding both the boy and the girl." "For my part," said Bladud, quietly, "I sincerely hope that we may find them both, for we are equally anxious to do so." "Equally!" exclaimed Gadarn, with a look of lofty surprise. "Dost mean to compare your regard for your young friend with a father's love for his only child!" The prince did not easily take offence, but he could not refrain from a flush and a frown as he replied, sharply-- "I make no useless comparisons, chief. It is sufficient that we are both full of anxiety, and are engaged in the same quest." "Ay, the same quest--undoubtedly," observed the Hebrew in a grumbling, abstracted manner. "If it were possible," returned Gadarn, sternly, "to give up the search for your boy and confine it entirely to my girl, I would do so. But as they went astray about the same place, we are compelled, however little we like it, to hunt together." "Not compelled, chief," cried Bladud, with a look and a flash in his blue eye which presaged a sudden rupture of friendly relations. "We can each go our own way and hunt on our own account." "Scarcely," replied the chief, "for if you found my daughter, you would be bound in honour to deliver her up; and if I found your boy, I should feel myself bound to do the same." "It matters not a straw which is found," cried the Hebrew, exasperated at the prospect of a quarrel between the two at such an inopportune moment. "Surely, as an old man, I have the right to remonstrate with you for encouraging anything like disagreement when our success in finding the boy,--I--I mean the girl,--depends--" A burst of laughter from the chief cut him short. "You don't seem to be quite sure of what you mean," he cried, "or to be able to say it. Come, come, prince, if the Hebrew claims a right to remonstrate because he is twenty years or so older than I am, surely I may claim the same right, for I am full twenty years older than you. Is it seemly to let your hot young blood boil over at every trifle? Here, let me replenish your platter, for it is ill hunting after man, woman, or beast without a stomach full of victuals." There was no resisting the impulsive chief. Both his guests cleared their brows and laughed--though there was still a touch of exasperation in the Hebrew's tone. While the search was being thus diligently though needlessly prosecuted in the neighbourhood of the Hot Swamp by Gadarn, who was dearly fond of a practical joke, another chief, who was in no joking humour, paid a visit one evening to his mother. Perhaps it is unnecessary to say that this chief was Gunrig. "From all that I see and hear, mother," he said, walking up and down the room, as was his habit, with his hands behind him, "it is clear that if I do not go about it myself, the king will let the matter drop; for he is convinced that the girl has run off with some fellow, and will easily make her way home." "Don't you think he may be right, my son?" "No, I don't, my much-too-wise mother. I know the girl better than that. It is enough to look in her face to know that she could not run away with any fellow!" "H'm!" remarked the woman significantly. "What say you?" demanded the chief, sharply. "I scarcely know what to say. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to take a band of our own men and go off in search of the girl yourself." "That's just what I've made up my mind to do; but I wanted to see if Hudibras would get up a band to join mine, for I dare not take many away from the town when that scoundrel Addedomar is threatening to make a raid upon us." "My son," said the woman anxiously, "what threatened raid do you speak of?" "Did you not hear? Since the last time we gave that robber a drubbing at the Hot Swamp, he has taken to the woods and gathered together a large band of rascals like himself. We would not have minded that--for honest men are always numerous enough to keep villains in order--but two chiefs who have long been anxious to take possession of the land round the Swamp have agreed to join with him, so that they form a formidable body of warriors--too large to be treated with contempt." "This is bad news, Gunrig. How does the king take it?" "In his usual way. He does not believe in danger or mischief till it has overtaken him, and it is almost too late for action. There is one hope, however, that he will be induced to move in time. A young fellow has come from the far East, who was a great friend of that long-legged fellow Bladud, and he is bent on finding out where his friend has gone. Of course the king is willing to let him have as many men as he wants, though he sternly refuses to let Bladud return home; and I hope to induce this youth--Dromas, they call him--to join me, so that we may search together; for, of course, the search for the man may result in finding the girl. My only objection is that if we do find Bladud, I shall have to fight and kill him--unless the leprosy has happily killed him already. So, now, I will away and see what can be done about this hunt. My object in coming was to get my men, and to warn those left in charge of the town to keep a keen look-out for Addedomar, for he is a dangerous foe. Farewell, mother." The woman was not addicted to the melting mood. She merely nodded as her son went out. In pursuance of this plan, a band of about two hundred warriors was raised, armed, and provisioned for a long journey. Gunrig put himself at the head of a hundred and fifty of these, and Dromas, being a skilled warrior, was given command of the remaining fifty, with Captain Arkal, who begged to be allowed to go as his lieutenant, and little Maikar as one of his fighting men. The orders were, that they should start off in the direction of the Hot Swamp, searching the country as they went, making diligent inquiries at the few villages they might pass, and questioning all travellers whom they might chance to meet with by the way. If Branwen should be found, she was to be sent back escorted by a detachment of a hundred men. If the retreat of Bladud should be discovered, news of the fact was to be sent to the king, and the prince was to be left there in peace with any of the men who might volunteer to live with him. But on no account were they or Bladud to return to Hudibras' town as long as there was the least danger of infection. "Is he _never_ to return?" asked the queen, whimpering, when she heard these orders given. "No, _never_!" answered the king in that awful tone which the poor queen knew too well meant something like a decree of Fate. "Oh, father!" remonstrated Hafrydda--and Dromas loved her for the remonstrance--"not even if he is cured?" "Well, of course, if he is cured, my child, that alters the case. But how am I to know that he is cured?--who is to judge? Our court doctor knows as much about it as a sucking pig--perhaps less!" "Perhaps the Hebrew knows," suggested Hafrydda--and Dromas loved her for the suggestion! "Ah, to be sure! I forgot the Hebrew. You may call at his hut in passing and take him with you, if he has come home yet. He's an amiable old man, and may consent to go. If not--make him. Away! and cease to worry me. That's the way to get rid of business, my queen; isn't it?" "Certainly--it is one way," answered the queen, turning to the two commanders. "Go, and my blessing go with you!" "Success attend you!" murmured the princess, glancing timidly at Dromas--and as Dromas gazed upon her fair face, and golden curls, and modest mien, he felt that he loved her for herself! Success did not, however, attend them at first, for on reaching the Hebrew's hut they found it empty, and no amount of shouting availed to call Beniah from the "vasty deep" of the chasm, or the dark recesses of the secret chamber. Pursuing their way, therefore, the small army was soon lost to view in the forest. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. CROSS PURPOSES AND COMPLICATIONS. We turn now to another scene in the wild-woods, not far distant from the Hot Swamp. It is a thickly-wooded hollow on the eastern slopes of the high ridge that bounds one side of the valley of the Springs. Sturdy oaks, tall poplars, lordly elms and beeches, cast a deep shade over the spot which was rendered almost impenetrable by dense underwood. Even in brightest sunshine light entered it with difficulty, and in gloomy weather a sort of twilight constantly prevailed, while at night the place became the very abode of thick darkness. In this retreat was assembled, one gloomy afternoon, a large body of armed men, not connected with the searching parties which had been ransacking the region in the vain duplex search which we have tried to describe. It was a war-party under the command of Addedomar the outlaw--if we may thus characterise a man in a land where there was little or no law of any kind, save that of might. It was a strong band, numbering nearly four hundred warriors, all of whom were animated with the supposed-to-be noble desire to commit theft on a very large scale. It is true, they called it "conquest," which word in those days, as in modern times even among civilised people, meant killing many of the natives of a place and taking possession of their lands. Then--as now--this was sometimes styled "right of conquest," and many people thought then, as some think even now, that by putting this word "right" before "conquest" they made it all right! and had somehow succeeded in abrogating the laws, "Thou shalt not steal," and "Do to others as thou wouldest have others do to thee," laws which were written by God in the human understanding long before Moses descended with the decalogue from Sinai. However, as we have said, there was little or no law in the land of old Albion at the time of which we write, so that we can scarcely wonder at the aspirations of the band under Addedomar--aspirations which were to the full as strong--perhaps even as noble--as those of Alexander the Great or the first Napoleon. It had been ascertained by some stray hunter of Addedomar's party that considerable bands of men were ranging the valley of the Springs and its neighbourhood in search of something or some one, and that they went about usually in small detached parties. The stray hunter, with an eye, doubtless, to his personal interest, conveyed the news to the robber chief, who, having made secret and extensive preparations, happened at the time to be on his way to raid the territories of King Hudibras, intending to take the town of Gunrig as a piece of by-play in passing. Here, however, was an opportunity of striking a splendid blow without travelling so far. By keeping his force united, and sending a number of scouts in advance, he could attack and overwhelm the scattered detachments in succession. He, therefore, in the meantime, abandoned his original plan, and turned aside to the neighbourhood of the Hot Swamp. There he remained in the sequestered hollow, which has been described, awaiting the return of his scouts. There was no difficulty in feeding an army in those days, for the forests of Albion abounded with game, and the silent bow, unlike the noisy fire-arm, could be used effectively without betraying the presence of the hunter. The eyes of Addedomar opened wider and wider as his scouts dropped in one by one, and his heart beat high with glee and hope at the news they brought, for it opened up a speedy conquest in detail of more foes than he had counted on meeting with, and left the prospect of his afterwards carrying into execution his original plan. The first scout brought the intelligence that it was not the men of King Hudibras who were in the neighbourhood, but those of Gadarn, the great chief of the far north, who had come there with an armed force in search of his daughter--she having gone lost, stolen, or strayed in the wilderness. "Is the band a large one?" demanded Addedomar. "It is; but not so large as ours, and it is weakened every day by being sent into the woods in different directions and in three detachments." "Excellent! Ha! we will join Gadarn in this search, not only for his daughter, but for himself, and we will double the number of his detachments when we meet them, by slicing each man in two." A loud laugh greeted this pleasantry, for robbers were easily tickled in those days. "I also discovered," continued the scout, "that there is search being made at the same time for some boy or lad, who seems to have disappeared, or run away, or been caught by robbers." Again there was a laugh at the idea that there were other robbers about besides themselves, but the chief checked them. "Did you find out anything else about this lad?" he asked. "Only that he seemed from his dress to be a hunter." Addedomar frowned and looked at the ground for some moments in meditation. "I'm convinced," he said at last, "that this lad is none other than the girl who escaped in the hunting dress of my young brother, just the day before I returned to camp. Mother was not as careful as she might have been at that time, and lost me a pretty wife. Good! Things are turning out well to-day. We will rout Gadarn, find his daughter and this so-called lad, and then I shall have two wives instead of one." The robber chief had just come to this satisfactory conclusion, when another scout arrived. "How now, varlet? Do you bring good news?" "That depends on what you consider good," answered the scout, panting. "I have just learned that a large body of King Hudibras' men--about two hundred, I believe--is on its way to the Swamp to search for his son Bladud--" "What! the giant whom we have heard tell of--who gave Gunrig such a drubbing?" "The same. It seems that he has been smitten with leprosy, has been banished from court, and has taken up his abode somewhere near the Swamp." "But if he has been banished, why do they send out to search for him, I wonder?" said the robber chief. "It is said," returned the scout, "that a friend of Bladud from the far East wants to find him." "Good! This is rare good luck. We, too, will search for Bladud and slay him. It is not every day that a man has the chance to kill a giant with leprosy, and a king's son into the bargain." "I also learned," continued the scout, "that some lady of the court has fled, and the army is to search of her too." "What! more women? Why, it seems as if these woods here must be swarming with them. I should not wonder, too, if it was Hudibras' own daughter that has run away. Not unlikely, for the king is well known to be a tyrannical old fellow. H'm! we will search for her also. If we find them all, I shall have more than enough of wives--the king's daughter, and Gadarn's daughter, and this run-away-lad, whoever she may be! Learned you anything more?" "Nothing more, except that Gadarn intends to make an early start to-morrow morning." "It is well. We, also, will make an early--an even earlier--start to-morrow morning. To your food, now, my men, and then--to rest!" While the robber chief was thus conversing with his scouts, two men were advancing through the forest, one of whom was destined to interfere with the plans which were so well conceived by Addedomar. These were our friends Arkal and Maikar. Filled with a sort of wild romance, which neither the waves of the sea nor the dangers of the land could abate, these two shipmates marched through the woods all unconscious, of course, of the important part they were destined to play in that era of the world's history. The two sailors were alone, having obtained leave to range right and left in advance of the column to which they were attached, for the purpose of hunting. "We are not much to boast of in the way of shooting," remarked Arkal; "but the troops don't know that, and good luck may prevent them finding it out." "Just so," returned Maikar, "good luck may also bring us within arrow-shot of a wolf. I have set my heart on taking home a wolf-skin to that little woman with the black eyes that I've spoken to you about sometimes." "Quite right, young man," said the captain, in an approving tone. "Nothing pleases folk so much as to find that they have been remembered by you when far away. Moreover, I think you stand a good chance, for I saw two wolves the other day when I was rambling about, but they were out of range." Chance or luck--whichever it was--did not bring a wolf within range that day, but it brought what was more important and dangerous--namely, a large brown bear. The animal was seated under a willow tree, with its head on one side as if in meditation, when the men came upon it. An intervening cliff had prevented the bear from hearing the footsteps of the men, and both parties, being taken by surprise, stared at each other for a moment in silence. No word was spoken, but next instant the bear ran at them, and stood up on its hind legs, according to bear-nature, to attack. At the same moment both men discharged arrows at it with all their force. One arrow stuck in the animal's throat, the other in his chest. But bears are proverbially hard to kill, and no vital part had been reached. Dropping their bows, the men turned and made for the nearest trees. They separated in doing so, and the bear lost a moment or two in making up its mind which to follow. Fortunately it decided in favour of Maikar. Had it followed Arkal, it would have caught him, for the captain, not being as agile as might be wished, missed his first spring up his tree, and slid back to the bottom. Maikar, on the other hand, went up like a squirrel. Now, the little seaman had been told that some kinds of bears can climb while others cannot. Remembering the fact, he glanced anxiously down, as he went up. To his horror he saw that this bear could climb! and that his only chance would be to climb so high, that the branches which would bear his weight would not support the bear. It was a forlorn hope, but he resolved to try it. Arkal, in the meantime, had recovered breath and self-possession. Seeing the danger of his comrade, he boldly dropped to the ground, picked up his bow, ran under the other tree, and sent an arrow deep into the bear's flank. With a savage growl, the animal looked round, saw the captain getting ready a second arrow, and immediately began to descend. This rather disconcerted Arkal, who discharged his arrow hastily and missed. Dropping his bow a second time he ran for dear life to his own tree and scrambled up. But he need not have been in such haste, for although some bears can ascend trees easily, they are clumsy and slow in descending. Consequently the captain was high up before his enemy began to climb. That was of little advantage, however, for in a few moments the bear would have been up with him, had not Maikar, moved by the consideration no doubt, that one good turn deserves another, dropped quickly to the ground, picked up his bow and repeated the captain's operation, with even more telling effect, for his arrow made the bear so furious, that he turned round to bite it. In doing so he lost his hold, and fell to the ground with such a thud, that he drove the arrow further into him, and a vicious squeal out of him. At this point little Maikar resolved to vary the plan of action. He stood his ground manfully, and, when the bear arose with a somewhat confused expression, he planted another arrow up to the feathers in its chest. Still the creature was unsubdued. It made a rush, but the sailor sprang lightly behind a tree, getting ready an arrow as he did so. When the animal rushed at him again, it received the shaft deep in the left shoulder, so that, with blood pouring from its many wounds, it stumbled and fell at its next rush. Seeing how things were going, you may be sure that Arkal did not remain an idle spectator. He dropped again from the outer end of the bough he had reached, and when the bear rose once more to its feet, it found a foe on either side of it. "Don't shoot together," panted Maikar, for all this violent action was beginning to tell on him. "Do you shoot first." This was said while the bear was in a state of indecision. The captain obeyed and put another arrow in its neck. The bear turned savagely on him, thus exposing its side to Maikar, who took swift advantage of the chance, and, sending an arrow straight to its heart, turned it over dead! It must be remarked here, that all this shooting was done at such close range that, although the two seamen were, as we have said, rather poor shots, they had little difficulty in hitting so large an object. "Now, then, out with your knife and off with the claws for the little woman at home with the black eyes," said Arkal, wiping the perspiration from his brow, "and be quick about it, so as to have it done before the troops come up." The little man was not long in accomplishing the job, and he had just put the claws in his pouch, and was standing up to wipe his knife, when the captain suddenly grasped his arm and drew him behind the trunk of a tree, from which point of vantage he cautiously gazed with an anxious expression and a dark frown. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. ENEMIES, FRIENDS, SCOUTS, SKIRMISHES, AND COUNCILS OF WAR. Arkal's attention had been arrested by the figure of a man who suddenly appeared from behind a cliff not four hundred yards distant from the scene of their recent exploit. The stealthy manner in which the man moved among the bushes, and the earnest gaze which he directed from time to time in one particular direction, showed clearly that he was watching the movements of something--it might be a deer or an enemy. "Evidently he has not seen us," whispered Maikar. "Clear enough that, for he is not looking this way," returned Arkal. "He presents his back to us in a careless way, which he would hardly do if he knew that two crack bowmen were a hundred yards astern of him." "Shall I shoot him?" whispered Maikar, preparing his weapons. "He may be a friend," returned the captain. "But, see! yonder comes what interests him so much. Look!" He pointed to a distant ridge, over the brow of which the head of Gunrig's column of men was just appearing. "He is a scout!" exclaimed Maikar. "Ay, and you may be sure that an enemy is not far off ahead of our column--unless, perchance, he may be the scout of some tribe friendly to the king. Hold your hand, Maikar. You are ever too ready to fight. Listen, now; yonder is a convenient hollow where I may get into the thick wood unseen by this scout, and run back to warn our friends. Ahead, yonder, is a narrow pass which leads, no doubt, into the next valley. Run you, as fast as your legs can wag, get through that pass, and see what you can see. In the nature of things the scout is almost sure to return through it, if he intends to carry the news of our approach to his people, who are probably there. You must hide and do the best you can to prevent him from doing this--either by killing him or knocking him down. Be off, we have no time to lose." "But how if he should be a friend?" asked Maikar with a smile. "How am I to find out?" Arkal paused and was perplexed. "You must just exercise your wisdom," he replied. "If the fellow has an ill-looking countenance, kill him. If he looks a sensible sort of man, stretch him out somehow. I would offer to go instead of you, being more of a match for him, but I could not match his legs or yours, so it might well chance that he would reach the pass before me." "Pooh, captain," retorted Maikar, with a look of scorn. "Ye think too much of yourself, and are unwarrantably puffed up about the advantage of size." Without a reply--save a grin--Arkal turned, and, jumping into the bushes, was immediately out of sight. His comrade, before starting off to carry out his part of the programme, took a good look at the scout whom he was bound to circumvent. He was evidently a tall, powerful man, armed with a bow, a short sword, and a stout staff somewhat longer than himself. That he was also a brave and cool man seemed probable, from the fact that, instead of hurrying off hastily to warn his friends that troops were in sight, he stood calmly leaning on his staff as if for the purpose of ascertaining the exact number of the strangers before reporting them. He was still engaged in this inspection when Maikar started off and fled on the wings of hope and excitement toward the pass. Arrived there, his first glance revealed to him the troops of Addedomar busy with their evening meal in the valley below. "The question is, are they friends or foes?" thought the little seaman. "H'm! it's an awkward thing for a poor fellow not to be quite sure whether to prepare for calms or squalls. Such a misfortune never could befall one at sea. Well, I must just take them to be foes till they prove themselves to be friends. And this scout, what in the world am I to do about _him_? I have no heart to hide in the bushes and shoot him dead as he passes." The little man had probably forgotten his readiness to shoot the scout in the back only a few minutes before--but is not mankind at large prone to inconsistency at times? "I know what I'll do," he muttered, pursuing his thoughts, and nodding his head, as he stepped aside into the shrubbery that clothed the slopes of the pass. Cutting down a suitable branch from a tree, he quickly stripped off the smaller branches and reduced it to a staff about six feet in length. Then, hiding himself behind a part of the cliff which abutted close on the footpath that had been worn through the pass by men and wild animals, he laid his bow and quiver at his feet and awaited the coming of the scout. He had not to wait long, for that worthy, having ascertained the size of the invading band, came down the pass at a swinging trot. Just as he passed the jutting rock his practised eye caught sight of Maikar in time to avoid the blow of the pole or staff, which was aimed at his head, but not to escape the dig in the ribs with which the little man followed it up. Instantly the scout's right hand flew to his quiver, but before he could fix an arrow another blow from the staff broke the bow in his left hand. Blazing with astonishment and wrath at such rough treatment from so small a man, he stepped back, drew his sword and glared at his opponent. Maikar also stepped back a pace or two and held up his hand as if for a truce. "I too have a sword," he said, pointing to the weapon, "and can use it, but I have no desire to slay you till I know whether you are friend or foe." "Slay me! thou insignificant rat!" cried the scout in savage fury. "Even if we were friends I would have to pay thee for that dig in the ribs and the broken bow. But I scorn to take advantage of such a squirrel. Have at thee with my staff!" Running at him as he spoke, the scout delivered a blow that would have acted like the hammer of Thor had it taken effect, but the seaman deftly dipped his head and the blow fell on a neighbouring birch, and a foot or so of the staff snapped off. What remained, however, was still a formidable weapon, but before the scout could use it he received another dig in the ribs which called forth a yell of indignation rather than of pain. The appropriateness of the name squirrel now became apparent, for Maikar even excelled that agile creature in the rapidity with which he waltzed round the sturdy scout and delivered his stinging little blows. To do the scout justice, he played his part like a brave and active warrior, so that it seemed to rain blows and digs in all directions, and, once or twice, as by a miracle, Maikar escaped what threatened to be little, if at all, short of extermination. As in running, so in fighting, it is the pace that kills. After five minutes or so both combatants were winded. They separated, as if by mutual consent, and, leaning on their staves, panted vehemently. Then at it they went again. "Thou little scrap of a pig's snout, come on," shouted the scout in huge disdain. "Thou big skinful of pride! look out!" cried Maikar, rendering the adoption of his own advice impossible by thrusting the butt of his staff against the scout's nose, and thereby filling his eyes with water. At the next moment he rendered him still more helpless by bestowing a whack on his crown which laid him flat on the footpath. A cheer behind him at that moment caused the little man to look round, when he found that the head of Gunrig's column, led by Arkal, had come up just in time to witness the final blow. They were still crowding round the fallen man, and asking hurried questions about him, when a voice from the heights above hailed them. Instantly a score or two of arrows were pointed in that direction. "Hold your hands, men!" shouted Gunrig. "I know that voice--ay, and the face too. Is it not the white beard of our friend the Hebrew that I see?" A few minutes more proved that he was right, for the well-known figure of Beniah descended the sides of the pass. The news he brought proved to be both surprising and perplexing, for up to that moment Gunrig had been utterly ignorant of the recent arrival of Gadarn from the far north in search of his lost daughter, though of course he was well aware of the various unsuccessful efforts that had been made by King Hudibras in that direction. Moreover, he chanced to be not on the best of terms with Gadarn just at that time. Then the fact that Bladud had recovered his health and was actively engaged in the search--not, indeed, so much for Branwen as for a youth named Cormac--was also surprising as well as disagreeable news to Gunrig. "And who is this Cormac in whom the prince seems to be so interested?" he asked. Here poor Beniah, held fast by his solemn promise, was compelled to give an evasive answer. "All that I can tell about him," he replied, "is that he is a kind young fellow to whose attention and nursing the prince thinks himself indebted for his life. But had we not better question this young man?" he added, turning to the scout. "I have heard rumours about robbers lurking somewhere hereabouts--hence my coming out alone to scout the country round, little dreaming that I should find the men of King Hudibras so near." "If robbers are said to be hereabouts," broke in Maikar at this point, "I can tell you where to find them, I think, for I saw a band of men in the hollow just beyond this pass." "Say you so?" exclaimed Gunrig; "fetch the prisoner here." The scout, who had recovered his senses by that time, was led forward, but doggedly refused to give any information. "Kindle a fire, men; we will roast him alive, and perhaps that will teach him to speak." It was by no means unusual for men in those days to use torture for the purpose of extracting information from obstinate prisoners. At first the man maintained his resolution, but when he saw that his captors were in earnest, and about to light the fire, his courage failed him. He confessed that he was a scout, and that Addedomar was there with several other well-known chiefs and a body of four hundred men. Thereupon the man was bound and put in the safe keeping of several men, whose lives were to be forfeited if he should escape. Then Gunrig, Dromas, Beniah, Arkal, Maikar, and several other chief men retired under a tree to hold a council of war. Their deliberations resulted in the following conclusions. First, that the number of warriors at their disposal, counting those of King Hudibras and those under Gadarn, amounted to a sufficient force wherewith to meet the invaders in open fight; second, that a junction between their forces must be effected that night, for, according to usual custom in such circumstances, the enemy would be pretty sure to attack before daybreak in the morning; and, third, that what was to be done must be set about as soon as darkness favoured their operations. "You can guide us in the dark, I suppose," said Gunrig, turning to Beniah. "Ay, as well almost as in the light," replied the Hebrew. "Let the men feed, then, and be ready for the signal to start," said the chief to his officers, "and see that no louder noise be heard than the crunching of their jaws." The night was favourable to their enterprise. The moon was indeed risen, but clouds entirely hid it, yet allowed a soft light to pass through which rendered objects close at hand quite visible. Before midnight they started on the march in profound silence, and, led by Beniah, made a wide _detour_ which brought them to the encampment of Gadarn. As may easily be understood, that chief was well pleased at the turn events had taken, for, to say truth, his little joke of trotting Beniah about the land and keeping him in perplexity, had begun to pall, and he had for some days past been hunting about for a plausible excuse for abandoning the search and going to visit King Hudibras. His difficulty in this matter was increased by his unwillingness to reveal the true state of matters to Bladud, yet he knew that unless he did so the prince would utterly refuse to abandon the search for Cormac. Another thing that perplexed the chief greatly was--how the Hebrew, knowing Branwen as he did, had failed to recognise her in the lad Cormac, for of course he knew nothing of the promise that held the Hebrew's lips tied; his daughter--who was as fond of a joke as himself-- having taken care not to reveal _all_ the complications that had arisen in regard to herself. The sudden appearance, therefore, of foes with whom he could fight proved to be a sort of fortunate safety-valve, and, besides, he had the comfort of thinking that he would fight in a good cause, for the region of the Hot Swamp belonged to his friend Hudibras, and this robber Addedomar was a notorious rascal who required extirpating, while the chiefs who had joined him were little better. The council of war that was hastily called included Bladud, who was sent for, being asleep in his own booth when the party arrived. The council chamber was under an old oak tree. When Bladud came forward he was suddenly struck motionless and glared as if he had seen a ghost. For the first time in his life he felt an emotion of supernatural fear--for there, in the flesh apparently, stood his friend Dromas. A smile from the latter reassured him. Leaping forward he seized his friend's hand, but the impulsive Greek was not to be put off thus. He threw an arm round the prince's neck and kissed his cheek. "Dromas!" cried Bladud, "can it be? Am I dreaming?" "This is all very well," interrupted the impatient Gadarn, "and I have no doubt you are excellent friends though somewhat demonstrative, but we are holding a council of war--not of affection--and as the enemy may be close at hand it behoves us to be smart. Shake hands, Gunrig; you and I must be friends when we fight on the same side. Now, let us to work. Who is to have the chief command?" By universal desire the council appointed Gadarn. "Well, then," said the commander-in-chief, "this is my view: Addedomar will come expecting to find us all asleep. He will find us all very wide awake. There is a slope in front of this camp leading down to the Swamp. At the bottom is a nice level piece of flat land, bordering on the Swamp, that seems just made for a battlefield. We will drive him and his men down the slope on to that flat, from which, after giving them the toothache, we will drive them into the Swamp, and as close up to the spring-head as we can, so that they may be half boiled alive, if possible. Those who escape the Swamp will find men ambushed on the other side who will drive them into the river. Those who escape the river may go home and take my blessing along with them." "Then do you intend to divide our troops into two bodies?" asked Bladud. "Of course I do. We can't have an ambush without dividing, can we?" "Division means weakness," observed Gunrig. "You were ever obstinate, Gunrig," said Gadarn, sharply. "Division sometimes means strength," said Dromas in a conciliatory tone, for he was anxious at least to prevent division in the council. "As Addedomar is ignorant of the strength of our force, his being attacked unexpectedly, and in the dark, by two or three bands at once, from different quarters, will do much to demoralise his men and throw them into confusion." "Right, my young friend," rejoined Gadarn; "though you do speak in the tones of one who has been born under other stars, there is sense in your head. That is the very thing I mean to do. We will divide into four bands. I will keep the biggest at the camp to drive them down the slope and begin the fight. Prince Bladud will take one detachment round through the woods to the river and fall upon them from that side. Gunrig, who I know loves the post of danger, will go down between the two mounds and meet the enemy right in the teeth when they are being driven out upon the flat land, and Dromas, as he seems to be a knowing man, might take the ambush on the other side of the Swamp." "Nay, if I may choose, I would rather fight under my friend Bladud." "Be it so. Settle that among yourselves. Only I must have Konar with me, for he knows the Swamp well and can roar splendidly. All the enemy below a certain point of courage will turn and split off when they hear his yell. I'm going to make him keep it for them as a little treat at the last. The Hebrew will also keep by me. Now marshal your men and take them off at once. We shan't have to wait long, for Addedomar is an active villain." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE BATTLE OF THE SPRINGS. Gadarn was right. The robber chief was very early astir that morning, and marched with his host so silently through the forest, that the very birds on the boughs gave them, as they passed underneath, but a sleepy wink of one eye and thrust their beaks again under their wings. Not knowing the country thoroughly, however, Addedomar met some slight obstructions, which, necessitating occasional detours from the straight path, delayed him a little, so that it was very near dawn when he reached the neighbourhood of Gadarn's camp. Hesitation in the circumstances he knew would be ruinous; he therefore neglected the precaution of feeling his way by sending scouts in advance, and made straight for the enemy's camp. Scouts previously sent out had ascertained its exact position, so that he had no doubt of effecting a complete surprise. Many noted battles have been fought and described in this world, but few, if any, we should think, will compare with the famous battle of the Springs in the completeness of the victory. Coming out upon the flat which Gadarn had determined should be the battle-field, and to the left of which the hot springs that caused the swamp were flowing, Addedomar marshalled his men for the final assault. Before reaching the flat they had passed almost within bow-shot of the spot where Gunrig and his men lay in ambush, and that chief might easily have fallen upon and killed many of them, had he not been restrained by the strict orders of Gadarn to let them pass on to the camp unmolested. It is true Gunrig found it very hard to hold his hand, but as Gadarn had been constituted commander-in-chief without a dissentient voice, in virtue of his superior intelligence and indomitable resolution, he felt bound to obey. Bladud and his friend Dromas, with their contingent, being at the lower end of the flat and far out of bow-shot, were not thus tempted to disobey orders. The ambuscade on the other side of the Swamp had been put under the command of Captain Arkal, with Maikar for his lieutenant. Being entirely ignorant of what was going on, the men of this contingent lay close, abiding their time. Inaction, during the development of some critical manoeuvre, while awaiting the signal to be up and doing, is hard to bear. Arkal and his men whiled away the time in whispered conversations, which related more or less to the part they were expected to play. "If any of the robbers reach this side of the swamp alive," remarked Arkal, "there will be no need to kill them." "What then? would you let them escape?" asked Maikar in surprise. "Not on this side of the river," returned the captain. "But we might drive them into it, and as it is in roaring flood just now, most of them will probably be drowned. The few who escape will do us service by telling the tale of their defeat to their friends." He ceased to whisper, for just then the dawning light showed them the dusky forms of the enemy stealing noiselessly but swiftly over the flat. At their head strode Addedomar and a few of his stoutest men. Reaching the slope that led to the camp the four hundred men rushed up, still, however, in perfect silence, expecting to take their victims by surprise. But before they gained the summit a body of men burst out from the woods on either side of the track, and leaped upon them with a prolonged roar that must have been the rudimentary form of a British cheer. The effect on the robbers was tremendous. On beholding the huge forms of Gadarn, Konar, and Beniah coming on in front they turned and fled like autumn leaves before a gale, without waiting even to discharge a single arrow. The courageous Addedomar was overwhelmed by the panic and carried away in the rush. Gadarn, supposing that the attack would have been made earlier and in the dark, had left the bows of his force behind, intending to depend entirely on swords and clubs. But he found that the robbers were swift of foot and that terror lent wings, for they did not overtake them at once. Down the slope went the robbers, and down went the roaring northmen, until both parties swept out upon the flat below. They did not scatter, however. Addedomar's men had been trained to keep together even in flight, and they now made for the gully between the mounds, their chief intending to face about there and show fight on the slopes of the pass. But the flying host had barely entered it, when they were assaulted and driven back by the forces under Gunrig, who went at them with a shout that told of previous severe restraint. The fugitives could not stand it. The arrows, which even during flight were being got ready for Gadarn's host, were suddenly discharged at the men in the gully; but the aim was wild, and the only shaft which took serious effect found its billet in the breast of Gunrig himself. He plucked it savagely out and continued the charge at the head of his men. Turning sharp to the left, the robbers then made for the lower end of the flat, still followed closely by Gadarn's band, now swelled by that of Gunrig. As had been anticipated, they almost ran into the arms of Bladud's contingent, which met them with a yell of rage, and the yell was answered by a shriek of terror. Their retreat being thus cut off in nearly all directions, the panic-stricken crew doubled to the left again, and sprang into the swamp, closely followed by their ever-increasing foes. At first and at some distance from the fountain-head the water felt warm and grateful to the lower limbs of the fugitives, but as they plunged in deeper and nearer to the springs, it became uncomfortably hot, and they began to scatter all over the place, in the hope of finding cool water. Some who knew the locality were successful. Others, who did not know it, rushed from hot to hotter, while some, who were blindly struggling toward the source of the evil, at last began to yell with pain, and no wonder, for the temperature of the springs then--as it has been ever since, and is at the present day--was 120 degrees of Fahrenheit--a degree of heat, in water, which man is not fitted to bear with equanimity. "Now, Konar, give them a tune from _your_ pipe," said Gadarn, whose eyes were blazing with excitement. The hunter of the Swamp obeyed, and it seemed as though a mammoth bull of Bashan had been suddenly let loose on the fugitives. To add to the turmoil a large herd of Bladud's pigs, disturbed from their lair, were driven into the hot water, where they swam about in a frantic state, filling the whole region with horrid yells, which, mingling with those of the human sufferers, and the incessant barking of Brownie, rendered confusion worse confounded, and caused the wild animals far and near to flee from the region as if it had become Pandemonium! The pigs, however, unlike the men, knew how to find the cooler parts of the swamp. Perceiving his error when he stood knee-deep in the swamp, Gadarn now sought to rectify it by sending a detachment of swift runners back for his bows and arrows. But this manoeuvre took time, and before it could be carried out the half-boiled host had gained the other side of the Swamp, and were massing themselves together preparatory to a retreat into the thick woods. "Now is _our_ time," said Arkal, rising up and drawing his sword. Then, with a nautical shout, and almost in the words of a late warrior of note, he cried, "Up, men, and at them!" And the men obeyed with such alacrity and such inconceivable violence, that the stricken enemy did not await the onset. They incontinently sloped at an angle of forty-five degrees with mother earth, and scooted towards the river, into which they all plunged without a moment's consideration. Arkal and his men paused on the brink to watch the result; but the seaman was wrong about the probable fate of the vanquished, for every man of the robber band could swim like an otter, besides being in a fit condition to enjoy the cooler stream. They all reached the opposite bank in safety. Scrambling out, they took to the woods without once looking back, and finally disappeared. During the remainder of that day Gadarn could do little else than chuckle or laugh. Bladud's comment was that it had been "most successful." "A bloodless victory!" remarked Beniah. "And didn't they yell?" said Arkal. "And splutter?" added Maikar. "And the pigs! oh! the pigs!" cried Gadarn, going off into another explosion which brought the tears to his eyes, "it would have been nothing without the pigs!" The gentle reader must make allowance for the feelings of men fresh from the excitement of such a scene, existing as they did in times so very remote. But, after all, when we take into consideration the circumstances; the nature of the weapons used; the cause of the war, and the objects gained, and compare it all with the circumstances, weapons, causes, and objects of modern warfare, we are constrained to admit that it was a "most glorious victory"--this Battle of the Springs. CHAPTER THIRTY. SMALL BEGINNINGS OF FUTURE GREAT THINGS. There was one thing, however, which threw a cloud over the rejoicing with which the conquerors hailed this memorable victory. Gunrig's wound turned out to be a very severe one--much more so than had been at first supposed--for the arrow had penetrated one of his lungs, and, breaking off, had left the head in it. As Bladud was the only one of the host who possessed any knowledge of how to treat complicated wounds, he was "called in," much against the wish of the wounded man; but when the prince had seen and spoken to him, in his peculiarly soft voice, and with his gentle manner, besides affording him considerable relief, the chief became reconciled to his new doctor. "I thought you a savage monster," said the invalid, on the occasion of the amateur doctor's third visit; "but I find you to be almost as tender as a woman. Yet your hand was heavy enough when it felled me at the games!" "Let not your mind dwell on that, Gunrig; and, truth to tell, if it had not been for that lucky--or, if you choose, unlucky--blow, I might have found you more than my match." The chief held out his hand, which the doctor grasped. "I thought to kill you, Bladud; but when I get well, we shall be friends." Poor Gunrig, however, did not from that day show much evidence of getting well. His case was far beyond the skill of his amateur doctor. It was, therefore, resolved, a day or two later, to send him home under an escort led by Beniah. "I will follow you ere long," said Gadarn, as he grasped the hand of the invalid at parting, "for I have business at the court of King Hudibras." Gunrig raised himself in the litter in which he was borne by four men, and looked the northern chief earnestly in the face. "You have not yet found your daughter?" he asked. "Well--no. At least not exactly." "Not exactly!" repeated Gunrig in surprise. "No; not exactly. That's all I can say at present. All ready in front there? Move on! My greetings to the king, and say I shall see him soon. What, ho! Konar, come hither! Know you where I can find Prince Bladud?" "In his booth," replied the hunter. "Send him to me. I would have speech with him." When the prince entered the booth of the commander-in-chief, he found that worthy with his hands on his sides, a tear or two in his eyes, and very red in the face. He frowned suddenly, however, and became very grave on observing Bladud. "I sent for you," he said, "to let you know my intended movements, and to ask what you mean to do. To-morrow I shall start for your father's town with all my men." "What! and leave your daughter undiscovered?" "Ay. Of what use is it to search any longer? There is not a hole or corner of the land that we have not ransacked. I am certain that she is not here, wherever she may be; so I must go and seek elsewhere. Wilt go with me?" "That will not I," returned Bladud decisively. "Wherefore? The Hebrew tells me you are cured; and your father will be glad to have you back." "It matters not. I leave not this region until I have made a more thorough search for and found the lad Cormac, or at least ascertained his fate." "Why so anxious about the boy? is he of kin to you?" said Gadarn in a tone that seemed to convey the slightest possible evidence of contempt. "Ay, he is of kin," returned Bladud, warmly; "for it seems to me sometimes that friendship is a closer tie than blood. At all events, I owe my life to him. Moreover, if he has been captured by robbers, I feel assured that he will escape before long and return to me." "Indeed! Are you, then, so sure of his affection? Has he ever dared to say that he--he is fond of you?" "Truly, he never has; for we men of the southern parts of Albion are not prone to speak of our feelings, whatever you of the north may be. But surely you must know, chief, that the eyes, the tones, and the actions, have a language of their own which one can well understand though the tongue be silent. Besides, I do not see it to be a very daring act for one man to tell another that he is fond of him. And you would not wonder at my regard, if you only knew what a pure-minded, noble fellow this Cormac is,--so thoughtful, so self-sacrificing, for, you know, it must have cost him--it would cost any one--a terrible effort of self-denial to dwell in such a solitude as this for the sole purpose of nursing a stranger, and that stranger a doomed leper, as I thought at first, though God has seen fit to restore me." "Nevertheless, I counsel you to come with me, prince, for I have no intention of giving up the search for my child, though I mean to carry it on in a more likely region; and who knows but we may find Cormac-- ha!" (here there was a peculiar catch in Gadarn's throat which he sought to conceal with a violent sneeze)--"ha! find Cormac in the same region!" "That is not likely. I see no reason why two people who were lost at different times, and not, as far as we know, in exactly the same place, should be found"--(here the chief had another fit of sneezing)--"be found together. At any rate, I remain here, for a time at least. My old friend Dromas will remain with me, and some of my father's men." As Gadarn could not induce the prince to alter his decision, and, for reasons of his own, did not choose to enlighten him, they parted there-- the chief setting off with his troops in the direction of Hudibras' town, and the prince returning to his booth, accompanied by Captain Arkal, little Maikar, the hunter of the Hot Swamp, and about thirty of his father's men, who had elected to stay with him. "As I am now cured, good Konar," said Bladud to the hunter, while returning to the booth, "and as I have enough to do in searching for my lost friend, I fear that I must end my service with you, and make over the pigs to some other herd." "As you please, prince," returned the eccentric hunter with the utmost coolness, "the pigs were well able to look after themselves before you came, and, doubtless, they will be not less able after you go." Bladud laughed, and, putting his hand kindly on the man's shoulder, assured him that he would find for him a good successor to herd his pigs. He also asked him if he would agree to act as hunter to his party, as he intended to remain in that region and build a small town beside the springs, so that people afflicted with the disease from which he had suffered, or any similar disease, might come and be cured. Konar agreed at once, for a new light burst upon him, and the idea of living to serve other people, and not merely to feed himself, seemed to put new life into him. "Do you really mean to build a town here?" asked Dromas, when he heard his friend giving orders to his men to erect a large booth to shelter them all for some time to come. "Indeed, I do. So thankful am I, Dromas, for this cure, that I feel impelled to induce others to come and share the blessing. I only wish I could hope that you would stay in Albion and aid me. But I suppose there is some fair one in Hellas who might object to that." "No fair one that I know of," returned Dromas, with a laugh, "and as I have left neither kith nor kin at home, there is nothing to prevent my taking the proposal into consideration." "That is good news indeed. So, then, I will ask you to come along with me just now, and mayhap you will make up your mind while we walk. I go to fix on a site for the new town, and to set the men to work." That day the voices of toilers, and the sound of hatchets and the crash of falling trees, were heard in the neighbourhood of the Hot Swamp, while the prince and his friend examined the localities around in the immediate vicinity of the fountain-head. On coming to the fountain itself, the young men paused to look at it, as it welled up from the earth. So hot was it that they could not endure to hold their hands in it, and in such volumes did it rise, that it overflowed its large natural basin continually, and converted a large tract of ground into a morass, while finding its way, by many rills and channels, into the adjacent river. "What a singular work of Nature!" remarked Dromas. "Why not say--a wonderful work of God?" replied the prince. "Come now, my friend, let us not begin again our old discussions. What was suitable for the groves of Hellas is not appropriate to the swamps of Albion!" "I agree not with that, Dromas." "You were ever ready to disagree, Bladud." "Nay, not exactly to disagree, but to argue. However, I will fall in with your humour just now, and wait for what you may deem a more fitting time. But what, think you, can be the cause of this extraordinary hot spring?" "Fire!" returned the Greek promptly. "Truly that must be so," returned the prince, with a laugh. "You are unusually sharp this morning, my friend. But what originates the fire, and where is it, and why does it not set the whole world on fire, seeing that it must needs be under the earth?" "It would be better to put such questions to the wise men of Egypt, next time you have the chance, than to me," returned Dromas, "for I am not deep enough in philosophy to answer you. Nevertheless, it does not seem presumptuous to make a guess. That there is abundance of fire beneath the ground on which we tread is clear from the burning mountains which you and I have seen on our way from Hellas. Probably there are many such mountains elsewhere, for if the fire did not find an escape in many places, it would assuredly burst our world asunder. What set the inside of the world on fire at the beginning is, of course, a puzzle; and why everything does not catch fire and blaze up is another puzzle--for it is plain that if you were to set fire to the inside of your booth, the outside would be shrivelled up immediately. Then," continued Dromas, knitting his brows and warming with his subject, "there must be a big lake under the earth somewhere, and quite close to the fire, which sets it a-boiling and makes it boil over--thus." He pointed to the fountain as he spoke. "There may be truth in what you say, Dromas. At all events your theory is plausible, and this, I know, that ever since I came here, there has not been the slightest diminution in the volume of hot water that has poured forth; from which I would conclude that it has been flowing thus from the beginning of time, and that it will go on flowing thus to the end." We know not whether the reader will be inclined to class Bladud among the prophets, but there are some prophets who have less claim to the title, for it is a fact that in this year of grace, 1892, the output of hot water from the same fountain, in the town of Bath, is one million tons every year, while the quantity and the temperature never vary in any appreciable degree, summer or winter, from year to year! Having discussed the philosophical aspect of the fountain, the two friends proceeded with the work then in hand. Of course, as they gazed around at the richly wooded hills and attractive eminences, which were not only charming sites for the little town, but also well suited for fortresses to resist invasions they were naturally tempted to sacrifice the useful to the safe and beautiful. Fortunately wisdom prevailed, and it was that day decided that the site for Swamptown should be on a slope that rose gently from the river bank, passed close by the Hot Swamp, and was finally lost in the lovely wood-clad terraces beyond. "We must, of course, confine the hot stream within banks, train it to the river, and drain the Swamp," observed Bladud, as he sat brooding over his plans that night at supper. "Ay, and make a pond for sick folk to dip in," said Dromas. "And another pond for the healthy folk," suggested Captain Arkal; "we like to give ourselves a wash now and then, and it would never do for the healthy to go spluttering about with the sick--would it?" "Certainly not," interposed little Maikar, "but what about the women? They would need a pond for themselves, would they not? Assuredly they would keep us all in hot water if they didn't have one." "I see," said Bladud, still in a meditative mood. "There would have to be a succession of ponds alongside of the hot stream, with leads to let the water in--" "And other leads to let the overflow out," suggested the practical Arkal. "Just so. And booths around the ponds for people to dry themselves and dress in. Ha!" exclaimed the prince, smiting his knee with his hand. "I see a great thing in this--a thing that will benefit mankind as long as disease shall afflict them--as long as the hot waters flow!" He looked round on his friends with an air of combined solemnity and triumph. The solemnity without the triumph marked the faces of his friends as they returned the look in profound silence, for they all seemed to feel that the prince was in a state of exaltation, and that something approaching to the nature of a prophecy had been uttered. For a few moments they continued to gaze at each other--then there was a general sigh, as if a matter of great importance had been finally settled, and the silence was at last broken by little Maikar solemnly demanding another rib of roast-beef. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. MORE PLOTS AND PLANS. Having laid the foundations of the new town, drawn out his plans and set his men to work, Bladud appointed Captain Arkal superintendent, and set out on his quest after his lost friend Cormac, taking Dromas and Maikar along with him and four of the men--one of them being Konar the hunter. Brownie was also an important member of the party, for his master hoped much from his power of scent. Meanwhile Cormac--alias Branwen, _alias_ the little old woman--forsook the refuge of the Hebrew's house, and, in her antique capacity, paid a visit one afternoon to the palace of Hudibras. "Here comes that deaf old witch again," said the domestic who had formerly threatened to set the dogs at her. "Yes," remarked the old woman when she came up to the door, "and the old witch has got her hearing again, my sweet-faced young man--got it back in a way, too, that, if you only heard how, would make your hair stand on end, your eyes turn round, and the very marrow in your spine shrivel up. Go and tell the princess I want to see her." "Oh!" replied the domestic with a faint effort at a sneer, for he was a bold man, though slightly superstitious. "Oh!" echoed the old woman. "Yes, and tell her that if she keeps me waiting I'll bring the black cloud of the Boong-jee-gop over the palace, and that will bring you all to the condition of wishing that your grandmothers had never been born. Young man--go!" This was too much for that domestic. The unheard-of horrors of the Boong-jee-gop, coupled with the tremendous energy of the final "go!" was more than he could stand. He went--meekly. "Send her to me directly," said Hafrydda, and the humiliated servitor obeyed. "Dearest Branwen!" exclaimed the princess, throwing back the old woman's shawl, straightening her up, and hugging her when they were alone, "how long you have been coming! Where have you been? Why have you forsaken me? And _I_ have such quantities of news to tell you--but, what has become of your hair?" "I cut it short after I fell into the hands of robbers--" "Robbers!" exclaimed the princess. "Yes--I shall tell you all about my adventures presently--and you have no idea what difficulty I had in cutting it, for the knife was so blunt that I had to cut and pull at it a whole afternoon. But it had to be done, for I meant to personate a boy--having stolen a boy's hunting dress for that purpose. Wasn't it fun to rob the robbers? And then-- and then--I found your brother--" "_You_ found Bladud?" "Yes, and--and--but I'll tell you all about that too presently. It is enough to say that he is alive and well--sickness almost, if not quite, gone. I _was_ so sorry for him." "Dear Branwen!" said the princess, with an emphatic oral demonstration. Hafrydda was so loving and tender and effusive, and, withal, so very fair, that her friend could not help gazing at her in admiration. "No wonder I love him," said Branwen. "Why?" asked the princess, much amused at the straightforward gravity with which this was said. "Because he is as like you as your own image in a brazen shield--only far better-looking." "Indeed, your manners don't seem to have been improved by a life in the woods, my Branwen." "Perhaps not. I never heard of the woods being useful for that end. Ah, if you had gone through all that I have suffered--the--the--but what news have you got to tell me?" "Well, first of all," replied the princess, with that comfortable, interested manner which some delightful people assume when about to make revelations, "sit down beside me and listen--and don't open your eyes too wide at first else there will be no room for further expansion at last." Hereupon the princess entered on a minute account of various doings at the court, which, however interesting they were to Branwen, are not worthy of being recorded here. Among other things, she told her of a rumour that was going about to the effect that an old witch had been seen occasionally in the neighbourhood of Beniah's residence, and that all the people in the town were more or less afraid of going near the place either by day or night on that account. Of course the girls had a hearty laugh over this. "Did they say what the witch was like?" asked Branwen. "O yes. People have given various accounts of her--one being that she is inhumanly ugly, that fire comes out of her coal-black eyes, and that she has a long tail. But now I come to my most interesting piece of news--that will surprise you most, I think--your father Gadarn is here!" Branwen received this piece of news with such quiet indifference that her friend was not only disappointed but amazed. "My dear," she asked, "why do you not gasp, `My father!' and lift your eyebrows to the roots of your hair?" "Because I know that he is here." "Know it!" "Yes--know it. I have seen him, as well as your brother, and father knows that _I_ am here." "Oh! you deceiver! That accounts, then, for the mystery of his manner and the strange way he has got of going about chuckling when there is nothing funny being said or done--at least nothing that I can see!" "He's an old goose," remarked her friend. "Branwen," said the princess in a remonstrative tone, "is that the way to speak of your own father?" "He's a dear old goose, then, if that will please you better--the very nicest old goose that I ever had to do with. Did he mention Bladud to you?" "Yes, he said he had seen him, and been helped by him in a fight they seemed to have had at the Hot Swamp, but we could not gather much from him as to the dear boy's state of health, or where he lived, or what he meant to do. He told us, however, of a mysterious boy who had nursed him in sickness, and who had somehow been lost or captured, and that poor Bladud was so fond of the boy that he had remained behind to search for him. I now know," added the princess with a laugh, "who this dear boy is, but I am greatly puzzled still about some of his doings and intentions." "Listen, then, Hafrydda, and I will tell you all." As we have already told the reader all, we will not tell it over again, but leap at once to that point where the princess asked, at the close of the narrative, what her friend intended to do. "That," said Branwen with a perplexed look and a sigh, "is really more than I can tell you at present. You see, there are some things that I am sure of and some things that I am not quite so sure of, but that I must find out somehow. For instance, I am quite sure that I love your brother more than any man in the world. I am also quite sure that he is the bravest, handsomest, strongest, best, and most unselfish man that ever lived--much about the same as my father, except that, being younger, he is handsomer, though I have no doubt my father was as good-looking as he when he was as young. Then I am also quite sure that Bladud is very fond of the boy Cormac, but--I am not at all sure that he will love the girl Branwen when he sees her." "But _I_ am sure of it--quite sure," said the princess, demonstrating orally again. At this there was a slight sound near the door of the apartment in which this confidential talk was held, which induced Branwen to spring up and fling it wide open, thus disclosing the lately humiliated servitor with the blush of guilt upon his brow. "Enter!" cried the princess, in an imperious tone, looking up at the man, who was unusually tall and limp. The servitor obeyed. "Sit down," said the princess, with a view to get the tall man's head on a level with her blue indignant eyes. "Have you heard much?" "Not much," answered the man, with intense humility. "I heard only a very little at the end, and that so imperfectly that I don't think I can remember it--I really don't." "Now, listen," said the princess, with a look that was intended to scorch. "You know my father." "Indeed I do,--have known him ever since I was a boy." "Well, if you ever breathe a word of what you have seen or heard, or what you think you have seen or heard to-day, to any one, I will set my father at you, and that, as you know, will mean roasting alive over a slow fire at the very least." "And," said Branwen, advancing and shaking her forefinger within an inch of the man's nose, "I will set _my_ father at you, which will mean slow torture for hours. Moreover, I will set the Boong-jee-gop on your track, and that will mean--no, I won't say what. It is too horrible even to mention!" "Now--go!" said the princess, pointing to the door. The servitor went with an air of profound abasement, which changed into a look of complicated amusement when he got out of sight. "He is quite safe," said the princess, "not that I count much on his fear, for he is as brave as a she-wolf with whelps, and fears nothing, but I know he likes me." "I think he likes me too," said Branwen, thoughtfully. "Besides, I feel sure that the Boong-jee-gop has some influence over him. Yes, I think we are safe." "Well, now," she continued, resuming the interrupted conversation, "it seems to me that the only course open to me is to appear to Bladud as a girl some day, and see if he recognises me. Yet I don't quite like it, for, now that it is all past and he is well again, I feel half ashamed of the part I have played--yet how could I help it when I saw the poor fellow going away to die--alone!" "You could not help it, dear, and you should not wish it were otherwise. Now, never mind what you feel about it, but let us lay our heads together and consider what is to be done. You think, I suppose, that Bladud may go on for a long time searching for this youth Cormac?" "Yes, for a very long time, and he'll _never_ find him," replied Branwen with a merry laugh. "Well, then, we must find some means of getting him home without letting him know why we want him," continued the princess. "Just so, but that won't be easy," returned the other with a significant look, "for he is _very_ fond of Cormac, and won't easily be made to give up looking for him." "You conceited creature, you are too sure of him." "Not at all. Only as Cormac. I wish I were sure of him as Branwen!" "Perchance he might like you best as the little old woman in grey." "It may be so. I think he liked me even as a witch, for he patted my shoulder once so kindly." "I'll tell you what--I'll go and consult father," said the princess. "No, you shan't, my dear, for he is not to know anything about it just yet. But I will go and consult _my_ father. He will give me good advice, I know." The result of Branwen's consultation with her father was that the Hebrew was summoned to his presence. An explanation took place, during which Gadarn attempted to look grave, and dignified, as became a noted northern chief, but frequently turned very red in the face and vented certain nasal sounds, which betrayed internal commotion. "You will therefore start for the Hot Swamp to-morrow, Beniah," he finally remarked, "and let Bladud know that the king desires his return to court immediately. I have been told by the king to send him this message. But keep your own counsel, Hebrew, and be careful not to let the prince know what _you_ know, else it will go ill with you! Tell him, from myself, that I have at last fallen on the tracks of the lad Cormac, and that we are almost sure to find him in this neighbourhood. Away, and let not thy feet take root on the road." CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. BRANWEN VISITS GUNRIG. Before going off on his mission the Hebrew paid a visit to his own residence, where he found Branwen busy with culinary operations. Sitting down on a stool, he looked at her with an expression of mingled amusement and perplexity. "Come hither, my girl," he said, "and sit beside me while I reveal the straits to which you have brought me. Verily, a short time ago I had deemed it impossible for any one to thrust me so near to the verge of falsehood as you have done!" "I, Beniah?" exclaimed the maiden, with a look of surprise on her pretty face so ineffably innocent that it was obviously hypocritical--insomuch that Beniah laughed, and Branwen was constrained to join him. "Yes--you and your father together, for the puzzling man has commissioned me to set out for the Hot Swamp, to tell Bladud that he is urgently wanted at home. And he would not even allow me to open my lips, when I was about to broach the subject of your disguises, although he almost certainly knows all about them--" "What! my father knows?" interrupted Branwen, with raised eyebrows. "Yes, and you know that he knows, and he knows that I know, and we all know that each other knows, and why there should be any objection that every one should know is more than I can--" "Never mind, Beniah," interrupted the girl, with the slightest possible smile. "You are a dear, good old creature, and I know you won't betray me. Remember your solemn promise." "Truly I shall not forget it soon," replied the Hebrew, "for the trouble it has cost me already to compose answers that should not be lies is beyond your light-hearted nature to understand." "Ah! yes, indeed," rejoined Branwen, with a sigh of mock humility, "I was always very lighthearted by nature. The queen used frequently to tell me so--though she never said it was by `nature,' and the king agreed with her--though by the way he used to laugh, I don't think he thought light-heartedness to be _very_ naughty. But come, Beniah, I am longing to hear what my father commissioned you to say or do." "Well, he was very particular in cautioning me _not_ to tell what I know--" "Ah! that knowledge, what a dreadful thing it is to have too much of it! Well, what more?" "He told me what I have already told you, and bid me add from himself that he has fallen on the tracks of the lad Cormac, and that he is sure to be found in this neighbourhood." "That, at least, will be no lie," suggested the maid. "I'm not so sure of that, for the lad Cormac will never be found here or anywhere else, having no existence at all." Branwen laughed at this and expressed surprise. "It seems to me," she said, "that age or recent worries must have touched your brain, Beniah, for if the lad Cormac has no existence at all, how is it possible that you could meet with him at the Hot Swamp, and even make a solemn promise to him." Beniah did not reply to this question, but rose to make preparation for his journey. Then, as if suddenly recollecting something that had escaped him, he returned to his seat. "My child," he said, "I have that to tell you which will make you sad-- unless I greatly misunderstand your nature. Gunrig, your enemy, is dying." That the Hebrew had not misunderstood Branwen's nature was evident, from the genuine look of sorrow and sympathy which instantly overspread her countenance. "Call him not my enemy!" she exclaimed. "An enemy cannot love! But, tell me about him. I had heard the report that he was recovering." "It was the report of a sanguine mother who will not believe that his end is so near; but she is mistaken. I saw him two days ago. The arrow-head is still rankling in his chest, and he knows himself to be dying." "Is he much changed in appearance?" asked Branwen. "Indeed he is. His great strength is gone, and he submits to be treated as a child--yet he is by no means childish. The manliness of his strong nature is left, but the boastfulness has departed, and he looks death in the face like a true warrior; though I cannot help thinking that if choice had been given him he would have preferred to fall by the sword of Bladud, or some doughty foe who could have given him a more summary dismissal from this earthly scene." "Beniah, I will visit him," said Branwen, suddenly brushing back her hair with both hands, and looking earnestly into the Hebrew's face. "That will be hard for you to do and still keep yourself concealed." "Nothing will be easier," replied the girl, with some impatience; "you forget the old woman's dress. I will accompany you as far as his dwelling. It is only an easy day's journey on foot from here." "But, my child, I go on horseback; and I am to be supplied with only one horse." "Well, my father, that is no difficulty; for I will ride and you shall walk. You will bring the horse here instead of starting straight from the palace. Then we will set off together, and I will gallop on in advance. When you reach Gunrig's house in the evening, you will find the horse fed and rested, and ready for you to go on." "But how will you return, child?" "By using my legs, man! As an old witch I can travel anywhere at night in perfect safety." According to this arrangement--to which the Hebrew was fain to agree-- the pair started off a little after daybreak the following morning. Branwen galloped, as she had said, in advance, leaving her protector to make his slower way through the forest. The sun was high when the domestics of Gunrig's establishment were thrown into a state of great surprise and no little alarm at sight of a little old woman in grey bestriding a goodly horse and galloping towards the house. Dashing into the courtyard at full speed, and scattering the onlookers right and left, she pulled up with some difficulty, just in time to prevent the steed going through the parchment window of the kitchen. "Help me down!" she cried, looking full in the face of a lumpish lad, who stood gazing at her with open eyes and mouth. "Don't you see I am old and my joints are stiff? Be quick!" There was a commanding tone in her shrill voice that brooked no delay. The lumpish lad shut his mouth, reduced his eyes, and, going shyly forward, held out his hand. The old woman seized it, and, almost before he had time to wink, stood beside him. "Where is Gunrig's room?" she demanded. All the observers pointed to a door at the end of a passage. "Take good care of my horse! Rub him well down; feed him. _I_ shall know if you don't!" she cried, as she entered the passage and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by Gunrig's mother, whose swollen eyes and subdued voice told their own tale. "May I come in and see him, mother?" said Branwen, in her own soft voice. "You are a strange visitor," said the poor woman, in some surprise. "Do you want much to see him? He is but a poor sight now." "Yes--O yes!--I want very much to see him." "Your voice is kindly, old woman. You may come in." The sight that Branwen saw on entering was, indeed, one fitted to arouse the most sorrowful emotions of the heart; for there, on a rude couch of branches, lay the mere shadow of the once stalwart chief, the great bones of his shoulders showing their form through the garments which he had declined to take off; while his sunken cheeks, large glittering eyes, and labouring breath, told all too plainly that disease had almost completed the ruin of the body, and that death was standing by to liberate the soul. "Who comes to disturb me at such a time, mother?" said the dying man, with a distressed look. Branwen did not give her time to answer, but, hurrying forward, knelt beside the couch and whispered in his ear. As she did so there was a sudden rush of blood to the wan cheeks, and something like a blaze of the wonted fire in the sunken eyes. "Mother," he said, with something of his old strength of voice, "leave us for a short while. This woman has somewhat to tell me." "May I not stay to hear it, my son?" "No. You shall hear all in a very short time. Just now--leave us!" "Now, Branwen," said the chief, taking her hand in his, "what blessed chance has sent you here?" The poor girl did not speak, for when she looked at the great, thin, transparent hand which held hers, and thought of the day when it swayed the heavy sword so deftly, she could not control herself, and burst into tears. "Oh! poor, poor Gunrig! I'm so sorry to see you like this!--so very, very sorry!" She could say no more, but covered her face with both hands and wept. "Nay, take not your hand from me," said the dying man, again grasping the hand which she had withdrawn; "its soft grip sends a rush of joy to my sinking soul." "Say not that you are sinking, Gunrig," returned the girl in pitying tones; "for it is in the power of the All-seeing One to restore you to health if it be His will." "If He is All-seeing, then there is no chance of His restoring me to health; for He has seen that I have lived a wicked life. Ah! Branwen, you do not know what I have been. If there is a place of rewards and punishment, as some tell us there is, assuredly my place will be that of punishment, for my life has been one of wrong-doing. And there is something within me that I have felt before, but never so strong as now, which tells me that there _is_ such a place, and that I am condemned to it." "But I have heard from the Hebrew--who reads strange things marked on a roll of white cloth--that the All-seeing One's nature is _love_, and that He has resolved Himself to come and save men from wrong-doing." "That would be good news indeed, Branwen, if it were true." "The Hebrew says it is true. He says he believes it, and the All-seeing One is a Redeemer who will save all men from wrong-doing." "Would that I could find Him, Branwen, for that is what I wish. I know not whether there shall be a hereafter or not, but if there is I shall hope for deliverance from wrong-doing. A place of punishment I care not much about, for I never shrank from pain or feared death. What I do fear is a hereafter, in which I shall live over again the old bad life-- and I am glad it is drawing to a close with your sweet voice sounding in my ears. I believe it was that voice which first shot into my heart the desire to do right, and the hatred of wrong." "I am glad to hear that, Gunrig, though it never entered into my head, I confess, to do you such a good turn. And surely it must have been the All-seeing One who enabled me to influence you thus, and who now recalls to my mind what the Hebrew read to me--one of those sayings of the good men of his nation which are marked in the white roll I spoke of. It is this--`God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.'" "That is a good word, if it be a true one," returned the chief, "and I hope it is. Now, my end is not far off. I am so glad and thankful that you have forgiven me before the end. Another thing that comforts me is that Bladud and I have been reconciled." "Bladud!" exclaimed the girl. "Ay, the prince with whom I fought at the games, you remember." "Remember! ay, right well do I remember. It was a notable fight." "It was," returned the chief, with a faint smile, "and from that day I hated him and resolved to kill him, till I met him at the Hot Swamp, where I got this fatal wound. He nursed me there, and did his best to save my life, but it was not to be. Yet I think that his tenderness, as well as your sweet voice, had something to do with turning my angry spirit round. I would see my mother now. The world is darkening, and the time is getting short." The deathly pallor of the man's cheeks bore witness to the truth of his words. Yet he had strength to call his mother into the room. On entering and beholding a beautiful girl kneeling, and in tears, where she had left a feeble old woman, she almost fell down with superstitious fear, deeming that an angel had been sent to comfort her son--and so indeed one had been sent, in a sense, though not such an one as superstition suggested. A few minutes' talk with Gunrig, however, cleared up the mystery. But the unwonted excitement and exertion had caused the sands of life to run more rapidly than might otherwise have been the case. The chief's voice became suddenly much more feeble, and frequently he gasped for breath. "Mother," he said, "Branwen wants to get home without any one knowing that she has been here. You will send our stoutest man with her to-night, to guard her through the woods as far as the Hebrew's cave. Let him not talk to her by the way, and bid him do whatever she commands." "Yes, my dear, dear son, what else can I do to comfort you?" "Come and sit beside me, mother, and let me lay my head on your knee. You were the first to comfort me in this life, and I want you to be the last. Speak with Branwen, mother, after I am gone. She will comfort you as no one else can. Give me your hand, mother; I would sleep now as in the days gone by." The bronzed warrior laid his shaggy head on the lap where he had been so often fondled when he was a little child, and gently fell into that slumber from which he never more awoke. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. THE HEBREW'S MISSION. We turn now to Beniah the Hebrew. On arriving at the Hot Swamp he was amazed to find the change that had been made in the appearance of the locality in so short a time. "United action, you see," said Captain Arkal, who did the honours of the new settlement in the absence of Bladud and his friends, these being still absent on their vain search for the lad Cormac, "united action, perseveringly continued, leads to amazing results." He repeated this to himself, in a low tone, as if he were rather proud of having hit on a neat way of expressing a great truth which he believed was an original discovery of his own. "Yes," he continued, "I have got my men, you see, into splendid working order. They act from morning to night in concert--one consequence of which is that all is Harmony, and there is but one man at the helm, the consequence of which is, that all is Power. Harmony and Power! I have no faith, Beniah, in a divided command. My men work together and feed together and play together and sleep together, united in the one object of carrying out the grand designs of Prince Bladud, while I, as the superintendent of the work, see to it that the work is properly done. Nothing could be more simple or satisfactory." "Or more amazing," added Beniah, as they walked by the margin of a hot rivulet. "I could scarcely have known the Swamp had I not recognised its beautiful surroundings." "Just so; it is all, as I have said, the result of union, which I hold to be the very foundation of human power, for united action is strong," said the captain, with enthusiasm, as he originated the idea which, years afterwards, became the familiar proverb, "Union is Strength." "Most true, O mariner," returned Beniah, "your wisdom reminds me of one of our kings who wrote many of our wisest sayings." "Ah, wise sayings have their value, undoubtedly," returned Arkal, "but commend me to wise doings. Look here, now, at the clever way in which Bladud has utilised this bush-covered knoll. It is made to divide this rivulet in two, so that one branch, as you see, fills this pond, which is intended for the male population of the place, while the other branch fills another pond--not in sight at present--intended for the women. Then, you see that large pond away to the left, a considerable distance from the fountain-head--that is supplied by a very small stream of the hot water, so that it soon becomes quite cold, and branch rivulets from the cold pond to the hot ponds cool them down till they are bearable. It took six days to fill up the cold pond." "We have not yet got the booths made for the women to dress in," continued the captain, "for we have no women yet in our settlement; but you see what convenient ones we have set up for the men." "But surely," said the Hebrew, looking round with interest, "you have far more hot water than you require." "Yes, much more." "What, then, do you do with the surplus?" "We just let it run into the swamp at present, as it has always done, but we are digging a big drain to carry it off into the river. Then, when the swamp is dry, we will plant eatable things in it, and perhaps set up more booths and huts and dig more baths. Thus, in course of time--who knows?--we may have a big town here, and King Hudibras himself may condescend to lave his royal limbs in our waters." "That may well be," returned the Hebrew thoughtfully. "The Hot Spring is a good gift from the All-seeing One, and if it cures others as it has cured Prince Bladud, I should not wonder to see the people of the whole land streaming to the place before long. But have you given up all thought of returning to your native land, Arkal? Do you mean to settle here?" "Nay, verily--that be far from me! Have I not a fair wife in Hellas, who is as the light of mine eyes; and a little son who is as the plague of my life? No, I shall return home once more to fetch my wife and child here--then I shall have done with salt water for ever, and devote myself to hot water in time to come." "A wise resolve, no doubt," said Beniah, "and in keeping with all your other doings." "See," interrupted Arkal, "there is the river and the women's bath, and the big drain that I spoke of." He pointed to a wide ditch extending from the swamp towards the river. It had been cut to within a few yards of the latter, and all the men of the place were busily engaged with primitive picks, spades, and shovels, in that harmonious unity of action of which the captain had expressed such a high opinion. A few more yards of cutting, and the ditch, or drain, would be completed, when the waters of the swamp would be turned into it. Those waters had been banked up at the head of the drain and formed a lake of considerable size, which, when the neck of land separating it from the drain should be cut, would rush down the artificial channel and disappear in the river. Engineering in those days, however, had not been studied--at least in Albion--to the extent which now prevails in England. The neck of land was not equal to the pressure brought to bear on it, and while the captain and his friend were looking at it, there appeared symptoms which caused the former some anxiety. At that moment Konar the hunter came up. Although attached to the settlement as hunter, he had agreed to take his turn with the diggers, for the water accumulated in the lake so fast that the work had to be done rapidly, and every available man at the place was pressed into the service. The overseer himself, even, lent a hand occasionally. "I don't like the look of the lower part of that neck," he remarked to the hunter. Konar was a man of few words. By way of reply he laid aside his bow and descended the bank to examine the weak point. He was still engaged in the investigation and bending over a moist spot, when the entire mass of earth gave way and the waters burst into the drain with a gush and a roar quite indescribable. Konar was swept away instantly as if he had been a feather. Arkal and Beniah sprang down the bank to his assistance, and were themselves nearly swept into the flood which had swallowed up the hunter, but Konar was not quite gone. Another moment and his legs appeared above the flood, then his head turned up, and then the raging waters tossed him as if contemptuously on a projecting spit of bank, where he lay half in and half out of the torrent. In a moment both Arkal and the Hebrew were at the spot, seized the hunter by an arm, the neck of his coat, and the hair of his head, and drew him out of danger; but no sign of life did the poor man exhibit as he lay there on the grass. Meanwhile the energetic labourers at the lower end of the drain heard the turmoil and stood motionless with surprise, but were unable to see what caused it, owing to a thick bush which intervened. Another moment and they stood aghast, for, round the corner of the only bend in the drain, there appeared a raging head of foam, with mud, grass, sticks, stones, and rubbish on its crest, bearing down on them like a race-horse. With a yell that was as fully united as their method of work, the men scrambled out of the drain and rushed up the bank, exhibiting a unity of purpose that must have gladdened the heart of Captain Arkal. And they were not a moment too soon, for the last man was caught by the flood, and would have been swept away but for the promptitude of his fellows. "H'm! it has saved you some work, lads," observed the captain, with a touch of grave irony as he pointed to the portion of the bank on which they had been engaged. He was right. The flood had not only overleaped this, but had hollowed it out and swept it clean away into the river-- thus accomplishing effectively in ten minutes what would have probably required the labour of several hours. On carrying Konar up to the village of the Swamp--afterwards Swamptown, later Aquae Sulis, ultimately Bath--which had already begun to grow on the nearest height, they found that Bladud and his party had just arrived from the last of the searching expeditions. "What! Beniah?" exclaimed the prince, when the Hebrew met him. "You have soon returned to us. Is all well at home?" "All is well. I am sent on a mission to you, but that is not so urgent as the case of Konar." As he spoke the young men laid the senseless form on the ground. Bladud, at once dismissing all other subjects from his mind, examined him carefully, while Brownie snuffed at him with sympathetic interest. "He lives, and no bones are broken," said the prince, looking up after a few minutes; "here, some of you, go fetch hot water and pour it on him; then rub him dry; cover him up and let him rest. He has only been stunned. And let us have something to eat, Arkal. We are ravenous as wolves, having had scarce a bite since morning." "You come in good time," replied the captain. "Our evening meal is just ready." "Come along, then, let us to work. You will join us, Beniah, and tell me the object of your mission while we eat." The men of old may not have been epicures, but there can be no question that they were tremendous eaters. No doubt, living as they did, constantly in fresh air, having no house drains or gas, and being blessed with superabundant exercise, their appetites were keen and their capacities great. For at least ten minutes after the evening meal began, Bladud, Arkal, Dromas, little Maikar, and the Hebrew, were as dumb and as busy as Brownie. They spake not a single word--except that once the prince took a turkey drumstick from between his teeth to look up and repeat, "All well at home, you say?" To which Beniah, checking the course of a great wooden spoon to his lips, replied, "All well." There was roast venison at that feast, and roast turkey and roast hare, and plover and ducks of various kinds, all roasted, and nothing whatever boiled, except some sorts of green vegetables, the names of which have, unfortunately, not been handed down to us, though we have the strongest ground for believing that they were boiled in earthenware pots--for, in recent excavations in Bath, vessels of that description have been found among the traces of the most ancient civilisation. "Now," said the prince, wiping his mouth with a bunch of grass when he came to the first pause, "what may be the nature of your mission, Beniah?" "Let me ask, first," replied the Hebrew, also wiping his mouth with a similar pocket handkerchief, "have you found the lad Cormac yet?" "No," answered the prince, gloomily, and with a slightly surprised look, for the expression of Beniah's countenance puzzled him. "Why do you ask?" "Because that bears somewhat on my mission. I have to deliver a message from your father, the king. He bids me say that you are to return home immediately." "Never!" cried Bladud, with that Medo-Persic decision of tone and manner, which implies highly probable and early surrender, "never! until I find the boy--dead or alive." "For," continued the Hebrew, slowly, "he has important matters to consider with you--matters that will not brook delay. Moreover, Gadarn bid me say that he has fallen on the tracks of the lad Cormac, and that we are almost sure to find him in the neighbourhood of your father's town." "What say you?" exclaimed Bladud, dropping his drumstick--not the same one, but another which he had just begun--"repeat that." Beniah repeated it. "Arkal," said the prince, turning to the captain, "I will leave you in charge here, and start off by the first light to-morrow morning. See that poor Konar is well cared for. Maikar, you will accompany me, and I suppose, Dromas, that you also will go." "Of course," said Dromas, with a meaning smile--so full of meaning, indeed, as to be quite beyond interpretation. "By the way," continued Bladud,--who had resumed the drumstick,--"has that fellow Gadarn found his daughter Branwen?" Beniah choked on a bone, or something, at that moment, and, looking at the prince with the strangest expression of face, and tears in his eyes, explained that he had not--at least not to his, Beniah's, absolutely certain knowledge. "That is to say," he continued in some confusion, "if--if--he has found her--which seems to me highly probable--there must be some--some mystery about her, for--it is impossible that--" Here the Hebrew choked again with some violence. "Have a care, man!" cried the prince in some alarm. "However hungry a man may be, he should take time to swallow. You seem to be contradicting yourself, but I don't wonder, in the circumstances." "Verily, I wonder at nothing, in the circumstances, for they are perplexing--even distressing," returned the Hebrew with a sigh, as he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "Better not speak with your mouth full, then. Ah! poor Gadarn," said Bladud, in an obviously indifferent tone of voice. "I'm sorry for him. Girls like his daughter, who are self-willed, and given to running away, are a heavy affliction to parents. And, truly, I ought to feel sympathy with him, for, although I am seeking for a youth of very different character, we are both so far engaged in similar work--search for the lost. And what of my father, mother, and sister?" "All hale and hearty!" replied Beniah, with a sigh of relief, "and all anxious for your return, especially Hafrydda." At this point Dromas looked at the speaker with deepened interest. "She is a good girl, your sister," continued Beniah, "and greatly taken up just now with that old woman you met in my cave. Hafrydda has strange fancies." "She might have worse fancies than being taken up with poor old women," returned the prince. "I'm rather fond of them myself, and was particularly attracted by the old woman referred to. She was--what! choking again, Beniah? Come, I think you have had enough for one meal. And so have we all, friends, therefore we had better away to roost if we are to be up betimes in the morning." CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. BLADUD'S RETURN AND TRIALS. We need scarcely say that there was joy at the court of King Hudibras when Bladud returned home, cured of his terrible disease. The first person whom the prince hurried off to visit, after seeing his father, and embracing his mother and sister, was the northern chief Gadarn. That jovial character was enjoying a siesta after the mid-day meal at the time, but willingly arose on the prince being announced. "Glad to see you, Gadarn," said Bladud, entering the room that had been apportioned to the chief, and sitting down on a bench for visitors, which, according to custom, stood against the inner wall of the apartment. "I hope your head is clear and your arm strong." "Both are as they should be," answered Gadarn, returning the salutation. "I thank you," replied the prince, "my arm is indeed strong, but my head is not quite as clear as it might be." "Love got anything to do with it?" asked Gadarn, with a knowing look. "Not the love of woman, if that is what you mean." "Truly that is what I do mean--though, of course, I admit that one's horses and dogs have also a claim on our affections. What is it that troubles you, my son?" The affectionate conclusion of this reply, and the chief's manner, drew the prince towards him, so that he became confidential. "The truth is, Gadarn, that I am very anxious to know what news you have of Cormac--for the fate of that poor boy hangs heavy on my mind. Indeed, I should have refused to quit the Swamp, in spite of the king's commands and my mother's entreaties, if you had not sent that message by the Hebrew." "Ah, Bladud, my young friend, that is an undutiful speech for a son to make about his parents," said the chief, holding up a remonstrative forefinger. "If that is the way you treat your natural parents, how can I expect that--that--I mean--" Here the chief was seized with a fit of sneezing, so violent, that it made the prince quite concerned about the safety of his nose. "Ha!" exclaimed Gadarn, as a final wind up to the last sneeze, "the air of that Swamp seems to have been too strong for me. I'm growing old, you see. Well--what was I saying?--never mind. You were referring to that poor lad Cormac. Yes, I have news of him." "Good news, I hope?" said the prince, anxiously. "O yes--very good-- excellent! That is to say--rather--somewhat indefinite news, for--for the person who saw him told me--in fact, it is difficult to explain, because people are often untrustworthy, and exaggerate reports, so that it is not easy to make out what is true and what is false, or whether both accounts may be true, or the whole thing false altogether. You see, Bladud, our poor brains," continued the chief, in an argumentative tone, "are so--so--queerly mixed up that one cannot tell--tell--why, there was once a fellow in my army, whose manner of reporting any event, no matter how simple, was so incomprehensible that it was impossible to--to--but let me tell you an anecdote about him. His name was--" "Forgive my interrupting you, chief, but I am so anxious to hear something about my lost friend that--" "Ha! Bladud, I fear that you are a selfish man, for you have not yet asked about my lost daughter." "Indeed I am not by any means indifferent about her; but--but, you know, I have never seen her, and, to tell the plain truth, my anxiety about the boy drove her out of my mind for the moment. Have you found her?" "Ay, that I have; as well and hearty as ever she was, though somewhat more beautiful and a trifle more mischievous. But I will introduce her to you to-morrow. There is to be a grand feast, is there not, at the palace?" "Yes; something of the sort, I believe, in honour of my return," answered the prince, a good deal annoyed by the turn the conversation had taken. "Well, then, you shall see her then; for she has only just arrived, and is too tired to see any one," continued Gadarn, with a suppressed yawn; "and you'll be sure to fall in love with her; but you had better not, for her affections are already engaged. I give you fair warning, so be on your guard." The prince laughed, and assured his friend that there was no fear, as he had seen thousands of fair girls both in East and West, but his heart had never yet been touched by one of them. At this the chief laughed loudly, and assured Bladud that his case had now reached a critical stage: for when young men made statements of that kind, they were always on the point of being conquered. "But leave me now, Bladud," he continued, with a yawn so vast that the regions around the uvula were clearly visible; "I'm frightfully sleepy, and you know you have shortened my nap this afternoon." The prince rose at once. "At all events," he said, "I am to understand, before I go, that Cormac _has_ been seen?" "O yes! Certainly; no doubt about that!" "And is well?" "Quite well." Fain to be content with this in the meantime, Bladud hurried to the apartment of his sister. "Hafrydda!" he exclaimed, "has Gadarn gone out of his mind?" "I believe not," she replied, sitting down beside her brother and taking his hand. "Why do you ask?" "Because he talks--I say it with all respect--like an idiot." Hafrydda laughed; and her brother thereupon gave her a full account of the recent interview. "Now, my sister, you were always straightforward and wise. Give me a clear answer. Has Cormac been found?" "No, he has not been found; but--" "Then," interrupted Bladud, in a savage tone that was very foreign to his nature, "Gadarn is a liar!" "Oh, brother! say not so." "How can I help it? He gave me to understand that Cormac _has_ been found--at least, well, no, not exactly found, but _seen_ and heard of. I'm no better than the rest of you," continued Bladud, with a sarcastic laugh. "It seems as if there were something in the air just now which prevents us all from expressing ourselves plainly." "Well, then, brother," said Hafrydda, with a smile, "if he told you that Cormac has been seen and heard of, and is well, surely that may relieve your mind till to-morrow, when I know that some one who knows all about the boy is to be at our festival. We begin it with games, as usual. Shall you be there?" "I'd rather not," replied the prince almost testily; "but, of course, it would be ungracious not to appear. This, however, I do know, that I shall take no part in the sports." "As you please, brother. We are only too glad to have you home again, to care much about that. But, now, I have something of importance to tell you about myself." Bladud was interested immediately; and for the moment forgot his own troubles as he gazed inquiringly into the fair countenance of the princess. "I am going to wed, brother." "Indeed! You do not surprise me, though you alarm me--I know not why. Who is the man?--not Gunrig, I hope." "Alas! no. Poor Gunrig is dead." "Dead! Ah, poor man! I am glad we met at the Swamp." Bladud looked sad for a moment, but did not seem unduly oppressed by the news. "The man who has asked me to wed is your friend Dromas." "What!" exclaimed the prince, in blazing surprise, not unmingled with delight. "The man has been here only a few hours! He must have been very prompt!" "It does not take many hours to ask a girl to wed; and I like a prompt man," returned the princess, looking pensively at the floor. "But tell me, how came it all about? How did he manage it in so short a time?" "Well, brother dear--but you'll never tell any one, will you?" "Never--never!" "Well, you must know, when we first met, we--we--" "Fell in love. Poor helpless things!" "Just so, brother; we fell, somehow in--whatever it was; and he told me with his eyes--and--and--I told him with mine. Then he went off to find you; and came back, having found you--for which I was very grateful. Then he went to father and asked leave to speak to me. Then he went to mother. What they said I do not know; but he came straight to me, took my hand, fixed his piercing black eyes on me, and said, `Hafrydda, I love you.'" "Was that _all_?" asked Bladud. "Yes; that was all he _said_; but--but that was not the end of the interview! It would probably have lasted till now, if you had not interrupted us." "I'm so very sorry, sister, but of course I did not know that--" They were interrupted at that moment by the servitor, to whom the reader has already been introduced. He entered with a brightly intelligent grin on his expressive face, but, on beholding Bladud, suddenly elongated his countenance into blank stupidity. "The old woman waits outside, princess." "Oh, send her here at once." (Then, when the servitor had left.) "This is the person I mentioned who knows about Cormac." Another moment and the little old woman in the grey shawl was ushered in. She started visibly on beholding Bladud. "Come in, granny. I did not expect you till to-morrow." "I thought I was to see you alone," said the old woman, testily, in her hard, metallic voice. "That is true, granny, but I thought you might like to see my brother Bladud, who has just returned home safe and well." "No, I _don't_ want to see your brother. What do I care for people's brothers? I want to see yourself, alone." "Let me congratulate you, at all events," interposed the prince, kindly, "on your having recovered your hearing, grannie. This is not the first time we have met, Hafrydda, but I grieve to see that my old friend's nerves are not so strong as they used to be. You tremble a good deal." "Yes, I tremble more than I like," returned the old woman peevishly, "and, perhaps, when you come to my age, young man, and have got the palsy, you'll tremble more than I do." "Nay, be not angry with me. I meant not to hurt your feelings; and since you wish to be alone with my sister, I will leave you." When he was gone Branwen threw back the grey shawl and stood up with flashing, tearful eyes. "Was it kind--was it wise, Hafrydda, to cause me to run so great a risk of being discovered?" "Forgive me, dear Branwen, I did not mean to do it, but you arrived unexpectedly, and I let you come in without thinking. Besides, I knew you could easily deceive him. Nobody could guess it was you--not even your own mother." "There must be some truth in that," returned the maiden, quickly changing her mood, and laughing, "for I deceived my own father yesterday. At the Swamp he found me out at once as Cormac, for I had to speak in my natural voice, and my full face was exposed; but the grey shawl and the metallic voice were too much for him. Dear, good, patient, old man, you have no notion what a fearful amount of abuse he took from me, without losing temper--and I gave him some awful home-thrusts too! I felt almost tempted to kiss him and beg his pardon. But now, Hafrydda, I am beginning to be afraid of what all this deceiving and playing the double-face will come to. And I'm ashamed of it too--I really am. What will Bladud think of me when he finds out? Won't he despise and hate me?" "Indeed he will not. I know his nature well," returned the princess, kissing, and trying to reassure her friend, whose timid look and tearful eyes seemed to indicate that all her self-confidence and courage were vanishing. "He loves you already, and love is a preventive of hate as well as a sovereign remedy for it." "Ay, he is fond of Cormac, I know, but that is a very different thing from loving Branwen! However, to-morrow will tell. If he cares only for the boy and does not love the girl, I shall return with my father to the far north, and you will never see Branwen more." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. THE PLOT THICKENS. During the residence of Gadarn at the court of King Hudibras, that wily northern chief had led the king to understand that one of his lieutenants had at last discovered his daughter Branwen in the hands of a band of robbers, from whom he had rescued her, and that he expected her arrival daily. "But what made the poor child run away?" asked the king at one of his interviews with his friend. "We were all very fond of her, and she of us, I have good reason to believe." "I have been told," replied the chief, "that it was the fear of Gunrig." "Gunrig! Why, the man was to wed my daughter. She had no need to fear him." "That may be so, but I know--though it is not easy to remember how I came to know it--that Gunrig had been insolent enough to make up to her, after he was defeated by Bladud, and she was so afraid of him that she ran away, and thus fell into the hands of robbers." While the chief was speaking, Hudibras clenched his hands and glared fiercely. "Dared he to think of another girl when he was engaged to my daughter!" he said between his teeth. "It is well that Gunrig is dead, for assuredly I would have killed him." "It is well indeed," returned Gadarn, "for if your killing had not been sufficient, I would have made it more effectual. But he is out of the way now, so we may dismiss him." "True--and when may we expect Branwen back again, poor child?" asked the king. "In a day or two at latest. From what was told me by the runner who was sent on in advance, it is possible that she may be here to-morrow, in time for the sports." The wily chief had settled it in his own mind that Branwen should arrive exactly at the time when there was to be a presentation of chiefs; which ceremony was to take place just before the commencement of the sports. This arrangement he had come to in concert with a little old woman in a grey shawl, who paid him a private visit daily. "Do you know, Gadarn, who this youth Cormac is, whom Bladud raves so much about?" The northern chief was seized at that moment with one of those violent fits of sneezing to which of late he had become unpleasantly subject. "Oh! ye--ye--y-ha! yes;--excuse me, king, but since I went to that Hot Swamp, something seems to have gone wrong wi'--wi'--ha! my nose." "Something will go worse wrong with it, chief, if you go on like that. I thought the last one must have split it. Well, what know you about Cormac?" "That he appears to be a very good fellow. I can say nothing more about him than that, except that your son seems to think he owes his life to his good nursing at a critical point in his illness." "I know that well enough," returned the king, "for Bladud has impressed it on me at least a dozen times. He seems to be very grateful. Indeed so am I, and it would please me much if I had an opportunity of showing my gratitude to the lad. Think you that there is any chance of finding out where he has disappeared to?" "Not the least chance in the world." "Indeed!" exclaimed the king in surprise. "That is strange, for Bladud, who has just left me, says that he has the best of reasons for believing that we shall have certain news of him tomorrow. But go, Gadarn, and consult my doctor about this complaint of yours, which interrupts conversation so awkwardly. We can resume our talk at some other time." Gadarn obediently went, holding his sides as if in agony, and sneezing in a manner that caused the roof-tree of the palace to vibrate. Returning to his own room he found the little old woman in grey awaiting him. "You've been laughing again, father," she said. "I see by the purpleness of your face. You'll burst yourself at last if you go on so." "Oh! you little old hag--oh! Cormac--oh! Branwen, I hope you won't be the death of me," cried the chief, flinging his huge limbs on a couch and giving way to unrestrained laughter, till the tears ran down his cheeks. "If they did not all look so grave when speaking about you, it wouldn't be so hard to bear. It's the gravity that kills me. But come, Branwen," he added, as he suddenly checked himself and took her hand, "what makes you look so anxious, my child?" "Because I feel frightened, and ashamed, and miserable," she answered, with no symptom of her sire's hilarity. "I doubt if I should have followed Bladud--but if I had not he would have died--and I don't like to think of all the deceptions I have been practising--though I couldn't very well help it--could I? Then I fear that Bladud will forget Cormac when he learns to despise Branwen--" "Despise Branwen!" shouted Gadarn, fiercely, as his hand involuntarily grasped the hilt of his sword. "If he did, I would cleave him from his skull to his waist--" "Quiet you, my sweet father," said Branwen, with a little smile, "you know that two can play at that game, and that you have a skull and a waist as well as Bladud--though your waist is a good deal thicker than his. I'm not so sure about the skull!" "I accept your reproof, child, for boastfulness is hateful in a warrior. But get up, my love. What would happen if some one came into the room and found a little old hag sitting on my knee with her arm around my neck?" "Ah, true, father. I did not think of that. I'm rather given to not thinking of some things. Perhaps that inquisitive servitor may be--no, he's not there this time," said Branwen, reclosing the door and sitting down on a stool beside the chief. "Now come, father, and learn your lesson." Gadarn folded his hands and looked at his child with an air of meek humility. "Well?" "Well, first of all, you must tell the king tomorrow, at the right time, that I have just come back, and am very tired and shall not appear till you take me to him while the other people are being presented. Then you will lead me forward and announce me with a loud voice, so that no one shall fail to hear that I am Branwen, your daughter, you understand? Now, mind you speak well out." "I understand--with a shout, something like my battle-cry!" "Not exactly so loud as that, but so as Bladud shall be sure to hear you; and he will probably be near to his father at the time." "Just so. What next?" "Oh, that's all you will have to do. Just retire among the other courtiers then, and leave the rest to me." "That's a very short lesson, my little one; would you not like to be introduced to Bladud too? He does not know you, you know." "Certainly not; that would ruin all--you dear old goose. Just do exactly what I tell you, and you will be sure to go right." "How like your dear mother you are, my little one, in your modest requirements!" Having finished the lesson, the little old woman retired to a remote part of the palace which, through Hafrydda's influence, had been assigned to her, and the great northern chief, unbuckling his sword-belt, called lustily for his mid-day meal. Customs at that date, you see, were more free-and-easy than they are now, and less ceremonious. The visitors at the palace of King Hudibras were expected only to appear at the royal board at the evening meal after all the business or pleasure of each day was over. At all other times they were supposed to do as they pleased and shout for food as they happened to require it. It is perhaps unnecessary to comment on the exceeding convenience of this custom, leaving, as it did, every one to follow the bent of inclination, from earliest morn till dewy eve, with the prospect of an enjoyable _reunion_ after dark--during which, of course, the adventures of each were narrated, exaggerated, underrated, or commented on, as the case might be, and the social enjoyments were enhanced by warlike and sentimental song as well as by more or less--usually more than less-- thrilling story. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. THE DENOUEMENT. It was a sunny, frosty, glorious forenoon when King Hudibras awoke to the consciousness of the important day that was before him, and the importunate vacuum that was within him. Springing out of bed with a right royal disregard of appearances he summoned his servitor-in-waiting and ordered breakfast. In the breakfast-room he met the queen, Hafrydda, Bladud, and Dromas-- the latter being now considered one of the family--and these five proceeded to discuss and arrange the proceedings of the day during the progress of the meal. "You will join in the sports, of course, son Dromas," said the king, "and show us how the Olympic victors carry themselves. Ha! I should not wonder if a few of our lads will give you some trouble to beat them." "You may be right, father," returned the young man, modestly, "for one of your lads has already beaten me at most things." "You mean Bladud?" returned the king. "Dromas is only so far right," interposed the prince. "It is true that where mere brute force is required I usually have the advantage, but where grace and speed come into play I am lost." Of course Dromas would not admit this, and of course Hafrydda's fair cheeks were crimsoned when the youth, accidentally looking up, caught the princess accidentally gazing at him; and, still more of course, the king, who was sharp as a needle in such matters, observed their confusion and went into a loud laugh, which he declared was only the result of merry thoughts that were simmering in his brain. The reception was to be held in the large hall of the palace. No ladies were to be presented, for it must be remembered that these were barbarous times, and woman had not yet attained to her true position! Indeed, there was to be no ceremony whatever--no throne, no crown, no gold-sticks in waiting or other sticks of any kind. It was to be a sort of free-and-easy conversazione in the presence of the royal family, where, just before the sports began, any one who was moved by that ambition might hold personal intercourse with the king, and converse with him either on the affairs of State, or on private matters, or subjects of a more light and social kind--such as the weather. At the appointed hour--which was indicated by that rough and ready but most natural of sun-dials, the shadow of a tree falling on a certain spot--the royal family adjourned to the large hall, and the unceremonious ceremony began. First of all, on the doors being thrown open a crowd of nobles--or warriors--entered, and while one of them went to the king, and began an earnest entreaty that war might be declared without delay against a certain chief who was particularly obnoxious to him, another sauntered up to the princess and began a mild flirtation in the primitive manner, which was characteristic of the sons of Mars in that day--to the unutterable jealousy of Dromas, who instantly marked him down as a fit subject for overwhelming defeat at the approaching games. At the same time the family doctor paid his respects to the queen and began to entertain her with graphic accounts of recent cases--for doctors had no objection to talking "shop" in those days. We have said that no ladies were admitted to places of public importance, such as grand-stands or large halls, but we have also pointed out that the ladies of the royal family and their female friends formed an exception to the rule. It was, as it were, the dawn of women's freedom--the insertion of the small end of that wedge which Christianity and civilisation were destined to drive home--sometimes too far home! Gradually the hall began to fill, and the hum of conversation became loud, when there was a slight bustle at the door which caused a modification though not a cessation of the noise. It was caused by the entrance of Gadarn leading Branwen by the hand. The girl was now dressed in the costume that befitted her age and sex, and it is best described by the word simplicity. Her rich auburn hair fell in short natural curls on her neck--the luxuriant volume of it having, as the reader is aware, been sacrificed some time before. She wore no ornament of any kind save, on one side of her beautiful head, a small bunch of wild-flowers that had survived the frost. At the time of their entrance, Bladud was stooping to talk with Hafrydda and did not observe them, but when he heard Gadarn's sonorous voice he turned with interest to listen. "King Hudibras," said the northern chief, in a tone that produced instant silence, "I have found the lost one--my daughter Branwen." As they moved through the crowd of tall warriors Bladud could not at first catch sight of the girl. "Ha! Hafrydda," he said, with a pleasant smile, "your young friend and companion found at last. I congratulate you. I'm so glad that--" He stopped, the colour fled from his cheeks, his chest heaved. He almost gasped for breath. Could he believe his eyes, for there stood a girl with the features, the hair, the eyes of Cormac, but infinitely more beautiful! For some time the poor prince stood utterly bereft of speech. Fortunately no one observed him, as all were too much taken up with what was going on. The king clasped the girl's hands and kissed her on both cheeks. Then the queen followed, and asked her how she could have been so cruel as to remain so long away. And Branwen said a few words in reply. It seemed as if an electric shock passed through Bladud, for the voice also was the voice of Cormac! At this point the prince turned to look at his sister. She was gazing earnestly into his face. "Hafrydda--is--is that really Branwen?" "Yes, brother, that is Branwen. I must go to her." As she spoke, she started off at a run and threw her arms round her friend's neck. "I cannot--cannot believe it is you," she exclaimed aloud--and then, whispering in Branwen's ear, "oh! you wicked creature, to make such a hypocrite of me. But come," she added aloud, "come to my room. I must have you all to myself alone." For one moment, as they passed, Branwen raised her eyes, and, as they met those of the prince, a deep blush overspread her face. Another moment and the two friends had left the hall together. We need not weary the reader by describing the games and festivities that followed. Such matters have probably been much the same, in all important respects, since the beginning of time. There was a vast amount of enthusiasm, and willingness to be contented with little, on the part of the people, and an incredible desire to talk and delay matters, and waste time, on the part of judges, umpires, and starters, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy, except that Bladud consented to run one race with his friend Dromas, and was signally beaten by him, to the secret satisfaction of Hafrydda, and the open amusement of the king. But Branwen did not appear at the games, nor did she appear again during the remainder of that day, and poor Bladud was obliged to restrain his anxiety, for he felt constrained to remain beside his father, and, somehow, he failed in his various attempts to have a few words of conversation with his mother. At last, like all sublunary things, the games came to an end, and the prince hastened to his sister's room. "May I come in?" he asked, knocking. "Yes, brother." There was a peculiar tone in her voice, and a curious expression in her eyes, that the prince did not fail to note. "Hafrydda," he exclaimed, eagerly, "there is _no_ Cormac?" "True, brother, there is no Cormac--there never was. Branwen and Cormac are one!" "And you knew it--and _she_ knew it, all along. Oh, why did you agree to deceive me?" "Nay, brother, I did not mean to deceive you--at least not at first. Neither did Branwen. I knew nothing about it till she came home, after being with you at the Swamp, and told me that she was impelled by sheer pity to follow you, intending to nurse you; thinking at first that we had let you go to die alone. Then she was caught in the woods by robbers, and she only escaped from them by putting on a boy's dress and running away. They gave chase, however, caught her up, and, had it not been for you, would have recaptured her. The rest you know. But now, brother, I am jealous for my dear friend. She has expressed fear that, in her great pity for you, she may be thought to have acted an unwomanly part, and that you will perhaps despise her." "Unwomanly! despise!" exclaimed Bladud in amazement. "Hafrydda, do you regard me as a monster of ingratitude?" "Nay, brother, that do I not. I think that you could never despise one who has felt such genuine pity for you as to risk and endure so much." "Hafrydda, do you think there is no stronger feeling than pity for me in the heart of Branwen?" asked Bladud in a subdued, earnest voice. "That you must find out for yourself, brother," answered the princess. "Yet after all, if you are only fond of Cormac, what matters the feeling that may be in the heart of Branwen? Are you in love with her already, Bladud, after so short an acquaintance?" "In love with her!" exclaimed the prince. "There is no Cormac. There is but one woman in the wide world now--" "That is not complimentary to your mother and myself, I fear," interrupted his sister. "But," continued the prince, paying no regard to the interruption, "is there any chance--any hope--of--of--something stronger than pity being in her heart?" "I say again, ask that of herself, Bladud; but now I think of it," added the princess, leaping up in haste, "I am almost too late to keep an appointment with Dromas!" She went out hurriedly, and the prince, full of new-born hopes mingled with depressing anxieties, went away into the neighbouring woods to meditate--for, in the haste of her departure, Hafrydda had neglected to tell him where Branwen was to be found, and he shrank from mentioning her name to any one else. But accident--as we call it--sometimes brings about what the most laboured design fails to accomplish. Owing to a feeling of anxiety which she could not shake off, Branwen had gone out that evening to cool her fevered brow in the woods, just a few minutes before the prince entered them. It was a strange coincidence; but are not all coincidences strange? Seating herself on a fallen tree she cast up her eyes towards the sky where a solitary star, like a beacon of hope, was beginning to twinkle. She had not been there more than a few minutes when a rustle in the neighbouring thicket startled her. Almost before she had time to look round the prince stood before her. She trembled, for now she felt that the decisive hour had come--whether for good or evil. Seating himself beside her, the prince took one of her hands in his and looked steadily into her downcast face. "Corm--Bran--" he began, and stopped. She looked up. "Branwen," he said, in a low, calm voice, "will it pain you very much to know that I am glad--inexpressibly glad--that there is no youth Cormac in all the wide world?" Whether she was pained or not the girl did not say, but there was a language in her eyes which induced Bladud to slip his disengaged arm round--well, well, there are some things more easily conceived than described. She seemed about to speak, but Bladud stopped her mouth-- how, we need not tell--not rudely, you may be sure--suffice to say that when the moon arose an hour later, and looked down into the forest that evening she saw the prince and Branwen still seated, hand in hand, on the fallen tree, gazing in rapt attention at the stars. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE LAST. When Bladud walked out to the Hebrew's hut next day and informed him of what had taken place, that long-suffering man heaved a deep sigh and expressed his intense relief that the whole affair was at last cleared up and had come to an end. "I cannot view matters in the same light that you do, Beniah," said the prince, "for, in my opinion, things have only now come to a satisfactory beginning. However, I suppose that you are thinking of the strange perplexities in which you have been involved so long." "I would not style them perplexities, prince, but intrigues--obvious and unjustifiable intrigues--in which innocent persons have been brought frequently to the verge of falsehood--if they have not, indeed, been forced to overstep the boundary." "Surely, Beniah, circumstances, against which none of us had power to contend, had somewhat to do with it all, as well as intrigue." "I care not," returned the Hebrew, "whether it was the intrigues of your court or the circumstances of it, which were the cause of all the mess in which I and others have been involved, but I am aweary of it, and have made up my mind to leave the place and retire to a remote part of the wilderness, where I may find in solitude solace to my exhausted spirit, and rest to my old bones." "That will never do, Beniah," said the prince, laughing. "You take too serious a view of the matter. There is no fear of any more intrigues or circumstances arising to perplex you for some time to come. Besides, I want your services very much--but, before broaching that point, let me ask why you have invited me to come to see you here. Hafrydda gave me your message--" "My message!" repeated the Hebrew in surprise. "Yes--to meet you here this forenoon on urgent business. If it is anything secret you have to tell me, I hope you have not got your wonderful old witch in the back cave, for she seems to have discovered as thorough a cure for deafness as I found for leprosy at the Hot Swamp." "Wonderful old witch!" repeated Beniah, with a dazed look, and a tone of exasperation that the prince could not account for. "Do you, then, not know about that old woman?" "Oh! yes, I know only too much about her," replied Bladud. "She has been staying at the palace for some time, as you know, and rather a lively time the old hag has given us. She went in to see my mother one day and threw her into convulsions, from which, I think, she has hardly recovered yet. Then she went to my father's room--the chief Gadarn and I were with him at the time--and almost before she had time to speak they went into fits of laughter at her till the tears ran down their cheeks. I must say it seemed to me unnecessarily rude and unkind, for, although the woman is a queer old thing, and has little more of her face visible than her piercing black eyes, I could see nothing to laugh at in her shrivelled-up, bent little body. Besides this, she has kept the domestics in a state of constant agitation, for most of them seem to think her a limb of the evil spirit. But what makes you laugh so?" "Oh! I see now," returned the Hebrew, controlling himself by a strong effort. "I understand now why the old woman wished to be present at our interview. Come forth, thou unconscionable hag!" added Beniah, in the voice of a stentor, "and do your worst. I am past emotion of any kind whatever now." As he spoke he gazed, with the resigned air of a martyr, at the inner end of his cavern. Bladud also looked in that direction. A moment later and the little old woman with the grey shawl appeared; thrust out the plank bridge; crossed over, and tottered towards them. "Dearie me! Beniah, there's no need to yell so loud. You know I've got back my hearing. What want ye with me? I'm sure I have no wish to pry into the secrets of this young man or yourself. What d'ye want?" But Beniah stood speechless, a strange expression on his face, his lips firmly compressed and his arms folded across his breast. "Have you become as dumb as I was deaf, old man?" asked the woman, petulantly. Still the Hebrew refused to speak. "Have patience with him, old woman," said Bladud, in a soothing tone. "He is sometimes taken with unaccountable fits--" "Fits!" interrupted the old woman. "I wish he had the fits that I have sometimes. Perhaps they would cure him of his impudence. They would cure you too, young man, of your stupidity." "Stupidity!" echoed Bladud, much amused. "I have been credited with pride and haste and many other faults in my day, but never with stupidity." "Was it not stupid of you to go and ask that silly girl to wed you--that double-faced thing that knows how to cheat and deceive and--" "Come, come, old woman," said the prince, repressing with difficulty a burst of indignation. "You allow your old tongue to wag too freely. I suppose," he added, turning to Beniah, "that we can conclude our conversation outside?" But the Hebrew still remained immovable and sternly dumb. Unable to understand this, Bladud turned again to the old woman, but, lo! the old woman was gone, and in her place stood Branwen, erect, with the grey shawl thrown back, and a half-timid smile on her face. To say that Bladud was thunderstruck is not sufficient to indicate his condition. He stood as if rooted to the spot with his whole being concentrated in his wide-open blue eyes. "Is my presumption too great, Bladud?" asked the girl, hesitatingly. "I did but wish to assure you that I have no other deceptions to practise. That I fear--I hope--that--" The prince, recovering himself, sprang forward and once again stopped her mouth--not with his hand; oh! by no means!--while Beniah, with that refinement of wisdom which is the prerogative of age, stepped out to ascertain whether it happened to be rain or sunshine that ruled at the time. Curiously enough he found that it was the latter. That evening the doctor of the royal household was summoned by an affrighted servitor to the apartment of Gadarn, who had been overheard choking. The alarmed man of medicine went at once, and, bursting into the room without knocking, found the great northern chief sitting on the edge of his couch purple in the face and with tears in his eyes. The exasperated man leaped up intending to kick the doctor out, but, changing his mind, he kicked the horrified servitor out instead, and, taking the doctor into his confidence, related to him an anecdote which had just been told to him by Bladud. "It will be the death of the king," said Gadarn. "You had better go to him. He may need your services." But the king was made of sterner stuff than his friend imagined. He put strong constraint upon himself, and, being not easily overcome by feeling--or anything else under the sun--he lived to relate the same anecdote to his wife and daughter. The day following, Bladud resumed with the Hebrew the conversation that had been interrupted by Branwen. "I was going to have said to you, Beniah, that I want your services very much." "You had said that much, prince, before Bran--I mean Cor--that is, the old woman--interrupted us. How can I serve you?" "By going back with me to the Hot Swamp and helping to carry out a grand scheme that I have in my brain." The Hebrew shook his head. "I love not your grand schemes," he said, somewhat sternly. "The last grand scheme that your father had was one which, if successfully carried out, would have added a large portion of Albion to his dominions, and would have swept several tribes off the face of the earth. As it was, the mere effort to carry it out cost the lives of many of the best young men on both sides, and left hundreds of mothers, wives, sisters, and children to mourn their irreparable losses, and to wonder what all the fighting was about. Indeed, there are not a few grey-bearded men who share that wonder with the women and children, and who cannot, by any effort of their imagination, see what advantage is gained by either party when the fight is over." "These grey-beards must be thick-skulled, then," replied the prince with a smile, "for does not the victor retain the land which he has conquered?" "Yea, truly, and he also retains the tombs of the goodly young men who have been slain, and also the widows and sweethearts, and the national loss resulting from the war--for all which the land gained is but a paltry return. Moreover, if the All-seeing One cared only for the victors, there might be some understanding of the matter--though at the cost of justice--but, seeing that He cares for the vanquished quite as much as for the victorious, the gain on one side is counterbalanced by the loss on the other side, while the world at large is all the poorer, first, by the loss of much of its best blood, second, by the creation of a vast amount of unutterable sorrow and bitter hatred, and, third, by a tremendous amount of misdirected energy. "Look, for instance, at the Hot Swamp. Before the late war it was the abode of a happy and prosperous population. Now, it is a desolation. Hundreds of its youth are in premature graves, and nothing whatever has been gained from it by your father that I can see." "But surely men must defend themselves and their women and children against foes?" said Bladud. "Verily, I did not say they should not," replied Beniah. "Self-defence is a duty; aggressive war, in most cases (I do not say in all), is a blunder or a sin." "I think that my mind runs much on the same line with yours, Beniah, as to these things, but I am pretty sure that a good many years will pass over us before the warriors of the present day will see things in this light." One is apt to smile at Bladud's prophetic observation, when one reflects that about two thousand seven hundred years have elapsed since that day, and warriors, as well as many civilians, have not managed to see it in this light yet! "However," continued the prince, "the scheme which runs in my head is not one of war--aggressive or defensive--but one of peace, for the betterment of all mankind. As you know, I have begun to build a city at the Hot Swamp, so that all who are sick may go to that beautiful country and find health, as I did. And I want your help in this scheme." "That is well, prince, but I see not how I can aid you. I am not an engineer, who could carry out your devices, nor an architect who could plan your dwellings. And I am too old for manual labour--though, of course, it is not for that you want me." "You are right, Beniah. It is not for that. I have as many strong and willing hands to work as I require, but I want wise heads, full of years and experience, which may aid me in council and guard me from the blunders of youth and inexperience. Besides, man was not, it seems to me, put into this world merely to enjoy himself. If he was, then are the brutes his superiors, for they have no cares, no anxieties about food or raiment, or housing, and they enjoy themselves to the full as long as their little day lasts. There is surely some nobler end for man, and as you have given much study to the works and ways and reputed words of the All-seeing One, I want you to aid me in helping men to look upward--to soar like the eagle above the things of earth, as well as to consider the interests of others, and so, as far as may be, unlearn selfishness. Will you join me for this end?" "That will I, with joy," answered the Hebrew with kindling eye; "but your ambition soars high, prince. Have you spoken to Branwen on these subjects?" "Of course I have, and she, like a true woman, enters heartily into my plans. Like myself, she does not think that being wedded and happy is the great end of life, but only the beginning of it. When the wedding is over, our minds will then be set free to devote ourselves to the great work before us." "And what duties in the work will fall to the lot of Branwen?" asked Beniah, with an amused look. "The duties of a wife, of course," returned the prince. "She will lend a sympathetic ear to all plans and proposals; her ingenious imagination will suggest ideas that might escape my grosser mind; her brilliant fancy will produce combinations that my duller brain would never think of; her hopeful spirit will encourage me to perseverance where accident or disaster has a tendency to demoralise, and her loving spirit will comfort me should failure, great or small, be permitted to overtake me. All this, I admit, sounds very selfish, but you asked me what part Branwen should play in regard to _my_ schemes. If you had asked me what part I am to play in her life and work, the picture might be inverted to some extent--for our lives will be mutual--though, of course, I can never be to her what she will be to me." With this exalted idea of the married state, Prince Bladud looked forward to his wedding. Whether Dromas was imbued with similar ideas we cannot tell; but of this we are sure, that he was equally devoted to the princess--as far as outward appearance went--and he entered with keenest zest and appreciation into the plans and aspirations of his friend, with regard to the welfare of mankind in general, and the men of Albion in particular. Not many days after that there was a double wedding at Hudibras town, which created a tremendous sensation throughout all the land. For, although news travelled slowly in those days, the fame of Bladud and his wonderful cure, and his great size and athletic powers, coupled with his Eastern learning, and warlike attainments and peaceful proclivities, not to mention the beauty and romantic adventures of his bride, had made such an impression on what may be styled the whole nation, that noted chiefs came from all parts far and near, to his wedding, bringing as many of their distinguished followers with them as they deemed necessary to safe travelling in an unsettled country. Some even came from the great western island called Erin, and others from the remote isle of the north which lay beyond Gadarn's country, and was at a later period named Ultima Thule. "I wonder when they're going to stop coming," remarked Gadarn to King Hudibras, as the self-invited guests came pouring in. "Let them come," replied the jovial king, with the air of a man of unlimited means. "The more the merrier. There's room for all, and the forests are big." "Some of them, I see," rejoined Gadarn, "are my mortal foes. We shall now have a chance of becoming mortal friends." It might be supposed that the assemblage of such a host from all points of the compass would, as it is sometimes expressed, eat King Hudibras out of house and home; but this was not so, for it was the custom at that time for visitors at royal courts to hunt for their victuals--to go in, as it were, for a grand picnic on a continuous basis, so that the palace of our king, instead of being depleted, became surfeited with food. As his preserves were extensive, and game of all kinds abundant, the expense attendant on this kind of hospitality was _nil_. It would have been very much the reverse had it been necessary to supply drink, but the art of producing liquids which fuddle, stupefy, and madden, had not yet been learnt in this country. Consequently there was no fighting or bloodshed at those jovial festivities, though there was a certain amount of quarrelling--as might be expected amongst independent men who held different opinions on many subjects, although politics and theology had not yet been invented. Great were the rejoicings when it was discovered, by each band as it arrived, that there was to be a double wedding; that the Princess Hafrydda was to be one of the brides, and that the fortunate man who had won her was a famous warrior of the mysterious East, and one of the victors at the great games of that part of the world. How the ceremony of marriage was performed we have not, after the most painstaking research, been able to ascertain; but that it was performed somehow, and to the satisfaction of all concerned, we are absolutely certain, from the fact that Bladud and Branwen, Dromas and Hafrydda, lived happily together as man and wife for many years afterwards, and brought up large families of stalwart sons and daughters to strengthen the power and increase the prestige of Old Albion. This, however, by the way. Of course the chief amusement of the guests was games, followed by songs and dancing in the evenings. And one of the favourite amusements at the games was scientific boxing, for that was an entirely new art to the warriors, alike of Albion, Erin, and Ultima Thule. It first burst upon their senses as a new and grand idea when Bladud and Dromas, at the urgent request of their friends, stepped into the arena and gave a specimen of the manner in which the art was practised in Hellas. Of course they did not use what we call knuckle-dusters, nor did they even double their fists, except when moving round each other, and as "gloves" were unknown, they struck out with the hands half open, for they had no wish to bleed each other's noses or black each other's eyes for mere amusement. At the beginning it was thought that Dromas was no match at all for the gigantic Bladud, but when the wonderful agility of the former was seen-- the ease with which he ducked and turned aside his head to evade blows, and the lightning speed with which he countered, giving a touch on the forehead or a dig in the ribs, smiling all the time as if to say, "How d'ye like it?" men's minds changed with shouts of surprise and satisfaction. And they highly approved of the way in which the champions smilingly shook hands after the bout was over--as they had done before it began. They did not, however, perceive the full value of the art until an ambitious young chief from Ultima Thule--a man of immense size and rugged mould with red hair--insisted on Dromas giving him a lesson. The man from Hellas declined at first, but the man from Thule was urgent, and there seemed to be a feeling among the warriors that the young Hellene was afraid. "It is so difficult," he explained, "to hit lightly and swiftly that sometimes an unintentionally hard blow is given, and men are apt to lose their tempers." This was received with a loud laugh by the Thuler. "What! _I_ lose my temper on account of a friendly buffet! Besides, I shall take care not to hit hard--you need not fear." "As you will," returned Dromas, with a good-humoured smile. The Thuler stood up and allowed his instructor to put him in the correct attitude. Then the latter faced him and said, "Now, guard yourself." Next moment his left hand shot out and gently touched his opponent's nose. The Thuler received the touch with what he deemed an orthodox smile and tried to guard it after it had been delivered. Then he struck out with his left--being an apt pupil--but Dromas drew back and the blow did not reach him. Then he struck out smartly with his right, but the Hellene put his head to one side and let it pass. Again he struck out rapidly, one hand after the other, without much care whether the blows were light or heavy. Dromas evaded both without guarding, and, in reply, gave the Thuler a smartish touch on his unfortunate nose. This was received by the assemblage with a wild shout of surprise and delight, and the Thuler became grave; collected himself as if for real business, and suddenly let out a shower of blows which, had they taken effect, would soon have ended the match, but his blows only fell on air, for Dromas evaded them with ease, returning every now and then a tap on the old spot or a touch on the forehead. At last, seeing that the man was losing temper, he gave him a sharp dig in the wind which caused him to gasp, and a sounding buffet on the cheek which caused him to howl with rage and feel for the hilt of his sword. That dangerous weapon, however, had been judiciously removed by his friends. He therefore rushed at his antagonist, resolved to annihilate him, but was received with two genuine blows--one in the wind, the other on the forehead, which stretched him on the sward. The Thuler rose therefrom with a dazed look, and accepted the Hellene's friendly shake of the hand with an unmeaning smile. After the sports had continued for several days King Hudibras proposed an excursion--a sort of gigantic picnic--to the Hot Swamp, where Bladud and his friend had made up their mind to spend their honeymoon. Arrived there, they found that immense progress had been made with the new city--insomuch that Dromas assured Hafrydda that it brought to his mind some very ancient fables of great cities rising spontaneously from the ground to the sound of pipes played by the gods. The baths, too, were in such an advanced stage that they were able to fill them on the arrival of the host and allow the interested and impatient chiefs to bathe. "Don't let them go in till you give the signal that the baths are ready," said Gadarn to the king in that grave, suppressed manner which indicated that the northern chief was inclined to mischief. "Why?" asked the king. "Because, as I understand, you love fair play and no favour. It would not be fair to let some begin before others. They might feel it, you know, and quarrel." "Very well, so be it," returned the king, and gave orders that no one was to go near the baths until they were quite full, when he would give the signal. The chiefs and warriors entering into the spirit of the thing, took quite a boyish delight in stripping themselves and preparing for a rush. "Now, are you ready?" said the king. "Ay, all ready." "Away, then!" The warlike host rushed to the brink of the largest bath and plunged in--some head, others feet, first. But they came out almost as fast as they went in--yelling and spluttering--for the water was much too hot! "Ah! I see now," growled the king, turning to Gadarn--but Gadarn was gone. He found him, a minute later, behind a bush, in fits! Pacifying the warriors with some difficulty--for they were a hot-headed generation--the king, being directed by Bladud, ordered the water from the cold lake to be turned on until the bath became bearable. Then the warriors re-entered it again more sedately. The warm water soon restored their equanimity, and ere long the unusual sight was to be seen of bearded men and smooth chins, rugged men and striplings, rolling about like porpoises, shouting, laughing, and indulging in horse-play like veritable boys. Truly warmth has much to do with the felicity of mankind! Towards afternoon the warriors were ordered to turn out, and, after the water had been allowed to run till it was clear, King Hudibras descended into it with much gravity and a good deal of what was in those ages considered to be ceremonial effect. This was done by way of taking formal possession of the Hot Springs. He was greatly cheered during the process by the admiring visitors, as well as physically by the hot water, and it is said that while his son Bladud was dutifully rubbing him down in the neighbouring booth, he remarked that it was the best bath he ever had in his life, that he would visit the place periodically as long as he lived, and that a palace must be built there for his accommodation. From that day the bath was named the "King's Bath," and it is so named at the present day. Soon after that the queen visited the Swamp and, with her ladies, made use of the bath which had been specially prepared for women; and this one went by the name of the "Queen's Bath" thereafter. Its site, however, is not now certainly known, and it is not to be confounded with the "Queen's Bath" of the present day, which was named after Queen Anne. Prince Bladud lived to carry out most of his plans. He built a palace for his father in Swamptown. He built a palace for himself and Branwen, with a wing to it for Dromas and Hafrydda, and took up his permanent abode there when he afterwards became king. At the death of his father he added another wing for the queen-mother--with internal doors opening from each wing to the other, in order that they might live, so to speak, as one family. This arrangement worked admirably until the families became large, and the younger members obstreperous, when the internal doors were occasionally, even frequently, shut. He also built a snug house for Konar, and made him Hunter-General to the Royal Household. It is said that, owing to the genial influence of Bladud's kind nature, Konar recovered his reason, and, forgetting the false fair-one who had jilted him, took to himself a helpmate who more than made up for her loss. Captain Arkal soon found that his passion for hot water cooled. As it did so, his love for salt water revived. He returned to Hellas, and, after paying his respects to his pretty Greek wife, and dandling the solid, square, bluff, and resolute baby, he reloaded his ship and returned to Albion. Thus he went and came for many years. Little Maikar, however, did not follow his example. True, he accompanied his old captain on his first trip to Hellas, but that was for the purpose of getting possession of a dark-eyed maiden who awaited him there; with whom he returned to Swamptown, and, in that lovely region, spent the remainder of his life. Even Addedomar was weaned from outlawry to honesty by the irresistible solicitations of Bladud, and as, in modern times, many an incorrigible poacher makes a first-rate gamekeeper, so the robber-chief became an able head-huntsman under the Hunter-General. The irony of Fate decreed, however, that the man who had once contemplated three wives was not to marry at all. He dwelt with his mother Ortrud to the end of her days in a small house not far from the residence of Konar. Gunrig's mother also dwelt with them--not that she had any particular regard for them personally, but in order that she might be near to the beautiful girl who had been beloved by her son. Gadarn, the great northern chief, ever afterwards paid an annual visit to Swamptown. While that visit lasted there was a general feeling in the palace--especially among the young people--that a jovial hurricane was blowing. During the daytime the gale made itself felt in loud hilarious laughter, song, and story. At night it blew steadily through his nose. After his departure an unaccountable calm seemed to settle down upon the whole region! Beniah performed with powerful effect the task allotted to him, for, both by precept and example, he so set forth and obeyed the laws of God that the tone of society was imperceptibly elevated. Men came to know, and to act upon the knowledge, that this world was not their rest; that there is a better life beyond, and, in the contemplation of that life, they, somehow, made this life more agreeable to themselves and to each other. Time, which never intermits the beating of his fateful wings, flew by; the centuries rolled on; the Roman invaders came; the Norsemen and Saxons came, the Norman conquerors came, and each left their mark, deep and lasting, on the people and on the land--but they could not check by one hair's-breadth the perennial flow of the springs in the Hot Swamp, or obliterate the legend on which is founded this Romance of Old Albion. THE END. 
21312	----	Glyn Severn's Schooldays, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ Glyn Severn and the Maharajah of Dour, both about 15 or 16, have been sent together to an English Boarding School. Glyn's father has been for many years a Colonel in the Maharajah's father's army, but now the old Maharajah is dead, and his son, known at school as "Singh", has inherited the title. The Colonel is Singh's guardian. There are the usual schoolboyish rivalries and fights, in particular involving a nasty individual called Slegge. A menagerie owner lives nearby, and among his animals is an elephant who is sometimes in a bad mood. It turns out that Glyn and Singh, who have had dealings with elephants in India, are rather good at bringing it under control. Singh has brought one of his Princely regalia, a heavily bejewelled belt. One day it disappears. Several people are known to be short of cash, so are suspected of the theft. Nearly half the book is spent in chasing out the culprit, but we get there in the end. However, there is a surprise ending to the book. It should be mentioned that the title is a little misleading, for "schooldays" covers well over a decade, but the action in this book covers only a few days. NH ________________________________________________________________________ GLYN SEVERN'S SCHOOLDAYS, BY GEORGE MANVILE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. THE NEW BOYS. Slegge said it was all "bosh;" for fifty years ago a boy at school had not learned to declare that everything which did not suit his taste was "rot." So Slegge stood leaning up against the playground wall with a supercilious sneer upon his lip, and said it was all "bosh," and only fit for children. The other fellows, he said, might make idiots of themselves if they liked, he should stop in and read; for Dr Bewley, DD, Principal of the world-famed establishment--a grey, handsome, elderly gentleman in the truest sense of the word--had smilingly said after grace at breakfast that when he was a boy he used to take a great deal of interest in natural history, and that he presumed his pupils would feel much the same as he did, and would have no objection to setting aside their classical and mathematical studies for the morning and watching the entrance of the procession when it entered the town at twelve o'clock. The boys, who were all standing and waiting for the Doctor to leave the dining-hall, gave a hearty cheer at this; and as the ragged volley died out, after being unduly prolonged by the younger pupils, instead of crossing to the door from the table, the Doctor continued, turning to the mathematical master: "I think, Mr Morris, you might be kind enough to tell Wrench to get the boy to help him and place a line of forms by the wall, so that the young gentlemen can enjoy the privilege of having a prolonged private box above the crowd; or, shall I say, a high bank in this modern form of the classic amphitheatre?" "Hear, hear!" said Mr Rampson, the heavy, solid-looking classical master, impressed by the Principal's allusion to the Roman sports; and he grumbled out something in a subdued voice, with his eyes shut. What it was the boys did not hear, but it was evidently a Latin quotation, and ended in _ibus_. The Doctor then marched slowly towards the door, with his black gown floating out around him, and carrying his mortar-board cap by the limp corner; for while everything about him was spick and span--his cravat of the stiffest and whitest as it supported his plump, pink, well-shaven chin, and his gown of the glossiest black--a habit of holding his college cap by its right-hand corner had resulted in the formation of a kind of hinge which made the University headpiece float up and down in concert with his stately steps as he turned his head from side to side and nodded benignantly at first one and then another of his junior pupils. The masters followed, looking very severe indeed; and, following the example set by Mr Morris, they all frowned and shook their heads at the great waste of time that would follow the passing of the procession. "So childish of the old man," said Morris to the French master, Monsieur Brohanne, a particularly plump-looking Gaul. "The boys will be fit for nothing afterwards." "_Certainement_!" said the French master. "But I suppose I must give orders for these seats to be placed;" and as soon as he was outside he summoned Wrench--the pale-faced and red-nosed official whose principal duty it was, with the assistance of a sturdy hobbledehoy (Mounseer Hobby-de-Hoy, as the boys called him) to keep well-blackened the whole of the boots in the big establishment--and gave orders to carry out and run a line of forms all along the outer wall of the great playground, which was continued farther on by the cricket-field hedge. "A great waste of time," said Morris; but he gave very strict orders to the man-servant that the biggest and strongest form was to be chalked "Number One," and reserved for the masters only. There was a buzz in the dining-hall which grew into a roar as the door closed. The boys, who had sat down to breakfast rather wanting in appetite--from the fact that their consciences were not very clear regarding studies in English and French or certain algebraic solutions or arrangements in angles specified by "A B C" and "D E F," according to the declarations of a well-known gentleman named Euclid--felt in their great relief as if they would like another cup of coffee and two slices more, for the holiday was quite unexpected. It was about this time that Slegge gave his opinion to his following, which was rather large, he being the senior pupil and considering himself head-chief of the school, not from his distinguished position as a scholar, but from the fact that his allowance of cash from home was the largest of that furnished to any pupil of the establishment, without counting extra tips. Slegge, Senior--not the pupil, for there was no other boy of the same name in the school, but Slegge _pere_, as Monsieur Brohanne would have termed him--being sole proprietor of the great wholesale mercantile firm of Slegge, Gorrock and Dredge, Italian warehousemen, whose place of business was in the City of London, and was, as Slegge insisted, "not a shop." "You fellows," he said, "can do as you like. Some of you had better set up a wicket and the net, and come and bowl to me. Ha, ha! look at Thames and the Nigger! It will just suit them. Those Indian chaps think of nothing else but show. I shan't be at all surprised if the nigger goes up to dress and comes down again in white muslin and a turban.--I say! Hi! Thames! Rivers! What's your stupid name? It's going to be a hot day. You ought to come out with the chow-chow." "No, no," whispered a boy beside him, "chowri." "Well, chow-chow, chowri; it's all the same," said the big lad impatiently. "Horse-tail to whisk the flies away.--Hi! do you hear?" "Are you speaking to me?" said the tall, very English-looking lad addressed. "Of course I am." "Well, you might address me by my name." "Well, so I did. Thames. No, I remember, Severn! What idiots your people were to give themselves names like that!" "Well, it's as good as Slegge anyhow," said the lad. There was a little laugh at this, which made the owner of the latter name turn sharply and fiercely upon the nearest boy, who shut his mouth instantly and looked as innocent as a lamb. "Look here," said Slegge, turning again to the lad he had addressed, "don't you be cheeky, sir, or you'll find yourself walked down behind the tennis-court some morning to have a first breakfast; and you won't be the first that I have taught his place in this school." "Oh," said the lad quietly, "you mean fighting?" "Yes," said Slegge, thrusting out his chin, "I mean fighting. You are new to this place, and you have been coming the stuck-up on the strength of your father being a poor half-pay Company's colonel. Honourable East India Company indeed! Shabby set of sham soldiers got-up to look like the real." The face of the boy he addressed changed colour a little, and he drew a deep breath as he compressed his lips. "And don't you look at me like that," continued Slegge, who was delighted to find a large audience gathering round him to listen while he gave one of the new boys a good setting down, "or you may find that, after I have done with you, you won't be fit to show your ugly mug in the row of grinning boobies staring over the wall at a twopenny-halfpenny wild-beast show." "I don't want to quarrel," said the lad quietly. "Oh, don't you!" continued Slegge, with a sneering laugh. "Well, perhaps I do, and if I do I shall just give your master one for himself as well." "My master," said the lad staring. "Yes, your master, the nigger--Howdah, Squashee, or whatever he calls himself. Here! hi! you, Aziz Singh-Song, or whatever your name is, why don't you dress up and go and get leave from the Doctor to ride the elephant in the procession? Your father is a mahout out there in India, isn't he?" The boy he addressed, who had just come up to lay his hand upon the shoulder of Severn, to whisper, "What's the matter, Glyn?" started on hearing this address, and his dark face, which was about the tint of a _young_ Spaniard's, whom he resembled greatly in mien, flushed up and the lips closed very tightly, but only to part again and show his glistening white teeth. "My father--" he began. "Bother! come on," cried Severn, putting his arm round the other and half-pushing, half-dragging him through the crowd of lads who were clustering round in expectation of a coming set-to. There was a low murmur as of disgust as the two lads elbowed their way through, whilst Slegge shouted after them. "Sneaks!" he cried. "Cowards! But I haven't done with you yet;" and as they passed out through the door into the great playground he drew himself up, giving his head a jerk, and then moistening his hands in a very objectionable way, he gave them a rub together, doubled his fists, and threw himself into a fighting attitude, jerking his head to and fro in the most approved manner; and, bringing forth a roar of delight from the little crowd around him, as quick as lightning he delivered two sharp blows right and left to a couple of unoffending schoolfellows, picking out, though, two who were not likely to retaliate. "That'll be it, boys, the pair together--one down and t'other come on. Both together if they like. They want putting in their places. I mean to strike against it." "Hit hard then, Sleggy," cried one of his parasites. "I will," was the reply. "There you have it;" and to the last speaker's disgust he received a sharp blow in the chest which sent him staggering back. "Now, don't you call me Sleggy again, young man. Next time it will be one in the mouth.--Yes, boys," he continued, drawing himself up, "I do mean to hit hard, and let the Principal and the masters see that we are not going to have favouritism here. Indian prince, indeed! Yah! who's he? Why, I could sell him for a ten-pun note, stock and lock and bag and baggage, to Madame Tussaud's. That's about all he's fit for. Dressed up to imitate an English gentleman! Look at him! His clothes don't fit, even if they are made by a proper tailor." "It's he who doesn't fit his clothes," cried one of the circle. "Well done, Burney!" cried Slegge approvingly. "That's it. Look at his hands and feet. Bah! I haven't patience with it. The Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself, taking a nigger like that! Why didn't he come dressed like a native, instead of disguised as an English lad? And he's no more like it than chalk's like cheese. Yes, I say the Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself, bringing a fellow like that into an establishment for the sons of gentlemen; and I'll tell him so before I have done." "Do," said the lad nearest to him; "only do it when we are all there. I should like to hear you give the Doctor a bit of your mind." Slegge turned round upon him sharply. "Do you mean that," he said, "or is it chaff?" "Mean it? Of course!" cried the boy hastily. "Lucky for you, then," continued Slegge. "I suppose you haven't forgotten me giving you porridge before breakfast this time last year?" "Here, what a chap you are! I didn't mean any harm. But I say, Slegge, old chap, you did scare them off. I wish the Principal wouldn't have any more new boys. I say, though, you don't mean to get the wickets pitched this morning, do you?" "Of course I do," cried Slegge. "Do you want to go idling and staring over the wall and look at the show?" "Well, I--I--" "There, that will do," cried Slegge. "I know. Just as if there weren't monkeys enough in the collection without you!" At this would-be witticism on the part of the tyrant of the school there was a fresh roar of laughter, which made the unfortunate against whom it was directed writhe with annoyance, and hurry off to conciliate his schoolfellow by getting the wickets pitched. CHAPTER TWO. DECLARATION OF WAR. Meanwhile the two lads, who had retired from the field, strolled off together across the playground down to the pleasant lawn-like level which the Doctor, an old lover of the Surrey game, took a pride in having well kept for the benefit of his pupils, giving them a fair amount of privilege for this way of keeping themselves in health. But to quote his words in one of his social lectures, he said: "You boys think me a dreadful old tyrant for keeping you slaving away at your classics and mathematics, because you recollect the work that you are often so unwilling to do, while the hours I give you for play quite slip your minds. Now, this is my invariable rule, that you shall do everything well: work hard when it's work, and play hard when it's play." The two lads, Glyn Severn and his companion of many years, Aziz Singh, a dark English boy in appearance and speech, but maharajah in his own right over a powerful principality in Southern India, strolled right away over the grass to the extreme end of the Doctor's extensive grounds, chatting together as boys will talk about the incidents of the morning. "Oh," cried the Indian lad angrily, "I wish you hadn't stopped me. I was just ready." "Why, what did you want to do, Singhy?" cried the other. "Fight," said the boy, with his eyes flashing and his dark brows drawn down close together. "Oh, you shouldn't fight directly after breakfast," said Glyn Severn, laughing good-humouredly. "Why not?" cried the other fiercely. "I felt just then as if I could kill him." "Then I am glad I lugged you away." "But you shouldn't," cried the young Indian. "You nearly made me hit you." "You had better not," said Glyn, laughing merrily. "Yes, of course; I know, and I don't want to." "That's right; and you mustn't kill people in England because you fall out with them." "No, of course not; I know that too. But I don't like that boy. He keeps on saying nasty things to us, and--and--what do you call it? I know--bullies you, and says insulting things to me. How dare he call me a nigger and say my father was a mahout?" "The insulting brute!" said Glyn. "Why should he do it?" cried Singh. "Oh, it's plain enough. It's because he is big and strong, and he wants to pick a quarrel with us." "But what for?" cried Singh. "We never did him any harm." "Love of conquest, I suppose, so as to make us humble ourselves to him same as the other fellows do. He wants to be cock of the school." "Oh--oh!" cried Singh. "It does make me feel so hot. What did he say to me: was I going to ride on the elephant?--Yes. Well, suppose I was. It wouldn't be the first time." "Not by hundreds," cried Glyn. "I say, used it not to be grand? Don't you wish we were going over the plains to-day on the back of old Sultan?" He pronounced it Sool-tann. "Ah, yes!" cried Singh, with his eyes flashing now. "I do, I do! instead of being shut up in this old school to be bullied by a boy like that. I should like to knock his head off." "No, you wouldn't. There, don't think anything more about it. He isn't worth your notice." "No, I suppose not," said the Indian boy;--"but what makes me so angry is that he despises me, and has treated me ever since we came here as if I were his inferior. It is not the first time he has called me a nigger.--There, I won't think anything more about it. Tell me, what's this grand procession to-day? Is it to be like a durbar at home, when all the rajahs and nawabs come together with their elephants and trains?" "Oh, no, no, no!" cried Glyn, laughing. "Nothing of the kind." "Then, why are they making all this fuss? It said on the bills we saw yesterday in the town, `Ramball's Wild-Beast Show. Grand Procession.'" "I don't know much about it," said Glyn; "only here in England in country places they make a great fuss over things like this. I asked Wrench yesterday, and he said that this was a menagerie belonging to a man who lives near and keeps his wild-beasts at a big farm-like place just outside the town." "But why a procession?" said Singh impatiently. "Oh, he takes them all round the country, going from town to town, and they are away for months, and now they are coming back." "Menagerie! beast show!" said Singh thoughtfully. "They are all tame, of course?" "Yes, of course," said Glyn. "It said lions and tigers and elephants and camels, and a lot more things on the bills. I should like to see them." "You English are a wonderful people. My father used to have tigers-- three of them--a tiger, a tigress, and a nearly full-grown cub. But they were so fierce he got tired of keeping them, and when the tigress killed one of the keepers, you remember, he asked your father about it, and they settled that it would be best to kill them." "Of course, I remember," said Glyn; "and they had a tiger-hunt, and let one out at a time, and had beaters to drive them out of the nullahs, and shot all three." "Yes," said Singh thoughtfully; "and my father wouldn't let me go with him on his elephant, because he said it wouldn't be safe. Then these will all be tame tigers and lions? Well, I shall like to see them all the same, because it will make me feel like being at home once more. I say, when is your father coming down again?" "Don't know," said Glyn quietly. "I did ask in my last weekly letter." "Ah!" said the Indian boy with a sigh, "I wish I were you." "Well, let's change," said Glyn laughing. "You envy me! Why, I ought to envy you." "Why?" said Singh, staring. "Why, because you are a maharajah, a prince; and when you grow old enough you are going back to Dour to rule over your subjects and be one of the biggest pots in Southern India." "Well, what of that?" said Singh quietly. "What good will that do me? But of course the Colonel will come too." "Ah, that remains to be seen," said Glyn. "That'll be years to come, and who knows what will happen before then?" "I don't care what happens," cried Singh hotly. "He's coming back to India when I go. Why, he told me himself that my father made him my guardian, and that he promised to look after me as long as he lived. He said he promised to be a father to me. It was that day when I got into a passion about something, and made him so cross. But I was very sorry afterwards," said the boy quietly, "he's such a good old fellow, and made me like him as much as I did my own father." "Well," said Glyn merrily, "you have always had your share of him. It has made me feel quite jealous sometimes." "Jealous! Why?" said Singh wonderingly. "Because he seemed to like you better than he did me." "What a shame!" cried Singh. "Oh, I say, you don't mean that, do you, Glyn, old chap? Why, you don't know how fond he is of you." "Don't I?" "No; you should hear what he says about you sometimes." "Says about me? What does he say about me?" "Oh, perhaps I oughtn't to tell you," said Singh, showing his white teeth. "Yes, do, there's a good fellow," cried Glyn, catching the other by the arm. "Well, he said he should be proud to see me grow up such a boy as you are, and that my father wished me to take you for an example, for he wanted me to become thoroughly English--oh, and a lot more like that." Glyn Severn was silent, and soon after, as the two boys turned, they saw a group of their schoolfellows coming down the field laden with bats and stumps, while one carried a couple of iron-shod stakes round which was rolled a stout piece of netting. "Here," said Glyn suddenly, "let's go round the other side of the field. Old Slegge's along with them, and he'll be getting up a quarrel again. I don't want to fight; but if he keeps on aggravating like he did this morning I suppose I shall have to." "But if we go now," said Singh, "it will look as if we are frightened. We seemed to run away before, only you made me come." "Oh, it doesn't matter what seems," cried Severn irritably. "We know we are not frightened, and that's enough. Come on." The two boys began to move slowly away; but they had not gone far before Slegge shouted after them, "Hi, you, sirs! I want you to come and field." "Then want will be your master," said Severn between his teeth.--"Come on, Singh. Don't look round. Let's pretend we can't hear." They walked steadily on for a few paces, Severn making-believe to be talking earnestly to his companion, when: "Do you hear, there, you, sirs? Come here directly. I want you to field!" "I dare say you do; cheeky great bully!" said Glyn softly. "I shan't come and field for you. The Doctor did not give us a holiday to-day to come and be your slaves." "Hi, there! Are you coming, or am I to come and fetch you?" shouted Slegge, without any effect, and the big lad turned to Burney and gave him an order. The next minute the boy, armed with a stump, came running at full speed across the grass, shouting to the two companions to stop, but without their paying the slightest heed or increasing their pace. The consequence was that the lad soon overtook them, to cry, rather out of breath, "Did you hear the captain call to you to come and field?" Singh glanced at Glyn, who gave him a sharp look as he replied, "Yes, I heard him quite plainly." The messenger stared with open eyes and mouth, as if it was beyond his comprehension. "Then, why don't you come?" he cried. "Because we are going up to the house," replied Glyn coolly, "to our dormitory." "That you are not," cried Burney. "The rules say that the fellows are not to go up to their rooms between hours, and you have been here long enough to know that. Now then, no nonsense. Here, you, Singh, you've got to come and field while old Slegge practises batting, and Tompkins has got to bowl." As the boy spoke in an unpleasant dictatorial way he made a thrust at Singh with the pointed stump he held; but quick as thought and before it was driven home, this third-part of a wicket was wrenched from his hand by Severn and sent flying through the air. "How dare you!" shouted Burney, and he made a rush at Glyn to collar him and make him prisoner; but before he could reach the offending lad a foot was thrust out by Singh, over which he tripped and fell sprawling upon his face. "Oh!" he shouted, half-beside himself with rage; and, scrambling up, he made a rush with clenched fists at the two boys, who now stood perfectly still awaiting his onslaught. It was a thoroughly angry charge, but not a charge home; for Burney stopped some three or four yards short of the distance, with his rage evaporating fast and beginning to feel quite discreet. For quite a minute the opponents stood gazing fiercely, and then what had threatened to become a cuffing encounter became verbal. "Look here," cried Burney, "you two will get it for this. What am I to say to the captain?" "Tell him to bowl for himself," said Singh sharply. "Here! Hi! Burney, bring 'em along!" came from across the field and from between Slegge's hands. "Tell these beggars they had better not keep me waiting much longer!" "All right!" shouted back Burney; and then to the two lads, "There, you hear. Come on at once, and as you are new chaps I won't tell on you. You had better come, or he'll pay you out by keeping you on bowling so that you can't go and see the show." "Yes," said Glyn quietly. "Go back and tell him what Singh said." "What!" cried Burney, staring with wonder. "Tell the captain he's to bowl for himself?" "Yes," said Glyn coolly, "as long as he likes.--Come along, Singh;" and, throwing his arm over his Indian companion's shoulder, the two lads fell into military step and marched slowly towards the Doctor's mansion-like house. "I am afraid it means a fight, Singh," said Glyn quietly. "Well, I dare say we can get over it. I am not going to knuckle down to that fellow. Are you?" "Am I?" cried the boy, flashing a fierce look at his English companion. "What do you think?" Glyn laughed softly and merrily. "Shall I tell you?" he said. "Yes, of course," cried the Indian boy hotly. "Well, I think you will." "What!" "When you can't lift hand or foot, and your eyes are closing up so as you can hardly see." "And I won't give up then!" cried the boy passionately. "Well, don't get into a wax about it, old chap," said Glyn in a dry, slow way. "I don't suppose you'll have to, for the big chuckle-headed bully will have to lick me first, and I dare say I can manage to tire him so that you can easily lick him in turn." "You are not going to fight him," cried Singh hotly. "Yes, I am." "You are not. He insulted my dead father. A mahout indeed!" "So he did mine," said Glyn. "A shabby half-pay military officer indeed! I'll make _him_ look shabby before I have done." "Now, look here," cried Singh, "don't be a beast, Glynny, and make me more angry than I am. I am bad enough as it is." "So am I, so don't you get putting on the Indian tyrant. Recollect you are in England now. This is my job, and I know if father were here he'd say I was to have the first go in. He's such a big fellow that I believe he'll lick me easily. But, as I said before, I shall pretty well tire him out, and then you being the reserve, he'll come at you, and then he'll find out his mistake. And I say, Singhy, old chap, I do hope that my eyes won't be so closed that I can't see. Now then, come up to our room. It's a holiday, and the rules won't count to-day. Come on, and we'll talk it over." "But--" began Singh. "Now, don't be obstinate. You promised father you'd try and give way to me over English matters. Now, didn't you?" "Well," said the lad hesitatingly, "I suppose I did." "Come on, then. You see war's begun, and we have got to settle our plan of campaign." The young Maharajah nodded his head and smiled. "Yes," he said, "come up to our room. We ought to dress, oughtn't we, to see the procession? I say, I don't know how it is, I always like fighting against any one who tries to bully. I am not sorry that war has begun." "Neither am I," said the English lad quietly, "for things have been very unpleasant ever since we came here, and when we've got this over perhaps we shall be at peace." CHAPTER THREE. THE PRINCE'S REGALIA. The bedroom shared by Glyn Severn and Singh was one of a series, small and particularly comfortable, in the new annexe the Doctor had built expressly for lecture-room and dormitories when his establishment began to increase. The comfortably furnished room just sufficed for two narrow beds and the customary furniture; and as soon as the two lads had entered, Singh hurried to his chest of drawers, unlocked one, took out a second bunch of keys to that he carried in his pocket, and was then crossing to a sea-going portmanteau standing in one corner, when Glyn, who was looking very thoughtful and abstracted, followed, and as Singh knelt down and threw open the travelling-case, laid his hand upon the lad's shoulder. "What are you going to do?" he said shortly. "Only look out two or three things that there's not room for in the drawer." "What for?" "Why, to dress for the procession." "Stuff and nonsense! You are quite right as you are," cried Glyn half-mockingly. "You must learn to remember that you are in England, where nobody dresses up except soldiers. Why, what were you going to do?" "I was going to put on a white suit and belt." "Nonsense!" cried Glyn. "This isn't India, but Devonshire. Why, if you were to come down dressed like that the boys would all laugh at you, and the crowd out in the road shout and cheer." "Well, of course," said Singh; "they'd see I was a prince." "Oh, what a rum fellow you are!" cried Glyn, gripping his companion's shoulders and laughingly shaking him to and fro. "I thought that I had made you understand that now we are over here you were to dress just the same as an English boy. Why, don't you know that when we had a king in England he used to dress just like any ordinary gentleman, only sometimes he would wear a star on his breast." "Oh, but surely," began Singh, in a disappointed tone, "he must have--" "Yes, yes, yes; sometimes," cried Glyn. "I know what you mean. On state occasions, or when he went to review troops, he would wear grand robes or a field-marshal's uniform." "But didn't he wear his crown?" "No," cried Glyn, bursting out laughing. "That's only put on for a little while when he's made king." "What does he do with it, then, at other times?" "Nothing," cried Glyn merrily. "It's kept shut up in a glass case at the Tower, for people to go and see." "England seems a queer place," said Singh quietly. "Very," cried Glyn drily. "You never want those Indian clothes, and you ought to have done as I told you--left them behind." "But the Colonel didn't say so," replied the boy warmly. "He said that some day he might take me with him to Court. It was when I asked him for the emeralds." "What do you mean--the belt?" said Glyn quickly. "Yes." "You never told me that you had got them." "No; the Colonel said that I was not to make a fuss about them nor show them to people, but keep them locked up in the case. Here they are," cried the boy; and, thrusting down one hand, he drew from beneath some folded garments a small flat scarlet morocco case, which he opened by pressing a spring, and drew out from where it lay neatly doubled, a gold-embroidered waistbelt of some soft yellow leather, whose fastening was formed of a gold clasp covered by a large flat emerald, two others of similar shape being arranged so that when the belt was fastened round the waist they lay on either side. It was a magnificent piece of ornamentation, but barbaric, and such as would be worn by an Indian prince. Apparently it was of great value, for the largest glittering green stone was fully two inches in length and an inch and a half wide, the others being about half the size, and all three engraved with lines of large Arabic characters, so that either stone could have been utilised as a gigantic seal. "I don't see why one shouldn't wear a thing like this," said Singh. "My father always used to wear it out at home wherever he went, even when he wore nothing else but a long white muslin robe. On grand Court days he would be covered with jewels, and his turban was full of diamonds." "Yes," said Glyn drily and with a half-contemptuous smile upon his lips; "but that was in India, where all the rajahs and princes wear such things." "Well," said the boy proudly, "I am still a maharajah, even if I have come to England to be educated; so why shouldn't I put on a belt like this on a grand day if I like?" Glyn took the brilliant belt from his companion's hand and held it towards the light, inspecting curiously the beautiful gems, which were of a lustrous green marked with flaws. "Ah," he said, "it looks nice, and is worth a lot of money I suppose." "Of course," said the young Indian; and he added haughtily, "I shouldn't wear it if it were not." "Well, you can't wear it," said Glyn, passing the embroidered leather through his hands and turning it over in the bright sunlight which came through the window. "But why?" cried Singh, frowning slightly at having his will challenged. "Well," said Glyn, "first of all, as I told you, because the boys would laugh at you." "They dare not," cried the boy proudly. "What!" cried Glyn laughing. "Why, English boys dare do anything. What did Slegge say this morning?" "Slegge is what you call a blackguard," cried Singh angrily. "Well, he isn't nice certainly," said Glyn; "but he'd begin at you again directly, and chaff, and say that you ought to ride on the elephant." "Well," said the boy, "and that would be my place if there were a howdah. Of course I shouldn't ride on the great brute's neck." "Yes, in India; but can't you recollect that you are still in England?" "Of course I can," cried the boy, with flashing eyes; "but I can't forget that I am a prince." "Now, look here," said Glyn, "what did dad say to you when the Doctor left us with him in the drawing-room? I mean before father went away. Have you forgotten?" "Of course not. He said, `Never mind about being a prince. Be content with the rank of an English gentleman till you go back to your own country.' And that's what I am going to do." "Well done," cried Glyn merrily. "Then, now, put this thing away; you don't want it. But stop a moment. I never had a close look at it before." "No; the Colonel told me to keep it locked up and not to go showing it about so as to tempt some _budmash_ to steal it." "Well, we haven't got any _budmashes_ in England," said Glyn merrily, as he began to inspect the emeralds again and took out his handkerchief to rub off a finger-mark or two and make the gems send off scintillations of sunlight which formed jack-o'-lanterns on the ceiling. "But we have plenty of blackguards who would like to get a chance to carry it off." "What, among our schoolfellows?" cried Singh hastily. "Bah! No! There, put it away. But I should like to know what that writing means." "It's out of the Koran," said the boy as he took the jewelled belt back reverently and held it up to the light in turn. "It's very, very old, and means greatness to my family. It is a holy relic, and the Maharajahs of Dour have worn that in turn for hundreds of years." "Well, you put it away," said Glyn; "and I wouldn't show it to anybody again, nor yet talk about it. I wonder the dad let you have it." "Why?" said Singh proudly. "It is mine." "Yes, of course; but it is not suited for a boy like you." "A boy like me!" cried Singh half--angrily. "Why, I am as old as you." "Well, I know that; but my father doesn't give me emeralds and diamonds to take with me to school. He could, though, if he liked, for he's got all those beautiful Indian jewels the Maharajah gave him." "Yes," said Singh, "and that diamond--hilted tulwar." "Yes, that's a grand sword," cried Glyn, with his eyes sparkling. "I should like to have that." Singh laughed mockingly. "Why, you are as bad as I am," he cried. "That I am not! Why, if I had it, do you think I should buckle it on to go and see a country wild-beast show?" "Well, no, I don't suppose you would," said Singh quietly, as he gravely replaced the emeralds in their receptacle and curled the belt around them before shutting down the velvet-lined and quilted cover with a loud snap. "But some day, when we have both grown older, and we are back in India--I mean when I am at home in state and you are one of my officers--you will have to get the Colonel to let you wear it then." "Ah," said Glyn, slowly and thoughtfully, "some day; but that's a long time off. I suppose I shall be a soldier like the dad is, and in your army." "Why, of course," cried Singh. "You will be my greatest general, just the same as your father was when mine was alive. He was always a great general there, though he was only colonel in the Company's army. There, I suppose you are right. I like to look at that belt, but I won't show it about; but I say, Glyn, I shall be glad when we get older and have both begun learning to be--no, what do you call it?--not learning--I mean, being taught to be soldiers." "Training," said Glyn. "Yes, training--that's it; and we shall go together to that place where your father was, not far from London. You know--the place he used to talk to us about, where he was trained before he came out to India." "Addiscombe," said Glyn quietly, as he stood watching his companion thrust the case back into the bottom of the portmanteau and rearrange the garments he had moved, while his hand lingered for a few moments about a soft white robe, which he covered over with a sigh before closing the lid and turning the key of the great leather case. "Yes," he said, "Addiscombe. What stories he used to tell us about the young officers there! What did he call them? I forget." "Cadets," said Glyn thoughtfully. "That's it. I wish I didn't forget so many of those English words; but," continued the boy, "I liked it best when he told us about the battles out at home, when all the chiefs around were fighting against my father the Maharajah, so as to slay him and divide his possessions. You know, my father has talked about it to me as well--how he was so nearly beaten and weakened, and so many of his bravest officers killed, that it made him apply to the great Company for help, and they sent your father. Oh, what a brave man he was!" "Who said that?" cried Glyn, flushing up. "My father the Maharajah. He said so to me many times, and that he was his best and truest friend. Oh yes, I used to like to hear about it all, and he used to tell me that the Colonel would always be my truest friend as well, and that I was to love him and obey him, and always believe that what he told me to do was right. And I always do." "Of course you do," said Glyn flushing. "Yes, Singh, he is some one to be proud of, isn't he? But I am like you; I don't much like coming to this school, though the Doctor is very nice and kind to us both." "Yes, I like him better than the masters," said Singh; "but I don't like the boys, and I don't think they like me." "Oh, wait a bit," said Glyn. "It's because everything seems so different to being in India; but, as father says, there is such a lot one ought to learn, and we shall get used to it by-and-by; only, I say, you know what the dad said?" "You mean about trying to be an English gentle man and leaving the maharajah till I get back home?" "Yes, that's it," cried Glyn eagerly. "Yes; but it's hard work, for everything is so different here, and the boys are not like you." "Oh yes, they are," cried Glyn merrily; "just the same. Here, come on; let's go down and see whether Wrench has put up those forms by the wall. We want to see the show." "Yes," cried Singh. "It puts one in mind of Dour again, and I have been thinking that we don't get on with the other boys through me." "What do you mean with your `through me'?" said Glyn. "Well, I don't quite know. It's because I am an Indian, I suppose; and when they talk to me as they do, and bully me, as you call it, it makes my heart feel hot and as if I should like to do something strange. But I am going to try. And look here, Glyn," said the lad very seriously, "I shall begin at once." "Begin what?" "Trying to make them like me. I shall make friends with that big fellow Slegge, and bear it all, and if he goes on again like he did this morning I have quite made up my mind I won't fight." "Oh," said Glyn drily. "Well, come on down the grounds now. We shall see." CHAPTER FOUR. THE ELEPHANT CRIES "PHOOMP!" Plymborough was out in street and road excepting those who lived on the line of route and had windows that looked down upon the coming procession, which was to be timed to reach the town, after a long march from Duncombe, at noon precisely. Small things please country people, and there was not much work being done that day. It was an excuse for a holiday, as eagerly seized upon by the townsfolk, old and young, as by the young gentlemen of Dr Bewley's establishment. But that was not all. The villages near Plymborough were many, and the people for miles round flocked into the place to see the procession and stop afterwards about the market-place to visit the exhibition of beasts and listen to the band. The day was gloriously fine, and all promised a famous harvest of sixpences for the great Ramball himself, a man as punctual in his appointments as he was in the feeding of his beasts, this being carried out regularly at certain times, but, unfortunately for the animals, in uncertain quantities dependent upon the supplies. Dr Bewley's boys took their places along the forms quite an hour before noon, this punctuality having something to do with getting the best places, as they put it, though--as the forms were in a line under the brick wall, which was low enough with their help for the shortest boy to see over, and the procession would pass close beneath--it was hard to see any difference in the positions, or why the form reserved for the masters was any better than that at the extreme end. But certainly the masters' form was considered the best from the fact that it stood first, while the nearest end of the next form was taken up in spite of his declaration by Slegge, whose greatest admirers got as close to him as they could or as he would allow. "Let's go and stand with them," said Singh, as they crossed over to the wall. "Oh, I don't know," replied his companion. "I vote we go right to the other end along with the juniors." "Very well," said Singh with a laugh; "but they'll say it's because we're afraid." "Yes," replied Glyn coolly; "but let them. I don't think we are." And leading the way, he made for the last form, which they had all to themselves, and stood there quietly looking down at the crowd below and along the Duncombe road, which was pretty well lined with people standing about or seated in cart or chaise waiting for the coming sight. The masters were not in such a hurry, and they remained in the house talking together, so that they were not present to see the skylarking and listen to the banter going on, a good deal of which was set going by Slegge, who was in a high state of glee, and scattered a great deal of chaff, to the great delight of his parasites, who eagerly conveyed insulting messages from their chief to the two new pupils at the other end of the line--at least, they bore those that were not too offensive; others that seemed likely to produce some form of resentment from the lads they attacked were sent on by the youngest boys. All this palled after a time, and a certain amount of whispering beginning close at hand, Slegge asked sharply what the whisperers were talking about, when silence ensued, no one present daring to repeat the remark which Burney had made, which was to the effect that old Slegge had said that he was not going to stoop to see the miserable procession, but all the same he had taken the best place. The consequence was that Slegge guessed pretty correctly that something was being whispered dealing with him, and he was just growing fiercely insistent and threatening what he would do if somebody did not confess, when the masters came upon the scene and took their places; while directly after there was a loud cheer, for from out of the distance came the faintly heard throbbing of a drum. Everything else was now forgotten. Eyes and ears were strained, and minutes elapsed before the pulsations caused by the beating of two balls upon the tightly stretched skin began to grow nearer, and Mr Rampson commenced a discussion to fill up the time by throwing quotations from the old Roman authors at his fellow-tutors and the older boys. It was a favourable moment for calling a drum a tympanum and giving descriptions of the different forms, curves, and lengths of the various trumpets used by the Roman soldiery in their warlike processions, all of which Slegge voted bosh, and intimated his opinion to the next boy that old Rampson had better go to the other end of the forms and pour it out on the two new fellows. At last, though, the pulsations of the well-belaboured drum came nearer and were mingled with the mournfully plaintive notes of the wind instruments being blown by the band, the performers seated in a tall triumphal car decorated in scarlet and gold, and ornamented by a gilt carving meant to represent the giant anaconda of South America embracing and crushing the twenty bandsmen of Ramball's show, gentlemen who, by the way, wore a richly worsted-embroidered uniform of scarlet baize, the braid being yellow ochre of the deepest dye. The carving round the car was either a two-headed anaconda or a combination of two performing an evolution in twists about the musicians, tying them up apparently, from the spectators' point of view, in horrible knots and giving them a terrible aspect of suffering, the apparent pressure of the serpents' folds causing their faces and cheeks to swell out in an appalling way, and their eyes to start from their sockets, while their sufferings seemed to produce wails, shrieks, and cries for help or mercy, mingled with groans, as the men worked hard with a perfect battery of old-fashioned key-bugles, supported by ophicleide and bassoon. Most painful were the shrieking, strident cries produced by a pair of clarinets, and altogether there came from out of the knots of the serpents a hideous chaos of sound, drawn onward by a team of six horses, and received with wild cheers by the crowd, for it was really the new triumphal march freshly down from town, but in which the bandsmen were not perfect as regarded their parts. "Is that music or the roarings and cries of some of the beasts?" whispered Singh. There was a burst of laughter from the boys who heard the native remark, which made Singh turn round upon them angrily; but at a touch from Glyn he smiled good-humouredly, and then laughed aloud. "Well, it was a stupid thing to say," he cried. "Of course it's the music." "I say, Singh," burst in Glyn, and he nodded towards the huge drum that was suspended at the back in the highest part of the car, hung, as it were, between the curling tails of the two gilt serpents. "I say," he cried, "wouldn't that astonish the people at Dour? What would they say to that for a tom-tom?" "Ah!" cried Singh, "I'll buy one like that, and take it back with us when we go home." "No, I say, don't," cried Glyn. "They make noise enough there as it is." "Noise!" echoed Singh. "They don't call that noise." As they were speaking the great six-horse car rumbled slowly by, with the drummer beating hard and the buglers and trombonists blowing their best; while the crowd, taking up the cheer started by the boys, sent it echoing along towards the main street, where, coming slowly along, and stretching as far as eye could reach, there was a long line of caravans, all exceedingly plain and of a uniform yellow colour, with the names of their contents painted on them in black letters. The place of honour was given to the king of beasts, for the first of the cars bore the word "Lions;" but probably his majesty was asleep, for not so much as a muttering purr on a large scale came from the narrow grating at the top. Tigers followed; the next car held leopards, each carriage being of the same uniform level, with the black letters; and, coming slowly after them, were about two score, kept a good distance apart so as to lengthen the line as much as possible. But at first there was nothing else to see, and Singh turned impatiently to his companion, and said: "When does the procession begin?" "Why, that's the procession," said a small boy close to him, taking the answer upon himself. "The wild beasts are inside. Didn't you know?" And then he proceeded to display his own knowledge. "They draw all the vans up in a square," he began excitedly, "out there in the home-field behind the `King's Arms,' and then they open the sides of the vans, which are like great shutters on hinges at the top and bottom, so that when they are opened one shutter falls down and covers the wheels, and the other is pulled up, leaving the side all iron bars. Don't you see? Then, instead of being vans, they are turned into dens and cages." "Is that so?" said Singh quietly. "Oh, I suppose so," replied Glyn. "I have never seen one of these affairs; but it seems a very reasonable way for building up a place all dens and cages in very short time." "Oh, look here!" cried another of the boys. "Here's a game! Look at that nigger!" Singh started as if he had been stung, and was about to turn furiously upon the boy, under the impression that he was the nigger in question; but at the same moment he caught sight of a full-blooded, woolly-headed West Coast African leading a very large camel by a rope, the great ungainly beast mincing and blinking as it gently put down, one after the other, its soft, spongy feet, which seemed to spread out on the gravelled road, while their high-shouldered owner kept on turning its bird-like head from side to side, muttering and whining discontentedly, as if objecting to be seen by such an elongated crowd, and murmuring against being made the one visible object of the show. The camel was not an attractive creature, for, in addition to its natural peculiarities of shape, it was the time of year for shedding its long hairy coat, and this was hanging in ragged ungainly locks and flakes all along its flanks and about its loping, unhealthy-looking hump. This was something to look at, and the excited boys shouted, cheered, and gave forth remark after remark such as must have been painful to the dignity of the melancholy-looking beast, which kept on turning its half-closed, plaintive-looking eyes at the noisy groups, wincing and seeming to protest against the unkindly and insulting remarks. "Oh, I say, isn't he a beauty?" cried one. "Yes; it's just like a four-legged bird," shouted another. "That's right. They've caught Sindbad's roc and clipped his wings." "Cut them right off," said Glyn laughingly, joining in the mirth. "Poor fellow, look how he's moulting!" There was a burst of laughter at this, and as it ceased another boy shouted: "Ought its hump to wobble like that, and hang over all on one side?" "That isn't its hump," cried Burney; "that's its cistern in which it carries its drinking-water. Don't you know they can go for days without wanting any more? Can't you see it's empty now?" "Poor camel!" said one of the boys. "Yes, poor, and no mistake! Why, it's all in rags," cried Burney, and the unhappy-looking beast went mincing on, to be followed by another van labelled "Birds." Then came one labelled ominously and in very large letters, "Serpents;" those next in succession containing antelopes, nylghaus, crocodiles, eagles, rhinoceroses, zebras, monkeys, orang-outangs, chimpanzees, rib-nosed baboons, and so on, and so on, cage after cage, den after den, a procession of so many painted yellow vans drawn by very unsatisfactory-looking horses, till, as the last one came into sight far on the right, it was observed by the boys as they stood leaning their elbows on the wall that there was something special being kept for the finale, for the crowd was closing in behind and coming on surrounding this last van. "Oh, I shall be so glad when it's all over," said Singh. "I would have said let's go away ever so long ago, only the Doctor might think it disagreeable after he had given us leave to see." "Yes, it would have looked bad," replied Glyn. "It seems to me such a shame," he continued, "getting us all here to see a procession of wild beasts, and all we have seen is a camel." "But don't you see--" began Singh. "Of course; I said so. I have seen a camel. But if the man let the people see all his wild beasts they wouldn't pay to go into his show." "Oh," cried Singh, "that's it. I never thought of that. Of course. But what are the people all crowding up for behind that last van?" "Because it's the end," said the small boy who had spoken before. "No; but there's something they can see, for they are all pressing close up, and the boys are stooping down to look underneath." "Yes, and there's a man with a whip trying to keep them back." That was all plain enough to view as the great van, drawn by four stout cart-horses, came nearer, with the whip-armed carter who walked by their side varying his position to cross round by the back, making-believe to use his whip and keep the boys from getting too close. "Well, they can see something," said Glyn, as the great vehicle came nearly abreast; and as it did the lad gripped his companion by the shoulder. "Look, look!" he cried. "My word, it is queer!" "What is?" said Singh excitedly. "Two pairs of giants' trousers walking underneath the van. There, can't you see? Oh, isn't it comic. And they don't fit." "Nonsense," cried Singh excitedly. "It's a big elephant underneath there, and he's so heavy he has broken through the bottom of the wagon." It certainly gave a stranger that impression; but the young Indian was not right. It was only the showman's ingenious device to convey his huge attraction from town to town unseen save just so much as would whet the spectator's curiosity and make him wish to see more. "Dear me," said a rich, unctuous voice just behind the lads; and the boys started round at the familiar tones, to see the benignant-looking Doctor blinking through his gold-rimmed spectacles and commenting upon the spectacle for the benefit of his younger pupils. "You see, my dear lads," he began, "a monstrous animal like that must weigh tons, and would be too heavy for the horses to--" The Doctor's words were drowned by the roar of laughter that arose from behind the wall, for Glyn's comment had been taken up quickly, and ran from end to end of the line, with the result that, like a chorus dominating their laughter, the boys joined in one insane shout of: "Trousers! trousers!" The next moment it was over the wall and running through the crowd, who caught it up and began to yell out the name of the familiar object of attire, staid elderly men holding their sides and laughing, boys shrieking with delight and pointing under the van at the two pairs of huge pillar-like legs with the loose skin hanging about them like some specimen of giant frieze, till, as the van moved on, the driver grew frantic and began to smack his whip; while, to add to the tumult, there arose from within a peculiar hoarse trumpeting roar that can only be put into print by the words: _Phoomp! phoomp! phoomp_! "Ha!" cried Singh excitedly, and he gripped at Glyn's arm so sharply that he made him wince. "Hark at him! Hark at him!" he whispered hoarsely in the boy's ear. "The jungle! the jungle! Why, it must be a big bull elephant. Oh, we must go and see him to-night!" Singh saw him the next minute; for, startled by the terrific roar behind them, and probably knowing well the power of the utterer, the four draught horses began to suffer from panic. One began to rear and plunge, and before the driver, who was close to the hind wheels, could force his way through the crowd and seize its rein, it made a dash for the sidewalk farthest from the Doctor's wall. Like gregarious beasts, its companions went with it; the front of the van was wrenched round and the off fore-wheel ascended the path, while at the same moment, as the furious trumpeting continued, there was a crash, one side of the van was heaved up as if by an internal earthquake, and the next moment, amidst the noise of splintering wood, the plunging of horses, and the elephant's deafening roar, the great yellow vehicle lay over on its side, and the monstrous beast, fully ten feet high, stood panting and trumpeting with uplifted trunk by the side of the ruins, glaring round as if seeking which enemy to charge. CHAPTER FIVE. AN AL-FRESCO LUNCH. There were plenty of those whom the great beast looked upon as foes lying prostrate, for with yells of dismay the crowd dashed off helter-skelter, trampling each other down in their efforts to escape, clearing the way as rapidly as they could; but the only object that offered itself for attack was one of the big van horses, which had swung round in the alarm, to stand right in the elephant's way. And now, flapping its ears, giving its miserable little tail a twist in the air, and uttering a pig-like squeak, the elephant charged, catching the horse in the ribs and knocking it over on to its side; and then, without stopping to trample upon the poor animal, the monster indulged in a peculiar caper resembling a triumphant war-dance, a movement which but for the suggestion of danger would have been comical in the extreme. Then, stopping short as if to make a survey of its position with its piercing eyes, the elephant looked at the ruined van, then at the villa residences opposite the Doctor's great mansion, then at the blank wall (which seemed to puzzle it, with what looked like a palisade of boys' heads), and next up the road. At last, turning sharply round to point with uplifted trunk down the road in the direction from which it had come, it went off in its curious shuffling shamble as if in pursuit of the flying crowd; while, now in a state of the greatest excitement, about a score of the wild-beast van-drivers, headed by the man who had the elephant in charge, cracking his whip and shouting for it to come back, started in pursuit. The Doctor's pupils, evidently feeling that they were safe behind the wall, for the elephant displayed no intention of using his trunk to pick their heads as if they were gigantic cherries, all stood fast, most probably too much startled to stir; and having an excellent view of this unexpected episode in the procession, had the satisfaction of seeing the principal actor trotting away the whole length of the playground wall, his hind-quarters looking more than ever like an enormous pair of ill-made, ill-fitting trousers. "Will he catch them--overtake any of them?" cried Glyn, as the elephant passed the spot where he and Singh were watching the proceedings, the latter with his dark eyes glittering and nostrils quivering, as the whole business brought back something he had once seen in his native state. But as he spoke the loud shouting of the frightened crowd tearing away down the road suddenly ceased, as those nearest became conscious of the fact that their pursuit by the great beast had ceased. Soon after passing the end of the Doctor's wall, the elephant, now fully at liberty, found itself by the tall, well-clipped mingled hawthorn-and-privet hedge that enclosed the lawn-like, verdant cricket-field, at the far side of which there was a grand row of old elms which brought back to the escaped animal memories of Indian forests and pendant boughs covered with fresh green leaves that could be torn down and eaten; and, stopping short in the rapid pace which it had pursued, swinging its massive head from side to side, it once more turned itself "half-right," as if upon a pivot, stared at the tall green hedge for a few moments, and then, curling its trunk right backwards over its neck, it uttered another trumpeting note which was no longer angry, but sounded cracked and partook of the nature of a squeak. Then it did not charge the hedge, but just walked through it; and as soon as its great circular feet began to feel the soft, yielding grass into which they sank, for the ground was moist, the great brute began to twitch its tail in the most absurd way, squeak with delight, and indulge in the most clumsily ridiculous gambol ever executed by monster ten feet high. It was for all the world such a dance, magnified, as a fat, chubby little Shetland pony would display when, freed from bit, bridle, or halter, it was turned out to grass. And now, as the elephant began careering right across the cricket-field in the direction of the row of elms, there was a shout of dismay from the row occupying the forms; and, headed by Mr Morris, a retreat was made to a place of safety, that being represented by the doors opening on to the playground--Mr Morris, the mathematical master, charged as he was with his long study of Euclid, evidently considering it to be his duty for the benefit of his pupils to describe a straight line. But he was soon distanced by the boys, whose wind was much better. The last, as if he considered it his duty to protect the rear, was the Doctor himself, looking exceedingly red in the face and breathing very hard. But, truth to tell, he--not being either a general, admiral, or even captain of a vessel of war--was not influenced by any brave intention to leave the field or vessel only after the last of his men. The Doctor's proceedings were caused by inability to keep up. But he was not the last. The sight of an elephant cantering across country, or in its customary shuffling gait, was nothing new to Singh and Glyn. Experience gained in more than one hunt, and in a land where these mammoth-like creatures are beasts of burden, as well as perhaps a feeling that if they did happen to be pursued youth and activity would enable them to get out of the brute's way, caused the two boys to stand fast alone upon the last form, thoroughly enjoying the acts of the performer, and wondering what he would do next. "Oh, Glyn," cried Singh, clapping his hands as hard as he could, "and I was grumbling! Why, this is a procession! I haven't seen anything like this since we left home." "No," panted Glyn, who was as excited as his companion. "Why, it's like old Rajah Jamjar, as we used to call him, on the rampage. Here come the men," he continued.--"Hi! I say, the Doctor won't like you breaking through his hedge," he shouted, though his words were not heard.--"He's broken a way for them, though." "Here," shouted Singh, with his hands to his mouth, "you mustn't go after that elephant with whips. He's raging, and if you go near he'll turn upon you perhaps, and kill you." But the men could not hear his words, and, each with his big carter's whip, they followed slowly across the field, unheeded by the elephant, and evidently without the slightest intention of overtaking the fugitive. The great brute turned neither to the right nor left, but stopped as soon as he reached the row of elms, beyond which were the garden and grounds of the most important resident in Plymborough, a very wealthy retired merchant, who took great pride in his estate, and whose orchard annually displayed a vast abundance of red and gold temptations of the kind beloved by boys in other counties as well as sunny Devon. It was pleasant and shady beneath the elms, and a faintly heard grunt of satisfaction came to the two boys' ears as they saw the great fugitive reach up, twist its indiarubber-like trunk, and gather together a bunch of twigs, which it snapped off, and then, reversing its elastic organ, stood tucking them into its peculiarly moist mouth. "Oh, he's quiet and tame enough," said Glyn. "No, he isn't," cried Singh; "he's in a fury." "But it's a regular tame one," said Glyn. "I dare say they might walk up and drive it in now. I'll go and help them if you will." "Well," said Singh, slowly and thoughtfully, "I don't know. It's a strange elephant; he's been scared, and I saw as he passed that he was in a temper; but I dare say we know as much about elephants as they do." "Yes, let's go." But as they were speaking, and the elephant stood refreshing itself with another bunch of green leaves, it appeared to catch sight of the group of drivers, who, whip-armed, had now stopped together to consult in the middle of the field, where they were being joined by a fat, chuffy-looking little man, who was hurrying to them, hat in one hand, yellow silk pocket-handkerchief in the other, with which he kept on dabbing his very smooth and shiny white bald head. The elephant was evidently watching, and had recognised this white shiny head, for he raised his trunk and let fall the twigs, blew a defiant blast upon his natural trumpet, and, wheeling round once more, did not charge, but made a crashing sound as he walked right through the park-palings which divided the two estates, where beneath the trees a green hedge would not grow. As the elephant disappeared in the next field, only a glimpse being obtained of it through the one panel of the split oak fence, every one seemed to recover his departed courage. The men, now joined by the bald-headed personage, who was really the proprietor of the great show, began to follow the fugitive to the boundary of the Doctor's grounds. The two boys sprang off the form and ran to join them, while away to the right, bodies began to appear from the Doctor's premises where heads only had been seen; and chief amongst these was Mr Morris, the mathematical master, who, influenced by his conscience, and reminded of the fact that he had gone on drawing that line very straight till he reached the shelter of the house, an act which he felt must have rather lowered his reputation for bravery amongst the boys, now came out a few yards into the playground; and, as the boys began to gather round him, he moved on again a little way, making a point of keeping himself nearest to the danger, if any danger there were, but not going so far as to preclude an easy retreat. Now, in naval law, during an action there is a tradition that the safest place for a sailor, and where he is least likely to be hit, is the hole through which a cannon-ball or shell has crashed into the ship. Possibly, being a mathematician, Mr Morris may have calculated the possibilities against the elephant that had marched through that piece of fence coming back through it again. And so it was that as the Doctor's grounds were clear, the enemy having departed, he followed farther and farther out into the cricket-field, and then headed a cluster of the first-form boys who, unknown to the Doctor, were making for the broken fence. The fact that they soon saw the elephant's pursuers pass through, and with them the bald-headed man, with their fellow-pupils Glyn and Singh on each side leading, had doubtless something to do with the forward movement. Slegge, too, was the biggest and loudest there. He was looking very white, almost as white as Ramball's bald head, but he said it was all a "jolly lark;" and then for want of something else to say to express how he was enjoying himself, he made the same remark again, and then laughed aloud. But it was the same sort of laugh as would be uttered by the victim of a practical joke who has suddenly sat down upon a tin-tack or a pin. Mr Morris, too, grew braver and braver, and he smiled a ghastly smile which rather distorted his features as he addressed his pupils. "Come along, boys," he said. "This is a holiday indeed. We are going to search for the unknown quantity. An elephant hunt in the Doctor's grounds! It is quite a novelty." "But it isn't in the Doctor's grounds now, sir," said Burney. This was meant to be facetious; but it turned Mr Morris's smile into a glare, and brought down upon the boy's head a rebuke from Slegge. "Here, don't you be so fast, youngster," cried the latter, with the wisdom of a sage in his stern look. "Just remember whom you are talking to, if you please." Then, to curry favour with the master, "I beg your pardon, Mr Morris, would this be an Indian or an African elephant?" "Well, Mr Slegge," said the mathematical master, with his ghastly smile coming back, "now if this were a question of a surd in a compound equation I should be happy to tell you; but as soon as the captive is taken again, and the `lark,' as you call it, is over, I should recommend you to ask Mr Rampson. He'll tell you, and give you some information as well respecting the Carthaginian army and the elephants with their towers that they marched against the Romans. My mathematical studies take up all my brain-power, and I never venture upon another master's ground. By the way, who are those boys that we just saw walk through that fence with the show-people? Trespassers, of course. We don't want any of the town boys here. No violence, mind; but I think you might give them a lesson and turn them out." "But they were the two new pupils, sir." "What! Severn and the Prince?" "Yes, sir," came in chorus. "Dear me! The Doctor would be very angry if he knew. He strongly objects to his young gentlemen making friends with strangers." "Yes, sir," said Burney; "and they have gone out of bounds." "Will you keep your mouth shut?" whispered Slegge; and, dropping a pace behind the master, he clenched and held up one fist very close to Burney's nose as if it were a curiosity that the boy might like to see. "Ah, well," said Mr Morris, "perhaps they thought that it would be the safest place behind the elephant's keepers. These tamed animals have a great dread of the whip." All was beautifully calm now out in the field. The grass seemed greener than ever. There was an excited crowd in the main road by the damaged hedge, and quite a cluster of pupils, masters, and servants up by the house; but Morris and his little party were alone, and all seemed so safe that they grew thoroughly brave, and quite nonchalantly edged their way on towards the broken panel which looked temptingly clear. All was still, and there was no suggestion of danger, while as they slowly went close up there was no sound of voice. It was perfectly evident that the elephant must have been followed far away, and had probably gone right on through the neighbouring grounds and made his way somewhere out at the back. They were approaching diagonally, and as they came very near to the opening a curious electric kind of feeling such as is called by old women "the creeps," manifested itself in what doctors term the "lumbar regions" of every one's back. But they were all very brave, and Morris suddenly became conscious of the fact that the boys were all looking at him in a very questioning way, so he could not help feeling that there were drawbacks to being the leader of a party when there is possible danger somewhere ahead, and it is impossible for the sake of one's credit to retreat. This is especially the case in connection with dogs that are supposed to be mad and have to be driven away, or in haunted rooms, and the walking of ghosts and other vapours of that kind which a puff of the wind of common-sense would always blow away. Somehow or other, Morris began to talk very loudly to his young companions as he screwed his courage up to the sticking-point, feeling as he did that at all hazards he must go right up to that opening and just look through. And with this intent, followed not quite closely by the boys, he went so near that he had but to take one more step to be able to look through into the next field; in fact, he was in the act of stretching out his hand to lay it upon one of the big oaken splints that hung from its copper nail, when there was a sharp report as if a pistol had been fired just on the other side, and in an instant the whole party were in retreat. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Morris. At least it was supposed to be a laugh; but the sounds were very peculiar, and he looked strangely white as he shouted, "Stop, boys, stop! What are you afraid of? It was only one of those carter fellows who cracked his whip.--Well, my man," he continued, in a husky voice that did not seem like his own, to one of the van-drivers who now appeared in the opening, "have you caught the elephant?" As the man replied the boys began to collect again from their ignominious flight, and it was observable that they were all laughing at one another in an accusatory manner, each feeling full of contempt for the pusillanimous behaviour of the others, while the looks of Morris might have given the whole party a conscious sting. But there was the van-driver answering as the boys clustered hurriedly up. "No, sir, and I've had enough of it," said the man. "It aren't my business. I'm monkeys, I am; and got enough to do to keep they mischievous imps in their cage. I don't hold with elephants; they are too big for me, and I know that chap of old." "Indeed!" said Morris, eager to cover his last retreat by drawing the man into conversation. "Yes, sir, he's a treacherous beggar. Pretends to be fond of a man, and gets him up against a wall or the side of a tree, and then plays pussy cat." "Plays what?" cried Slegge. "Pussy cat, sir. You know: rubs hisself up again' a man same as a kitten does against your leg. But it aren't the same, because if the pore chap don't dodge him he gets rubbed out like a nought on the slate." "Dear me! Extraordinary!" said Morris. "But--er--er--where is the fugitive beast now?" "Ah, you may well call him a fugity beast, sir. I don't quite know what it means; but that's a good name for him, and he desarves it. Oh, he's over yonder now, right in the middle of yon orchard, and nobody durst go near him. Every time any one makes a start he begins to roosh, and then goes back in amongst the trees, and when I come away I never see anything like it in my life. It was bushels then." "Bushels--bushels, my man?" "Yes, sir, he was a-picking the apples with that trunk of his, and tucking them in as fast as ever they'd go. A beast! he'll fill hisself before he's done. He won't leave off now he's got the chance, and he'll kill anybody who goes nigh him. You see, the master keeps him pretty short to tame him down and keep him from going on the rampage. It's all a mistake having a thing like that in a show. You take my word for it, sir. If you goes in for a mennar-gerry you take to monkeys. They don't take nothing to keep, for the public feeds them on nuts and buns, and if it warn't for their catching cold and going on the sick-list they'd be profit every ounce." "Er--thank you, my man," said Morris haughtily; "but I don't think it probable that I shall venture upon a peripatetic zoo--eh, young gentlemen?" "Oh no, sir!" came in chorus. "Can we see the huge pachyderm from here?" "Packing apples, sir? No, no, don't you alter that there, sir. You called him fugity beast just now, and you can't beat that.--No, you can't see him. He's in there among them apple-trees." "Why, he's got into old Bunton's orchard, sir," cried Slegge, and he stepped forward to the opening. "Yes, you can't see the elephant, sir, but you can see the men all round. I think they are tying him up to a tree, sir." "Yes, that's likely," said the man grimly. "I dare say they've all got a bit of string in their pockets as will just hold him." "Er--do you think we could go up a little closer, my man, without the young gentlemen getting into danger?" said Morris, in the full expectation that he would be told it would be dangerous in the extreme. "Go closer, sir? Yes, of course you can. He won't hurt none of you so long as you don't try to take his apples away. If yer did I shouldn't like to be you." "Let's go, then, sir," cried Burney eagerly, and the desire seemed to be growing in the other boys' breasts. "Well, I don't know," said Morris; "that is, if you will promise not to go too close." "Oh, we won't go too close, sir," cried Slegge warmly, and he looked as if he were speaking the truth. The result was that the master, trying very hard to carry off his disinclination to go with the remark, "We don't often have such an opportunity as this, boys," led the way across the park-like field of the Doctor's neighbour towards an extensive orchard, in which, nearly hidden by the trees, the escaped monster was having his banquet of apples, and turning a deaf ear, or rather two deaf ears of the largest size, to all orders to come out. CHAPTER SIX. GLYN AND SINGH TO THE RESCUE. As the party from the school drew nearer they could hear the occasional crack of a whip and a loud order given in a rather highly pitched tone to the beast, bidding him come out. Then followed the snapping of twigs and a peculiarly dull grumbling sound as if the elephant were muttering his objections to the orders of his master, the bald-headed man, who still held his hat in one hand, his yellow handkerchief in the other, and dabbed the big white billiard-ball-like expanse as if he felt that it was very warm work. Then there was a _crunch, crunch, crunch_, as if pippins were being reduced to pulp, and more twigs were heard to snap. "Let him hear the whip again, Jem," shouted Mr Ramball. "Oh, he won't come for that, sir," growled the man addressed; but he made the long cart-whip he carried crack loudly three times in obedience to the order; and as the fresh party drew as near to the orchard as they cared to go, after all had given a furtive glance round for a way to escape, the low grumbling muttering grew louder; while as the animal moved right into sight so did those who were watching him, and Slegge and his companions saw Glyn and Singh approach. There was another movement on the part of the elephant, whose towering form came through the thickly growing orchard trees to one whose burden was of a deep rich-red, and here it stood bowing its head up and down, and slowly shaking it from side to side, while the trunk swung and turned and turned and swung here and there, till its owner had selected the fruit most pleasing to its little pig-like eye, when with serpent-like motion it rose in the air, and the end curled round the selected fruit, which was lowered and tucked out of sight on the instant. "Now, look here, my lads," cried the proprietor of the menagerie to his men, "I can't have you all standing here gaping like a set of idiots as if you had never seen the brute before. Go in round behind him with your whips and drive him out." There was a murmur of grumbles from the men, that seemed to be echoed by the elephant, which went on swinging its head up and down as if it were balanced on a spring. But no one stirred. "Do you hear me?" cried the proprietor, his highly pitched voice growing quite shrill. "Here, I shall have no end of damages to pay for what he's doing. They'll be putting it in the lawyers' hands, and they'll be charging me a shilling for every apple he eats.--Eh! what's that? Not safe?" "No; he's got one of his nasty fits o' temper on," said the driver of the great van which had come to grief. "Tchah! Nonsense! You are a coward, Jem." "Mebbe I am," grumbled the man; "but, coward or no, he knocked me flat over on my back, and once is quite enough for one day." "Yah!" shouted his master. "You are ready enough to come on Saturday night for your pay; but if I want anything a little extra done, where am I?--Here, give me the whip." And he snatched it from the man's hand and walked towards the great beast, half-hidden among the trees. "Say, you boys," growled the driver, "if I was you I'd just be ready to run. You've only just got to dodge him. Stop and make sure which way he's going, and then get in among the trees." "Yes, quick: in amongst the trees," cried Morris, and he set the example. "Nay," growled the man. "Not yet. Wait and see first which way he means to go." Morris set the example of running in another direction, followed by his boys and by the voice of the driver. "Why, that's worse," he cried. "That's about the way he'd go." "Then which--what--why--Here, what are you two laughing at?" This to Glyn, who was stamping about with delight. "Oh, I couldn't help it, sir," cried the boy, and before he could say more there was another loud crack of the whip as Ramball made his way round behind his rebellious beast and shouted at him to "Come out of that." He had hardly uttered the words when there was a crashing and breaking of wood as if the elephant were making its way quickly through the trees in obedience to the command; and as the sounds ceased, the menagerie proprietor came staggering out without his handkerchief or whip, to stand in the middle of his men looking half-stunned and confused. "Did he ketch you, sir?" said the driver, with a laugh of satisfaction in his twinkling eyes. "Brought down his trunk across my back," panted the proprietor. "My word, he can hit hard!" "Yes, sir; I know. Knocked me flat on my back, he did." "Knocked me on my face," cried the proprietor angrily. "Look here," he said, "is there any skin off my nose? I fell against a tree." "Took a little bit of the bark off," grumbled the man, who did not seem at all sympathetic. "Hadn't you better let him fill hisself full, sir, and have a rest? He'll come easy, perhaps, then." "Do you want me to stand still here and see a devouring elephant go on eating till he ruins me? We must all join together and drive him out." "But he'll drive us out, sir," said the man in a tone full of remonstrance. "Then we must try again. I am not going to be beaten by a beast like that." "Look here, my man," said Morris, "hadn't you better tie him up to one of the trees and leave him till to-morrow? They do this sort of thing abroad, I hear, by tying the elephant's legs or ankles to the trunks of trees." "What!" shouted Ramball. "Why, he'd take them all up by the roots and go cantering through the town, doing no end of mischief, with them hanging to his legs. Think I want to have to pay for the trees as well as the apples?" "Then--er--lasso him and lead him home." "Lass which, sir?" "Lasso him, my man, with ropes." "Why, he ain't a wild ostrich of the desert, sir. Look at him!--Here, one on yer run off and fetch the longest cart-rope. This 'ere gentleman would like to have a try." The boys were roaring with laughter by this time, the mathematical master's parasites joining in as heartily as Glyn and Singh. "Don't be rude, fellow," said Morris. "Don't be rude?" cried Ramball, who was fuming with disappointment and rage. "Rude yourself. If you give me much more of your sarce I'll set the animile at you." As this was proceeding, the elephant, whose taste for apples had been satiated, came slowly out into the open, to stand bending and bowing his massive head, which he swayed slowly from side to side and blinked and flapped his ears, as he watched the assembly with his little reddish eyes in a way which made the mathematical master grip Slegge by the arm. "I am getting uneasy," he whispered, "about you boys. Don't run, but follow me slowly back to the fence. Tell the other boys, and we will go at once." "Can't you coax him out, sir?" said Glyn, as he approached the proprietor. "No, I can't coax him out," cried Ramball snappishly; "but you mind your own business, I know mine. I have had enough of you putting your spoons in my porridge." "Here, Mr Severn! Mr Singh!" shouted the mathematical master. "This way! We are going back to the college." But he did not go far. "But I want to see the elephant brought out, sir," replied Singh. "He oughtn't to be left like this. He may do mischief." "Oh, now you've begun, have you?" yelped the proprietor, whose voice in his anger had gradually reached the soprano. "I suppose you would like to have a try?" "Oh, I don't want to interfere," replied Singh coolly. "Where do you want the elephant to go?" "Where do I want him to go? Why, home of course, before he does any more mischief. I wish he was dead; that I do! And he shall be too. Here, Jem, run back to Number One--here's the key--and bring my rifle and the powder-flask and bullet-bag. I'm sick of him. He'll be killing somebody before he's done--a beast!--Tigers is angels to him, sir," he continued appealingly to Morris. "He's the wickedest elephant I ever see, and I've spent more on him in damages than I paid for him at first; but he's played his last prank, and if I can't drive him I can shoot.--'Member that lion, my lads, as killed the gentleman's hoss?" "Ay, ay, ay!" came in a low murmured growl. "Got out, sir," continued the proprietor, waving one hand about oratorically, and dabbing his bald head with his hand. "Here, some of you, where's my yellow handkerchy? Oh, I know; I left it in that there apple-wood, and I'd lay sixpence, he's picked it up and swallowed it because it's yellow and he thinks it's the skin of a big orange. Got out of his cage, he did, sir, that there lion--been fiddling all night, I suppose, at the bolts and bars--and we followed him up to where he got in the loose-box of a gentleman's stable; and there was the poor horse down--a beauty he was--and that there lion--Arena his name was--lying on him with his face flattened out and teeth buried in the poor hoss's throat, so that when I got to the stable door there he was, all eyes and whiskers, and growling at you like thunder. I knowed what my work was, sir," continued the proprietor, addressing his conversation entirely to Morris, "and you can ask my men, sir; they was there." "Ay, ay, ay!" was growled. "It warn't the time for showing no white feathers when a lion's got his monkey up like that. I brought my gun with me--fine old flint-lock rifle it is, and I got it now--and the next minute that there dead horse had got a dead lion lying beside him. But I sold his skin to a gent for a ten-pun note, to have it stuffed, and it's in his front hall now, near Lungpuddle, in Lancashire.--Well, you, are you going to fetch that there rifle, or am I to fetch it myself?" he yelled at his man. "Oh, I wouldn't shoot him, guv'nor," growled the man. "What's it got to do with you?" almost shrieked his master. "Oh, I aren't going to lose nothing, guv'nor, only a bit of a chum. He's knocked me about a bit, and tried to squeeze all the wind out of me two or three times; but that was only his fun. I shouldn't like to see him hurt." "Then perhaps you'd like to go and fetch him out of that there urcherd?" cried his master. "He aren't in," said the man sturdily; "and if he were, no, thank you, to-day. To-morrow morning perhaps I shouldn't mind; but I do say that it'd be a burning shame to shoot the finest elephant there is in England. The one at the Slogical Gardens in London is nothing to him, and you know, master, that that's the truth." "You fetch my rifle." "I wouldn't talk quite so loud, guv'nor, if I was you," replied the man. "Elephants is what they call 'telligent beasts, and you don't know but what that there annymile is a-hearing every word you say and only waiting till I'm gone to make a roosh, knock you down, and do his war-dance all over you." "Hah! The same as they trample the life out of the tigers at home." Every one turned sharply upon the speaker, whose voice sounded clear and ringing, as he stood there frowning angrily at the elephant's master. "Bah! Stuff!" cried the man in his high-pitched voice. "I have read anecdotes about animals, and I know all them stories by heart. They look as if they could; but them beasts can't think, and the stories are all lies.--You be off and fetch that rifle before I send somebody else; and look here, Jem, if you don't obey my orders you take a fortnight's notice to quit from next Saturday, when you are paid." "Then you are going to shoot the elephant," cried Glyn, "because you don't know how to manage him?" "What!" half-shrieked the man. "Here, I say, where do you go to school? Things are coming to a pretty pass when boys like you begin teaching me, who've been nigh forty year in the wild-beast trade! What next?" "Glyn Severn's right," said Singh sternly. "Here's another of them!" cried the man, looking round from face to face. "Quite right," continued Singh. "Why, the poorest coolie in my father's dominions would manage one of the noble beasts far better." "Ho!" said Ramball sarcastically. "Then perhaps the biggest swell out of my father's dominions would like to show me how to do it himself." "I don't know that I can," said Singh quietly; "but I dare say the poor beast would obey me if I tried." "Oh, pray try, then, sir.--Only, look here, governor," continued the man, addressing Morris, who was not far off, "I don't know whether he's your son or your scholar--I wash my hands of it. I warn you; he's a vicious beast, and I aren't a-going to pay no damages if my young cock-a-hoop comes to grief." Singh laughed a curious, disdainful laugh. Then he took a step in the direction of the elephant, but Glyn caught him by the arm. "Don't do that, Glyn," said the boy quietly. "I don't believe he would hurt me. Come with me if you like. You know what he'll do if he's going to be savage, and you run one way and I'll run the other." This was in a low voice, unheard by any one but him for whom it was intended; and the next moment, amidst a profound hush, the two boys moved towards the elephant, who was swaying his head slowly from side to side, and looking "ugly," as the man Jem afterwards said. Then out of the silence, urged by a sense of duty, Morris cried in a harsh, cracked, emotional voice, not in the least like his own, "Severn! Prince! Come back! What are you going to do?" His last words came as if he were half-choked, and then like the rest he stood gazing, with a strange clammy moisture gathering in his hands and upon his brow, for as the two boys drew near, the elephant suddenly raised its head, threw up its trunk, and uttered a shrill trumpeting sound. As the defiant cry ceased, Singh stepped forward in advance of his companion, and shouted a few words in Hindustani. The elephant lowered its trunk and stood staring at the boy, as if wonderingly, before coming slowly forward in its heavy, ponderous way, crashing down the green herbage beneath the orchard trees, and its great grey bulk parting the twigs of a tree that stood alone, and beneath whose shade the monster stopped. The boys stood still now, and Singh uttered a short, sharp order in Hindustani once more. Instantly, but in a slow, ponderous way, the great beast slowly subsided, kneeling in the long grass, while Singh went up quite close, with the animal watching him sharply the while, and laying out its trunk partly towards him, so that when close up the boy planted one of his feet in the wrinkling folds of the monstrous nose, caught hold of the huge flapping ear beside him, climbed quickly up, and the next minute was astride the tremendous neck and uttering another command in the Indian tongue. The result was that the elephant raised its ears slightly so that Singh could nestle his legs beneath; and as he settled himself in position a merry smile spread about his lips. "Come on, Glyn," he cried. "It's all right. Take my hand." Glyn obeyed, and as if fully accustomed to the act, he rapidly climbed up and settled himself behind his companion. There was another sharp order, and the great beast slowly heaved himself up, muttering thunder, and grumbling the while. "Well, I _am_ blessed!" cried the proprietor. "You, Jem, did you ever see such a game as this?" The man addressed did not say a word, but gave one thigh a tremendous slap, while the elephant stretched out his trunk towards them, took a step or two in their direction, and uttered a squeal. Singh shouted out a few words angrily, and the long serpent-like trunk hung pendent once again, with the tip curled up inward so that it should not brush the ground. "Now then," cried Singh to the proprietor, "where do you want him to go?" "Right up into the show-field, squire," cried the man excitedly. "Think you can take him?" "Try," replied the boy with a scornful laugh; "but I ought to have an _ankus_. But never mind, I can do it with words.--I say, Glyn," he continued, speaking over his left shoulder, "we are going to ride in the procession after all. If the Colonel knew, what would he say?" "But--but--" cried Morris. "My dear boys, pray, pray come down! Think of the consequences to yourselves--and what will be said to me." "Oh, it's all right, Mr Morris," cried Glyn confidently; "we must take the elephant now. Singh and I have ridden on elephants hundreds of times, though we have never acted the parts of mahouts.--There, go on, Mr What's-your-name, and Singh here will make him carry us back right to where you wish." There was no further opposition. In fact, it would have been a bold man who would have dared to offer any; but the proprietor came as close as he thought prudent, panting hard, as the huge beast swept along in its stately stride. "I beg your pardons, young gents--beg your pardons! Honour bright, sirs, I didn't know. Oh, thank you; thank you kindly. You are saving me a hundred pounds at least, and if you'd like a nice silver watch apiece, or a monkey, or a parrot, only say the word, and you shall have the pick of the collection. And look here, gentlemen, I'll give you both perpetual passes to my show." "Thank you! thank you!" Glyn shouted back. "We will come and see it;" while Singh sat as statuesque as a native mahout, and an imaginative Anglo-Indian would have forgotten his Eton costume and pictured him in white cotton and muslin turban; while, as they neared the great elm-trees where the gap showed grimly in the fence and the boughs hung low, the amateur driver uttered a warning cry in Hindustani, with the result that his great steed threw up its trunk, twined it round a pendent branch that was in their way, snapped it off, and trampled it under foot. CHAPTER SEVEN. "SALAAM, MAHARAJAH!" The menagerie proprietor hurriedly led the way straight across the cricket-field; for, full of excitement, he was eager to get right away with the depredating animal before the owner of the damaged fence and orchard came upon the scene. "I can talk to him better when I get on my own ground," he said to himself; and, making straight for the gap in the Doctor's hedge, the elephant, in obedience to word after word from his mahout, followed with long, swinging strides. There was a crowd outside the hedge in the road, and they would have been across the field long before; but, in obedience to an order from the Doctor, Wrench was on guard and kept them back. His rather difficult task ceased as the elephant drew near, for the crowd scattered to avoid the monster, and the Doctor's man gave way too, the only difference being that the little mob drew away outside the hedge while the man made way in; for, seeing who were mounted on the great animal's neck, he ran towards the house to meet the Doctor, who, followed by the other masters, was now coming toward the gap with a small opera-glass in his hand. "Here, Joseph," he cried breathlessly, "am I right? Are those two of my pupils?" "Yes, sir; a-riding striddling on the elephant's neck." "Dangerous! Madness! So undignified too! What will people think? Run and tell them to get off directly and come to me." The man hurriedly retraced his steps; but before he could reach the gap in the hedge the elephant strode through and out into the road, and the Doctor and his aides hurried back into the house to reach one of the front windows just as, headed by the proprietor and followed by a crowd, the elephant strode by, the two boys taking off their caps to salute those at the window. The Doctor turned with a look of blank amazement upon his countenance, to stare for a few moments at the classical and French masters, who had followed him in. "Gentlemen," he exclaimed angrily, "did you ever see such extraordinary behaviour in your lives? Oh, this must be stopped!" But it was not stopped, for the elephant was striding away along the main street of the town, with a crowd regathering as they saw that the powerful monster seemed to be well under control; while the boys, now thoroughly enjoying their exciting ride, needed no persuasion from Ramball to keep their places and take their mount right up to the show-field, where several of the yellow vans were already in place, their drivers having commenced the formation of the oblong square which was to form the show. Here, shortly afterwards, the elephant stopped of its own volition close to a great iron picket which was being driven into the soft earth, and by which a truss of hay had been placed ready for its refection. Here, as the elephant stood still, it paid no heed to a couple of Ramball's men, who in obedience to their master's orders set to work to fasten a strong chain to the monster's leg and attach it to the iron picket. For, evidently satisfied with its fruity lunch, and calmed down from the excitement brought on by the accident, possibly too from a certain feeling of satisfaction at hearing the native tongue of some old mahout ringing in its great ears, the huge beast now began to take matters according to its old routine. It commenced by gathering up portions of the hay, which it loosened with its trunk, sniffing at it audibly, and then beginning to scatter it about, the boys making no attempt to quit their lofty perch. "Here, one of you, bring a bucket of water," cried Ramball. "He ain't hungry now. Don't let him waste that hay. Have you fastened the chain?" Without waiting for the men to answer, the menagerie proprietor examined the great fetters himself. "Look sharp," he shouted; "quick with that water before he spoils all the hay." One man had hurried off to the pump with a couple of empty buckets, while the others seized upon the truss which the elephant was disturbing, but only to drop it directly, for the captive just lightly waved its trunk right and left, and the men were sent flying in different directions. _Phoompf_ snorted the tyrant, and immediately went on picking up and scattering the hay all around it, thickly covering the grass. "Well, I suppose we had better get down now, hadn't we?" cried Glyn. "Yes, sir--no, sir. Just wait a little bit, please," cried Ramball. "You're a-keeping of him quiet; only I don't want this 'ere to be made a free gratus exhibition for everybody to see. It's a cutting off my profits. Hi, there, some of you! why don't you shut them gates?" he shouted to certain of his men who were driving in the latter half of the line of yellow vans. "Can't get the rest in if we do, sir," came back. "No, of course they can't," grunted their master, looking up at the two lads. "Things is going awkward to-day, and no mistake.--Oh, here comes the water," he continued, speaking now to Singh. "I dare say that will cool him down. Just say a word to him, sir, and tell him to drink." "Tell the men to put the buckets down before him," replied Singh; and as the water-bearer drew near the elephant evidently scented the refreshing fluid, and uttered a sonorous snort. Directly after, as the man nervously set down the brimming buckets, anxiously watching the waving trunk the while, and leaping away as he saw it coming towards him, the tip of the great hose-like organ was thrust into the first vessel, there was a low sound of suction as many quarts were drawn up, and then the end was curled under, thrust right back into the huge creature's mouth, and then there was a loud squirting sound like a fire-engine beginning to play to put out the animal's burning thirst. Back went the trunk into the bucket again, the curving inward followed for a second discharge, there was repetition, till in a very brief space the first bucket was empty, and then, with a disdainful swing of the trunk, the vessel was sent flying, and the emptying of the second commenced, to be ended by the satiated beast picking it up to hold it on high as if to drain out the last drops, and then begin to swing it to and fro as if to hurl it at its master. "Hah-h-h-h-ah!" cried Singh, and the great creature ceased swinging the bucket to and fro, and dropped it on the hay. "Come, Singh, we have had enough of this," cried Glyn impatiently. "Let's get back, or we shall be having the Doctor sending to see what has become of us." "Don't you be afraid about that, young gentlemen," cried Ramball. "I'll speak up for you both." "Thank you," said Glyn drily; "but you've done with us now." "Done with you, young gentlemen! I only wish you'd stop and join my troupe. I'll make it right and pleasant for you, and be glad too. Pay you better, too, than any one else would when you leave school. Why, bless your heart, you--the dark one I'm talking to--if you like to come I'll spend any amount up to a hundred pounds for getting you a thorough Indian corstume all muslin and gold, and a turban with jewels in it-- imitations, of course, it wouldn't run to real, but the best as is to be had--with a plume of feathers too, ready for you to ride in procession same as you did to-day. What do you say?" "Yes, Singh," cried Glyn laughing, as he sat close behind his companion, and catching him by the shoulders he began to shake him to and fro. "There's an offer for you. What do you say?" "I am going to get down," said Singh with a haughty curve to his lip. "Well, I won't tell him I'm not an English boy." Then sharply resuming his native tongue, he uttered an order which made the great beast kneel down in the hay with its trunk stretched straight out before it, and raising its ears a little, ready for its two riders to climb down forwards and spring off. "Ha!" cried Singh, as he approached close to the elephant and planted his right foot upon the upper portion of its trunk. "I should rather like to have you," he said, speaking softly, so that his words only reached his companion's ear. "You are the first in England to show me that you know what I am." "But you can't have him, Singh," said Glyn laughing. "No more elephants till we get back to Dour, and that won't be for years to come." "No," said the boy sadly; "that will not be for years to come.--Huh!" he cried to the elephant, as he removed his foot and drew back. "You're a fine old beast after all." The monster rose at his command, and stood blinking at him and swinging his trunk to and fro. "Mind, sir!" shouted Ramball, who had been looking on anxiously. "Don't you trust him. He's brewing mischief. He always is when he looks quiet like that; and the way he can knock you over with that trunk--my word!" "Oh, he's not going to knock me over with his trunk," said Singh, smiling; and, uttering a few words in Hindustani, he stood close up to the elephant and reached one hand up to its great ear and laid the other upon its trunk. "Salaam, Maharajah!" he cried, and the animal threw up its head, curled up its trunk, and trumpeted loudly, before going down upon its knees before the lad. "Good! Up again!" cried Singh in Hindustani, and added a few more words, the result of which was that the monster stood calmly by its great picket-peg, making its chain jingle as it began slowly swaying its head from side to side again. "Well done, sir!" cried Ramball. "Thank you, sir. You'll shake hands with me, won't you?" "Oh yes," said Singh quietly; "I'll shake hands," and he extended his own. "You are a gentleman and no mistake," cried the man. "I say, think that offer of mine over. I'll make it worth your while. I will, honour bright!" Singh shook his head gravely, and there was a mocking smile upon his lip. "No, no, thank you," he said. "I am going back to school, and some day back to India; but I should like to come and see you and the elephant again." "Of course you would, sir, and come you shall," cried Ramball. "Perpetual passes! You don't want no pass. Just you show your face here, both of you, whenever you like, and bring as many of your schoolmates with you too, and you will be as welcome as the flowers of May. Look here, young gentlemen, I am going to keep the show open here for three days, and then we go off to my farm three miles out of the town to lay up for a bit of rest and do repairs, and get the animals into condition, before we take the road again. You come and see me there, and pick out what you'd like to have, monkeys or parrots, as I said. I don't offer you anything big, because I don't suppose you could keep it at school; but I have got some of the amusingest little monkeys you ever see, and a parrot as can talk--when he likes, mind you," continued the man, laying a fat finger against his nose, "and that ain't always. But when he is in the temper for it he can say anything, and you wouldn't know but what it was a human being.--Going, gentlemen?" "Yes, we are going now," said Singh. "Yes, it's time we were off," said Glyn; "but I say, Mr Ramball, what about that rifle?" "Rifle? Oh, you mean my gun?" "Yes," said Glyn. "You don't mean to shoot that grand beast?" "Shoot him, sir? Not me. It put me in such a temper and made me say that. But, young gentlemen, do think over what I said. Why, if you joined my troupe, I'm blessed if I wouldn't buy another as big as him, and then you'd have a elephant apiece." CHAPTER EIGHT. DOCTOR BEWLEY CHANGES SIDES. As the two lads reached the main street, chatting over their adventure, something occurred which made Glyn turn his head sharply, and as he did so a small boy shouted, "Hooray!" It was the little spark applied to the touch-hole of a cannon, and a loud roar followed. "Here, let's go back," cried Singh. "The Rajah's broken loose again." "No, no," cried Glyn. "They are shouting at us." "What for? What have we done?" "I suppose it's because we rode the elephant. Here, come along; let's turn down here and get round by the fields." The young Indian generally gave way to his English friend; and, obeying directly, they hurried down the first turning, but in vain. A crowd of men and boys were after them, cheering loudly, and this crowd was snowball-like in the way in which the farther it rolled the more it grew. So that in spite of all their efforts they were literally hunted right up to the Doctor's gates, where they arrived hot and breathless to find a larger crowd than before which had gathered to satisfy themselves with the rather empty view of the damaged hedge, the big footmarks, and a wheelwright and some of Ramball's men getting the great bottomless elephant-van into condition for dragging to the show-field. As soon as the two boys came in sight there was a rush made for them, and amidst deafening cheering and vain efforts to hoist them shoulder-high and carry them into the playground, they managed to reach this resort at last, and join their schoolfellows in keeping out the excited mob, some of whom, the youngest of course, began to decorate the brick wall with their persons like so many living statues. And then to the two lads' disgust, the whole school, with the exception of Slegge, and half-a-dozen of his party who wanted to join in the ovation but did not dare in the presence of their tyrant, began to cheer them as loudly as the boys without. Several of the younger juniors began to idolise them in a very juvenile way by hanging on to them, slapping their backs, and shaking hands. Altogether it was a strange mingling of the pleasant and unpleasant, the former predominating with Singh, who for the first time since he had joined the school found himself thoroughly liked. Slegge and his following stood aloof, the latter listening to the former's sneering remarks, some of which reached Glyn and made him feel hot; while just in the midst of the loudest cheering, Wrench the man-servant made his appearance, followed by a big tom-cat which passed most of its time in the pantry rubbing its head against Wrench's legs while he was cleaning the plate or washing tea-cups, probably in gratitude for past favours. When it was a kitten some young Plymborough roughs had hurled it into the little river, and were making of it what they termed a "cockshy," pelting it with stones, fortunately ineffectually, and trying to beat it under water, when the Doctor's footman, who was crossing the bridge, saw what was going on and made an unexpected charge upon the young ruffians, effectually scattering them. One tripped and fell headlong into the river, out of which he crawled as thoroughly wet as the unhappy little kitten, which Wrench received as it swam ashore, rolled up in his handkerchief and took home to his pantry, where it grew rapidly, waxed fat, and was never so happy as when it could find a chance to rub its head against its master. Hard on Wrench's heels came also one Sam Grigg, page-boy, who on particular occasions wore a livery jacket with three rows of plated pill-like buttons, but who was now in the fatigue-dress of rolled-up shirt sleeves and a very dirty apron, while his left-hand was occupied by a boot, the right by a blacking-brush, which seemed to have been applied several times to an itching nose, his chin, and one side of his face, rather accounting for the plural nickname given him by the boys of "Day & Martin." These had come out to join in the ovation, Wrench adding several proud encomiums, one of which was, "My eyes, gentlemen! You did do it fine!" The Doctor's footman had hardly uttered these words when there was the loud ringing of a bell. "The Doctor!" he ejaculated, and he hurried into the house, his exit from the playground being followed by a fresh burst of cheering and a peculiar triumphant dance on the part of the page, accompanied by the waving of boot and blacking-brush, till, in his disgust, Slegge made a rush at him from behind, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and ran him rapidly to the boot-house, sent him flying in with a savage kick, and banged the door after him. "A blackguard!" he cried haughtily. "That's why our boots are not half cleaned. How dare he! The dirty, contemptible scrub! The Doctor ought to be told of this." Slegge stood sniffing and snorting and glaring round fiercely at the worshippers of the two heroes of the hour, who stood flushed and worried, ready to beat a retreat to the dormitory. But an end was put to their reception in a very unexpected way, for Wrench suddenly made his appearance, looking very solemn as he hurried off to the two lads with, "The Doctor wants to see you both, sirs, directly, in the study." Slegge's face lit up with a malicious grin. "Haw, haw!" he laughed. "Three cheers, boys! The Doctor wants to see them both in his study. Impositions! Hooray! Cheer, you little beggars! Why don't you cheer?" The adjuration fell flat, for not a boy uttered a sound, save one who exclaimed, "Oh, what a shame!" and then went off to the cricket-field, trying hard, poor little fellow! to suppress the natural desire to cry out and sob, for Slegge had "fetched him," as he termed it, a sounding slap upon the cheek, which echoed in the silence and cut the boy's lips against a sharp white tooth. "What's the Doctor want?" whispered Singh, as they followed the footman into the house. "A wigging, I'm afraid, gentlemen," said the man who heard his words. "But don't you mind. You write out your lines and do your imposition like men. It was fine! What you did this morning has made every one think no end of you, and it will never be forgotten so long as this 'ere's a school." A tap of the knuckles, which sounded hollow and strange, for they had reached the study-door. "Come in!" in the Doctor's deepest and most severe tones, and the next moment the two boys were standing separated from their preceptor by the large study-table, while he sat back in his revolving chair with his finger-tips joined, frowning at them severely from beneath his up-pushed gold-rimmed spectacles. There was silence for quite a minute, and it was not the Doctor who spoke first, but Glyn, who, under the impression that the Doctor was deep in thought and had forgotten their presence, ventured to say, "I beg your pardon, sir; you sent for us," and put an end to the mental debate as to the form in which the subject should be approached. "Yes, sir," said the Doctor sternly. "I have sent for you both, as it is better that any lapse from the strict rules of my establishment should be dealt with immediately; not that I wish to be too severe, for you are both new pupils and strange to the regulations of a high-class school in England. You gather, of course, that I am alluding to your very undignified conduct in the sight of all your fellow-pupils." "Yes, sir," said Glyn; "about our riding the elephant?" "Of course. It was disgraceful. You, to whom I should have looked for the conduct and demeanour of a gentleman, being the son of an eminent officer in the army, behaving like some little common street-boy, and leading your fellow-pupil, in whom from his ignorance of English customs and etiquette such a lapse might be excused. It was only the other day that your father the Colonel, sir, told me that you would set an example to the young Prince, and here I find you directly snatching at the opportunity to behave as you have done." "I beg your pardon, sir," cried Glyn, in a voice full of protest, "it was--" "Silence, sir!--Yes, what is it?" cried the Doctor angrily, for there was a quick tap at the door, and the footman appeared. "Have I not told you, sir, that when I am engaged like this I am not to be interrupted?-- Eh? Who?" "That showman, sir, wants to see you, sir." "That showman?" cried the Doctor angrily. "What showman? What about?" "Come about the damages, sir; the broken fences. He said he wouldn't keep you a moment, sir, if you would see him." "Oh," said the Doctor, cooling down. "Yes, the damages, the torn-up hedge and the broken fence. A most annoying affair. You can sit down, gentlemen, while I dismiss this man.--Where is he, Wrench?" "In the hall, sir; on the mat." "Ho!" said the Doctor, rising; and he marched slowly out, leaving the boys looking at one another and then at the busts of the great scholars of Greece and Rome ranged at intervals upon the cornices of the bookcases that covered the study-walls. Neither felt disposed to speak, for an inner door stood ajar, and from the other side came the faintly heard scratching noise of a pen. And so in silence some ten minutes or so passed before the Doctor came in, looking very different of aspect and ready to sign to the boys to sit down again as they rose at his entrance. "A most unpleasant business, young gentlemen," he began, as he seated himself; and sinking back he removed his spectacles, folded them, and used them to tap his knee; "but in justice to you I must hasten to say that this man's coming has given a very different complexion to the affair. A very strange, uncultured personage, but most straightforward and honest. I like the way in which he has offered to bear all the expense of repairing the fences. He speaks most highly of your gallantry--er--er--er--pluck, he called it--most objectionable phrase!-- in dealing with this savage beast. H'm, yes, what did he say--tackling it. But I was not aware that you had engaged in roping or harnessing the animal. He, however, talked of your both managing the monster wonderfully, and--er--it had never occurred to me before that you had both had some experience of elephants in India." "Oh yes, sir," cried Glyn eagerly. "Singh has elephants of his own, and we often used to go out together through the forest upon one as big as that." "Ha! Very interesting," cried the Doctor. "I was under the impression that your proceedings this morning were--that is--in fact, that you both did it just for the sake of a ride." "Oh no, sir," cried Glyn. "The men were all afraid of the elephant, and Singh spoke to it in Hindustani, and--" "Yes, yes, exactly," said the Doctor, smiling. "It was very brave, and--really, I cannot conceal the fact that I felt alarmed myself when the great furious beast came charging across the grounds. Yes, he speaks highly in praise of your conduct, and really, young gentlemen, I--I must apologise for having spoken to you as I did while suffering from a misunderstanding. Er--hum!" continued the Doctor didactically, and he rose slowly to stand waving the gold spectacles through the air, "it is the duty of every gentleman when he finds that he is in the wrong to acknowledge the fact with dignity and good grace. My dear young pupils, I hope I have properly expressed myself towards you both; and let me add that this will be a lesson to us, to me, against speaking in undue haste, and to you both as--er-- "Well, gentlemen," he continued with a smile, "I don't think I need detain you longer from your studies--I mean--er--from your pleasurable pursuits, as this is a holiday, and we will consider the incident as closed." Smiling benignantly, the Doctor marched slowly round the end of the table again, shook hands warmly with both his pupils, and then showed them to the door. "Stop! By the way, a little idea has occurred to me. This is a day of relaxation. Mr Singh--er--it is an understood thing, as you know, that your title is to be in abeyance while you are my pupil; for, as I explained to your guardian, Colonel Severn, it would be better that there should be no invidious distinctions during your scholastic career--I should be glad if you and your friend the Colonel's son would dine with me this evening. No dinner-party, but just to meet your three preceptors and a Mr--dear me, what was his name? Really, gentlemen, I am so deeply immersed in my studies that names escape me in a most provoking manner. A gentleman resident in the town here--a Sanskrit scholar, and friend of Mr Morris. Dear me! What was his name? There was something familiar about it, and I made a mental note, _memoria technica_, to be sure, yes--what was it? I remember the word perfectly now. `Beer.' Dear me, how strange! And it doesn't help me a bit. Really, gentlemen, I am afraid this _memoria technica_ is a mistake. How, by any possibility could the name of the ordinary beverage of the working classes have anything to do with the professor's name? Professor Beer--Professor Ale--Professor Porter--Stout? Dear me, how strange! Ah, of course--the great brewers, Barclay--Professor Barclay! At half-past six." "Thank you, sir. We will come," said Singh, smiling. "Precisely," said the Doctor, and he stood smiling in the doorway as the boys passed out. They were at the end of the hall passage when the door closed, and Wrench shot out from somewhere like a Jack from its box. "Aren't caught it very bad, gentlemen, have you?" he cried eagerly. "Oh no, Wrench," said Glyn, smiling. "Thought not, sir, for the Doctor had got a twinkle in his eye when he'd done with the wild-beast man. It would have been hard if you'd caught it after what you did. Pst! There's the study-bell." And the man hurried away, leaving the culprits to stroll out together into the playground, where they found fully half the boys waiting to hear the result of their interview with the Doctor, Slegge and his courtiers hurrying up first. "Well, beast-tamers," he cried sneeringly, "how many lines of Latin have you got to do?" And he grinned offensively at them both. "When?" said Glyn coolly. "When? Why, now, at once." "We haven't got any lines of Latin to do," said Singh quietly. "To-day is a holiday." "For us," cried Slegge; "but I know the Doctor. You have both got a pretty stiff dose to do, my fine fellows, and I wish you joy." "Thank you," said Glyn; "but you are all in the wrong." "Wrong? Then what did the Doctor say to you?" "Oh," said Glyn, in a most imperturbable manner, fighting hard the while, though, to keep his countenance as he realised the strength of the shot he was about to send at his malicious persecutor, "he asked Singh and me to come and meet the masters and dine with him to-night." CHAPTER NINE. THE NEW PROFESSOR. "Let 'em go," snarled Slegge to his courtiers. "It's only another way of getting a hard lesson. I know what the Doctor's dinner-parties are. Let the stuck-up young brutes go. But if I wasn't about to leave the blessed old school I would jolly soon let the Doctor know that this sort of thing won't do. The old humbug told me once that fairplay was a jewel. I don't call it fairplay to be currying favour with a new boy because he's an Indian prince. Indian prince, indeed! Indian bear-- cub; that's what I call him, with his leader, currying favour like that! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Haw, haw!" This was a melodramatic laugh of the most sarcastic description, prefatory to the letting off of a very ponderous joke. "Currying! Indian curry! That's what he was brought up on. Curry and rice instead of pap. Look at the colour of his skin. But only wait a bit," continued Slegge darkly. "Just wait till the right time comes, and I'll let you all see." But the Doctor's dinner-party was not quite so ponderous and learned as usual, for the incidents of the day formed the main topic of conversation. The Doctor was in high good-humour, and naturally felt rather proud of his pupils. They had distinguished themselves, and in so doing had distinguished him and his school, and the consequence was that the masters readily took up the subject and were most warm and friendly to the two lads, the other guest in particular, Professor Barclay, as Morris took care that he should be called, much to the annoyance of the classical master, who looked at the new-comer, Morris's friend, rather suspiciously, regarding him as one likely to poach upon his preserves. During the dinner, the Professor had much to say about Sanskrit, military colleges, and India, and was very attentive to Singh and Glyn, but found the boys quiet and retiring in the extreme. All, however, seemed to be enjoying themselves but Mr Rampson, who grew more uneasy and suspicious over the coffee, pricking up his ears as he bent over his cup and kept on stirring it, but without drinking, while the Doctor and the Professor were talking together as if discussing some subject in a low tone. The fact must be recorded against the classical teacher that he was eavesdropping, ungentlemanly as it may sound; but the only thing that reached his ears was the conclusion of the conversation, when the Doctor said, raising his voice slightly, "Certainly, Mr Barclay, I shall give every attention to your testimonials; but my staff of preceptors is complete, and I have always considered Greek and Latin sufficient for my pupils, of course with the modern languages thrown in." The Professor thanked the Doctor effusively, and in the course of the evening contrived to fix himself like a burr upon Singh, while Mr Rampson made an effort and secured Glyn to himself, jealously taking care that the stranger guest and friend, it seemed, of Morris should not monopolise both the boys. "It's all a plot," said Rampson to himself--"all a scheme to oust me, and I'll never forgive Morris so long as I live.--I say," he said aloud, "that Mr Barclay seems to have a deal to say to your friend the Prince. Do you know what they are talking about?" "India, and Sanskrit, and catching elephants," replied Glyn. "Has he been out in India?" "Oh, don't ask me," said Rampson with asperity; then correcting himself quickly, and with a rather ghastly smile, "I say, you two did distinguish yourselves to-day." "Oh, did we, sir?" said Glyn, who looked rather tired and bored. "Please don't say more about it." "Oh no, of course not, if you don't want to hear it. But your friend doesn't seem to mind. Why, the Professor's taking him out into the garden, and the Prince is talking to him as hard as ever he can. Yes, he doesn't seem to mind." "No," replied Glyn, as he saw Singh, in obedience to a gesture from his new acquaintance, sit down upon one of the garden-seats, and for the next quarter of an hour the boy was talking in quite an animated way, and evidently answering questions put to him by the Professor. The evening soon glided away, and the boys gladly thanked their host and retired to their own room, utterly wearied out by the events of the day. As a rule, they lay for some time carrying on conversation and discussing the next day's work; but that night very little was said, and the only thing worth recording was a few sentences that were spoken and responded to by Singh in the midst of yawns. "Talking about India and Sanskrit?" said Glyn. "Oh yes; he asked me all sorts of questions about Dour, and he asked me if I had ever seen Sanskrit letters." "Well?" "And I told him I had, and he shook his head and asked me where I had seen them." "Well, what did you say?" "That I had got some precious stones in my box with some Sanskrit letters cut in." "Why, you never were so stupid as to tell him about that belt?" "I don't know that there's anything stupid in it," replied Singh sleepily. "I didn't want him to think I was so ignorant as not to know about a language that your father can read as easily as English, and has talked to us about scores of times. Why, of course, I did." "Well, of all the old _Dummkopfs_ I ever knew, you are the stupidest. Didn't I tell you that--" _Snore_. "Why, if he isn't asleep!" Almost the next moment Glyn was in the same state. CHAPTER TEN. "ENGLISH GENTLEMEN DON'T FIGHT LIKE THAT." The next morning the men sent by Ramball, the proprietor of the world-famed menagerie, were busy at work first thing repairing hedge and fence; and everything was so well done, and such prompt payment made for the estimated damages to the neighbouring orchard, that when a petition-like appeal for patronage was made by Ramball, the owner of the orchard attended with wife, family, and friends; and the Doctor gave permission to the whole school to be present, being moved also, as he told the lads in a brief address, to go himself with the masters and support a very worthy enterprise for the diffusion of natural history throughout the country. The visits were paid to the great yellow-walled prison, and Ramball, in his best blue coat, the one with the basket-work treble-gilt buttons, attended on the Doctor himself to explain the peculiarities of the beasts and give their history in his own fashion. This was peculiar, and did not in any way resemble a zoological lecture. Still, it was an improvement upon the wild-beast showman of the old-fashioned fairs, and he did not inform his listeners that the tiger was eight feet six inches long from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, and exactly eight feet four inches long from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose. Neither did he impart knowledge, like another of his craft, and tell people that the boa-constrictor was so-called because he constructed such pleasing images with his serpentine form. But he did inform them that the monstrous reptile he possessed--one which, by the way, was only nine feet long--was always furnished in the cold weather with sawdust into which he could burrow, on account of the peculiarity always practised by creatures of its kind of swallowing its own blankets; and he did deliver an eulogy on his big black bear, and encourage the young gentlemen to furnish it with buns; but he did not confess to the fact that it was his most profitable animal, from the circumstance of his letting it out on hire for so many months in the year to a hairdresser in Bloomsbury, who used, according to his advertisements, to kill it regularly once a week and exhibit it in butcherly fashion hung up and spread open outside his shop, so that passers-by might see its tremendous state of fatness: "Another fat bear killed this morning." It was in the days when the British public were intense believers in bear's grease as the producer of hair, and no one troubled himself or herself to investigate the precise configuration of the exhibited animal and compare it when hung up, decapitated, and shorn of its feet, with the ordinary well-fatted domestic pig, albeit the illusion was kept up by its being possible to see through the gratings outside the shop-window Ramball's black bear still "all alive-o," parading and snuffling up and down in the area. Glyn and Singh were there, of course, and responded to Ramball's almost obsequious advances with good-humoured tolerance; but while he was with the Doctor the boys took notes together, laughing with a good deal of contempt at the poor miserable specimens--the tiger and two leopards-- compared with those they had seen in their native beauty and grace of outline in the forests of Dour. They met one friend there, though, chained by a leg to the massive iron peg, as he stood swinging his great head from side to side, and stretching out his enormous trunk for the contributions supplied by the boys. They were welcomed most effusively by the great beast, which recognised them at once, and it was only by its attention being taken up by its keeper, the man who had driven the bottomless van, that the boys got away without being followed by their new friend, which had manifested a disposition to drag the peg out of the ground and follow them like a dog. It was while the Doctor was delivering an impromptu disquisition upon the peculiarities of the one-horned rhinoceros and the slight resemblance given by the folds of its monstrous hide to the shell of a turtle, that Ramball followed the two boys and made signs to them to come to the other end of the great van-walled booth, when he asked them if they had considered his proposition. "I never made such an offer before in my life, young gents. It's a good 'un. Don't you let it slide." But the boys were saved the pain of telling the man that it was quite out of the question by the coming up of the guest at the Doctor's dinner, Professor Barclay, who was effusively civil to Glyn, and fastened himself upon Singh to talk of Indian matters and language till the visit came to an end. Just before leaving, Ramball came up to them again, but he had to speak in the presence of the Doctor. "I only wanted to ask the young gents, sir," he said, "if they had made their choice of the two little somethings to keep in remembrance of what they did over the elephant." "Two little somethings?" said the Doctor loftily. "I am quite sure, sir, that my pupils do not wish to take any two little somethings as a gift from you." "No, no, sir, not what you call gifts; but just a couple of little trifles as I asked them to pick out." "Oh, no, no," cried the Doctor. "It is not necessary, my man, and we have no room for such things in my establishment." "Ah, excuse me, sir," said the man eagerly; "you are thinking I mean something big and awkward; but a nice little monkey, sir, or a bird?" "Monkeys don't want monkeys," said Slegge, in a whisper to Burney, just loud enough for Glyn to hear, and making him turn sharply upon the speaker. "Have a baboon, Severn," said Slegge maliciously, for he met the boy's flashing eyes. "What for?" said Glyn coolly. "Oh, I don't know," continued Slegge, after a glance at the boys around, who burst into a low series of titters. "I would if I were you. There's a nice brotherly look about that one in the cage, and he hasn't got a tail." "Mr Severn," said the Doctor, "come here. I want you to tell Mr Ramball that you do not need any recompense for the services you have performed. Mr Singh has already spoken." "Yes, sir, I'll come," replied the boy quickly, and he did as requested, fully conscious the while that Slegge was saying something disparaging to the nearest boys, and that the Professor had moved up behind Singh and was talking to him again. "Do you like this Professor Barclay?" said Glyn as they were walking back towards the school side by side. "Oh, I don't know. He's very pleasant to talk to, of course, for he knows so much about Indian things." "Oh," said Glyn thoughtfully, for his companion's words sounded reasonable. "But what was that fellow saying to you?" asked Singh. "He was grinning at you about something. Oh, I should like to do something to him. That nasty look of his always makes me feel hot." "He wants to get up a quarrel," replied Glyn. "Well, let him, and the sooner the better. He's always insulting me." "Then let's insult him," said Glyn. "Yes," cried Singh eagerly. "What shall we do? Tell him we won't accept a baboon because one's enough in the school?" "No; treat him with contempt," said Glyn coldly. "We are not going to be dragged into a fight so as to give him a chance to play the bully and knock us about." "But let's knock him about," cried Singh, "and show him that we can bully too." "Won't do," said Glyn slowly. "He's too big and strong." "Yes, he's big and strong; but we shall be two to one." "Ah, you have a lot to learn, Singhy. English gentlemen don't fight like that." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE CUTTING OF THE COCK'S COMB. There was a smart brush at the school a few days later, which resulted in the cutting of Slegge's comb. The Doctor was seated at his study-table, with the open French window letting in the fresh morning breeze and giving him a view, when he raised his eyes from his book, right across the cricket-field to the clump of elms, when there was a tap at the door, responded to by the customary "Come in!" and Mr Rampson entered. "Ah, good-morning, Mr Rampson," said the Doctor suavely. "Good-morning, sir. Could you give me a few minutes?" "Certainly, Mr Rampson," replied the Doctor, sitting back. "Have you something to report?" "Well, no, sir, not exactly, but--er, but er--I er--thought I should like to ask you if I had given you satisfaction in connection with my pupils." "Yes, Mr Rampson," said the Doctor, raising his eyebrows; "but why--oh, I see, you want to speak to me and tell me that you have had a more lucrative offer." "Oh no, sir; I am quite satisfied here, where I have been so long, but--" "Well, Mr Rampson, what is it? You wish me to increase your stipend?" "No, sir, I do not; but I don't want to suddenly find myself supplanted by another master through the machinations of a brother-teacher." "Don't speak angrily, Mr Rampson. Pray, who has been trying to supplant you?" "Well, sir, I am a blunt man, and I have come to speak out. I am afraid that Morris--why, I know not--has been introducing this Professor Barclay to you to try to get him in my post." "Indeed, Mr Rampson!" said the Doctor, with a smile. "Well, then, let me set you at your ease at once. Morris did not introduce this gentleman, for he came to me with an introduction from one of the professors at Addiscombe, a gentleman I do not know from Adam. I find that he has been for a few months a resident in the town here, where he is carrying on some study. Morris seems to know him a little, and tells me that he has visited him two or three times at his apartments. I questioned him as to who the man was, and his antecedents, which seemed to be satisfactory. I did so after his presenting his letter of introduction and some testimonials. I thought that it would be only civil to ask him to dinner and explain to him that it was perfectly hopeless for him to expect anything from me; and, in short, one feels a little sympathetic towards a cultivated gentleman who is seeking to obtain an appointment in a none-too-well-paid profession. So now you see, my dear Mr Rampson, that you have not the slightest cause for uneasiness." "Dr Bewley," cried Rampson excitedly, "you don't know how you have relieved my mind!" "I am very glad, Rampson; and let me take this opportunity of telling you that--Bless my heart! what is the meaning of this?" "Of what, sir?" cried Rampson, startled by the speaker's earnestness. "Look over yonder beyond the elms. Scandalous! Disgraceful! And after all that I have said! I will not have it, Rampson." "But, sir, I--" "Don't you see that there's a fight going on? Just as if it were a common school. Come with me at once." The Doctor set aside his stately march and hurried out through the open window, bare-headed, and closely followed by his assistant. There, through the elms and close up to the grey park-fence beyond, the whole school seemed to have assembled, and plainly enough at intervals there was the quick movement of two contending figures, while the clustering boys around heaved and swayed as they watched the encounter, quite forgetful in their excitement of the possibility of their being seen from the house. Dr Bewley did not run, but went nearer to it than he had been since he wrote DD at the end of his name and gave up cricket; while before they were half-way across the cricket-field Mr Rampson was emitting puffs suggesting that the motive-power by which he moved was connected with a modern utilisation of steam. So intent was the little scholastic crowd beyond the row of tree-trunks which with the park-palings beyond formed the arena, that not a head was turned to see the approach of the masters and give the alarm. The consequence was that the latter were getting close up and able to make out that a fierce fight was going on between Slegge and Glyn Severn, the former seconded by Burney, the latter by the young Prince. There was no shouting, no sound of egging on by the juvenile spectators, only an intense silence, punctuated by a hoarse panting sound, the trampling of feet, and the _pat, pat_, of blows. The last of these was a heavy one, delivered right from the shoulder with all his remaining force--for the boy was pretty well exhausted--by Glyn Severn; and it was just as the Doctor was filling his capacious chest with the breath necessary after his hurried advance to deliver a stern command to cease fighting. But before he uttered a word his biggest pupil came staggering back towards the ring of boys on the Doctor's side, and as they hurriedly gave way down came Slegge flat upon his back at the fresh-comer's feet. After delivering his final blow, Glyn Severn nearly followed his impulse, and had hard work to check himself from falling flat upon his adversary. As it was, he dropped only upon one knee, rose again painfully, and stood with bruised and bleeding face gazing blankly at his stern preceptor, who now thundered out in his deepest tones, "What is the meaning of this?" At the sight of the Doctor a thrill ran through the little throng; and, moved as by one impulse, there was the suggestion of a rush for safety. But the thunderous tones of the Doctor's voice seemed to freeze every young abettor in his steps. "Do you hear me, sirs?" cried the Doctor again. "What is the meaning of this?" It was the smallest boy of the school who replied, in a shrill voice full of excitement, conveying the very plain truth: "Fight, sir. Tom Slegge and one of the new boys." "Silence!" thundered the Doctor. "You know my rules, and that I have forbidden fighting. Here, somebody, one of the high form boys--you, Burney, let me hear what you have to say. Speak out, sir. Ah, you have been seconder, I suppose?" "Yes, sir," faltered the lad, whose hands showed unpleasant traces of what he had been doing. "Ah," continued the Doctor.--"Mr Rampson, see that not a boy dares to move.--Now, Burney, let me hear the whole truth of this from beginning to end. No suppression, sir, from favour or fear. I want the straightforward truth. Who began this disgraceful business?--Stop! Mr Rampson, here. Is that boy Slegge much hurt?" "A bit stunned, sir, and stupid with his injuries, but he's all right, sir; he's coming round," and in proof thereof Slegge, with the assistance of the master's hands, struggled to his feet, and stood shaking his head as if he felt a wasp in his ear, and then promptly sat down again. "Now, Burney," cried the Doctor, "speak out. Who began this?" The boy addressed glanced at the Doctor and then at Slegge, while his lips parted; but he uttered no sound. "Do you hear me, sir?" roared the Doctor. "Big Tom Slegge, sir," came from the shrill little fellow who had before spoken. The Doctor frowningly held up one big white finger at the little speaker, who shrank back amongst his fellows. "I saw that look of yours, Burney," said the Doctor sternly, "and I read its meaning, sir. It seemed to appeal to your older schoolfellow, one of the principals in this disgraceful encounter, asking him if you might speak out. I'll answer for him. Yes, sir; and beware lest you, as a gentleman's son, lower your position in my eyes by making any suppression. What was the cause of the quarrel?" Burney's face was working, for after the excitement of the fight and its sudden ending he felt hysterically emotional, and in a broken voice the truth came pouring forth. "I can't help it, sir, and if he bullies me afterwards for speaking I must tell all. Slegge's been jealous of both the new boys ever since they came. He's been as disagreeable and spiteful as could be, and forced us all to take his side." "Yes, yes; go on," cried the Doctor, for the boy stopped with a gasp; but he spoke more calmly afterwards. "He's been working it up, sir, for a fight for days, out of jealousy because he thought more was made of Singh and Severn than of him." "Indeed!" said the Doctor, nodding his head. "And when it came, sir, to them having such a fuss made over them about their riding the elephant, and you asking them afterwards to dinner, it was bound to come." The boy stopped, and the Doctor turned to the classical master. "Do you hear this, Mr Rampson?" he said, in his most sarcastic manner, the one he adopted towards the most stupidly ignorant boys. "I presume then that I ought to ask Mr Thomas Slegge's permission before asking the two new pupils to my board." "Yes, sir," burst out Burney, who had gathered breath and had now got into the swing of speaking. "It was bound to come, sir. Slegge said he should do it, and I can't help it if I do seem like a sneak for telling all." "Go on, Burney," said the Doctor. "I'll be the judge of that." "Well, sir, he told all us seniors to be ready for the first chance there was. He said--" "Who said?" interrupted the Doctor. "Let us be perfectly correct." "Slegge, sir. He said we were to be ready, for he was going to begin by giving the nigger fits." "By giving the nigger fits?" said the Doctor slowly. "And, pray, what did he mean by that?" "Licking Singh, sir; the new boy from India, sir." "Oh," said the Doctor sarcastically. "But he has not been giving the nigger fits." "No, sir; next day he changed his mind, and said he'd let Severn have it first." "Have it first?" said the Doctor slowly. "Your language is not very correct, Burney. But go on." "Yes, sir. He sent word round this morning to all the boys except those two that we were to meet down here by the elms; and when we did come, just as he thought, Severn and Singh fancied there was some new game on, and came to see. Then, sir, Slegge began at Severn, insulting him, sir--yes, that he did. I'm not going to say everything he called him; but he told him to stand up like a man and take his punishment." "Yes; and what did Severn say?" "He said, sir, he was not going to degrade himself by fighting like a street blackguard; and then Slegge jeered and mocked at him and set us all at him to call him coward and cur; and he ended, sir, by walking straight up to him, and he asked him three times if he'd fight, and Severn, sir, said he wouldn't, and then Slegge gave him a coward's blow--one in the nose, sir, and made it bleed." "Ah!" said the Doctor. "And what did Severn do?" "Took out his pocket-handkerchief, sir, and wiped it." "Exactly," said the Doctor, with grim seriousness, "and a very correct thing too; that is," he continued hastily, as if he had some slight idea of the suggestiveness of his remark, "I mean, that Severn behaved very well in refusing to fight. But he turned upon Slegge, of course, after such an incitement as that." "No, sir, he didn't; he only stood there looking very red and with his lips quivering, and looking quite wild and reproachful at Singh." "Oh!" said the Doctor. "Then Singh has been in it too?" "Yes, sir; Singh came at him like a lion, and said he was a coward and a cur, and that they'd never be friends again. But Severn did not speak a word, and before we knew what was going to happen next, Slegge took hold of Singh's ear and asked him what it had to do with him, and he called him a nigger and an impudent foreign brat; and almost before we knew where we were, Singh hit Slegge quick as lightning, one-two right in the face, and then stepped back and began to take off his jacket; but before he could pull it off, Slegge got at him; and the boys hissed, sir, for while Singh's hands were all in a tangle like in the sleeves, Slegge hit him three or four times in the face; but it only made him fierce, and getting rid of his jacket, he went at big Slegge." "Ah!" ejaculated the Doctor. "Go on, Mr Burney." "Slegge made a dash at him, sir; but Singh was too quick, and stepped on one side; and when Slegge turned upon him again Severn sprang in between them, snatched off his jacket, and crammed it into Singh's hands. And then all the boys began to hooray." "What for?" said the Doctor. "Because Severn said, sir, out loud, `Not such a coward as you think, Singhy. I must fight now.'" "Bad--very bad," said the Doctor; "cowardly too--two boys to one." "Oh no, sir; Singh didn't do any more. He only laughed, threw down the jacket, and began slapping Severn on the back; and he seconded him, sir, quite fair and square all through, just as if he knew all about fighting, though he is a nig--Indian, sir. And there was a tremendous fight, till, after being a good deal knocked about, Severn was getting it all his own way, and finished off Slegge just as you came up, sir. And that's the whole truth.--Isn't it, boys?" There was a chorus of the word "Yes," and the Doctor drew a deep breath as it came to an end. Then he uttered the interjection "Hah!" looked very searchingly at Slegge, scanning the injuries he had received, and afterwards made the same keen examination of Severn. "Disgraceful!" he said at last, shaking his head and frowning. "Young gentlemen, you will resume your studies at once.--Mr Rampson, will you see that these two injured lads go to their dormitory directly. Mrs Hamton will attend to their injuries and report to me whether it is necessary for the surgeon to be called in.--You hear me, boys?" shouted the Doctor. "Disperse at once. There will be a lecture in the theatre in ten minutes' time.--Mr Rampson, there is to be no communication between these two principals and the rest.--You, Burney, and you, Singh, go on to my library." The next minute the trampled arena was in silence, and the Doctor, with his hands clasped behind him, was marching back alone towards his study, going so slowly that every one who had formed a portion of the little gathering had disappeared by the time he was half-way to the open French window. There was something peculiar about Dr Bewley's countenance as he slowly marched back. For one minute it was placid, the next stern, and directly after a slight quivering of the facial nerves developed into a mirthful look, which was emphasised by a low, pleasant, chuckling laugh. For the fact was that the tall, stern, portly Doctor's thoughts had gone far back to his old schooldays and a victory he had once achieved over the brutal bully of the school at which he had been placed. And whether he was alluding to the tyrant of his days or to the one who had lorded it for long enough in the establishment of which he was the head must remain a mystery; but certain it was that the Doctor muttered presently to himself, "An overbearing young ruffian! A thoroughly good thrashing; and serve him right!" The next moment the utterer of these words, which had fallen upon his own ears only, was looking guiltily round as if in dread lest he might have been heard. But there was no one visible but Sam Grigg, who was brushing hard at boots by the entrance to his own particular outdoor den; and he was too far away to hear; while, when the Doctor entered his study, he was met at the door by Wrench, who announced that a lady was waiting in the drawing-room, and he handed a card. "Ha, yes, Wrench," said the Doctor. "About a new pupil. I will see her directly.--Oh, Singh--Burney, you here? I will speak to you both another time. One moment--this is private, boys. You both know--at least, you do now, Burney, and you from henceforth must remember the same, Singh--I allow no brutal fighting in my establishment; but I am not very angry with you, my lads, for on the whole there was a display of manliness in your conduct that I cannot find it in my heart to condemn. There, you, Singh, can go and see your friend Severn.--And you, Burney, h'm--humph--well, yes, go and see Slegge. You must not forsake your companion now he is down." CHAPTER TWELVE. "WITH FACES LIKE THIS." Singh's encounter with Slegge had been very short, and when the Doctor sent him in the tokens of the affray were very slight; but a few hours afterwards certain discolorations were so manifest that the Doctor frowned and told him he had better join his companion in the dormitory for a few days and consider himself in Mrs Hamton's charge. Singh hailed the order with delight, and went straight to his bedroom, where the plump, pleasant, elderly housekeeper had just entered before him, carrying a small basin half-full of some particular liniment-like preparation of her own, a sponge, and a soft towel. When Singh appeared at the door Glyn sat up so suddenly that he nearly knocked over the basin that Mrs Hamton had given him to hold, after spreading the soft towel in his lap, when she began sponging his face with the preparation. "Oh, my dear child," she cried, "pray, be careful!" "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the boy merrily.--"Oh, do look at him, Mrs Hamton. What a guy!" "Guy!" cried Singh sharply. "What do you mean?" He dashed to the dressing-table and took his first look at his face in the glass since he had dressed that morning. "Oh, I say," he cried, "I never thought of this. Why, it's just like my face was that day after the sergeant had shown us how to use the boxing-gloves." "Yes," cried Glyn merrily; "but what sort of a phiz would you have had if you had fought it out?" "One something like yours," cried Singh. "Oh, I say, you ought to talk! What eyes! and your lip all cut. Why, your face is all on one side." "Yes, isn't it shocking, my dear," said the old housekeeper. "I do hope that it will be a lesson to you both. I never could understand why young gentlemen were so fond of fighting." "Oh, it's because it's so nice, Mrs Hamton," said Glyn, who spoke as if he were in the height of glee. "I don't believe you mean that, my dear; but there, lie back in the chair again, and let me go on dabbing all your poor cuts and bruises with this lotion and water. It's so cooling and healing, and it will take all the inflammation out.--And don't you go, my dear," she continued, turning to Singh, "till I have done your face over too." "I am not going," said Singh quietly. "The Doctor sent me up here to stop." "Has he?" cried Glyn. "Oh, hurrah! Here, Mrs Hamton, another patient for you to make decent.--I say, Singhy, she's just come from old Slegge. I'm afraid I've made his face in a horrible mess." "You have indeed, my dear," said the housekeeper reproachfully. "But oh, what a pity it is that young gentlemen will so far forget themselves! It grieves me; it does indeed." "But I don't forget myself," protested Glyn. "I was obliged to fight. You wouldn't have had me lie down and let him knock both of us about for nothing, would you, nurse--I mean Mrs Hamton?" "Oh, don't ask me, my dear; it's not for me to say; and you needn't mind calling me nurse, for it always sounds nice and pleasant to me. There, now, doesn't that feel cool and comforting?" "Lovely," cried Glyn softly, and as he looked up in the pleasant face, with its grey curls on either side, his eyes for the moment, what could be seen of them, seemed to be sparkling with mischief and mirth, for there was a feeling of pride and triumph at his success swelling in his breast, and a few moments later, so great was the comfort he experienced under the delicate manipulation of his motherly attendant's hands, that he looked up at her and began to smile--only began, for he uttered an ejaculation of pain. "Oh, my dear, did I hurt you?" cried the housekeeper. "No," said the boy, in rather a piteous tone; "it was my face. It's all stiff and queer." "Yes, I told you that it was one-sided," said Singh merrily. "Well, never mind, my dear; it will soon be better," said the housekeeper soothingly. "But you must do exactly what I tell you, and be very patient and still." "But, I say, look here, Mrs Hamton," cried Glyn, catching the hand which was bearing the sponge and holding it to his cheek, to the old lady's intense satisfaction, though somehow there came an unwonted look of moisture in her eyes. "What were you going to say, my dear? But, dear, dear, what a pity it is that you should go and disfigure yourselves like this! What would your poor father say if he knew?" "Oh, I say, don't talk about it," cried Glyn.--"Fancy, Singhy, if he could see us now!" Glyn tried to whistle, but his puffed-up lips refused to give forth a sound; and, seeing this, Singh whistled for him, and then in spite of the pain and stiffness of their faces the two boys laughed till the suffering became intense. "Oh, don't, don't, don't, Singhy!" cried Glyn. "I can't bear it." "Well, I never did see two such young gentlemen as you are," said the old housekeeper, smiling in turn. "You ought both to be lying back looking as melancholy as black, and here you are making fun of your troubles. Ah, it's a fine thing, my dears, to be boys and quite young; but I do hope that you will never fight any more, and that you will both soon go and shake hands with Mr Slegge, and tell him you are very sorry you hit him. I am sure that he must feel very sorry that he ever hit you, he being so much bigger and having so long had the advantage of being taught by the Doctor, who is the best man that ever lived, while you two are so new, and you, Mr Singh, so much younger than Mr Slegge that I do wonder he ever so far forgot himself as to hit you. Now, you will make friends afterwards, won't you?" "No!" cried Singh sharply. "I hate the coward." "Oh, my dear!" cried the old lady. "He doesn't mean it, nursey," cried Glyn, getting hold of her hand again. "He only said it because he feels so sore. He's got a sore face and a sore temper; but it will be all right when he gets well." "I hope so, my dear; and you will shake hands with him, won't you?" "Yes," said Glyn merrily, "as soon as he holds out his. I can afford to.--Can't I, Singhy?" "Oh yes, of course." "There," said the old lady, "now that's spoken nicely, and I don't think I'll bathe your face any more.--Now, my dear," she continued to Singh, "it's your turn." "Oh, mine doesn't want doing, does it?" said the boy carelessly. "Yes, my dear, and very badly too. If it isn't bathed with my lotion it will go on swelling, and be more discoloured still." "Oh!" cried the boy eagerly.--"Here, you, Glyn, get up out of that chair. It's my turn now, as Mrs Hamton says," and he took another glimpse at the glass. "There, I'm ready. Oh, I say, I do look a wretch!" Under the care of the good-natured old housekeeper during the next two days a great deal of the swelling went down; but after the old lady's report, and visits from the Doctor himself, they were both still treated as infirmary patients, and relieved from lessons till such time as they should be presentable amongst their fellows. But on the third day the confinement was growing irksome in the extreme; and the Doctor, after his daily visit, gave Singh permission to come down into the grounds if he liked. But the boy did not like. A glance at his companion in adversity revealed a disappointed look, and as soon as the Doctor was gone he picked up one of the books with which they were well supplied. "Well," said Glyn gloomily, "why don't you go down?" "Because I don't want to," was the reply; and no more was said. But that afternoon soon after dinner, which was brought up to them by the housekeeper on a folding-tray, and just when the irksomeness of their position was pressing hardest upon their brains, there was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, the handle was turned without any waiting for permission, and Wrench's head was thrust in. "I say, young gents," he cried, "here's a go!" "What's the matter?" asked Glyn anxiously. "Don't say Slegge's worse." "I wasn't going to, sir. It's something worse than that." "What?" "There's a gentleman along with the Doctor." "A gentleman!" cried the boys together. "Yes; a tall, military-looking gentleman, with long white starchers, and such a voice. He seemed as if he wanted to look me through. Fierce as fierce he was when he gave me his card to take in." "What was on the card?" cried Glyn excitedly. "Can't you guess, sir?" said the man, grinning. "Colonel Severn!" shouted Singh. "My father!" gasped Glyn. "Oh, Singhy! And us with faces like this!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BEFORE THE "STARCHERS." Singh ran across to the glass on the dressing-table. "Why, Glyn, we can't see him. I'm bad enough, but you are far worse. What's to be done?" "I dunno," cried Glyn. "Who in the world would have thought he was coming down here to-day!" "We are supposed to be in the infirmary, aren't we?" said Singh. "I say, couldn't we undress and go to bed?" "No," said Glyn promptly. "What difference would that make?" "Why, he'd think we were too ill to be seen." "Nonsense," cried Glyn. "Wouldn't he come up and see us all the same?" "Oh dear!" groaned Singh. "What a mess we are in! This comes of your fighting." "Well, who made me fight? Who began it?" "Well, I suppose it was I," said Singh; "but I couldn't stand still and let him knock us both about. Oh dear, what a lot of bother it all is!" "Here, I say, Wrench," cried Glyn excitedly, "were you sent up to tell us that my father was here?" "No, sir," said the man, grinning; "but I thought you'd like to know. I must go now, in case my bell rings." The footman went off hurriedly, and the two boys, after a fresh visit to the looking-glass, tried to make the best of their appearance. Glyn combed his hair down in a streak over one side of his bruised forehead, while Singh poured out some cold water and dabbed and sponged his right eye; but he could not wash away the discoloration that surrounded it, and after applying the towel he plumped himself down in a chair and sat staring at his companion. "It's no use," he said; "I daren't face guardian, and I won't." "You tell him so," said Glyn, laughing, "and see what he will say." "How am I going to tell him so when I shan't see him?" "Why, you'll be obliged to." "I tell you I won't!" cried Singh passionately. "There's a sneak! And you will let me go down alone and face it all." "Oh, I say, don't talk like that," cried Singh. "Can't we get out of it somehow, old chap? Let's run away till the Colonel's gone." "Yes, of course," cried Glyn sarcastically. "How much money have you got?" "Oh, I don't know; half-a-crown and some shillings." "Oh, I have got more than that. I have got half-a-sovereign. Shall we go to Plymouth, and sail for somewhere abroad?" "Yes, anywhere, so that we don't have to meet your father." "Ah," said Glyn, who was trying very hard to make the lock of hair he had combed over a bruise stop in its place, but it kept jumping up again and curling back to the customary position in spite of applications of cold water and pomatum. "Well, what do you mean by `Ah'?" grumbled Singh. "Mean by `Ah'?" replied Glyn slowly. "Why, it means what a stupid old chucklehead you are. Run away! Likely, isn't it?" "Oh, too late! too late!" cried Singh, for there was another sharp tap at the door, and Wrench entered smartly, closely followed by his cat. "Doctor's compliments, gentlemen, and you are to come down into the drawing-room directly.--And just you go back to the pantry at once," he shouted at his cat. "How many more times am I to tell you that you are not to follow me up into the young gentlemen's rooms?" "Bah!" shouted Glyn, and he threw the hairbrush he held smartly at the footman, who caught it cleverly, as if he were fielding a ball at mid-wicket, and deposited it upon the dressing-table. "Well caught, sir!" cried the man, eulogising his own activity. "There, never mind, gentlemen; go down and get it over. There ain't anything to be ashamed of. If I was you, Mr Severn, I should feel proud at having licked that great big disagreeable chap. I shall be glad to see his back. He's quite big enough to leave school." "Ah!" said Glyn with a sigh. "Come on, Singhy; Wrench is right. Let's get it over; only I want to bathe my face again. It smells of old Mother Hamton's embro--what did she call it? You may as well go on first. I won't be long." "What!" cried Singh, looking aghast at the speaker. "Go down and see him alone? I won't! He's not my father; he's yours. You may go first, and I won't come unless I'm obliged." "Won't you?" said Glyn, laughing softly, and he caught hold of his companion's wrist and drew it under his arm. "Open the door, Wrenchy, and make way for the hospital--two wounded men going down.--I say, Singhy, look as bad as you can. Here, I know: Wrenchy and I will carry you down in a chair." Singh opened his mouth quickly and shut it sharply, making his white teeth close together with a snap. Then knitting his brows and drawing a deep breath, he held on tightly to his companion, and walked with him in silence downstairs into the hall. Here the pair stopped short by the drawing-room door, where Wrench slipped before them and raised his hand to show them in; but Glyn caught him by the arm. "Wait a moment," he said, and the three stood there by the mat, forming a group, listening to the slow, heavy murmur of the Doctor's voice and the replies given in a loud, sonorous, emphatic tone. "Now," said Glyn at last. The door was thrown open, and they entered, to face the Doctor, who was seated back in an easy-chair with his hands before him and finger-tips joined; while right in the centre of the hearthrug, his back to the fireplace and legs striding as if he were across his charger, stood the tall grey Colonel, swarthy with sunburn and marked by the scar of a tulwar-cut which had divided his eyebrow and passed diagonally from brow to cheek. He was gazing at the Doctor and listening politely to something he was saying in his soft, smooth voice, but turned his head sharply as the door was opened, and his ultra-long, heavy grey moustache seemed to writhe as he fixed the boys with his keen grey eyes in turn. "Right, Doctor!" he cried, as if he were giving an order to a squadron to advance. "Disgraceful!--Well, you do look a pretty pair!" "I'll leave you together," said the Doctor, rising slowly, and then glancing at the boys. "Yes," he said softly, "dreadfully marked; but you should have seen them, Colonel, directly after their encounter." "Ha, yes; wounded on the field," said the Colonel drily. "Thank you. Yes, sir, I think I should like to have a few words with them alone." For the first time since they had known him the feeling was strong upon the boys that they would have liked their preceptor to stay. But the Doctor gave each of them a grave nod as he moved towards the door, and they both stood as if chained to the carpet till the Colonel made a stride forward, when Glyn recollected himself, ran to the door, and opened it for the Doctor to pass out. The Colonel grunted, and then as the door was closed, he marched slowly across to his son; and as the boy faced him caught him by the shoulder with his right hand, walked him back to where Singh stood alone, grabbed him with his left, and forced them both towards the wide bay window fully into the light. "Stand there!" he said, in commanding tones. Then stooping stiffly to seize the Doctor's easy-chair by the back, he made the castors squeak as he swung it round and threw himself into it with his back to the window, when he crossed one leg over the other, and sat staring at them fiercely and scanning for some moments every trace of the late encounter. Glyn drew a long, deep breath loudly enough to be heard, while Singh stood with hanging hands, opening and closing his fingers, and passing his tongue quickly over his dry lips. But the Colonel still went on staring at them and frowning heavily the while. At last Singh could bear it no longer. "Oh, say something, sir!" he cried passionately. "Scold us, bully us, punish us if you like; but I can't bear to be looked at like that." It was the Colonel's turn now to draw a deep breath, as he raised himself in the chair a little, thrust one hand behind him, fumbled for his pocket, and then drew out a large soft bandana handkerchief and blew his nose with a blast like a trumpeted order to charge. Then, as he sank back in his chair, "Ha, ha, ha! haw, haw, haw!" he literally roared. "Well, you do look a pretty pair of beauties!" he cried. "But this won't do. Here, you, Glyn, what do you mean by this, sir? Didn't I warn you against fighting, and tell you to protect and set an example to young Singh here?" "Yes, father." "Look at yourself in the glass. You look a pretty pattern, don't you?" "Yes, father." "I told you to look at yourself in the glass. Why don't you?" "Because I know every scratch and bruise thoroughly by heart, father." "But--" began the Colonel. Here Singh interposed. "It wasn't his fault, sir," cried the boy. "It was mine. He didn't want to fight, and said he wouldn't." "Ho!" said the Colonel. "Said he wouldn't fight, did he." "Yes, sir, and he actually let the big bully hit him." "Ha!" said the Colonel. "And then knocked him down for it?" "No, he didn't, sir," cried Singh, with his eyes twinkling. "He wouldn't fight even then." "Humph!" grunted the Colonel. "And what then?" "Well, it put me in such a rage, sir, that I couldn't bear it, and I went and hit the big fellow right in the face, and he hit me again." "Ah, you needn't tell me that," replied the Colonel; "that's plain enough. Well, what after?" "Well, that made Glyn take my part, and he swung me behind him; and oh, sir, he did give the big fellow such an awful thrashing!" "Ha!" said the Colonel, taking his great grey moustache by both hands and drawing it out horizontally. "A thorough thrashing, eh?" "Yes, sir." "And what were you doing?" "Oh, I was seconding him, sir." "Oh, that was right. You were not both on him at once?" "Oh no, sir; it was all fair." "Then Glyn thoroughly whipped him, eh?" "Yes, sir, thoroughly." The Colonel turned to his son, and looked him over again; and then, after another two-handed tug at his moustache, he said slowly: "I say, Glyn, old chap, you got it rather warmly. But tut, tut, tut, tut! This won't do. What did that old chap say: `Let dogs delight to bark and bite'? Here, I have been talking to the Doctor, and the Doctor has been talking to me. Look here, you, Singh, military fighting, after proper discipline, and done by fighting men, is one thing; schoolboy fighting is quite another, not for gentlemen. It's low and blackguardly.--Do you hear, Glyn?" he cried turning on his son. "Blackguardly, sir--blackguardly. Look at your faces, sir, and see how you have got yourselves marked. But er--er--" He picked his pocket-handkerchief up from where he had spread it over his knees and blew another blast. "This er--this er--big fellow that you thrashed--big disagreeable fellow--bit of a bully, eh?" "Regular tyrant, father. We hadn't been here a month, before not a day passed without his insulting Singh or making us uncomfortable." "Ha! insulted Singh, did he?" "Yes, sir," cried that individual through his set teeth. "He was always calling me nigger, and mocking at me in some way." "Humph! Brute! And so, after putting up with a good deal, and obeying my orders till he couldn't stand it any longer, Glyn took your part and thrashed the fellow, eh?" "Yes, sir, bravely," cried Singh, with his eyes flashing. "I wish you'd been there to see." "I wish--" The Colonel stopped short. "No, no. Tut, tut! Nonsense! I did not want to see. Here, hold out your hands, Glyn. No, no, not like that. Double your fists. Hold them out straight. I want to look at your knuckles. Dreadful! Nice state for a gentleman's hands. Fighting's bad.--Do you hear, Singh? Very bad. But I must confess that I didn't get through school without a turn-up or two myself. Glyn took your part, then, and thrashed the fellow. Well, he won't bully either of you again. Yes, I got into my scrapes when I was a boy; but you know times were different then. Everything was rougher. This sort of thing won't do. You must be more of gentlemen now--more polished. Fighting's bad." "But you let the sergeant, father, teach us how to use the gloves after you had got them over from England." "Eh? What, sir--what sir?" cried the Colonel sharply. "Well, yes, I did. It was a bit of a lapse, though, and every man makes mistakes. But that, you see, was part of my old education, and through being in India so many years and away from modern civilisation, and er--Of course, I remember; it was after your poor father had been talking to me, Singh, and telling me that he looked to me to make you a thorough English gentleman, one fit to occupy his throne some day, and rule well over his people--firmly, justly, and strongly, as an Englishman would. And, of course, I thought it would be right for you both to know how to use your fists if you were unarmed and attacked by ruffians. And--er, well, well, you see I was not quite wrong. Mind, you know, I detest fighting, and only this morning I have been quite agreeing with the Doctor--fine old gentlemanly fellow, by the way, and a great scholar-- agreeing with him, I say, that this fighting is rather a disgrace. At the same time, my boys, as I was about to say, I was not quite wrong about those gloves. You see, it enabled Glyn here to bring skill to bear against a bigger and a stronger man, and er--um--you see, there are other kinds of fighting that a man will have to go through in life; and then when such things do happen, mind this--I mean it metaphorically, you know--when you do have to fight with your fists, or with your tongue, thrash your adversary if you can; but if he from superior skill or strength thrashes you, why then, take it like a man, shake hands, and bear no malice against the one who wins." The Colonel blew his nose again. "That's not quite what I wanted to say, my boys; but I shall think this affair over a bit, and perhaps I shall have a few more words to say by-and-by." "Oh, I say, dad--" cried Glyn. "What do you mean by that, sir?" said the Colonel sharply. "Finish it all now, and don't bring it up again." "Glyn!" cried the Colonel sternly. "Yes, father." "Don't you dictate to me, sir. I promised the Doctor that I would talk to you both severely about this--this--well, piece of blackguardism, ungentlemanly conduct, and I must keep my word. But I will reserve the rest till after dinner." "After dinner, father?" cried Glyn eagerly. "Yes. I have come down to stay at Plymborough for a few days at the hotel, and I have told them there that I should have two gentlemen to dine with me to-night, of course, if the Doctor gives his consent." "Oh, but look at us, sir!" cried Singh. "We are in the infirmary, and not fit to come." "Infirmary!" said the Colonel scornfully. "Ha, ha! You look infirm both of you!" "Oh, we don't feel much the matter, father," said Glyn; "but look at us." "Look at you, sir? How can I help looking at you? Yes, you do look nice objects." "But we can't help it now, sir," said Singh, "and we should like to come." "Humph! Yes, of course you'd like to come, my boy, and I want to have you both to finish my lecture after I have thought it out a little more. Well, look here, my lads; you are both bruised and--er--a bit discoloured; but the world isn't obliged to know that it was done with fists. You might have been thrown off your horses or been upset in a carriage accident. Oh yes, it's no business of anybody else's. I shall ask the Doctor to let you come." "Oh, thank you, father!" cried Glyn eagerly. "But I say, dad, you didn't shake hands with Singh when we came in." "Well, no, boy; but--there, there, that's all right now. You see I had to listen to what the Doctor said. Why, he tells me that you fellows showed them all down here how to deal with a rowdy elephant." "Singh did, father." "Well done, boy! You see, that's one great advantage in learning. Nearly everything comes useful some time or other, and--There, let me see," he continued, referring to his watch. "I must be off. Visit too long as it is. Ring the bell, one of you. I want to see the Doctor again before I go." "And you will get us leave, sir?" cried Singh, as he returned from pulling at the bell. "Oh yes, I'll manage that. Seven o'clock, boys, military time; and now you both be off; but mind this, I am going to finish my lecture after dinner, for I am not satisfied with what I said. There, right about face! March!" As the boys reached the door the handle was turned and the Doctor entered the room. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THE PAST. "Well, boys, glad to see you! Did Dr Justinian say anything to you about coming away to-night?" "No, father; but--Dr Justinian--who do you mean?" "Why, your law-maker and instructor. He spoke very seriously to me about breaking his laws and rules. Well, here you are. Come along. The dining-room is this way.--I have been very busy since I saw you, Singh. I have seen the cook and given him a good talking to, and he has promised us a regular Indian dinner, with curry." The Colonel laid his hand on Singh's shoulder, and they passed out into the hall of the hotel. As they were crossing, Morris entered from the other side, nodded and smiled to the boys, raised his hat to the Colonel, who stared at him, and then passing on, went up to the office to speak to the manager. "Friend of yours, boys?" said the Colonel. "Yes, father; one of our masters." "Oh! What brings him here?" "I don't know, father. Perhaps he thought you might ask him to dinner." "Ho!" said the Colonel, with a snort. "Then he thought wrong. Ah--but one moment! Would you like me to ask him, my boy?" "Oh no," cried Glyn, with a look of dismay. "We want you all to ourselves, father." "But you, Singh; would you like him to join us?" The boy shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "No," he said; "I think like Glyn does," and Singh clung in a boyish, affectionate manner to the stalwart Colonel's arm, greatly to that gentleman's satisfaction. "Then we will have our snug little dinner all to ourselves, boys, and a good long talk about old times and the last news I have had from Dour.-- Yes, all right, waiter; serve the dinner at once, and mind everything is very hot.--There you are: snug little table for three. I'll sit this side with my back to the light, and you two can sit facing it, so that I can look at you both." "Oh, but that isn't fair, father," cried Glyn. "We ought to be with our backs to the light." "Not at all, sir," said the Colonel, laughing. "A soldier should never be ashamed of his scars." The seats were taken, the dinner began, and had not proceeded far before Glyn noticed that the waiter was staring very hard at his bruised face, getting so fierce a look in return that the man nearly dropped the plate he was handing, and refrained from looking at him again. "Better bring candles, waiter," said the Colonel.--"One likes to see what one is eating, boys;" and as a few minutes later the waiter placed a tall branch with its four wax candles in the centre of the table, the Colonel nodded to Singh. "There," he said, "now we can all play fair, and you can see my scars." "Yes," said Singh, looking at the Colonel fixedly. "There's the big one quite plain that father used to tell me about." "Indeed!" said the Colonel sharply. "Why, what did he tell you about it, and when?" "Oh, it was when I was quite a little fellow," replied Singh. "He said it was in a great fight when three of the rajahs had joined against him to attack him and kill him, and take all his land. He said that there was a dreadful fight, and there were so many of his enemies that he was being beaten." "Oh--ah--yes," said the Colonel. "Your father and I had a great many fights with his enemies when the Company sent me to help him with a battery of horse artillery, and to drill his men." "Was that, father, when you drilled and formed your regiment of cavalry?" "Yes, boy, yes. But never mind the fighting now. That was in the old days. Go on with your dinner." But Singh did not seem to heed his words, for he was sitting gazing straight before him at the scar on his host's forehead; and laying down his knife and fork he continued, in a rapt, dreamy way, "And he said he thought his last hour had come, for he and the few men who were retreating with him had placed their backs against a steep piece of cliff, and they were fighting for their lives, surrounded by hundreds of the enemy." "My dear boy, you are letting your dinner get cold," said the Colonel, in a petulant way. "Yes," continued Singh, "and it was all just like a story out of a book. I used to ask father to tell it to me, and when I did he used to smile and make me kneel down before him with my hands on his knees." "But, my dear Singh," interposed the Colonel, who looked so annoyed and worried that Glyn kicked his schoolfellow softly under the table, and then coloured up. "Don't!" cried Singh sharply; and then in his old dreamy tone, "When he told me I used to seem to see it all, with his fierce enemies in their steel caps with the turbans round them, and the chain rings hanging about their necks and their swords flashing in the air as they made cuts at my father's brave friends; and first one fell bleeding, and then another, till there were only about a dozen left, and my father the Maharajah was telling his men that the time had come when they must make one bold dash at their enemies, and die fighting as brave warriors should." "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried the Colonel querulously. "But that curry is getting cold, my boy, and it won't be worth eating if it isn't hot." "Yes, I'll go on directly," continued Singh in the same imperturbable manner, and he leaned his elbows now upon the table, placed his chin upon his hands, and fixed his eyes upon the Colonel's scar. "I can see it all now so plainly," he said; and with a quick gesture his host dropped his knife sharply in his plate and clapped his hand across his forehead, while Glyn gave his schoolfellow another thrust--a soft one this time--with his foot. But Singh paid not the slightest heed to his companion's hint. He only leaned a little more forward to look now in the Colonel's eyes; and laughing softly he continued: "That doesn't make any difference. I can see it all just the same, and I seem to hear the roar like thunder father spoke about. He said it was the trampling of horses and the shouting of men, and it was you tearing over the plain from out of the valley, with all the men that you had drilled and made into his brave regiment. They swept over the ground with a rush, charging into the midst of the enemy and cutting right and left till they reached my father and his friends, when a terrible slaughter went on for a few minutes before the enemy turned and fled, pursued by your brave soldiers, who had left their leader wounded on the ground. Father said he had just strength enough to catch you in his arms as you fell from your horse with that terrible gash across your forehead. That was how he said you saved his life and always became his greatest friend." The Colonel's lips had parted to check the narration again and again; but he seemed fascinated by the strange look in the boy's eyes, and for the time being it was as if the whole scene of many years before was being enacted once again; while, to Glyn's astonishment, the boy slowly rose from his seat, went round to the Colonel's side of the table, to stand behind his chair till the waiter left the room, and then laying one hand on the old warrior's shoulder, with the other he drew away that which covered the big scar, and bending over him he said softly: "Father told me I was to try and grow up like you, who saved his life, and that I was always to think of you as my second father when he was gone." As Singh ended he bent down gently, and softly and reverently kissed the scar, while the Colonel closed his eyes and Glyn noticed that his lips were quivering beneath the great moustache, which seemed to move strangely as if it had been touched. For a few moments then there was a deep silence, during which Singh glided back to his seat, took up his knife and fork, and said, in quite a changed tone of voice: "It always makes me think of that when I sit and look at you. And it comes back, sir, just like a dream. My father the Maharajah told me I was never to forget that story; and I never shall." Just at that moment the door was opened, and the waiter entered bearing another dish, while through the opening there came a burst of music as if some band were playing a march. "Hah!" cried the Colonel, speaking with quite a start, but with his voice sounding husky and strange, and the words seeming forced as he gave Singh a long and earnest look. "Why, surely that is not a military band?" "No, sir," said the waiter, as he proceeded to change the plates, two of them having their contents hardly touched. "There's a wild-beast show in the town, sir, in the field at the back," and as he spoke the man looked sharply at the boys. "Oh," said the Colonel with a forced laugh. "Why, boys, is that where your elephant came from?" And then the dinner went on, with the Colonel forcing himself into questioning the boys about their adventure, and from that he brought up the elephants in Dour, and chatted about tiger-shooting and the dangers of the man-eaters in the jungle. But all the time Glyn kept noting that his father spoke as if he had been strangely moved, and that when he turned his eyes upon Singh his face softened and his voice sounded more gentle. As they sat over the dessert, Singh asked him to tell them about one of the other old fights that his father and the Colonel had been in. "Don't ask me, my boy," said the Colonel gently. "You can't understand it perhaps. When you grow as old as I am perhaps you will. But I don't know. You like Glyn after a fashion, I suppose?" "Like him?" cried Singh half-fiercely. "Why, of course I do!" "Ha!" said the Colonel. "And Glyn likes you, I know; and no wonder-- brought up together as you were like brothers. Well, my boy, I went out to India not very much older than you two fellows are, as a cadet in the Company's service, and somehow or other, being a reckless sort of a fellow, I was sent into several of the engagements with some of the chiefs, and was picked out at last, when I pretty well understood my work, to go to your father's court as you said, my boy, with half-a-dozen six-pounders and teams of the most dashing Arab horses in the service. Then, somehow, your father got to like me, and I liked him, and then we did a lot of fighting together until he was fixed securely upon his throne, and he never would hear of my leaving him again. But there, you know all about it. He left you to me, Singh, to make a man of you with Glyn here, and I hope to live to go back with you both to Dour and see you safe in your rightful position and fight for you if the need should ever come. And some day I hope that you two boys will have grown into two strong, true-hearted men, with the same brotherly love between you as held your fathers fast. And then--Oh, hang that music! The fellows can't play a bit. Here, what do you say? Shall we walk into the field and listen to them and see the show? Your elephant too?" "No," said Singh softly. "Let's stop here and talk about Dour and my father. We don't often see you now, sir, and I should like that best." "To be sure, then, my dear boys, we will stop here. I want you to do what you like best.--But you, Glyn: what do you say?" "I like to hear you talk, father, and to be with you as much as we can." "That's good, my boy. Then, to begin with," cried the Colonel with a chuckle, "I'll just finish my lecture. I was very nearly letting it slip." "Oh, but, father," cried Glyn, "I thought you had looked over all that." "I have, my boy; but you know I am not good at talking. The Doctor would have given you a splendid lecture on fighting." "He did," said Glyn drily, and the Colonel laughed. "I suppose he would, my boys; but since I saw you this morning something occurred to me that I might have mentioned to you. How much do you boys know about Shakespeare?" "Not much, father--neither of us, I am afraid." "Ah, well, I dare say it will come to you by-and-by; but there are some words that Shakespeare put into the mouth of an old court official in _Hamlet_, when he was bidding his son good-bye before he went abroad. There, don't yawn, either of you. I am only trying to quote it to you because to my mind they were very good words, and just suitable for you, because they were about fighting: `Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, bear't that the opposer may beware of thee; and--' Humph! Ah, dear me, let me see; there was something else about borrowing and lending. But never mind that. It was about the fighting that I wanted to speak, and the long and short of it was, don't fight, boys, if you can possibly help it; but if you do fight, show the other fellow that you know how. There, that's enough about that. Now then, what shall we talk about next?--Yes, waiter, what is it?" "Beg pardon, sir, but there's a person, sir, in the hall wants to know if he can see the young gentlemen." "Eh? Who is it?" said the Colonel sharply. "Not one of the masters?" "No, sir. It's the proprietor, sir, of the big wild-beast show, sir, in the field--Mr Ramball, sir." "Oh, pooh! pooh!" cried the Colonel. "Tell him the young gentlemen are engaged, and don't care to visit his show to-night." "Yes, sir. But beg pardon, sir, I don't think it's about that. He's in great trouble about something, sir. He's well-known here, sir; has a large farm two or three miles away where he keeps his wild things when he's not taking them round the country." "Well, but--" began the Colonel. "Said it was very particular business, sir, and he must see the young gentlemen." "Why, it must be something about his elephant, father," cried Glyn eagerly. "Well, but, my dear boys, you can't be at the beck and call of this man because he owns animals that he can't manage. But there, there, I don't want you two to withhold help when you can give it. We'll hear what he has to say.--We'll come out and speak to him.--I'll come, boys, because you may want to refer to me." The little party followed the waiter out into the hall, where Ramball was standing, hat in one hand, yellow handkerchief in the other, dabbing his bald head and looking very much excited. "Hah!" he cried. "There you are, gentlemen!" And he put his handkerchief on the top of his head and made a movement as if to thrust his hat into his pocket, but recollected himself and put the handkerchief into the hat instead. "I have been up to the school, gentlemen--Your servant, sir. I beg pardon for interrupting you; but I have been up to the school to ask for the young gentlemen there, and I saw Mr Wrench the Doctor's man, and he said that you had come on here to dinner.--Pray, pray, gentlemen, come and help me, or I am a ruined man." "Why, what's the matter?" cried Singh and Glyn in a breath. "Didn't you hear, gentlemen? He's got away again--pulled the iron picket out of the ground, and gone off with the chain and all chinkupping from his leg. I have got men out all over scouring the country, and as soon as they have found out where he is I'd take it kindly, gentlemen, if you'd come and bring him home." "Come, come, my man," said the Colonel good-humouredly, "isn't this rather cool?" "Cool, sir! It's too hot to be borne. That great beast will be the death of me before he's done. Do say a kind word for me, sir, to the young gents. They have got a power over that beast as beats miracles. I wouldn't ask, sir, but I'm about done. I should have shot him the other day if these 'ere young gents hadn't stopped me and showed me, a man of fifty, as has handled poisonous snakes and gone after lions before now when they'd got out--showed me, I say, that I didn't understand my work." "Oh, well," said the Colonel, "I--I--" At that moment the elephant's keeper and another man, a driver of one of the caravans, hurried excitedly into the hotel hall, dragging between them a miserable-looking object, drenched with mud and water, and trembling in every limb. "Mr Ramball, sir!" cried the keeper. "What, have you found him?" cried the proprietor. "No, sir; but we've come across this chap, as has got a cock-and-bull story about something, and I think it means that he's seen him." "Yes--what? Where? How?" cried Ramball, catching hold of the man by the shoulders and letting go again directly, to dive into his hat for his handkerchief. "Why, you are all wet and muddy!" he cried, wiping his hands. "Where did you see him?" "The giant, sir?" said the poor fellow, shivering. "Giant?" cried Ramball. "Well, yes, giant if you like. Where did you see him?" "It was about a mile down the road, sir, and we was coming down the Cut Lane with a load of clover, my mate and me, which we had been to fetch for the governor's horses in the yard here. My mate was driving, and I was sitting on a heap of the clover, stacked up on the hind ladder of the cart. We'd stopped a while after loading up, being a bit tired, to give the horses a drink, and it had got dark, while as we was coming home, me sitting behind as I telled you, and my mate driving in front, all of a suddent, and just as I was half-asleep and smoking my pipe, a great big giant loomed up on t'other side of the hedge, and before I knew where I was he reaches down, slips his arm round me, and lifts me right out of the cart." The man wiped his face with his muddy hand and uttered a low groan. "Well, go on," cried Ramball. "What next?" "Don't hurry me, master, please," said the man piteously. "I'm shook all to pieces, and feel that freckened that I could sit down and cry. I was too much staggered to call out for help, and when I tried to look round, my mate and the cart was gone, and this 'ere great thing was carrying me away right across Snow's field, and all I could think of was that he was hungry and had made me his prey." "Humph! An ogre, I suppose," said the Colonel to the boys. "No, sir," said the man; "it was one of them there great giants as you read of in books; and no matter how I tried to get away, he only hugged me the tighter." "Well, well," said the Colonel; "but you did escape." "No, sir; I didn't, sir. He carried me right across the field and dropped me into the big horse-pond in the corner. I was half-drowned, I was; and when I struggled to the side my legs stuck in the mud right up to my knees. And then I found that I had come out, half-blind with mud and water, just where he was standing with his back to me, and then I daren't move. But he took no more notice of me, and walked right off, so that I saved my life. Next thing was I come upon your two men, Mr Ramball, sir, and they got asking me questions; but I was too skeart to understand what they meant, and so they brought me here.--You don't know, I suppose," he continued, speaking to one of the waiters who had come into the hall, "whether my mate came home safely with the clover cart?" "Bah!" cried Ramball. "With your giant indeed! Which way did he go?" "I dunno, sir; it was too dark. But it were a giant. I could swear to him if I saw him again. I should know him by his trowges." "Know him by what?" cried the Colonel, laughing heartily. "By his trowges, sir. I was down in the mud close behind him, and I could see right up his great legs to his waist. I couldn't see any farther, he was so big. Awful giant, he was. You may take my word, sir, for that." "Bah!" roared the proprietor. "Here, my lads, he's frightened this poor lad nearly into fits, and we are wasting time. Off with you, and follow his track from the spot where you found the man. Run him down, and then don't do anything more to scare him or make him turn nasty; but one of you stop and watch, and t'other come back here and tell me where he is." The two keepers obeyed promptly, and hurried away, while one of the waiters sent the scared carter out into the kitchen. "That's 'im, sir," said Ramball; "and if the young gents would just give me a hand to make things easy--" "Yes, yes," said the Colonel; "but from what I know of elephants, that great brute may go wandering about through the country for half the night. You'd better go after your men and track him. He'll be most likely in some turnip-field having a gorge, and if you can't get him quietly back come to me again and I'll see what I can do." "Beg pardon, sir," said Ramball quietly, "I am ready for anything now, cunning as I used to think myself. But does your honour understand elephants?" "Does he understand elephants, Glyn!" cried Singh.--"Why, Mr Ramball, my friend's father has trapped scores out in the Terai." "Of course he has, sir," said Ramball.--"Thank you kindly, then, sir. I'll have my pony put to and go after him at once." Ramball hurried out of the hall, and the Colonel with his young guests was about to return to the dining-room when they found that Morris and Professor Barclay were standing close behind them. "Quite a succession of adventures, Mr Singh," said Morris. "Yes," said the Professor, "and most interesting your knowledge of the habits of those great beasts." "Yes, exactly," said the Colonel drily. "They are rather difficult to deal with.--Come boys," and he led the way into the dining-room. "There, sit down for a bit," he said, resuming his old seat. "Are both those your masters, Glyn, my boy?" "No, father; only one. The other's a friend of his, I think." "What, that rather shady-looking individual?" "No, father, the Professor--Professor Barclay. He dined at the Doctor's the other night." "Oh," said the Colonel. "Well, I don't wish to be too exclusive; but somehow I never care for strangers who are so very eager to make friends." "But oughtn't we to have gone to help find the elephant, father?" said Glyn. "No, my boy, I think not. You are my guests to-night, and we don't often meet. If they find him, and there is any real necessity, perhaps we will go; but we shall see." They did not see; for a quiet chat was enjoyed for another half-hour, and then the Colonel walked with them to the Doctor's gates and said goodnight. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE RAJAH'S MORNING CALL. "Singh!" There was no answer. "Singh! Oh, what a sleepy old mongoose it is! Singhy! What's that row out in the playground?" It was early dawn. The first faint rays of day were peering in on both sides of the drawn blind, the speaker was Glyn, and the words were uttered in consequence of a peculiar clanking noise heard out in the play-yard. Now, the most common-sense way of finding out the meaning of the noise which had awakened the boy from a deep sleep would have been to jump out of bed, draw up the blind, and throw up the window, letting in the fresh, cool morning air, as the head was thrust out and eyes brought to bear upon the dimly seen shadowy space below. But Glyn felt very drowsy, exceedingly comfortable, and not in the slightest degree disposed to stir. Consequently he called across the little room to the other bed, and, as before said, there was no reply. "Oh, you are a sleepy one!" muttered the boy, and reaching up his hands he turned them into a catapult, seizing the pillow by both ends, and drawing it upwards from beneath his head, when without rising he hurled it across at Singh, striking him with a pretty good whop. "Great cowardly bully; that's what you are," muttered the boy. "Oh, I wish I was ten times as strong! Take that, and that, and that!" The commands were accompanied by a heavy panting, and the sound of blows. "Why, what's he doing?" said Glyn to himself, growing more wakeful, and beginning to chuckle as he grasped the situation. "Oh, what a game!" he said softly. "He's lying on his back, and got the nightmare, only it's a morning mare; and he's dreaming he's fighting with old Slegge again, and punching my pillow, thinking it's his head. I only wish it had been as soft, and then I shouldn't have had so much skin off my knuckles.-- There! There it goes again! It must be the workpeople come to open a drain or something. They must be cross at having to get up so early, or else they wouldn't be banging their tools down like that! Hi! Singhy!" "Cowardly brute!" "Singhy!" "Eh? What's the matter? Time to get up? I haven't heard the bell." "There it goes again," cried Glyn, as the jangling rattle rose to his ears once more. "Glyn, what's that?" "Oh, what an old stupid it is! Here have I been shouting ever so long to make you get up and see. Go and open the window and look out." "Heigh-ho-hum!" yawned Singh. "I was dreaming that old Slegge hit me in the face again." "Yes, I know you were." "Why, you couldn't know I dreamt it." "But I tell you I did know." "How could you know, when I was dreaming and you weren't?" "Why, you were shouting it at me, and pitching into my pillow, thinking it was old Slegge's head." "Get out! I wasn't. I--Here, how is it I have got two pillows here? Why, you wretch, you must have thrown one at me to wake me!" There was a sharp rustling, an expiration of breath, and the soft head-rest was hurled back again, just as the jangling noise was repeated more loudly. "There! Hear that?" cried Glyn. "I am not deaf, stupid." "Then jump up and go and see what it is." "Shan't! It's quite dark yet, and I am as tired as can be." "Well, only get up and see what that noise is, and then you can go to sleep again." "Shan't, I tell you. I am not your coolie. What lazy people you English are!" There was a fresh jangling from below, exciting Glyn's curiosity almost to the highest pitch. "Look here, Singhy, if you don't get up directly and see what that noise is, I'll come and make you." "You do if you dare!" Glyn threw the clothes back, sprang out of bed, and the next moment the coverings of his companion were stripped off on to the floor. "Oh, you--" snapped Singh. "I'll pay you out for all this!" "Come on, then." Glyn did not wait to see whether his companion did come on, but stepped to the window, pulled up the blind, and raised up the window to look out. "Here, Singh!" he cried, turning to look back. "Come here, quick!" "Shan't! And if you don't bring those clothes back I'll--I'll--Oh, I say, Glyn, don't be an old stupid. Throw my things over me again and shut that window. Ugh! It is cold!" "Will you come here and look? Here's the old elephant again." "Gammon!" cried Singh, whose many years' association with Glyn had made him almost as English in his expressions. "Think you are going to cheat me out of my morning's snooze by such a cock-and-bull story as that?" Oddly enough at that moment there rang out from one of the neighbouring premises the shrill clarion of a bantam-cock. "Ha, ha!" laughed Glyn merrily. "It's a cock and elephant!" "Don't believe you." But as the rattling noise was continued, Singh sat up in bed. "I say," he continued, "what's the good of talking such stuff?" "Stuff, eh? You come and see. Here's that great elephant right in the middle of the playground." "Tell you I don't believe you, and I shan't get up." "Ugh! What an old heretic you are! Didn't he get away last night and go no one knows where? Well, he's here." "I say, though, is he really?" _Clinkitty, clank! clinkitty, clank_! "Hear that?" cried Glyn. "Now you will believe. He's got in here somehow, and he's dragging that chain and the big iron peg all about the playground. Here, I know, Singhy," continued Glyn in a high state of excitement, "he's come after you." "Rubbish!" shouted Singh; and, springing out of bed, he rushed to the window, where in the gradually broadening dawn, half-across the playground, looking grey and transparent in the morning mist, the huge bulk of the elephant loomed up and looked double its natural size. "There, then," cried Glyn, "will you believe me now?" Singh uttered an exclamation aloud in Hindustani, and in an instant there was a shrill snort and a repetition of the clinking of the great chain, as the huge beast shuffled slowly across till it stood close up to the hedge which divided the garden from the playground; and there, muttering softly as if to itself, it began to sway its head from side to side, lifting up first one pillar-like leg and foot and then the other, to plant them back again in the same spot from which they had been raised. "Well, this is a pretty game," continued Glyn. "Here, you had better say something to him, or shall I?" "What shall I say?" answered Singh. "Tell him to kneel down, or lie down and go to sleep before he comes through that hedge and begins walking all over the Doctor's flower-beds." Seeing the necessity for immediate action, Singh uttered a sharp, short order, and the elephant knelt at once. "Ah, that's better," cried Glyn. "What shall I do now?" asked Singh, rather excitedly. "Do? Why, you had better dress as quickly as you can, and go down to him." "But it's so early," said Singh. "I haven't finished my sleep." "And you won't either; and you had better look sharp before he rams that great head of his against the door and comes upstairs to fetch you." "Bother the elephant!" cried Singh irritably, for this early waking from a comfortable sleep had soured his temper. "All right; bother him, then," replied Glyn, who was wonderfully wakeful now; "but it seems to me that he's going to bother us. I say, Singhy, the Doctor said he wouldn't let Slegge keep that fox-terrier dog he bought a month ago." "Well, I know; but what's that got to do with the elephant coming here?" "Oh, I only meant that the Doctor won't let you keep him as a pet," said Glyn with a chuckle. "Such rubbish!" snapped out Singh in a rage, as he stood on one leg, thrust one foot through his trousers, and then raising the other he lost his balance somehow, got himself tangled up, and went down with a bang. "Oh, bother the old trousers!" he cried angrily, as he scrambled up. "Here, I don't know what we are going to do." "Don't you? Well, I do. It's plain enough that the great brute has been wandering about till he found his way here." "But how did he get in?" cried Singh jumpily and with a good deal of catching of the breath, for in his haste he kept on getting into difficulties with his buttons and the holes through which they ought to have passed. "Well, I don't know," said Glyn; "but I should say he tramped along yonder under the wall till he came to where the hedge had been mended up, and then walked through." "Well, suppose he did," said Singh angrily. "What difference does that make? You see what a mess we are in. You are always pretending to give me good advice; now one is in regular trouble you don't say a word." "Yes, I did," cried Glyn, who was also hastily dressing. "Not give you advice! Why, didn't I just now tell you I was quite sure the Doctor would not let you keep him for a pet?" "Look here," snarled Singh, "you'll make me angry directly," and he glanced viciously at his water-jug. "Can't," cried Glyn. "You're so cross now I couldn't make you any worse. But, I say, what are you going to do?" "I don't know," replied Singh. "Take it home, I suppose. I came here to England to be educated and made into an English gentleman, not to be turned into a low-caste mahout." "Oh, what's the good of being so waxy? Look at the fun of the thing! Here, I know; let's finish dressing, and then send old Wrench to tell Mr Ramball that we have found his elephant, or that he has found us." "But he won't be up till it's time to ring the six o'clock bell. What time is it now?" "I don't know. About half-past one, I should think," cried Glyn, laughing merrily. "There you go again! You know it must be much later than that. Yet you will keep on saying things to make me wild. Are you going to help me get out of this dreadful scrape?" "It isn't your scrape. It's only an accident. You talked to the beast in the old language, and it came after you again, just like a dog after its own master." "Look here," said Singh, "do you know where Wrench sleeps?" "Yes." "Where?" cried Singh eagerly. "In his bed." "Oh!" roared Singh passionately; and hearing his loud voice the elephant grunted and began to rise slowly. "There, I knew you would do it," cried Glyn, who was bubbling over with fun. "He's coming upstairs." "Oh!" cried Singh again, with an ejaculation of dismay, as he hurried to the window, thrust out his head, and shouted something that sounded like "Gangarroo rubble dubble." But whatever it meant, it stopped the elephant from crashing through a piece of palisading, and made it kneel again with its head over a flowerbed, and begin picking all the blossoms within its reach. "Oh dear, just look at him!" cried Singh piteously. "And here you are laughing as if it were the best fun you have ever seen!" "Well, so it is," cried Glyn--"a regular game!" "Game! Why, I feel as if I could run away to guardian at the hotel, and never show my face here again." "Here, don't be such a jolly old stupid, making _Kunchinjingas_ out of pimples. Here, I know what I'll do. Of course we couldn't get to old Wrench's place. He sleeps in a turn-up bed in his pantry, I believe. I'd soon turn him down, if I could," cried Glyn, as he poured the contents of his jug into the basin. "But you had an idea," said Singh. _Bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble_, came from the basin as the boy thrust in his face. Singh uttered a sound like a snarl. "Wait till I get my towel," gasped Glyn as he raised his face for a moment, and directly after--sounding half-smothered in huckaback, and coming in spasmodic jerks--the boy panted out, "I guess it's about four o'clock now. I'll--I'll go down and make--believe it's six, and ring the big bell. That'll make old Wrench come tumbling out in a fright." "Ah, to be sure; now you are talking sense. Capital! Make haste." "Well, I am making haste." "Oh, Glyn, old chap," cried Singh piteously, "don't, pray don't, begin making fun of it all again. I feel just as if I am to blame for all the mischief that great beast has done and is going to do. He'll obey me, and as soon as I am dressed I am going down to talk to him and try and keep him quiet while you rouse up Wrench." "Rouse up Wrench!" said Glyn laughing. "Why, it'll rouse up the whole school. Only that I know that the fellows won't be in any hurry to get up, I should be afraid that they would come scrambling out into the playground, and we should have the great monster picking the little ones up one at a time and taking them like pills." "Oh, there you go again," cried Singh piteously. "Oh, all right, old chap. That was a slip. But I say, I suppose I'd better not stop to take my hair out of the curl-papers." "Glyn!" "There, all right. Dry now. Must put a comb through my hair. I look so fierce the elephant would take me for an enemy. There we are," he continued, talking away as he busied himself. "Is the parting straight? There, come along. Well, you are a fellow! I am ready first." They hurried down the stairs and made for the door, to find to their great dismay that it was locked, bolted, and chained, and so dark at the end of the passage that it was hard work to find the fastenings; and while Glyn was fumbling about in utter ignorance of how the chain was secured there came, faintly heard, from outside a shrill trumpeting sound. "Oh," gasped Singh, "he has missed us, and thinks we are gone." "Run up to the window again and order him to lie down," cried Glyn, speaking earnestly now. "I'll get the door open somehow, or a window, and go out to him and make-believe to mount, till you come down. That'll keep him quiet." "Yes, yes," panted Singh; "only do make haste." The boy hurried back along the passage, and in the darkness kicked against a mat and went down with a bang. "Don't stop to pick up the pieces," cried Glyn, and there was a sound came out of the darkness as if Singh had snapped his teeth together. Then for nearly five minutes Glyn went on fumbling over the fastenings, and succeeded at last in throwing open the door, to see a few golden fleck-like clouds softly bright high overhead, and away to his right the great animal that had roused him from his peaceful sleep. He went straight to it without hesitation, and as he got close up, the huge beast began to mutter and grumble, and raised its trunk, while the boy felt it creep round his waist like a serpent and hold him tightly. "What's he going to do next?" thought Glyn. "He must know I'm not Singh. Why doesn't he come? Hasn't hurt himself, has he?" Just then Singh appeared at their bedroom window, and called to the intruder softly, with the result that the trunk was uncurled, raised in the air, and used like a trumpet, while a shuffling movement suggested that the animal was about to rise. "Kneel!" cried Singh, and the animal crouched once more. "Now you get on his neck, and sit there till I come down." "It's all very well," grumbled Glyn; "but I don't much like the job while you are away." All the same, the boy did not hesitate, but took hold of the crouching beast's ear, planted the edge of his shoe in one of the wrinkles of the trunk, and climbed into the mahout's place, his steed raising and lowering its ears and muttering and grumbling impatiently as if waiting to be told to rise. Meanwhile Singh had disappeared from the window, and after what seemed a very long time made his appearance through the door. "Oh, what a while you have been!" cried Glyn. "Now then, you had better come here and sit on him to hold him down while I go and ring the bell. Here, I say, though, it won't make him think breakfast's ready, will it, and send him scrambling off after buns?" "No, no, no! Nonsense!" cried Singh. "Oh, well, if you don't mind, I don't, because I shall be over there. But, all the same, I shouldn't like to see him kick up behind and throw you over his head." Singh uttered an impatient ejaculation, and began to climb on to the animal's neck. "No, no," cried Glyn. "I'm going to get off now." "No; you must wait till I am up there behind you, and then as you get down I'll slide into your place." "But you will have to tell him to lift up his ears, for he's nipping my legs hard, and they feel as if they were going to hold me down." "It will be all right," said Singh impatiently, and throwing his right leg over, he came down upon the elephant's neck; while before the boys could grasp what was about to happen, the animal rose and began to turn round, slinging the massive iron peg over the palisade; and then, as he began to move off and the chain tightened, he drew with him eight or ten feet of the ornamental woodwork. "Oh, what will the Doctor say?" cried Singh piteously. "That he'll stop your pocket-allowance to pay for it. Here, I say, old chap, do, do something to steer him." "But I haven't got a--" "Here, try a pin," cried Glyn, making-believe to pull one out of the bottom corner of his waistcoat. "But that won't go through his skin." "No, I suppose not. He'll think you are tickling him. Here, shall I try my knife?" "No, no, no! It will make him mad." "But we must do something," cried Glyn, who couldn't sit still for laughing. "Can't you turn his head? We are mowing and harrowing all these flower-beds with this wood-stack he's dragging at his heels. Ah, that's better!" continued Glyn, as, finding the impediment rather unpleasant, the animal turned off at right angles and reached out with its trunk to remove the obstacles attached to its leg. "Why, we are anchored! Oh, now he's off again. Why, where's he going?" "I think he's going to make for the hedge where he came through first, in the cricket-field." "But we couldn't get through there with all this garden-fence. It would catch in the hedge, and we should be dragging that too all through the town." "Oh, I don't know," cried Singh. "Let's scramble down and try to stop him. If you take hold of one leg I'll hang on by his tail if I can reach it.--Ah, that's better!" For the elephant suddenly came to a standstill about a third of the way across the playground. "Here, he's stopping for something. I wish we were near a baker's shop." But the elephant had not stopped for nothing but only to balance itself upon three legs while it kicked out with the fourth, making a loud crashing and jangling noise, which was repeated till the length of wooden palisade was broken into splinters. But the chain and picket-peg were as firmly attached as ever, and were dragged steadily across the remaining portion of the playground right for the hedge, which now stood before the boys, displaying not only the demolished reparations, but a good-sized gap as well. It seemed as if their steed meant to pass straight through, and he did so. The great iron peg got across a couple of tough old stumps of the hawthorn bushes and drew him up short, but only for a few moments; the huge beast putting forth its strength and dragging them out by the roots, after which it turned off to the left, to go on straight through the still sleeping town, making its way in the calmest manner for the show-field at the back of the principal hotel. Here it stopped at last close to the loosened earth from which it had originally wrenched the picket; and then, raising its trunk, blew such a blast that it produced a chaotic burst of sounds from the quadrangle of cages and dens, each creature after its kind joining in the chorus, and rousing and bringing every keeper and labourer attached to the menagerie upon the scene, the last to arrive, eager and smiling, but before anything was done, being the proprietor himself, who came up cheering and waving hat and handkerchief in the air. "Think of that now!" he cried. "I say, young gentlemen, it all points to it, you see, and you needn't tell me; the old Rajah saw what was right. He only went to fetch you, and you've come to stay." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "HALT! RIGHT FACE!" The yellow silk handkerchief was brought a great deal into use by Mr Ramball to dab his head; and once Glyn nudged his schoolfellow's elbow and suggested that the proprietor was going to cry with disappointment from being told that he was labouring under a very grave mistake. Soon after the two boys slipped away so as to make for the school and excuse themselves for being out of bounds and going out unseen so early in the morning. They "slipped away" at Ramball's request. "Just walk up and down with me a few times," he said, "till we get on the other side of the caravans. No, not yet," he said. "I have sent one of the men for a big basket of carrots. They are nice and sweet, and his highness likes them. Once get him busy on them and he won't notice you going." A big two-handled basket made its appearance a few minutes later, piled up with the orange-red vegetables, and carried by a couple of Ramball's men. "Just give him two or three yourselves, gentlemen," said the proprietor, "and start him on them. Then get behind him and walk right away straight from his tail. You may do anything of that sort, as I dare say you know, without his seeing. Elephants are very stupid beasts about what goes on behind their backs." The two boys did as requested, and as soon as the elephant was busy they strolled off with its owner, who was very eager to shake hands with them again and beg of them to come to his place. "Here, I have had enough of this," cried Glyn as soon as they were out of the great field, "and I never thought of it before. What time is it?" "I don't know," said Singh. "I have left my watch on the dressing-table." Just then the striking of the church clock fell upon their ears, and Singh began to count aloud, while Glyn expressed his belief that it must be seven. "Why, all the chaps will be out when we get back," he said. "Eight!" said Singh loudly. "Nonsense! You have muddled it," cried Glyn. "Nine!" cried Singh. "Rubbish!" "It is. Look at the shops all open, and the people about." "Well; but the time couldn't have gone like that," cried Glyn. "Here, what are we going to say? If you are right--why, breakfast's over ever so long ago, and the fellows are all going in to class. But you can't be right." "Well, there's the clock," said Singh contemptuously. "Look for yourself." The hands and Roman numerals of the great church clock had only lately been re-gilded, and they seemed to twinkle and blink and point derisively in the bright morning sunshine. "Oh, I say," cried Glyn, "who could have thought it! Bother old Ramball and his beasts! Feeding his elephant! I wish somebody would feed me! Why, we shall get no breakfast." "Oh yes, we shall," cried Singh confidently. "Why, you forget we are in the infirmary still, and Mrs Hamton won't let us go without our breakfast. But come along; let's trot back round by the shortest way." They started the military double directly, and were about half-way back to the school when, as they turned a corner to get into the main road, a sharp military voice shouted: "Halt! Right face!" "Father!" cried Glyn. "Morning," cried the Colonel, as he shook hands warmly with both. "You two invalids having your constitutional? Well, you ought to be taken off the sick-list now. I have just been having my walk before breakfast. I came past the Doctor's, but could not see anything of either of you." "Going in to breakfast, father?" said Glyn. "Yes, my boy. You had yours at eight o'clock, I suppose. What time were you up? Seven o'clock, I suppose." "No, father," said Glyn, laughing. "It must have been about four." "Four o'clock! What made you get up so soon as that?" cried the Colonel, as he looked from one to the other. "We were called, father, and obliged to get up." And between them the boys narrated their early morning adventure. "Tut, tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the Colonel. "Then you have had no breakfast at all?" Singh shook his head. "Come along with me, then," cried the Colonel. "I'll soon put that right." "Can't, father. We haven't got leave. We shall be punished for breaking out of school." "Nonsense!" cried his father. "You didn't break out of school. You were carried off. Here, I'll put that right with the Doctor; but there must be no more of this. You lads don't want elephants till you go back to Dour, and that won't be for years to come." Very shortly afterwards the boys were once more seated at the Colonel's table, to partake of a leisurely breakfast, before he, as he termed it, marched them back like a couple of deserters to the Doctor's establishment. Wrench looked at them at first wonderingly, and then shook his head as he announced that the boys were all in their classes, and that the Doctor was going round the grounds with the gardener to see what damage was done by the second visit of the elephant; when the Colonel proposed that they should follow and give the boys' version of their adventure. They came upon him they sought almost directly after, for he had inspected the damaged hedge, and was gazing very ruefully at the broken-down palisade and the torn and trampled flower-beds. He was busy pointing out the mischief to his companion, for Morris was with him, looking very sympathetic, as he borrowed the Doctor's walking-cane and carried his mathematical studies into daily life and utility by bending down and taking the dimensions of the elephant's great circular foot-prints. The Doctor frowned as he turned and saw who were approaching; but explanations followed as he rather ponderously led the way into his study, where everything connected with the discipline of his school was always discussed. "Oh, of course, Colonel Severn," he said, as his visitor took leave. "I hold your ward and son perfectly blameless, and have nothing to say about their absence from my establishment this morning.--But I hope, young gentlemen, that this is the last of these adventures; and I am glad, Colonel, that you met them and made them your guests." "Unintentionally, my dear sir--unintentionally," said the Colonel stiffly. "I did mean to ask your permission for them to dine with me once more; but after this morning's meeting I shall not do so. We mustn't interfere with the discipline of the school boys," he said. "To-morrow morning I return to town, and probably I shall not see you again for a couple of months. Good-morning, Doctor; good-morning.--You will see me to the door, boys?" The Doctor smiled and bowed, and the two lads walked past Wrench and then down with the Colonel to the Doctor's gate, where he stood for a few minutes talking. "That fellow civil and attentive?" he said, giving his Malacca cane a wave in the direction of Wrench. "Yes, father; very nice and obliging." "Give him that," said the Colonel, slipping a crown-piece into his son's hand; "and, let's see; you get your month's allowance regularly. Not overrunning the constable, I hope--not getting into debt?" The boys shook their heads, and after a few words more the Colonel marched off, erect and soldierly, while the boys rather slowly and unwillingly returned to their room to give a finishing touch or two to their rather hasty morning toilet. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE PROFESSOR MAKES A REQUEST. Morris, being off duty, as he termed it, walked down the road to clear his head a little of mathematical calculations, as well as to devise an examination paper intended for the improvement of his pupils; not that he looked upon it in that light, for as soon as he had mentally got it into shape, ready for committing to paper, he laughed to himself and rubbed his white hands over and over again in his intense satisfaction. "That will puzzle their brains," he said maliciously. "That will give some of them a headache;" and as he spoke, on his way back, he suddenly awakened to the fact that he was just coming to the damaged hedge, where a couple of men were for the second time, by Ramball's orders, restaking, half-cutting through, and bending down for interlacing purposes sturdy old growths of hawthorn. The next moment he was conscious of the fact that Professor Barclay, who looked particularly neat, refined, and clean, was coming up to him with a most friendly smile and with extended hand. The Professor was clean-shaven, wore his hair cut very short, and from his hat to his boots he was spotless; but somehow or other there was a suggestion that the profession of Sanskrit did not result in the possession of wealth, for the Professor's hat was not so new as it had been once, one of his well-polished boots had a smile in its upper leather just where the little toe pressed outwards, there was a suggestion about his very stiff shirt-collar of the growth of saw-like teeth that might be very unpleasant if they came in contact with his ears, while his tightly buttoned-up frock-coat, which looked very nice in front, had grown extremely shiny in two places at the back where the wearer's blade-bones were prominent. Morris took the extended hand and shook it, but not half so affectionately as the Professor shook his, while agreeing very simply that the day was remarkably fine; and then, oddly enough, Morris, though the Professor gave him no reason for his thoughts in words, began thinking of a quiet little place in the town where modest dinners were provided, one of which Morris did not require in the least, inasmuch as a repast would be provided for him gratuitously in the Doctor's establishment. Item, he began thinking, too, of half-crowns. But his thoughts were turned in another direction by the Professor. "So this is the spot," he said, "where the elephant broke through?" "Yes," said Morris eagerly; "great mischievous beast! It will be a good thing when it's out of the town." "Exactly," said the Professor, "unless the proprietor had some one to manage it who understood its ways. Is it true, as I have heard, that the young Prince and his friend and fellow-pupil controlled the huge beast by giving it orders in Hindustani?" "Oh yes," said Morris, smiling now, as he ridded himself of thoughts of cheap dinners and half-crowns. "Well, I am not surprised," continued the Professor; "but it was a pity I was not there." "Pity you were not there?" said Morris, making a suggestion with his hand preparatory to saying "good-bye--can't stop," and then telling something very much like a fib; for it was in his mind to say, "So glad to have met you." "Yes," said the Professor nonchalantly, "you see, I know Hindustani thoroughly; and though I suppose my pronunciation would be faulty in the ears of a native, I could very well make myself understood." "Ah, yes," said Morris hastily; "so I should suppose; but--er--you will excuse me?" And he glanced at his watch. "I am afraid I must be back at the college. It is close upon dinner-time." The Professor sighed and inadvertently sniffed as poor boys sniff who are passing cookshops. "In a moment, my dear friend. I will not detain you; but I will walk with you as far as the college. It will be in my way. You see, just when one wants them most, important letters--important pecuniary letters--have such a bad habit of being delayed." Morris coughed. "Now, nothing could have happened better for me than that I should have met you, a brother-student; though we follow divergent lines, you for the attainment of mathematical precision, I for the diffusion of Eastern lore, you of all men seem to have extended towards me a kindly interest." "Oh, well, that was perfectly natural," said Morris feebly, as, inadvertently he thrust his right hand into his pocket, started, coloured, and withdrew it quickly. "Now," continued the Professor, "I want you to give me your advice about seeing the Doctor again." Morris shook his head. "Ah, I see what you are thinking; but that was for a permanent post. Now, don't you think he might accept my services, say, for a non-resident and three days a week?" "No," said Morris, "I am sure he wouldn't. Your coming made Rampson dreadfully jealous, and he told me afterwards that the Doctor assured him that he should make no change." "Well, say one day a week." Morris shook his head again and looked down the road, as if hoping that some one would come and rescue him from his position. "Don't speak in haste," said the Professor, taking him with finger and thumb by the plaited guard of silk, as if he had intentions upon the watch--not to know the time. "I am obliged to speak in haste," replied Morris. "You see, it is so near--" "Exactly--dinner-time. But for Sanskrit, a lesson a week--" "The Doctor declared he should not introduce Sanskrit in the curriculum of study." "Dear, dear! And with that young Eastern Prince in the establishment, and his companion the son of that magnificent old Colonel with the wondrous moustache!" And as he spoke the Professor passed his hand over his closely shaven upper lip. "Well, well, the Doctor knows his own business best; but I must confess that I am disappointed, my dear friend." "I am very, very sorry," said Morris, drawing back a little; and as the guard tightened, and the watch began to rise out of his pocket, he gave way again and the watch sank down. So did its owner's spirits, for the Professor continued: "Don't you think I might go back with you to the college and call upon the Doctor once more?" "No, that I don't," said Morris hastily; "for almost directly he will be going into the dining-hall." "Well, what would that matter? Country hospitality and--you understand. But there, if you think the time adverse, I certainly would not presume. But, by the way, would you believe it, that letter has not come this morning?" "Yes," said Morris faintly. "You said so just now." "And it puts me to the greatest inconvenience. I am almost ashamed to ask you." "Would that you were quite!" thought Morris. "But would you mind--say a couple of half-crowns--a mere trifle, and the moment the letter comes--really, I think it must be stuck in the post-office somewhere from wrong direction. Is there another Plymborough in England?" "Oh no; this is the only one." "Yes, two half-crowns, and the moment the letter arrives I shall hurry to you to repay you with many thanks, your kindly interest in my welfare." "And the other two?" "Oh, of course," said the Professor. "The-ank you. Some day, my dear Morris, I hope and believe--But, by the way, that young Prince: I could not help taking the greatest interest in what he told me. It came naturally as the result of questions and in conversation upon the beauty of Eastern costume. I remember saying to him, `Why are not you, a young Eastern potentate, robed in the resplendent garments of your country, wearing a picturesque helmet, plumed, and decked with gorgeous jewels? I remember,' I said, `a visit paid by the Nawab of Puttyputty when I was one of the masters at the college at Longbourne. He was magnificently dressed, a most picturesque figure amongst the gentlemen, who in their sombre black looked like so many waiters. I remember he wore a resplendent belt, the clasps of which were formed of gigantic emeralds engraved with Eastern characters--Sanskrit, I believe, though I never had them in my hand.' And the boy proudly told me that he possessed just such a one, though he never wore it, because it would not be suitable with modern English costume. All a boy's romance, I suppose-- recollections of the _Arabian Nights_." "Oh no," said Morris; "it is quite true." "Dear me," said the Professor, "what an opportunity! Why, I would give worlds to see it," he added with a laugh. "It has been one of the regrets of my life that I did not ask the Nawab's permission to inspect those clasps. To my thinking, the inscriptions must have been of that so-called talismanic kind in which these weak heathen believe. Now, do you think it possible that you could prevail upon your young friend--" "Oh no, I am sure I couldn't," said Morris, trying hard to read the distant church clock. "But say you convey to him my invitation, and ask him to bring the belt to my rooms one afternoon." "Oh, really I--" "Oh, such a simple thing--educational, and--I beg your pardon, you must go? Of course. I am afraid I have been prolix; but my dear Morris, bear that in mind. A little discussion upon those inscriptions would be beneficial to the boy--I could tell him things he would be proud to know--and it would enable me to send a profitable description to the newspapers.--Yes, good-bye till we meet again." They separated, and the Professor walked slowly away, with his attention equally balanced between recollections of the Nawab's clasps and the last little dinner he had eaten at the country refreshment-house at Morris's expense, what time he played a pleasant little game of raising one half-crown from where it lay upon its fellow at the bottom of his pocket and letting it fall again with an agreeable chink. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. "WHERE'S MY PRACTICE-BAT?" The Doctor was quite facetious one morning, for, in addressing the masters, his words being meant for the whole school, he said jocularly that if Severn and Singh had formed any intention of devoting their pocket-allowance to ordering a castle from London they were too late. He looked very hard at Morris as he spoke, and waited for him to reply. "A castle, sir?" said the master. "I don't quite apprehend your meaning." "Oh, it was only this, Mr Morris. My mind does not serve me as to what these things are called in India; but I think, and I dare say Mr Rampson will set me right if I am wrong, that in the old classic days in the Punic or Carthaginian wars what were termed castles were fitted on to the backs of elephants, from which archers, slingers, and javelin-throwers dealt out destruction among their foes." "Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir," said Rampson, "for Pliny states--" "Oh, I don't think we will disturb Pliny to-day, Mr Rampson," said the Doctor, smiling, "unless your pupils particularly wish it," and he glanced round the school. "No, sir!" "No, sir!" "No, sir!" came in chorus. "Very well, gentlemen; then Pliny shall be left at rest. It occurred to me that if there was to be much more of the pursuit of elephant-riding as displayed by Messrs. Severn and Singh, a castle, such, I presume, as is kept in record by a celebrated hostelry somewhere in the south of London, where, upon one occasion, I stepped into one of those popular modes of conveyance called omnibuses, would be much more suitable for a mode of progression than the animal's neck. A very slight study of the human anatomy would satisfy the most exacting that nature never intended youths of fifteen or sixteen to strain their muscles after the fashion of acrobats, so as to enable them to bestride an elephant's spine." There was a low titter at this, and every eye was turned upon Glyn and Singh, the latter turning very red. "By the way, Mr Singh," continued the Doctor, "you have a colloquial term for the form of castle used in India, have you not?" The word colloquial seemed to puzzle Singh, who remained silent, and Glyn spoke up. "Howdah, sir!" he shouted. "How dare you, sir!" cried the Doctor, with mock indignation; and then he looked smilingly round for appreciation of his pun, which was not seen till Morris expounded it. Then there was a roar. While he waited patiently enough, the Doctor took off his gold-rimmed spectacles, drew a neatly folded white handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, breathed upon the glasses, and polished them, kept on holding them to the light to make sure that there was not the symptom of a blur, and as soon as the laughter had died out he exclaimed, "Because--" There was a dead silence, the boys large and small glancing at one another in a questioning way as if asking whether this was the beginning of another mild joke or a bit of facetiae that ought to be laughed at as it stood. "Because--" said the Doctor again, more loudly than before, and he seemed, as he glanced round, to direct his words at every boy in turn. "Because, gentlemen--" This time the Doctor looked hard at the masters, and then continued loudly, "it seems as if I am to be allowed to possess my boarders in peace, the quickset hedge is not to be torn-up any more, the split oak palings on the farther side are to remain untouched. To be brief, I am informed upon the best authority that the visit of Ramball's menagerie is at an end. So now, Mr Singh, you may close up your repertoire of Hindustani words, and condescend to plain English with an occasional garnish from the classic writers of old. We will now resume our studies." All traces of excitement seemed to give way now to the humdrum routine of school-life. This, however, was diversified with plenty of cricket, Slegge posing in every match as the chief batsman and captain of the eleven. But he had to work hard to keep up his position in his own particular speciality, which was that of slogging batsman, for he was a bad bowler, too cowardly to keep a wicket, and too big, heavy, and lazy to field. At the same time he was too jealous and vain to let others step in and help themselves to some of his laurels, notably the two young Indians, as he called them, for none of the older lads, his fellow-pupils for years past, ever dreamed of disputing his position. But both Glyn and Singh, untroubled by a thought of giving way to the older boy, proved themselves a splendid addition to the eleven that was picked from time to time to combat the town players or some other school. To Slegge's annoyance, he very soon found that if the prestige of the school was to be kept up Glyn and Singh must be in the eleven, for the former in a very short time was acknowledged to be the sharpest bowler in the school, while, from long practice together, Singh was an admirable wicket-keeper--one who laughed at gloves and pads, was utterly without fear, and had, as Wrench said--he being a great admirer of a game in which he never had a chance to play--"a nye like a nork." "But they can't beat me at batting," Slegge said to himself grimly, and he worked at his practice like a slave. But as a slave he made others slave--to wit, all the small unfortunates who took his fancy. "You needn't grumble, you lazy little beggars," he used to say. "Nasty, ungrateful little beasts! See what bowlers I'm making of you, and what fielders!" And in his manufacture of cricketers he would have out five or six at a time, with three or four cricket-balls, to keep on bowling to him while he went on slogging and hitting the balls in all directions, utterly reckless of the poor little fellows' exhaustion and of the risks they ran, as he drove or cut the balls right at them or far away over the field. The natural result was that in regular play Slegge's score always mounted up when he was not opposed to Glyn and Singh, when there was generally what the delighted younger boys denominated a "swodge of rows;" while Slegge himself, always ready to pick a quarrel, never now attempted to settle it with fists, but he fought pretty hard with his tongue, and always declared that there was "a beastly conspiracy." Possibly there was; but it was only between the two friends, who strove their best to put him out, the one by a clean ball which sent stumps and bails flying, the other by laying his wicket low with a sharp movement when Slegge's long legs had, in his excitement carried him off his ground. One morning there was a little meeting held under the elms by twelve of the very junior juniors, for they had found out a malicious act on the part of their tyrant, or rather he had openly boasted of it himself, and not only showed the little fellows visually what he had done to his practice-bat, as he called it, but also awakened them thoroughly to his play. "'Tisn't fair," said one of them. "I vote we lay it all before Burney and Severn and Hot Pickles." "No," said another, "it isn't fair. He couldn't do it off Glyn Severn's bowling; not that we chaps bowl badly. Severn calls some of us toppers, and last week and several times since he put me up to giving the balls a twist. You know; you saw--those long-pitched balls that drop in as quiet as a mouse, and look as if they are going wide, but curl in round the end of a fellow's bat, just tap a stump, and down go the bails before he knows where he is." "Yes; but I don't see much good in that," said another. "You didn't take much out of it yesterday when you put old Shanks's wicket down, and he gave you a lick on the head for it." "I don't care if he'd given me a dozen," said the little fellow with a grin. "I took old Bully Bounce's wicket. Oh, didn't it make him wild!" "Yes; but it isn't fair, as I said before," cried the first speaker. "He could do what he liked with our bowling before, but now we have got to run nearly off our legs to fetch up fivers. I say it isn't fair. He must have got half-a-pound of lead let into the end of his bat. Took it down to the carpenter's, he did, and made old Gluepot bore three holes in the bottom with a centre-bit, pour in a lot of melted lead, and then plug the bottom up again with wood." "Here, I know," said one; "let's watch for our chance, and get Wrench-- he'll keep it a secret; he hates Longshanks--let's ask him to make a fire under the wash-house copper, and one of us could do it I'll volunteer. I'll smuggle out Slegge's bat, and it wouldn't take long. Just hold it on the fire where it's hottest, and the lead would all melt and run out." "And what about the end of the bat?" said another. "Well, it would be all light again, just the same as it was before." "Light?" cried the objector. "Why, it would be all black. The wood would all burn away before the fire got to the lead." "Would it?" said the inventor of the scheme thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it would. But we must do something." This was agreed to _nem con_, and, after a long meeting for boys, their faces indicated a satisfactory termination of their debate. That something had been done was proved two days later, for the intervening day had been wet; and as usual, on the second day, when it was time to turn out in the grounds, Slegge ordered up his little band of slaves and marched them to the cricket-shed for the necessary implements. Half-a-dozen balls were got out of one locker, the stumps and bails from another, and from his own particular lock-up, flap-topped receptacle, Slegge proceeded to take out the special bat with which he practised hitting--two more, his club-bat and his match-bat, lying there in their cases of green flannel. Taking his key, one of a bunch, from his pocket, Slegge proceeded to unlock the flap-topped cupboard; but somehow the key would not go in, and he withdrew it, and under the impression that he had made a wrong selection he passed another along the ring and tried that. This was worse, and he tried a third, before withdrawing it, blowing into the pipe, and making it whistle, and then tapping it and bringing forth a few grains of sand. "Here, what game's this?" shouted the big fellow in what his enemies called a bubble-and-squeak voice, due to the fact that in the change that was taking place his tones were an awkward mingling of treble and bass; and as he spoke he seized the boy nearest to him by the ear. "Oh, please don't, sir! Please don't! Please don't! I haven't done nothing!" "Done nothing, you little vermin!" shouted Slegge. "Who said you had? But you've done something. Now, don't deny it, for I'll half-skin you. You can't deceive me. You have been blowing this lock full of sand and gravel with a pea-shooter." "I haven't, sir; I haven't indeed!" cried the boy. "Then tell me who has?" cried Slegge; and, seizing the boy's fingers, he held his hand, palm downwards, on the top of the locker, and then began to torture him by sawing the knuckles of his own doubled fist across the back. The boy squealed and yelped, but bore the inquisition-like torture bravely enough. Nothing was got out of him, however; and, getting between the boys and the door of the shed, Slegge tortured one after the other, but could not find a traitor to impeach the rest. And at last, in a fit of rage, he stepped back and with a furious kick sent the lid of the locker flying upwards; while, tearful though some of the eyes of the lookers-on were, they were full of a strange kind of exultation as they glanced at one another and waited for the _denouement_ that was to come. As Slegge saw the result of his kick to the heavy lid, he stepped quickly forward and thrust in his right hand to withdraw the bat; but he uttered a yell, for the great cover rebounded and came down with a bang, sending one of the little fellows skimming out of the shed to get round to the back so that his laughter should not be seen. "That's one for you, Burton, when I get hold of you again," cried Slegge. "I shan't forget it. And--here, what's the meaning of this? Where's my practice-bat?" There was a dead silence in the shady, wooden room, and three or four of the boys stood looking as if they were going to have apoplectic fits, for their eyes started and their teeth were clenched together, and they seemed as if they were trying to swallow something. But there was no danger. It was only bottled-up mirth that they were striving hard to suppress. "Ugh-h-h-ugh!" snarled Slegge, making a rush at the boys, who scattered at once, dashed out of the door before any of them were seized, and ran as if for their lives, to begin shrieking with laughter as soon as they were out of reach. In his rage at what he looked upon as a theft, Slegge chased first one and then another; but he was too big, heavy, and clumsy to catch the delighted imps, who, as active as monkeys, dodged him at every turn, till at last he stood panting. "All right," he said. "I am not going to make myself hot with running after you; but the Doctor's going to know that he has got thieves in the school. I am not going to be robbed for nothing, and if my practice-bat is not back in its place before night I shall go and tell Bewley that he's got blackguards and fellows who use false keys in his school. So you'd better look sharp and bring that bat back. And here, mind this; the carpenter will charge six or seven shillings for putting on a new lock here, so you have got to find sixpence apiece before Saturday night and hand it over to me." But in spite of threats the bat was not brought back nor its purloiner or annexer betrayed. The bat was gone, and its owner's practice was modified, for he did not care to improve the driving power of his first-class bats by having them bored and weighted with lead. CHAPTER NINETEEN. WRENCH IS CONFIDENTIAL. The Doctor was very fond of lecturing the boys on the beneficial qualities of water. "Gentlemen," he said, "I pass no stern edicts or objections to the use of beer, and for those who like to drink it there is the ale of my table, which is of a nature that will do harm to no one"--which was perfectly true--"but I maintain that water--good, pure, clear, bright, sparkling spring water--is the natural drink of man. And being the natural drink of man, ergo--or, as our great national poet Shakespeare puts the word in the mouth of one of his clowns, _argal_--it is the natural drink of boys." As he spoke, the Doctor poured out from a ground-glass decanter-like bottle a tumblerful of clear cold water, which he treated as if it were beer, making it bubble and foam for a moment before it subsided in the glass. The Doctor said good, pure, sparkling water, and the supply of the school possessed these qualities, for it came from a deep draw-well that went right down, cased in brick, for about forty feet, while for sixty feet more it was cut through the solid stone. The Doctor was very particular about this well, which was furnished with a mechanical arrangement of winch and barrel, which sent down one big, heavy bucket as the winder worked and brought up another full; and it was Wrench's special task to draw the drinking-water from this well for the whole of the school, that used for domestic purposes coming from two different sources--one an ordinary well, and the other a gigantic soft-water tank. One morning early, after Singh and Glyn descended from their dormitory, and were strolling down towards the Doctor's neatly-kept garden by a way which led them past the well-house, they stopped to listen to a clear musical pipe that was accompanied by the creaking of a wheel and the splash of water. The pipe proved to be only Wrench the footman's whistle, and its effect was that of a well-played piccolo flute, as it kept on giving the boys the benefit of a popular air with variations, which stopped suddenly as the big full bucket reached the surface and was drawn sideways on to a ledge by the man, while a hollow musical dripping and tinkling went on as a portion of the superfluous water fell splashing back into the depths. As Wrench uttered a grunt and proceeded to fill the water-can he had brought and a couple of jugs, he turned slightly and saw that the shadow cast into the cool, moist-smelling interior was that of the two boys. "Morning, gentlemen," he said. "What do you think of this for weather?" "Lovely," cried Glyn. "Why, Wrench, you beat the blackbirds." "Oh, nonsense, sir! I have often tried; but I can't get their nice soft, sweet notes." "No; but your whistle is of a different kind.--It's beautiful; isn't it, Singh?" "Yes; it's just like those minas that we have got at home.--Give me a glass of water." "Haven't got a glass, sir, only a mug. Here, I'll run and fetch you one." "No, no," cried Singh, and taking up the mug he held it to be filled and then drank heartily, Glyn following his example. "Beautiful clear water, young gentlemen, isn't it?" said the man. "The Doctor says it will make you strong, and there's iron enough in it to do any man good. I should like to have a well like that in my place when I start for myself. I should put out bills about it and call it mineral water, same as the Doctor says this is." "How deep is the well really?" "Just a hundred foot, sir." "How do you know? You haven't measured it." "Well, I measured the rope, sir. When the Doctor bought a new one for it, just a year ago, he let me fit it on instead of getting the workpeople in. That cost nothing, and the men would have made a regular job of it." "But I meant the water. How deep is the water itself?" "Oh, the water, sir. That gets to be about twenty or thirty feet in the winter-time; but in the summer it gets very low--in the dry time, you know. I don't suppose there's above six or eight feet in now." "But I say," cried Glyn, "set up for yourself? Why, you're not going to start a school?" "School, sir?" said the man, laughing. "'Tain't likely! No, sir; me and somebody--never you mind who--is going to be married one of these days, when we have saved up enough, and we are going to take a house at the seaside and let lodgings to visitors who come down for their health. Why, a well of water like that would be the making of us." "Oh!" cried Glyn, with his eyes twinkling. "You with your somebody and your never mind who! Why, I have found you out, Wrenchy. I know who the lady is." "Lady she is, sir," said the man sharply, "and right you are, though she's only poor and belongs to my station of life. But, begging your pardon, with all your Latin and Greek and study, you haven't found that out." "That I have," cried Glyn. "It's the cook." The man turned scarlet and stood gazing at the boy with his mouth a little way open. "Why, who telled you, sir?" he stammered at last. "She did," said Glyn quietly. "What! My Emily told you that?" cried the man. "In them same words?" "No; she never spoke to me in my life," replied Glyn. "Singh and I were going down the garden one day, down one path, and she'd been to get some parsley, while you were carrying in one of the garden chairs, and she looked at you. That was enough, and we two laughed about it afterwards. So you see we know." "Well, I always did say as you was two sharp uns, sir," said the man. And then confidentially, "Yes, sir, that's right. We have been thinking about it for the last five years, and we'd like it to come off at any time. For, you see, it's just the same with us, sir, as it is with rich people--I mean, well-to-do people. It don't do to get married until you see your way." "Till you can see your way?" said Singh, frowning. "What does he mean by that?" "Oh, I'll soon tell you, sir. Money enough to make a fair start. There's plenty of hard work to do here with the Doctor and such a large family of you young gentlemen as he's got; but he's a very good master, kind-hearted and just, and if any of us is unwell there's everything he could want, and plenty of rest. And one don't like to give up a comfortable home and start one that's worse. It's money that's in the way, sir. We have both been saving ever since we were engaged; but it takes a long time to make your saving much when you can only put away a few pounds apiece every year." "Oh, well, look here," cried Glyn; "if you'll promise not to get married while we are here at the school, I'll give you--let's see, what shall I say?--five pounds. I dare say father will give it to me.--Now, Singh, what will you do?" "Just the same," replied Singh. "Thank you, gentlemen," cried Wrench. "Come, I call that handsome; but you know," he added laughingly, "I shouldn't like to make any promises, for I don't know what a certain lady would say. Thank you all the same, both of you. You've both been very pleasant gentlemen and very nice ever since you have been here. You neither of you ever called me a lazy beast and shied your boots at me because they wasn't black enough, or called me a fool for not making your water hotter so as you could shave." "Why, who did then?" cried Glyn. "Oh, I am not going to tell tales, gentlemen. Some young gents are born with tempers and some ain't, while there are some again that come here as nice and amiable as can be, after a year or two get old and sour and ready to quarrel with everything. I don't know; but I think sometimes it's them Greek classics, as they call them. You see, it's such unchristian-like looking stuff. I have looked at them sometimes in the Doctor's study. Such heathen-looking letters; not a bit like a decent alphabet. But there, I must be off, gentlemen. I have all my work waiting, and I am going away--only think of it!--ten pounds richer than when I first began to turn that there handle this morning, if--if I stop here--I mean, if we stop here till you young gents have done schooling." Wrench finished filling his cans of water and stooped to pick them up, but set them down again, to look at them both thoughtfully. "My word, gentlemen, you would both begin to wonder at the times and times I have laid awake of a night trying to hit a bright--I mean, think of some idea by which I could make a lot of money all at once: find some buried in a garden, or bring up a bag of gold in the bottom of one of those two water-buckets, or have somebody leave me a lot, or pick it up in the street and find afterwards it belonged to nobody. I wouldn't care how I got it." "So long as it was honest, Wrenchy?" said Glyn, laughing. "Oh, of course, sir--of course. You see, a man's got a character to lose, and when a man loses his character I suppose it's very hard to find it again; so I have been told. But I never lost mine. But I do want to get hold of a nice handy lump of money somehow, and when I do, and if I do--" "Well, what would you do then?" cried Singh. "Well, sir, I shouldn't stop here till you two gents had done schooling." Then, picking up his two water-cans once more, the Doctor's footman trudged off towards the house. "That must have been old Slegge who threw his boots at him," said Singh thoughtfully. "What a disagreeable fellow he is!" "Yes," said Glyn. "I wish I had been there to stop it. He's been knocking some of the little fellows about shamefully because he says that they have hidden his bat." "You wish you had been there?" said Singh. "Why, I thought you said that you wouldn't fight any more." "To be sure; so I did. Well, then, I don't wish I had been there. But I say," continued Glyn, laughing merrily, "what a lot of Greek he must know!" "But he doesn't," cried Singh. "He doesn't know much more than I do, for he came to me to help him with something the other day." "Well, then, as Wrenchy says, how what he does know must have disagreed with him!" "Yes," said Singh thoughtfully, as he laid his hand on his companion's shoulder and they strolled down the garden together, waiting for the breakfast-bell to ring. "Poor old fellow! Poor old fellow! Poor old fellow!" "Well, you are a queer chap, Singh! You say you want to be thoroughly English, and you talk like that." "Well, I do want to be English," cried Singh, "and I try very hard to do as you do, because I know what guardian says is right." "Well, you never heard me pity Slegge and call him poor old fellow." "I didn't. I meant poor Wrenchy, who wants money so badly. It must be very queer to want money very badly and not be able to get it." "I suppose so," replied Glyn. "I seem to have always had enough, while as for you, you're as rich as rich; quite a king you'll be some day, with servants and a little army, and everything you want. I say, what do you mean to do with all your money?" "I don't know," said Singh, laughing, and then knitting his brows, "but I should like to give Wrench some. He's such a good, hard-working fellow, and always does everything you tell him with such a pleasant smile. I wonder how he will get all he wants. Do you think he will find it some day in a garden or in the street?" "Or have a big lump of it tumble out of the moon, or find that it's been raining gold all over the Doctor's lawn some morning when he gets up? No, I don't--not a bit; and there goes the breakfast-bell, so come along." CHAPTER TWENTY. A SQUABBLE. "Anybody seen anything of Singh?" cried Glyn one day as he went out into the cricket-field, where Slegge was batting to the bowling of some of his little slaves and several of the older boys were looking on. "Baa! Baa! Baa!" cried Slegge, imitating a sheep, and stopping to rest upon his bat. "Hark at the great lamb calling after its black shepherd! Go on, some of you, and help me," and in answer to his appeal a chorus of bleating arose, in which, in obedience to a gesture made with the bat, the little bowlers and fielders were forced to join. "Well, if I were a quarrelsome chap," said Glyn to himself, "I should just go up to Master Slegge and put my fist up against his nose. Great, stupid, malicious hobbledehoy! But it's very plain Singhy hasn't been here. Now, where can he be? Gone down the town perhaps to buy something--cakes or fruit I suppose. How fond he is of something nice to eat? But there, he always gives a lot away to the little fellows. Well, so do I, if you come to that; but I don't think it's because I give them buns and suckers that they all like me as they do. Well, I suppose that's where Singh's gone; but he might have told me and asked me to go with him." The boy strolled back with the intention of going into the class-room, now empty, to sit down and have a good long read; but as he drew near the house he came upon the page, who, wonderful to relate, displayed a face without a vestige of blacking. "Hi, Sam!" cried Glyn. "Seen anything of Mr Singh?" "Yes, sir; I see him down the town--saw him down the town, sir, I mean," said the boy hastily, recalling the fact that he had been corrected several times about his use of the verb "To see." "Saw him down the town," he muttered to himself. "See, saw; see, saw. Wish I could recollect all that." "Which way was he going?" said Glyn. "Straight down, sir, towards the church, along of Mr Morris, sir." "Humph! Gone for a walk, I suppose," said Glyn thoughtfully. "Yes, sir, they were walking, sir. Shall I tell him you want him, sir, when he comes back?" "Oh no, I don't think you need. I dare say he'll come to me," replied Glyn, and he strolled into the big class-room, unlocked his desk, got out a book of travels, opened it at one particular spot which he had reached a day or two before, and then began to read, growing so interested that a couple of hours glided away like half of one. Then, closing the book with a sigh, as the dial on the wall insisted upon the fact that time was passing, he replaced the work and went up to his room to prepare for the evening meal. "What a pity it is," he said, "that half-holidays will go so quickly. Classic afternoons always seem three times as long, and so do Mr Morris's lessons. I wish I were not so stupid over mathematics." On reaching the door of his room he thrust it open quietly, and found Singh kneeling down before his Indian bullock-trunk, lifting out some of its contents ready to make place for something else. "Why, hallo! There you are, then!" Singh started as sharply as if he had received a slap on the shoulder, scrambled up something long tied up in brown paper that lay by his side, thrust it into the trunk, and began to cover it quickly with some of the articles that had been taken out. "Ha, ha! Caught you!" cried Glyn. "What have you got there? Cakes or a box of sweets?" "Neither," said Singh rather slowly. "Oh, all right, I don't want to know," cried Glyn good-humouredly. "But I know: you mean a surprise--a tuck-out to-night when we come to bed. Who are you going to ask?" "No one," said Singh shortly. "Oh, I would. Ask Burney and Miller. They're good chaps, only Slegge keeps them under his thumb so. They'd give anything to break away, I know." Singh was silent. "Here, I say," cried Glyn, "I tell you what would be a rare good bit of fun, and if the Doctor knew he wouldn't notice it. Let's get about a dozen of the little chaps some night, Burton and Robson, the small juniors, and give them a regular good feed quite late. They would enjoy it. What do you say?" "Yes," said Singh; "to be sure we will." "I say," said Glyn, "I'd have come with you if you had asked me this afternoon. What a close old chap you are! Where have you been? Here, I'm going to see what you have got there." "No, no!" cried Singh excitedly, as Glyn stepped forward, only meaning it as a feint; and the boy threw himself across the open box, to begin scrambling the dislodged things over the something that was loosely covered with brown paper, and in his hurry and excitement, instead of hiding it thoroughly, exposing one small corner. But it was quite big enough to let Glyn see what it was; and, laughing aloud, he cried: "Why, what a coward you are! I was only pretending." Singh hurriedly closed the lid of the trunk. "Where have you been?" Singh was silent for a moment, for a struggle was going on in his mind. "I have been out for a walk with Mr Morris," he said. "Well, there's no harm in that," said Glyn. "Where did you go? Across the park, or down by the river?" Singh was silent for a moment or two once more, and then in a hurried way he seemed to master his reserve, and said: "We didn't go regularly for a walk. We went to see Professor Barclay." "Mr Morris took you to see Professor Barclay?" said Glyn. "Yes, yes; but I wish you wouldn't keep on questioning me so." "Well, I want to know," said Glyn quietly. "You don't speak out and tell me, so I am obliged to ask." "Well," said Singh gloomily, "I want to be open and tell you; but you are such a queer fellow." "Yes, I am," said Glyn, looking hard at his companion. "Well, so you are," said Singh half-angrily; "and you are so fond of finding fault with me and not liking what I do." "I don't know that I should have minded your going to see Professor Barclay," said Glyn slowly, "especially if you went with Mr Morris." "No, you oughtn't to," cried Singh hastily. "Mr Morris said that it would be a kindness to go and see the poor gentleman, for he is a gentleman and a great scholar." "So I suppose," said Glyn, "in Sanskrit." "Yes; and he's very poor, and can't get an engagement, clever as he is; and it seems very shocking for a gentleman to be so poor that he can't pay his way, and we are so rich." "Oh, I'm not," said Glyn, laughing. "Yes, you are, while that poor fellow can hardly pay the rent of his room, and he confessed to me--I didn't ask him--but he was so anxious to tell me why he had not paid me that money back that--" "Why, you haven't been lending him money, have you?" cried Glyn. "Well--yes, a trifle. He called it lending; but when I heard from Mr Morris how badly the poor fellow was off, of course I meant it as a gift; but I couldn't tell a gentleman that it was to be so." "Then you have been there before?" "Yes, two or three times. Mr Morris said that it would be a kindness, for the Professor sent me messages, begging me to go and see him, as he has led such a lonely life among strangers, and he wanted to communicate to me some very interesting discoveries he had made in the Hindustani language." "Oh," said Glyn slowly; "and did he ask you to lend him money each time you went?" "Well, not quite. He somehow let it out how poor he was, and I felt quite hot and red to think of him being in such a condition; and Mr Morris, too, gave me a sort of hint that a trifle would be acceptable to him. And there, that's all. Why do you want to keep on bothering about it?" "Mr Morris took you there, and talked to you like that?" "Yes, yes, yes," cried Singh petulantly. "I told you so." "And did he say something to you about Hindustani and Sanskrit?" "Yes. But there, let's talk about something else." "Directly," said Glyn. "And did he read the letters on the emeralds?" Singh looked up at him sharply. "What made you ask that?" he said. "I asked you," said Glyn, "because I see you took the belt with you this afternoon." "How did you know that?" snapped out the boy. "Why, a baby would have known it. It was plain enough when you were in such a hurry to scramble it out of sight, and were so clumsy that you showed me what it was." "Oh!" ejaculated the boy sharply; and he stood biting his lip. "I--I--" "There, don't stammer about it," said Glyn. "But I felt that you would find fault with me and object." "That's quite right," said Glyn, frowning. "I should have done so, for you promised me not to begin showing that thing about to anybody. Why will you be so weak and proud of what, after all, is only a toy?" "It isn't a toy," cried the boy indignantly. "It is something very great and noble to possess such a--such a--" "Showy thing," said Glyn grimly. "You can't see it correctly," said Singh; "and I only took it that Mr Barclay, who is a great student, might read--decipher, he called it--the words engraved on the stones; and he was very grateful because I let him read them, and thanked me very much." "But you might have remembered what I said to you about it." "I did remember, Glynny," cried the boy warmly. "I thought of you all the time, and I even offended him at last by not doing what he wished." "What did he wish? To get you to lend him more money?" "No," cried Singh. "He wanted me to leave the belt with him, so that he might sit up all night and copy the inscription." "He did?" "Yes; and I wouldn't, because I thought you wouldn't like it, and that it wouldn't be right. But you don't know how hard it was to do. Mr Morris said, though, that I was quite right, and he told me so twice after we came away." "But why was it hard?" asked Glyn. "Because Mr Barclay said it would be nothing to me, and it meant so much to him. But it worried me very much, because it seemed as if I, who am so rich, would not help one who was so poor." "I don't care," cried Glyn angrily. "You did quite right, and this Mr Barclay can't be a gentleman. If he were, he would not have pressed you so hard. It isn't as if it were a book. If that were lost, you could buy another one." "But he said that he'd take the greatest care of it, and never let it go out of his hands till he had brought it back and delivered it to me." "I don't care," cried Glyn. "He oughtn't to have asked you, for that belt belonged to your father, and now it belongs to you, and some day it will have to go to your successors." "Then you think I have done quite right, Glynny?" "Well, not quite; if you had you would have told me that you were going to take it there for the Professor to see." "Oh, don't begin again about that," replied Singh piteously. "I told you I didn't mention it because I thought you would find fault." "Yes, you did," said Glyn rather importantly, "and that shows that you felt you were not doing right. There, I am not going to say any more about it. I am only your companion. It isn't as if I were your guardian and had authority over you; but I am very glad that Mr Morris thought you did quite right in not leaving the belt. I wish you hadn't got it, and the old thing was safe back with all the rest of your treasures. You'd no business to want to bring it. A schoolboy doesn't want such things as that." "Don't say any more about it, please," cried Singh piteously. "Lock it up then, quite at the bottom of your box, and never do such a thing again. It would serve you jolly well right if you lost it." "Oh, I say!" cried Singh. "And promise me that if that man asks you to let him have it again you will come and tell me and go with me to the Doctor. I am sure he wouldn't like this gentleman--I suppose he is a gentleman--" "Oh yes," said Singh thoughtfully; "he's a professional gentleman." "Well, whatever he is," said Glyn, "I am sure the Doctor wouldn't like it." "Look here," cried Singh eagerly, "I'll promise you, if you like, for I am getting to hate the old thing. I am tired of it, and I shall be ashamed to wear it now after all you have said, and feel as if I were dressed up for a show. You take it now, and lock it up in your drawers. You'd take more care of it than I could; add then you wouldn't bully me any more." The boy made for his bullock-trunk; but Glyn caught him by the arm and stopped him. "That'll do," he said. "What do you mean?" cried Singh. "You will take care of it for me?" "That I won't," cried Glyn, "and you ought to be ashamed to ask me to." "Ashamed?" cried Singh, flushing. "Ashamed to put full trust in you?" "No; but you ought to be ashamed not to be able to trust yourself. It's like saying to me, `I am such a weak-minded noodle that I've no confidence in myself.'" "Oh," cried Singh passionately, "there never was such a disagreeable fellow as you are. You are always bullying me about something, and you make me feel sometimes as if I quite hate you." "Don't believe you," said Glyn, with a half-laugh. "Well, you may then, for it's true." Then, changing his tone and drawing himself up, Singh continued, "Why, it's like telling me that I am a liar. How dare you, sir! Please have the goodness to remember who I am!" "Don't want any remembrance for that," said Glyn coolly. "Why, who are you? My schoolfellow in the same class." "I am the Maharajah of Dour, sir," said the boy haughtily. "Not while you are here. You're only a schoolboy like myself, learning to be an English gentleman." "Do you want me to strike you?" cried Singh fiercely. "No," said Glyn coolly. "I shouldn't like you to do that." "Then, you do remember who I am," cried Singh, swelling up metaphorically and beginning to pace the room. "I shouldn't remember it a bit," said Glyn coolly. "But I should punch your head the same as I should any other fellow's--the same as I often have before." "Yes, in a most cowardly way, because you were stronger and had learned more how to use those nasty old boxing-gloves, you coward!" "Ah, well, I can't help that, you know," said Glyn coolly. "I have always felt squirmy when I have had to fight some chap for bullying you. I felt so shrinky when I had that set-to with old Slegge, till he hurt me, and then I forgot all about it. Yes, I suppose I am a bit of a coward." Singh walked up and down the chamber with his eyes flashing and his lips twitching every now and then, while his hands opened and shut. "Yes," he cried passionately, "you forget yourself, and you are taking advantage of me now I am over here in this nasty cold country, where it's nearly always raining, and right away from my own people, instead of being the friend that my guardian wished. But there's going to be an end of it, for I shall ask the Doctor to let me have a room to myself, and I'll go my way and you may go yours. Yes, and if it were not degrading myself I should strike you the same as I did that great bully Slegge." "Well, do if you like. I won't go crying to the Doctor and saying, `Please, sir, Singh hit me.'" "It would be lowering myself, or else I would. I, as a prince, can't stoop to fight with one of my own servants." "Well, look here," cried Glyn, "I don't want you to fight. Come on now and punch my head. I promise you that I won't hit back." Singh advanced to him immediately with doubled fists, and Glyn stood up laughing in his face and put his hands behind him. "No," cried Singh. "Come down the cricket-field behind the trees, and we will take two of the fellows with us and have it out, for I am sick of it, and I'll put up with no more." "All right," said Glyn coolly. "But lock that belt up first at the bottom of your box or where it's safest." "Not I," cried Singh loftily. "I can't stop to think of a few rubbishing gems when my honour's at stake like this." "Well," said Glyn, "if you won't, I must;" and, crossing to the trunk, he opened it, saw that the belt-case was right down in one corner below some clothes, banged down the lid, locked it up, and offered Singh the keys. "Bah!" ejaculated the boy, and he turned away. "Let's see," said Glyn, in the most imperturbable, good-humoured way; "we'll have Burney and one of the other big chaps. I'll have Burney. What do you say to Slegge?" Singh made no reply, but stood scowling out of the window. "But I say, the first thing will be that they will ask what the row's about. What were we quarrelling for, Singhy?" There was no reply. "Oh, I remember," continued Glyn. "Because I bullied you about showing off with that belt. Well, we can't say anything about that. What shall we say? Look here, how would it be to go down the field together and fall out all at once, and you hit me, and I'll hit you back, and then we will rush at one another, calling names, and the fellows will come up to see what's the matter, and then we will fight." "Ur-r-r-r-r-ur!" growled Singh, rushing at him with clenched fists; but as he saw the good-humoured twinkle in his companion's eyes, the boy stopped short, and his clenched fists dropped to his sides. "You are laughing at me," he said; "laughing in your nasty, cold-blooded English way." "Well, isn't it enough to make a fellow laugh? Here are you trying to get up a quarrel about nothing, and threatening to break with me, when you know you don't mean it all the time." "I do mean it!" raged out the boy. "For you have insulted me cruelly." "Ah, that's what you say now, Singhy; but before you go to bed to-night you will be as vexed with yourself as can be, and wish you had not said what you have. You will feel then that I have only spoken to you just as the dad would if he had been here. And then what would you have done? Looked at him for a minute like a tiger with its claws all spread out, and the next minute you would have done what you always did do." "What was that?" cried the boy fiercely. "Held out your hand and said, `I am sorry. I was wrong.'" Singh turned away and walked to the window, to stand looking out for a few minutes before turning back; and then he walked up to Glyn and said: "Come down into the cricket-field." "To have it out?" said Glyn quietly. "Oh, Glynny!" cried the boy, and he held out his hand. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SINGH FINDS FLANNEL TOO HOT, AND-- There was a game going on in the cricket-field, a sort of French and English affair, which necessitated a good deal of running, and proved to be very hot work; and in an interval of rest, when the boys were gathered together under the elms, Singh threw himself down, panting and half-exhausted, crying: "Oh, I wish to goodness I had something else on but this hot flannel! Here, I know. I'll go and change it for my silk." He left the group of companions, walked slowly along under the row of elms, and came suddenly upon Glyn, who was playing on the opposing side. "Hallo!" cried the latter anxiously. "What a face! Aren't you well?" "Oh yes, quite; only what you call pumped out." "What, are you going in?" "Yes; I shall be all right directly. I had no business to play in this hot jacket. I am only going in to change it." "You're sure you are not done up?" said Glyn anxiously. "Done up? Nonsense! I only want a bit of rest, and then I shall get back to my side and we can beat you." "Jacket?" said Glyn, still looking at him in doubt. "Here, let me fetch it for you. I haven't had so much running." "Do! There's a good chap," cried Singh eagerly, and thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out his keys. "In the bottom drawer, isn't it?" said Glyn. "Yes, I think so. If it isn't, it's in the bullock-trunk." "All right," cried Glyn, catching the keys that were pitched to him; and he trotted off, while Singh picked out a shady spot and threw himself upon the turf. Just about the same time, book in hand, Morris, apparently deep in study, after walking all round the field, came up to the group that Singh had just left, and closed his book, retaining the place with his thumb. He glanced round amongst the resting little party. "Why, where is Singh?" he said quietly, addressing Burton. "I thought he was playing on your side." "Yes, sir; he is, sir," cried the little fellow eagerly. "He's just gone up to his dormitory, sir, to get his thin cricketing-jacket." "Oh," said the master softly. "Nice day for your sports, boys. Don't let the other side win." "No, sir!" "No sir!" came in chorus. "We won't." But the book of Morris was open once more, and he seemed to be poring over a mathematical problem as he walked slowly away. Meanwhile Glyn had reached the door of the lecture-room, hurried in, mounted the stairs, entered the room he shared with Singh, and selecting the key of the drawers, opened the one at the bottom, to find flannel trousers, Eton suit, and a carelessly folded overcoat. "It is not here," he said. "What an untidy chap he is with his togs, and how he gets them mixed! Don't want to brag; but I believe I could get anything out of my drawers with my eyes shut. Well, I suppose it was because of dad. He always used to say that a soldier's traps should be neatly packed together in the smallest space. Perhaps it's in the next drawer," he continued, as he thrust in and locked the one at the bottom. "No; he said it would be in the trunk," and changing the key, he went to the corner of the little room, knelt down, thrust the key into the lock, and threw open the lid. "Why, it isn't here at the top," he said to himself. "Oh, I am not going to turn over all his things." An ejaculation behind him made him spring to his feet, to find himself face to face with Morris, book in hand, the pair sharing the astonishment due to the sudden encounter. "You here, Severn!" cried Morris, flushing up with anger, Glyn felt, for it was out of hours for being in the dormitory. "Yes, sir. I was getting something from his box for Singh." "Oh," said Morris, recovering himself. "Young Burton told me he was here in his room." "He was coming, sir; but I came for him," cried Glyn, into whose brain now flashed a memory of a late conversation and dispute with his companion. "I suppose you know," said Morris coldly, "that one of the Doctor's rules is that the pupils should only retire to their dormitories at certain times." "Yes, sir, but--" "That will do," said Morris, turning to go; and his cold, stern manner stung the boy, whose mind was now flooded with the recollection of all that Singh had told him, and a feeling of resentment sprang up within his breast. "I shouldn't have come, sir, if Singh had not asked me." "That will do, sir," said Morris, affecting the Doctor's sternest manner. "You know you have no business to be here, and I shall feel it my duty to report the matter to the Principal." Glyn was silent for a few moments, and then he started, for he saw that Morris was evidently waiting for him to leave the room; so, going down on one knee quickly, he locked up the trunk, with a feeling of resentment growing stronger within him, and as he rose and faced the master again his mind was made up. His father had told him more than once that he looked to him to use his common-sense and do the best he could in any emergency on behalf of Singh, and for the moment, as he stood facing Morris, he asked himself whether he ought not to write to his father. The next moment he was speaking. "I beg your pardon, sir." "That will do, Mr Severn," said Morris coldly. "I am not in the humour to hear any excuses." "I was not going to make excuses, sir," said the lad, "but to say a word or two about Singh, who is to me as a brother." "What do you mean, sir?" said Morris sternly. "I mean, sir, that knowing how good and generous he is, and ready to do anything charitable, still I do not think that he ought to be imposed upon and induced again and again to lend money to a stranger." Morris stared at him wildly. "And above all, sir, there is that belt of his, which it has always been understood between us should be kept perfectly private on account of its value. It ought not to have been taken to Professor Barclay's lodgings." "Mr Severn--" began Morris, and then he stopped, unable for a few moments to utter a word. Then, in quite an agitated tone, he exclaimed: "Singh has told you of all this?" "Of course, sir. We never keep anything from each other, though I didn't know he was going to take it till afterwards; and I feel quite sure that the Doctor will be very angry when he knows." "When he knows!" cried Morris. "Mr Severn, you are never going to tell him this?" "What do you think, sir? Singh is in my charge--by my father's orders." "But, Mr Severn," cried Morris, "I--I am very sorry that I had occasion to speak so angrily to you; but I--I felt it my duty, and--yes, under the circumstances, I must confess that it was a mistake on my part to take your schoolfellow there. And those emerald clasps--yes, I see perfectly clearly now that it ought not to have been done. I should never have dreamt of such a thing had not the Professor, who has been a most unfortunate man, felt so deeply interested in the inscription." "Yes, sir; I know all about that," said Glyn coldly; "and Singh told me that this Professor Barclay wanted the belt left with him." "Yes," cried Morris; "but it was not done, and I strongly commended Singh for his firmness in refusing." "Yes, sir, I know that too," said Glyn; "and Singh must not go to this man's apartments again." "My dear young friend," cried Morris, whose brow was damp with perspiration, "I quite agree with you there. It was rather thoughtless on my part--a slip such as we are all liable to make. I was led away by the literary part of the question, and I somehow thought that it would be to the advantage of our young fellow--student if he learned from a good authority a little more about the inscription upon those stones." "Yes, sir; there was no harm in that," said Glyn quietly. "No, Severn, not the slightest, and as soon as I found the Professor making such a request--one that he certainly ought not to have made--I repented very bitterly of that which I felt to be a gross error on my part. There," he continued, with a half-laugh, "you see I can speak frankly when I have made a mistake. I hope you will always do the same. But, of course, you do not think it in the slightest degree necessary that you should make any report about this to the Doctor?" "What do you think, sir?" said Glyn coldly. Morris uttered a gasp, and, looking wildly in the young speaker's eyes, he felt behind him till one hand touched a chair-back, and then he sank down speechless, to seek for his pocket-handkerchief and wipe his wet brow. "What do I think?" he said, at last, with a groan. "I think it means ruin for me. Mr Severn, I have apologised for speaking so sharply to you, and now I must humble myself to you. If you report this to the Doctor only one thing can follow. I shall have lost his confidence for ever, and he will tell me at once to send in my resignation. Mr Severn, you and your young companion don't know what it is to be poor. The loss of my post here under such circumstances, due to a weak desire to help a fellow-master in distress, would be quite sufficient to injure me dreadfully. If I have sinned I am bitterly punished for what I have done. This is a humiliation, a cruel humiliation, such as you can hardly realise." "Please don't say any more, sir," said Glyn quickly. "This hurts me almost as much as it does you. What I have said was on behalf of Singh, and I shall certainly not say a word to the Doctor, for I know that now you will help me in watching over my father's ward." "Mr Severn," began Morris, "I--I--Oh, I cannot speak. Try and realise what I feel. But tell me once more, so that I may go away at rest: this is to be a private matter between us two?" "Yes, sir, of course," cried Glyn earnestly, and they separated. "Well, where is it?" said Singh, a few minutes later. "I couldn't find it," was Glyn's reply. "Here you had better take your keys." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE PROFESSOR'S GRATITUDE. There was a great talk at the Doctor's establishment about the event of the season, an event that filled the boys' brains, seniors and juniors, for weeks before it took place, and brought forth a rebuke from the Doctor one morning at breakfast, for the masters were reporting that the papers sent in by the boys were very much wanting in merit. There was a report, too, going about that Monsieur Brohanne had been seen walking up and down the class-room tearing his hair--a most serious matter in his case, for it was exceedingly short. Matters had come to such a pitch that the Doctor sternly gave quite a little lecture upon the duty of every pupil to do his very best, whether at work or play, saying that a boy who could not give his mind to working could not devote it to playing well. And if in future, he said, his pupils did not work hard, he should be obliged to make them suffer the contumely of sending in word that they would not be able to meet Strongley School in the annual cricket-match. "I regret it very much, young gentlemen," said the Doctor; "but if you will disgrace your _alma mater_ by idleness, I have no other alternative. Duty and pleasure must go hand in hand." The boys groaned that morning, and broke up into little knots after breakfast to discuss the matter. Little jealousies were forgotten, and Slegge declared it was too bad of the Doctor, who seemed to be blaming them, the seniors, for the failings of those lazy little beggars the juniors, just when their picked eleven had arrived at such perfection, through his batting, Glyn's bowling, and the Nigger's wicket-keeping, that success was certain. There was gloom in every face save one, and that appertained to Morris, who watched his opportunity, button-holed Glyn and Singh, and led them off into the solitude of the lecture-hall. "Good news!" he said. "Splendid news! Gentlemen, this is entirely a private matter between us three, and I know you will be ready to rejoice." "What, have you got some fine appointment, Mr Morris?" cried Glyn, who had grown to be on quite friendly terms with the master in a very short time of late, Morris making a point of treating him always with genuine respect, and aiding him in every way possible--coaching him, in fact, with his mathematics, in which, truth to tell, Glyn did not shine. "No," cried Morris, in answer to the lad's question; "it is better than that. Somebody else has." "You mean Professor Barclay?" said Singh. "Yes, sir; I mean Professor Barclay. I have had a letter from him this morning telling me of his success, and that he leaves for India directly, to take up some post in connection with the Sanskrit college." "I am very glad," said Singh, "for he must have been dreadfully poor." "Sadly so," said Morris. "I am glad too," said Glyn; "very." "You don't know what a relief it is to me," continued Morris confidentially. "Is he coming down to see you before he goes?" said Glyn. "Oh no. He writes word that he is staying at apartments in London in the neighbourhood of the East India Docks until the great Indiaman sails, and desires his most respectful compliments to you both, and above all he begs me to tell you, Mr Singh, that the feelings of gratitude within his breast will never expire. While, as now he is entering upon a career of prosperity, many weeks will not elapse before he sends something, upon receipt of which he hopes you will return to him certain little memoranda that you hold, signed by his name." "Ha, ha!" laughed Singh, "he'll wait a long time. Why, I burned them all directly after he gave them to me. Are you going to write to him, Mr Morris?" "Yes; I must reply to his letter." "Then, please tell him from me that I wish him all success in my beautiful country, and that he is never to trouble himself any more about the memoranda." "For you have burned them?" said Morris. "Yes, of course." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. SOMEBODY IS UNTRUSTWORTHY. The boys did their best to worthily earn their cricket-match, and it came off some weeks after in due time. The morning broke gloriously; four wagonettes came round to the door after a very early breakfast, and the masters followed in an open carriage with the Doctor, Wrench closing the door of each vehicle, and confiding to each party as it started that he wished it had been his luck to go as well; but he was going to enjoy himself that day by having a regular good polish at the Doctor's plate. Strongley was reached in good time, the wickets were pitched, and the enemy, as the boys called them, made such a poor score in their innings that they had to follow on to another failure, the result being that the Doctor's pupils beat them in one innings, and drove back to Plymborough cheering madly. As it happened, during the return, Glyn and Singh were separated; Glyn being in the first wagonette and reaching Plymborough a good half-hour before the last one, in which Singh rode. Hurrying up to his room for a good wash and change, to get it over before Singh returned, the first thing that caught the boy's eyes was Singh's little bunch of keys hanging from the lock of the bullock-trunk in the corner. Glyn was in such high spirits that the sight of the bunch set him laughing. "Well, of all the untrustworthy fellows I ever knew," he said, "poor old Singh's about the worst." Crossing to the trunk, he raised the lid, which yielded easily to his hand, banged it down again, turned the key, and put the bunch in the pocket of his flannel trousers ready to transfer to his ordinary garments when he dressed. He had just finished when a burst of cheering and the rattle of wheels announced the coming of the last wagonette; and soon after, tired and hungry, Singh came up, to help fill the corridor with a chorus of chattering, and then hurriedly went on for his change of dress. Then followed the supper the Doctor gave them, and, later on, the bell for prayers and rest. "Hope you haven't lost your keys," said Glyn, as they began to undress, utterly wearied out. "Lost my keys! Why should I lose my keys?" said Singh with a yawn. "Here they are! No, they are not! I left them in my flannels." "Nice fellow you are to take care of your things!" said Glyn, as his companion limped across the room to where he had thrown his dusty and green-marked cricketing suit--anyhow--upon a chair. "Oh, murder!" he said. "I am so stiff. I can hardly move, and my right hand feels all bruised and strained; but I say, Glynny, I hardly missed a ball; and didn't I play old gooseberry with some of their stumps?" "Yes, we must have rather astonished them," cried Glyn. "They haven't had such a licking as that for a long time." "Here, I say," cried Singh, "you have been up to some games," and he fumbled in vain in his flannels-pockets. "I say, you shouldn't do this, Glynny. The key of my India trunk is one of the bunch, and you know I don't like any games played with that." "I haven't played any games," said Glyn quietly. "Now, no nonsense," cried Singh pettishly. "You have got my keys." "Oh yes, I have got them," cried Glyn. "Here they are. Catch!" The bunch went flying through the air, and with one quick snap of the hand Singh caught them and laid them down sharply on the dressing-table with a bang. "I don't like it," he said angrily, for he was very tired. "You shouldn't take my keys." "Yes, I should," said Glyn quietly. "I tell you you shouldn't." "Then you oughtn't to leave them stuck in your box, as if to invite all the servants to come and have a rummage, when you go out to a cricket-match." "I say, I didn't do that, did I? I had them in my pocket just before I started." "If you did, how could I have them in mine when you came back?" "Why, I--I am certain--" began Singh; and then, "Oh!" "`Oh,' indeed!" cried Glyn. "But how did it happen?" "I was just getting in the wagonette, when I thought it would be good fun to have one of those red Indian silk handkerchiefs to tie to a stump and use as a flag." "Yes; as you did." "Well, there were six of them in my big box, and I ran up to get one." "And then left the keys in the box?" "Well, I suppose I did, in the hurry and confusion. Oh, Glynny, what a beast I am! I wish I hadn't such a brute of a temper. It makes me flare up all at once and say such nasty things; and you are always as cool as a gourd, and get the best of me." "Well, you should be more careful," said Glyn. "I wish, too, that you hadn't such a temper. You ought to master it." "I can't," said the lad sadly. "It always masters me. It's through being born in such a hot climate, I suppose. Oh, I do hate to have to be always begging your pardon." "Then I suppose that's why you don't do it now?" "Oh, you know, old chap! I do beg it heartily. You don't want me to go down on my knees like a coolie?" "Not I; only, somehow or other, I seem to be always ruffling up your coat about something." "Well, go on; I do deserve it," cried Singh. "I shall be such a good boy some day, thanks to Professor Severn. No, no; don't lecture me any more." "Not going to, only to say one word or two that the dad used to say to me when I had been flying out with some of the servants over yonder." "Let's have it then, and done with it," said Singh with a sigh. "`A man who cannot govern himself,'" said Glyn slowly, "`is not fit to govern other people.'" "Oh, but I shall be a splendid governor by the time you have finished me off; and you will always be there to put me straight when I am going crooked; and I say, don't go and spoil a jolly day by a fuss over such a little matter as a bunch of keys." "No, I won't," said Glyn. "But, you know, somebody might--" "Bother somebody! And if he, she, or it had, I should have said that it was all your fault." "My fault? Why?" "Because you wouldn't take charge of you know what." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE DOCTOR'S OPINIONS ON THE BELT. Time glided on, with the friendly feeling between Morris and the boys increasing, for the mathematical master, with all his weakness and vanity, felt at heart somewhat touched by the respect and deference paid to him by Glyn. "A thorough gentleman at heart," he said to himself. "Why, some boys would have gloried in the feeling that they had got me under their thumbs. And that Singh--what a splendid man he'll make!" He was one of the first to display his genuine delight when the Strongley School lads came over to play a return match at Plymborough to avenge the beating, coming strengthened in their eleven by four old pupils of their school, two of them almost men. But it was in vain, for Glyn's bowling played havoc with their wickets, and Singh stumped out all four of them in their two innings, three in the first and one in the second; while, when the Plymborough lads went to the wickets, Slegge playing his slogging game as soon as he got well in, and then after Burney had had a very fair innings, Slegge was joined by Glyn, and these two, amidst burst after burst of cheers, kept piling up the score till, with one unlucky cut, Slegge sent the ball up like a rocket, to travel far away, and then be cleverly caught out by long-field-off. After that the game went on, with Glyn seeming to do what he liked with the enemy's bowling, all the rest of his eleven playing a good steady game, Singh getting the most modest score; for, much as he shone as a wicket-keeper, he was not specially handy with his bat. Still, he added his modicum, till all had fallen. And Singh, who was standing with Morris, enthusiastically joined the master in the applause and cheers that welcomed Glyn as he carried out his bat. "Splendid!" cried Morris. "Grand! The finest bit of batting I have seen in schoolboy life. I am proud of you, my lad. Oh, if you would only shine like this over your algebra!" It was all genuine. So the result was that the Strongley boys went back after a second bad beating, in spite of the four old members of their eleven, one of whom had actually begun to shave. And then the school-life went on, with its ups and downs, pleasures and pains, as school-life will, till one morning--the morning following a pillow-chat in bed between the two boys who play the principal parts in this story, when their discourse had been about the length of time that had elapsed since the Colonel had visited Plymborough--Wrench came to the class-room to announce that the Doctor desired the presence of Mr Severn and Mr Singh. There was a whispered word or two as the pair rose from their seats wondering what it meant, and there were plenty of malicious grins, Slegge's containing the most venom, as he whispered to Burney loud enough for Singh to hear, "Cane!" while Burney's merry little face grew distorted as he caught Glyn's glance, and then began to rub his knuckles in his eyes, as if suggesting what his big friend would be doing when he came back from seeing the Doctor. "I say, is anything the matter?" said Singh nervously. "No. Nonsense!" replied Glyn. "I am sure we have both been doing our best." This was as they got outside the class-room and were following Wrench into the hall. "Hurrah! I know!" whispered Glyn. "I believe it's the dad come down at last." "Oh!" cried Singh joyously. "Then he'll want us to come and dine with him. How jolly!" For it was long indeed since the Colonel had been down; and though he wrote pretty regularly, first to one and then to the other, excusing himself on the ground that he had been very busy of late over Indian business connected with the late Maharajah's affairs, letters did not mean a day's holiday ending with a pleasant dinner and a long talk about old days in Dour. So the boys fully expected to find the fierce-looking old Colonel chatting with the Doctor and waiting to greet them in his hearty manner. But they were disappointed, for as they entered the study the Doctor laid down his pen, nodded gravely to both, and picked up a letter. "I have just heard from Colonel Severn inquiring after your welfare, though he says that one of you proves to be a very fair correspondent." The Doctor turned over the letter and read a scrap here and there, almost muttering, as if to himself, and then aloud: "Ah, here it is," he said: "I hope Singh is taking care of his belt, and that he is not foolish enough to wear it at any time." The Doctor looked up from one to the other. "I must confess to feeling a little puzzled here," he continued. "`Foolish enough to wear it at any time.' Now, as a boy, I have a very vivid recollection of regularly wearing a belt, especially when cricketing or running. We had a tradition amongst us that a belt was a very valuable support; and then we have antiquity on our side, the _cestus_, for instance, and allusions in the old writers regarding the gladiatorial sports, and the use of the belt by strong men. Does the Colonel mean the reverse of what he says, and is this a hint that I should give you a word of warning, Mr Singh, not to neglect its use?" The Doctor directed a glance at Glyn, and then said sternly: "Have I said anything, Mr Severn, to excite your risible muscles?" For he had detected the exchange of a glance between the boys and a faint smile upon Glyn's lips. "No, sir. I beg your pardon, sir. It is only the remark about the belt." "Well, sir, I was not aware that in my remark about the belt I had said anything facetious. Perhaps, Mr Singh, you can explain Colonel Severn's allusion without turning my words into a subject for buffoonery." Singh looked questioningly at Glyn. "I am speaking to you, Mr Singh," continued the Doctor angrily. "Have the goodness to reply yourself. You can do so without Mr Severn's aid." "Yes, sir," said Singh hastily; "but Glyn Severn gave me strict orders not to speak about the belt to anybody." "Dear me!" said the Doctor, looking from one to the other. "And by what authority?" "My guardian's, I suppose, sir." "Dear me!" said the Doctor again. "The Colonel says he hopes that you are not so foolish as to wear the belt at any time. Your schoolfellow forbids you to speak about it to any one. Well, there, I do not wish to ask impertinent questions. That will do, gentlemen. I merely sent to you for enlightenment. You need say no more." "I beg your pardon, sir; I think I ought to," said Glyn. "I did tell Singh not to talk about it, and to keep it safely locked up in his box, for it is very valuable, and I believe it is the one that his father the Maharajah used to wear." "Oh," said the Doctor, "now I begin to understand. But a belt, you say?" "Yes, sir," said Glyn, "an ornamental belt with a large clasp formed of three emeralds engraved with words in Sanskrit." "Then it is quite an article of ornamentation?" said the Doctor. "Yes, sir." "And valuable, I suppose?" "I suppose so, sir, very valuable, besides being a family relic that has been worn by the different chiefs for many years past." "A family heirloom, then," said the Doctor in a tone which showed his interest. "Now I understand," and he smiled pleasantly. "I hope that `he is not foolish enough to wear it at any time.'--Of course; hardly an article of ornament for a young scholar to wear, Mr Singh." "No, sir," replied the boy. "That's what Glyn said." "And very properly," continued the Doctor, giving the lad in question a friendly nod. "And that I was not to show it to anybody, sir." "Quite right, Mr Singh, and I am very glad to hear that your schoolfellow displays a wisdom beyond his years. You see, the world is far from perfection; and weak, wicked, foolish people might have their cupidity excited by the sight of such an object, with results that would be extremely painful to every one here. May I ask, then--by the way--is this belt attractive-looking?" "Yes, sir, very handsome," said Glyn. "It is meant to bear a jewelled sword." "Dear me!" cried the Doctor. "I hope that Mr Singh has no lethal weapon of that kind in his room." "Oh no, sir," said Singh hastily. "I am glad to hear it," said the Doctor, smiling; and he took up and raised his quill-pen, giving it a gentle nourish in the air. "Remember, my dear boy, what one of our writers has said: that the pen is mightier than the sword. And where may this handsome belt be?" "Locked up in the bottom of my trunk that I brought from India, sir." "In your room, then?" said the Doctor. "Yes, sir." "But securely locked up, you say?" "Yes, sir," replied Singh, colouring a little, as he directed a sharp glance at Glyn, who added to his confusion by making a grimace. "Ah," said the Doctor thoughtfully, "that is quite right. Emeralds," he continued thoughtfully, "engraved with Sanskrit letters. An ancient Indian relic, of course. And very curious, no doubt. It is quite an old custom that of engraving gems, Mr Severn. The Greeks and Romans really excelled in the extremely difficult art, and I have seen in museums very beautifully engraved heads of Grecian monarchs and Roman emperors and empresses, and also signet-rings and other ornaments. Dear me," he continued, with a smile from one to the other, "I am much surprised to find that such a specimen of the engraver's work has been lying here in my establishment, and my curiosity is greatly excited. But really, from what you say, such a thing as this ought not to be kept in a schoolboy's box, but in an iron safe along with plate, or lying at a banker's. Mr Singh, really I should like to see this--er--article of--er--er--this ornamental belt. Will you show it to me?" "I can't, sir," said the boy half-spitefully, and he flashed a look at Glyn. "Severn said, sir, that I was not to talk about it or show it to anybody." "As I have before said," continued the Doctor, "I quite approve of your friend's anxiety respecting your position. It was very wise, and I will not press to see it, feeling as I do that no parade should be made of such an object as this. Why, every pupil in the establishment would be wanting to see it, and--There, it is much better not." "But I didn't mean, sir," said Glyn, "that Singh should refuse to show it to you. It was only to guard against such a thing as you have suggested.--Go and fetch it, Singh, at once." Singh hurried eagerly out of the room; and as soon as he was gone Glyn said, "Singh is getting more and more English, sir, every day; but he used to be very fond of talking about being an Indian prince, and was weak enough to be proud of that belt and ready to show it to any one who asked." "Not to his fellow-pupils, I hope?" said the Doctor. "No, sir," replied Glyn, who began to feel that he was treading upon dangerous ground, and he hastened to add, "that's why I gave him such strict orders, sir." "Quite right, Mr Severn; quite right," said the Doctor. "I highly approve of what you have done. But between ourselves--I say it because you are a very sensible lad, and I trust that you will see that it is something not to be repeated, for I speak with the best intentions--I am a little surprised that your father the Colonel, Mr Singh's guardian, should have placed at a mere boy's disposal what I presume to be a very valuable and unique portion of an Indian regalia." "Well, sir, it was like this," said Glyn, flushing and speaking hastily. "Like a child who, longing for a toy, Singh was always bothering my father to let him have it to wear. You see, sir, Indian princes dress up so very much, to look big before their people, and they have such numbers of jewels and ornaments that one more or less does not seem of much consequence. Singh has got hundreds of things belonging to him that he will have some day to do what he pleases with, and my father, I suppose, thought that it didn't much matter about letting him have one." "No doubt, Mr Severn, the Colonel had perfectly correct views upon the subject, living as he has done nearly all his life at an Indian court, and I am only looking at the matter with the eyes of an ordinary Englishman who never wears so much as a ring. Oh, here he comes. Let me see. I have a large magnifying-glass here in my table-drawer that may be useful to help to decipher the intaglio writing. Ah, we ought to have had here that poor friend of Mr Morris's who applied to me for an engagement; but I hear that he has left the town." The Doctor was searching in his drawer so that he did not see the change in Glyn's countenance; and as he looked up it was not at his pupil, but at the door, which was suddenly thrown open, and Singh rushed in, looking wild and staring, as he literally shouted: "It's gone! It's gone!" CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. SINGH'S ANNOUNCEMENT. "Gone!" said the Doctor, letting the reading-glass fall upon his blotting-pad. "What has gone?" "My father's belt!" cried the boy passionately. "It has been stolen. It is not in the box." "Stop, stop, stop!" said the Doctor firmly. "You are speaking excitedly. My dear boy, be calm." "But it's gone, sir!" cried Singh, with his eyes flashing now, as he looked from one to the other. "I tell you it's been stolen.--Oh, Glyn, what will your father say? What shall I do?" "Be calm," repeated the Doctor slowly. "My dear boy, recollect that I stand to you, as we say in Latin, _in loco parentis_; and in the place of your guardian I must tell you that in your excitement you are making a very rash and cruel charge." "But, sir--" began Singh, with an imperious stamp of the foot. "Stop!" cried the Doctor. "At my time of life I have learned a good deal of the weakness of human nature, and how prone we are to judge wrongfully, especially in a case like this. On several occasions I have known people to be suspected and charged with theft through the weakness of the accuser. Nothing is easier or more common than for money or a missing jewel or a book to be hastily looked upon as stolen when the one has been spent and forgotten, the others in the same way been placed elsewhere for security." "Yes, sir," cried Glyn excitedly, "and I don't want to go against Singh here; but I have known him do stupid things like that.--Look here, Singhy," he continued hotly, "did you properly search the box?" "Yes," cried Singh. "When I found the case wasn't there where I put it, I turned it upside down, and the contents are lying all over the floor." "And what about your drawers? Did you look in them?" "You know I never kept it in my drawers," cried Singh. "Yes, but you might have put it in one of them." "Shouldn't I have remembered that I did?" snapped out the boy. "You might," replied Glyn quietly; "but I have put away things sometimes and forgotten where, and when I found them afterwards I have wondered how they got there." "Ex--actly, Mr Severn," said the Doctor; "and so have I, especially in the case of books." "I am sure it's been stolen," cried Singh passionately. "Well, I am sure you're wrong," said Glyn, "for there's nobody here who could do such a thing, though you always were very stupid about your keys." "What's that?" said the Doctor sharply. "Oh, I have found his keys left in his box or drawers, sir, more than once." "Well," cried Singh, in the same excited tone, and he literally glared at his companion, "suppose, when I was busy, sir, or in a hurry, I did leave them in the lock! Was I to think that some thief was waiting to go in and take that case away? Why, when my father was alive, if one of his people had done such a thing as steal anything he would have been given over to the guards, killed at once, and his body thrown into the river." "Ah, yes," said the Doctor quietly. "But that was in India, my young friend, and matters are different here. Now, if you please," he went on gravely, as he replaced the reading-glass in the drawer, "you will be good enough to smooth your countenance and hold your tongue. Have you told any one else of this?" "No, sir," cried the boy. "I ran down directly to come and tell you." "Here! What are you going to do?" said the Doctor, as Singh moved quickly towards the fireplace. "Ring for the police to be fetched," cried Singh. "Stop!" said the Doctor sternly. "And please recollect that I am master here." "But--" "Silence, sir! Now come with me and Mr Severn up into your dormitory; and, until I give you leave, neither you nor Mr Severn will say a word to a soul." "But--" "Did you hear me tell you, sir, to be silent?" cried the Doctor, in his deepest and most commanding tones. "If there has been a theft committed, which I greatly doubt, this jewel or jewels must be recovered. Such an ornament, if taken by a thief, could not easily be disposed of, and we must first have a calm and quiet investigation of what will in all probability prove to be a mistake.--What do you think, Mr Severn?" "I think it is a mistake, sir." "Then come with me up into your room, and I desire that you both treat the matter in a calm and thoughtful way. I cannot have a matter of this kind made into a piece of gossiping scandal.--Mr Severn, will you be kind enough to open the door?" Glyn sprang to the handle, and the Doctor walked slowly out, followed by the boys, while Glyn gripped his companion by the wrist and said hastily. "Come quietly, and if we meet anybody don't make them see that something is wrong by wearing a face like that." Singh looked at him fiercely, and then followed in silence, passing nobody, as they made for the corridor and entered the door of their dormitory, which Singh in his haste had left open. The Doctor stepped in and made way for the two boys to pass, himself closing the door after them, and then turning, raising his eyebrows a little as he saw the state of the floor, where the carpet was scattered with different garments and odds and ends, while the bullock-trunk lay upside down. The Doctor glanced at Glyn, who read his wish in his eyes. "Where are your keys, Singh?" he cried. "I don't know. What do you want with them?" "Why, to search your drawers, of course." "I can do that myself," said the boy haughtily. "I know that; but I am going to do it," said Glyn firmly. And brushing by his companion, he went to the overturned trunk, turned it back into position, and drew the keys from the lock. Singh made no attempt to check him, but drew himself up and stood with folded arms, scowling angrily as Glyn unlocked and carefully emptied drawer after drawer in turn, replacing the contents as he went on. "Was the belt or girdle lying loose, Mr Singh?" said the Doctor calmly, as the search went on. "No, sir," and the boy, more himself now, described the colour and shape of the missing case. Then there was silence, which was only broken by the rustling noise that Glyn was making as he went on with the search till he had finished, closed the last drawer, locked it, and taken out the key. Then, with sinking heart, he said quietly, "I am afraid he's right, sir. It's gone." "Is there any other receptacle," said the Doctor, "in which it could have been placed?" "No, sir," said Singh bitterly; "there is nowhere else." "I am thinking," said the Doctor, "that it has not been stolen. If it had been, the person who took it would have been content with rolling up the girdle, as you say it was of soft leather, placing it in his pocket, reclosing the case, and leaving it behind--for two reasons: one, that it would be noticeable if carried about; another, that it might lie shut up in your box for any length of time, with the change that had taken place unsuspected. For, going to your box again and again and seeing the case there, the chances are that you would not have opened it to note that the contents were safe." The Doctor was silent for a minute or two. Then--"So there is no other receptacle in the room where the belt could have been placed?" "No, sir," said Singh, with a scarcely perceptible sneer in his tones. "There is nowhere else, sir, unless Glyn has put it away in his own drawers so as to keep it safe." "Oh!" cried Glyn, starting round angrily. "Be silent, my boy," said the Doctor, laying his white hand upon the boy's shoulder. "Such a thing is quite possible, as I have previously explained. I was about to ask you to open the drawers yonder." "But, oh, sir," cried Glyn, "you don't think--" "My dear boy, no," replied the Doctor, with a look which made Glyn eagerly take out his keys, rapidly unlock every drawer, and then turn to Singh with a keen, angry look upon his countenance, which was now growing hard; and as he pointed towards the drawers he uttered hoarsely the one word, "Look." "No," said the Doctor gravely. "Examine the drawers yourself, Severn. You feel now that it is impossible that you can have done this thing. Possibly, perhaps, after coming into the room alone and finding that your companion had left his own keys in his box--" "I did find them like that, sir, twice." "Ah," said the Doctor, "and changed the _locale_ of the missing belt." "No, sir," said Glyn. "I only took the keys out after seeing that the trunk was locked, and gave them to Singh." "Each time?" said the Doctor. "Tax your memory. Are you sure of that?" "Quite, sir. Certain. I wouldn't have taken the thing out. I hated his having it here." "But tell me this," said the Doctor; "the last time you found the keys hanging in the lock, did you look in to see if the case was there?" Glyn shook his head. "Ah," said the Doctor, and he stood looking on while Glyn deftly emptied and restored each drawer in turn, the task being facilitated by the orderly state of the contents. "Nothing," said the Doctor, as that task was ended. "Now, Mr Singh, it will be as well to replace those scattered objects of attire in your box." "Oh," cried Singh angrily, "I can't think now of such trifles as those." "Replace them in the box," said the Doctor sternly.--"Mr Severn, have the goodness to help your friend." As the Doctor spoke he gravely sank into one of the little bedroom chairs, and sat thinking with wrinkled brow, and watching the proceedings of the two boys till they had ended. "Now," he said, "can you think out any clue to help us to find the missing case?" "No, sir," came almost simultaneously from the boys' lips. "No," said the Doctor. "The mystery, for so I must call it, is at present dark and impenetrable. I am not going to send for the police to make a clumsy and painful investigation at once, because I still cling to the belief that something will occur to you two boys that will help us to pierce what now looks very black and impenetrable. You will kindly do as I tell you: go on with your daily avocations as if nothing had happened, and leave any expose of what may or may not be a painful matter to come gradually and from me." Both boys responded by a sharp nod of the head. "If you have not thought about the matter," continued the Doctor, "let me tell you this--though you, Severn, must have felt it only a short time back. Every person who is questioned or examined about this missing belt is bound to feel a pang of indignation at what he looks upon as being treated as a thief. We are approaching to fourscore personages in this establishment; and if the belt has been stolen, the probability is that seventy-nine are innocent and only one guilty. Now, you see, to find the one guilty we must spare the seventy-nine innocent. Do you apprehend my meaning?" "Yes, sir, of course," cried Glyn, while Singh was silent. "Then I shall proceed as I think best; but I tell you this: I shall be perfectly firm and just, and shall leave no stone unturned to find out the author of this scandal." The Doctor turned and left the room, leaving the two boys alone. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. DOWN THE SCHOOL GROUNDS. Later on in life, when Dr Bewley's pupils had grown up to manhood, they used to think that in spite of school-troubles and a great deal of hard work, with the natural accompaniments of temporary fits of ill-health (which matured reason taught them had generally been due to some bit of boyish folly not unconnected with pocket-money, extra home-tips, and visits to the highly popular tuck-shop), the sun had always seemed to shine brightly at Dr Bewley's establishment. There was only one boy there who wore spectacles, not because he had bad eyes, for they were very bright and good, but because nature had formed the lenses of a more than usually rounded shape, with the consequence that their owner was short-sighted and needed a pair of concave glasses to deal with the rays of light and lengthen the focus of the natural lenses. But, metaphorically and poetically, as somebody once wrote, every boy wore glasses of the _couleur-de-rose_ type--those which make everything that is happily beautiful seem ten times more so, and in later days have made many a man say to himself, "Oh, if I could see life now as I saw it then!" There were cloudy and rainy days, of course, at Plymborough; and when the former were recalled it was generally in connection with the loss of Singh's belt. It was on one of these cloudy days, when paradoxically the sun was shining brilliantly in the pure blue south-western sky, that Glyn and Singh were strolling down the grounds together, looking straight before them, with the full intention of driving the school-troubles out of their minds for the time being. "What's the good of worrying about it, Singhy?" Glyn had said. "I know it's a horrible nuisance, with the suspicion and unpleasantry, and it was a very beautiful thing, which I am very, very sorry has been lost; but let's try and forget it." "Oh, who can forget it?" cried Singh impatiently. "Well, I know it's hard work, and it all seems like a nasty little bit of grit in the school machine. I can't get on with a single lesson without your wretched belt getting into it." "My wretched belt!" cried Singh hotly. "Now, don't get into a passion, old chap. That isn't being English. You must learn not to put so much pepper in one's daily curry." "Oh, I am not cold-blooded like you. You English are so horribly tame." "Oh no, we are not," said Glyn. "We have got plenty of pepper in us when we want it; but that's where education comes in. I don't mean Dr Bewley's stuff and all we learn of the masters; but, as my dad says, the cultivation that makes a fellow an English gentleman. And do you know what that means?" "Oh, bother! No." "Then I'll tell you, Singhy. It's learning to be able to keep the stopper in the cruet till it's really wanted. Do you understand?" "No; and I wish you'd talk in plain English and say what you mean, and not build up a rigmarole all round it. Our people at home never do so." "Oh, come, I like that!" cried Glyn, laughing. "Why, people out in the East are always, when they want to teach anything, turning it into a fable." "Bother fables! Bother the belt! It's made the whole place seem miserable." "Then don't think about it any more." "I can't help it, I tell you. Why, you owned just now that you were as bad." "Not so bad as you are, Singhy. I do try to throw it all aside. You don't." "Ah, it's very well for you to talk. You haven't lost something that's worth nobody knows how much." "Well, but never mind; you can afford it. See what a jolly old Croesus you are going to be when you grow up!" "Bah! How do I know that I am going to be rich?" "Don't be a humbug. Why, father has been looking after your revenues for years, and I heard him say once that money was accumulating tremendously during your minority. After all, what's a belt with some bright stones in it? You could have a dozen more made if you wanted them. But you don't! Who wants to look pretty like some great girl? The greatest thing in life is to be a man. Father says so, and you know he's always right." "Yes," said Singh thoughtfully; "he's always right; but did he say that?" "Well, not quite," said Glyn, laughing; and Singh looked at him suspiciously. "What he said was that the grandest thing in life was to be a boy." "Ah," cried Singh argumentatively, "but that is very different. A man can do what he likes, but a boy can't." "Oh, but a boy's a young man, or is going to be. I mean to be always glad that I am a boy, for father says that when I grow up to be a man I shall be often wishing that I was young again. Now, don't let's go on worrying about this and the old belt. You never wore it, and if it hadn't been lost I don't believe you ever would have used it. You see, after living in England you'll have learned that great English people never dress up except on some grand day when Parliament's going to be opened or somebody's going to be crowned; and then noblemen, I suppose, put on robes and wear their coronets. You'd never have wanted the belt." "Well, I don't know about that," said Singh. "Of course I shall always dress like an Englishman; but I suppose sometimes, by-and-by, I shall have to dress up to show myself to my people." "Oh yes, just once in a way, and when you are going to meet the other chiefs; but I'll bet sixpence you will soon be glad enough to take the things off again." "But I say," cried Singh, "look here. What about soldiers and officers? They dress up pretty grandly." "Well, yes," said Glyn laughingly; "we are obliged to make them look nice, or they wouldn't care about going shooting people and cutting off heads. Now, promise me you won't worry any more about the belt." "Well, I will try," cried Singh, "and I shouldn't have bothered about it so much now, only every fellow in the school looks at me as if he were thinking about it all the time." "Don't believe it," said Glyn. "You fancy he does. There now, let it go. Here, come and have a turn at something." "What?" "I don't know. Let's go across the field there and get under the elms. There are a whole lot of the fellows there. They have got some game on. There's Slegge yonder." "Oh, I don't want to go where Slegge is." "But you should want to go where Slegge is. I know he's a nasty, disagreeable fellow; but you needn't notice that. If he's civil--well, that will be right enough. If he isn't, treat him with good-humoured contempt. You aren't afraid of him, are you?" "I! Afraid of him!" cried Singh indignantly, and he emitted quite a puff of angry breath.--"What did you do that for?" he continued angrily, for, as if by accident, Glyn, with a quick gesture, had knocked off his cap, and then stooping quickly snatched it from off the grass and put it carefully on again. "You did that on purpose," cried Singh angrily. "Oh, it's all right. It was the stopper came off, and I put it on again." "Bah!" cried Singh with a snort; but he walked quietly on, gradually calming down as his companion half-guided him towards the group of boys who were idling about under the elm-trees, pretty close to where the new piece of fence marked the place where the elephant went through. Yielding to Glyn, Singh would have walked quietly up with him and been ready enough under his friend's guidance to embark on any sport or game that was going on; but as Glyn afterwards said when he was laughing it over, "old Slegge" made the pepper-stopper shoot out at once, for, after evidently seeing who were approaching, he slowly edged himself round till his back was to the companions, and began talking aloud, measuring the time by means of his ears till he came to the conclusion that Singh was near enough to catch everything he said, and even Glyn winced as he heard the lad say: "Oh, by the way, you fellows, I suppose you have done it for a lark, and you mean to put it back in my box; but I have missed my turban, the one with the big pearl in it that fastens the plume of feathers." The boys were silent, staring at the speaker, for they did not catch the point of the remark; and Slegge continued: "You see, I set great store by that turban. It was an old one of my father's, and of course it was very valuable. You see, in Bungly Horror a turban like that--some fellows call them puggamarees, but that's only because they are ignorant beggars--but as I was saying, turbans like that come down from father to son. I don't know how old this one was, and nobody notices that they are old, because they always go so regularly to the wash; and you know the more muslin's washed the whiter it gets, while as for the holes, of course, they are the beauty of it, because it gets to look more and more like splendid old lace." Slegge's remarks remained problematical for a few moments, and then the meaning came with a flash to Burton, who had suddenly caught sight of Singh and Glyn. He burst into a merry guffaw at once, and thus set off the rest, while Slegge waited till they had done before going on with the by no means poor imitation of Singh's manner of speaking and a rather peculiar utterance of the consonant _r_. "I don't know what you fellows are laughing at," he said, with a look of supreme innocency; "but I suppose you don't know any better. It's your ignorance of the value of family relics like that; and because you never see me bouncing about the schoolyard with my turban on, you think I haven't got one in my box--I mean, had one; so now no more nonsense. Whoever took it for a lark had better put it back before I get my monkey up--Indian monkey, I mean--for if I do there's going to be head-punching, and no mistake." "Come on, Singh," said Glyn quietly, as he slipped his arm through his companion's and tried to lead him away. "Don't take any notice of the malicious brute." But Singh's feet seemed to be shod with something magnetic which made them cling to the ground, and he stood fast. "Come on, I say," cried Glyn. "No nonsense! Do you hear?" Singh turned upon him quickly with an angry flash in his eyes, and he was about to burst out with some fierce retort; but in those brief moments it seemed to him that it was not Glyn's but the Colonel's masterful eyes that were gazing down into his, as, truth to tell, they had more than once looked down upon his father in some special crisis when in the cause of right the brave English officer had with a few words mastered the untutored Indian chief, and maintained his position as adviser as well as friend. The next minute Singh was walking quietly away by his companion's side; but his arm kept giving a sharp jerk as Slegge went on speaking more and more loudly, uttering words so that the friends might hear. "I don't care," said Slegge; "you fellows can do what you like, but I am not going to believe it. It's all a got-up thing. I don't believe there ever was any precious belt, or, if there was, it was only a green glass sham. Emeralds set in gold, indeed! Whoever heard of a fellow coming to school with a thing like that in his box? Bah! Yah! It isn't likely that even a nigger would do it." And as the companions passed out of earshot, Slegge continued, "It doesn't matter to me; my time's nearly up at school, thank goodness! and I shall finish with the next half. But I do pity you poor beggars who have got to stay. I don't know what the place is coming to. It seems to me that old Bewley's head's getting soft, unless he's getting so hard-up that he's glad to take anybody's money to keep the old mathematical musical-box going, or else he wouldn't have taken a nigger to be put in the same rank with English gentlemen." "Here, you had better mind," said Burney. "Why?" snapped out Slegge. "Because you will have old Glyn hear you." "Pooh! What do I care for Glyn?" "Ever so much," said Burney. "I don't suppose you want another licking." "Look here, Burney, none of your cheek, please, or else somebody else will get a licking. None of that. You were always a sneak, and trying to curry favour with the Indian nigger." "Curry, eh?" said Burney with a half-laugh. "Well, suppose I did. I like Indian curry." "Do you. But you won't like my curry," snorted out Slegge, "for I'll give you such a curry-combing down as will make you sore for a week, my fine fellow.--Look here, boys, all of you; I am not ashamed to own I was licked that day, for I was weak and ill, and in one of the first rounds I nearly put my elbow out of joint. Something was put out of joint, but it snapped back." "He means his nose," whispered little Burton. "It has been ever since Severn came. I never heard it snap back; did you?" "I saw him blow it several times," said the companion to whom he spoke, "and I saw his pocket-hanky after, and, oh my!" "What are you two boys plotting there?" snarled Slegge. "My ears are sharper than you think, and if you don't want yours pulled you had better drop it." Little Burton dropped upon his knees, crouching down all of a heap and seeming to subside into the worn brown earth as he laid his forehead upon the ground, while Slegge seized the opportunity and rushed at him as if he were a football, delivering a heavy kick that sent the poor little fellow over. "Serve you right!" cried Slegge, as the boy uttered a sharp cry of pain. "Now, go and yelp somewhere else. Let's have none of your howlings here." But only a faint sob followed, while the little fellow rose with his teeth closely set and lips compressed, as he tried to stifle the cries that were struggling to escape, and then stood leaning against his nearest companion without uttering a sound. "Look here, Burton," sneered Slegge, "go and tell Severn, and ask him to come and lick me again. I am ready, and I'll let him see.--Yes, you may look, Mr Burney, Esquire. I saw that letter yesterday you had from home. Esquire indeed! It's sickening!--I am ready to have it out with him whenever he likes, and take the nigger after him when he's had his gruel. Go and tell him if you like. It's been dull enough in the place ever since that miserable imposture about the lost belt. You want something to rouse you up, and I'll give it you if you can bring those two fellows up to the scratch; but that you can't do. Look at them sneaking off like a street cur and an Indian jackal. Contemptible beasts! I only wish they would come back. I feel just in the humour now to give them what for. Yah!--Well, any of you going to fetch them back?" "I'm not," said Burney, shrugging his shoulders. And he turned half-away as if to go and lean against the fence, but really to hide his face as he muttered to himself, "Oh, shouldn't I like to see you licked again!" "Well, who's going?" cried Slegge haughtily.--"No one?--Here, you, you snivelling little wretch," he continued, turning to little Burton, "go, and tell that big bully Severn that I am waiting here to give him his dose, and that he's to bring the nigger with him to have his lot when I have done with number one.--Yes, boys, I feel just in the humour for it, and I am going to cut both their combs.--Do you hear, Burton?" The little fellow drew a long, deep breath, but he did not move. "Do you hear what I say?" roared Slegge. "Yes," said the little fellow sturdily. "Well, be off, then, at once, before you get another kick." "Shan't!" cried the little fellow, through his set teeth; and a sharp jerk seemed to run through his body as he clenched his fists. "Oh, that's it, is it?" cried Slegge, making a stride towards him. "Run, Burton, run!" cried two or three voices. "Shan't!" came again. "No," cried Slegge. "He'd better! I'd run him! Here, I don't want to hurt you, young un. You go and tell them both what I say." "Shan't!" cried the little fellow fiercely, and he looked his persecutor full in the face. "Hark at him! Hark at the little bantam!" cried Slegge, with a forced laugh. "And look at them, boys. Look at the two slinking off like the curs they are, with their tails between their legs. There, you will be disappointed; there's no fight in them." The big school-hero was quite right certainly as far as one of the pair was concerned, for just then Singh was saying, "Oh, it's cowardly of you. I can't bear it. I will go back and have a go at him myself." "No, you won't," said Glyn sturdily, and he locked Singh's arm well within his own. "How dare he insult me like that! I don't care if he half-kills me; but I won't bear it." "Yes, you will," said Glyn, "like a man." "Like a coward, you mean." "No, I don't. I am not going to have you knocked about just because a low bully abuses you." "Well, will you go and thrash him yourself?" "No. I have whipped the cur once, and I am not going to lower myself by fighting again because in his spite he turned and barked at us. I could do it again, and I feel just in the humour; but what does it mean? Black eyes and bruises, and the skin off one's knuckles, and a nasty feeling that one has degraded one's self into fighting a blackguard, for that's what he is, or he wouldn't have insulted you as he did just now.--Come away." "Oh, I didn't think you were such a coward, Glyn." "And you don't think so now," replied Glyn coolly. "You are in a regular rage, and that's just the difference between you Indian fellows and an Englishman. You begin going off like a firework." "Yes, and you go off as if you had had cold water poured on you." "Very likely," replied Glyn. "There, we are both hot now. Let's try and cool down. I don't care whether it seems cowardly or whether it doesn't; but I am not going to get up a fight and make an exhibition of myself for the other fellows to see. Once was quite enough; and perhaps after all it's harder work to bear a thing like this than to go over yonder and punch old Slegge's head and have it out." "I don't care whether it is or not," said Singh fiercely. "Let's go, and if you won't fight, I will." "Look here, Singhy; you and I have had lots of wrestles, haven't we?" "Yes; but what's that got to do with it?" "Why, this. I am not bragging; but I have more muscle in my arms than you have, and if I like I can put you on your back at any time." "Ur-r-r-r-r-ur!" growled Singh. "That means you own it. Well now, look here; if you try to get away from me I'll put you down on your back and sit upon you till you grow cool." "Do if you dare!" cried Singh. Glyn closed with him on the instant. There was a short struggle. The young Indian prince was laid neatly upon his back almost without an effort on the part of Glyn, who the next moment was seated calmly astride his companion's chest, fortunately well out of sight of the group beneath the elms. Then for a few minutes Singh heaved and struggled, glaring the while into his companion's eyes, until, as if he had caught the contagion of the good-humoured smile in Glyn's frank young face, a change came over Singh's, and the fierce heaving gave way to a movement that was certainly the beginning of a laugh, followed by a good-humoured appeal. "Let me get up, Glyn. I am quite quiet now," said the boy. "No games?" "No; honour bright. It's all over now, and I don't want to fight." The next minute the two lads were walking away as if nothing had happened. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A LITTLE VICTIM. That same evening Singh went down the town to relieve his feelings and the heaviness of one of his pockets, for the day before both he and Glyn had received letters from the Colonel with their monthly allowance. Glyn had refused to join his companion, to Singh's great annoyance, for the occurrences of the day had left him touchy and ready to take offence at anything. "I wouldn't have refused to go with you," he said. "It's precious disagreeable, and you might come." "Can't," said Glyn firmly. "I can't come, and you know why." "Oh yes, I know why; all out of disagreeableness. You haven't got any other reason." "Yes, I have. You haven't written to father, have you, to thank him for what you got?" "No; I am going to write to-morrow." "And then when to-morrow comes you'll say the same, and the same next day. There never was such a fellow for putting off things." "Well, you needn't talk," cried Singh. "You haven't written to the Colonel to say you have got yours." "No," said Glyn firmly; "but I am going to write this evening." "No, you are not. Come on down town with me. I want to go to the old shop. Do come, there's a good chap! I hate going alone." "Why?" "Because if I go alone I always see so many things I want to buy, and then I go on buying, and my allowance doesn't last out till next time." "Nonsense! What difference would it make if I came with you? You'd be just as bad," cried Glyn. "Oh no, I shouldn't. When you are with me you always keep on interfering and stopping me; and then the money lasts out twice as well." "Well, look here," said Glyn; "wait till I have written my letter, and I will make it a short one this time, and go with you afterwards." "Oh, you are a disagreeable one! There won't be time then, and it will be too late for going out. There, you see if I ask you to go again." Uttering these words in his snappiest way, Singh whisked himself round and stalked off. "Can't help it," said Glyn to himself. "I will get it done, and then go and meet him. He'll soon cool down, and there will be time enough to go to the shop and get back before supper." But, all the same, Glyn uttered a low sigh as he thrust his hands into his pockets, to jingle in one the four keys that made his bunch, and in the other several coins which formed the half of the Colonel's previous day's cheque. The keys felt light in his right hand and the coins very heavy, and there was a something about him that seemed to suggest that they ought to be spent; but the boy turned his face rigorously towards the door of the theatre, when his attention was taken by Wrench's tom-cat. He was crouching upon the sill of one of the lower windows, which was raised a little way, and evidently intently watching something within. "What's he after?" said Glyn to himself. "Some bird got inside, I suppose, and flying about among the rafters." Walking quietly up to see if his surmise were true, the cat did not hear him till he was quite close, when it bounded off the sill and made for the Doctor's garden, to disappear among the shrubs. "I thought he was after no good," said Glyn to himself; and, before making for the door, he peered in at the window in expectation of seeing a robin flitting about--a favourite habit these birds had of frequenting the long room and flying from beam to beam. But there was no bird, Glyn seeing instead the back of little Burton, seated at his desk with the flap open resting against his head, as he seemed to be peering in; and just then the little fellow uttered a low sob. "Poor little chap!" thought Glyn. "Why, that brute of a cat must have had one of his white mice, and he's crying about it." Glyn went in at once and crept on tip-toe in the direction of his own desk, where he was about to write his letter; but he contrived to pass behind Burton unheard, and stopped short, to find that he was right, for the little fellow was bending low into his desk crying silently, save when a faint sob escaped him, while his outstretched hands were playing with three white mice. The door of their little cage was wide open, and they kept going in and out, to run fearlessly about their master's fingers, the cuffs of his jacket forming splendid hiding-places into which they darted from time to time, to disappear before coming out again to nestle in the boy's hands. Glyn watched him for a few minutes, amused and pleased by the little scene and the affection that seemed to exist between the owner and the tame pets he kept within his desk. "Why, the cat hasn't got one," he said; "he's only got three, and they are all there." Just then there was a heavier sob than usual, and Glyn sympathetically laid his hand upon Burton's shoulder. The little fellow gave a violent start, and the mice darted into their cage, as their owner turned guiltily round to gaze with wet and swollen eyes in his interrupter's face. "Why, what's the matter, youngster?" said Glyn, bestriding the form and sitting down by Burton to take his hand. "Oh, nothing, nothing," said Burton hurriedly, trying to withdraw his hand; but it was held too tightly, and he had to use the other to drag out his handkerchief from his jacket-pocket and wipe his eyes. "You don't cry at nothing," said Glyn gently. "You are too plucky a little chap. I saw Wrench's cat watching you, and I was afraid he had got one of your mice." "No, no; the poor little things are all right. But you oughtn't to have watched me, Severn." "I didn't. I was coming to my desk to write a letter to my father, only I heard you sob." "Oh!" ejaculated the boy. "Come: out with it. You know you can trust me." "Oh yes," said the little fellow earnestly. "I know that, Severn. You always are such a good chap." "Well then, why don't you tell me what's the matter?" "Because I was ashamed," said the other, nearly in a whisper. "Ashamed! You! What of?" "Because it hurts so, and I couldn't help crying," faltered the boy; "and I came in here so as no one should see me. Don't laugh at me, please!" "Laugh at you because you are in trouble and something hurts you! You don't think I should be such a brute?" "Oh, I didn't mean that, Severn," cried the boy earnestly, as he now clung to his sympathiser's hand. "I was afraid that you would laugh at me for being such a girl as to cry." "But tell me," said Glyn. "And I came in here to play with my mice, and it didn't seem to hurt me so much then, because it kept me from thinking." "Come, what was it?" said Glyn. "You are keeping something back." The little fellow tried to speak, but it was some minutes before he could command his voice. Then out came the story of the brutal kick he had received, and of how hard he had struggled to conceal the pain. "A beast!" exclaimed Glyn. And then half-unconsciously, as if to himself, "I shall be obliged to give him another licking after all." "Oh, do, please, Severn!" cried the little fellow joyously. "I'd give anything to be as big and strong as you, and able to stick up for myself; for, you see, I am such a little one." "Oh, you will get big and strong some day," said Glyn. "Only wait." "Yes, I'll wait," said the boy; "but it will be a long time first, and old Slegge is going away at the end of this half, so that I can't fight him myself. But I say, you will give him another licking, please?" "Well, we'll see," said Glyn. "I dare say he'll make me before I have done." "That's right," cried little Burton joyously; and he began to busy himself in putting his mice together, as he called it, and hooking the wire fastening before shutting up and closing the lid of his desk, while it was quite a different face that looked up into Glyn's, as the boy cried: "There, it doesn't hurt half as much now." "If I were you I'd go and wash my face," said Glyn. "What; is it dirty?" "Oh, it's all knuckled and rubbed. You must have been crying ever so long; your eyes are quite swelled. There, be off. I want to write my letter." While Glyn had been earnestly engaged comforting Burton and before he started his letter, he had not observed the return of Singh with his pockets looking bulgy and his face wearing a good-tempered smile. "Done?" he said, as Burton took his departure. "What, you back again?" cried Glyn. "I thought I should have been in time enough to come and meet you. If you had been another quarter of an hour I should." "What; did you mean to come?" cried Singh joyously. "Of course." "Oh, you are a good chap! Here, come on up to our room. Look here." He slapped his pockets as he spoke, and half-held open that of his jacket, the thought of the succulent treasures contained therein having completely swept away all his past ill-humour. "Oh, I don't know that I want anything to-night," said Glyn.--"Yes, I do. I want to find little Burton. After we had gone away to-day Slegge kicked him brutally." "What for?" cried Singh indignantly. "Because he wouldn't bring an insulting message to fetch us back." "Oh!" cried Singh. "And you wouldn't stop and lick him! He'll get worse and worse. Poor little chap! I like Burton." "So do I," said Glyn rather coldly. "What makes you speak like that?" asked Singh. "I was thinking about what I ought to do." "To do? What do you mean?" "About giving him such a hiding as he deserves--that is, if I can." "Oh, you can," cried Singh joyously; "and you will now, won't you?" "Well, I wasn't going to because he was insolent to me; but now he's been such a brute to that poor little chap I feel as if I ought to--and I will." But somehow that encounter did not come off, and possibly the recollection of the active little white quadrupeds that were closely caged-up in the desk may have suggested the idea enunciated by the Scotch poet who said: The best-laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft a-gley. So do those of boys; for something happened ere many weeks had elapsed, and before Glyn Severn had found a suitable opportunity for administering the punishment that he thought it was his bounden duty to inflict. In fact, the thoughts of Dr Bewley's pupils were greatly exercised about the trouble that hung like a cloud over the school; and in its dissipation Glyn Severn and Singh had a good deal to do, while, oddly enough, Wrench's cat played his part. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. MR. MORRIS PREPARES. Examination-Day was rather a frequent periodical affair at Dr Bewley's. One month Monsieur Brohanne would have all the fun, as Glyn called it, an afternoon being devoted by the boys to the answering of questions, set by the French master, neatly printed upon a sheet of foolscap paper at the local printing-office, and carefully arranged upon a rough pad consisting of so many sheets of perfectly new blotting-paper upon each pupil's desk. At another time it would be the Doctor's day, and his examination-papers would be distributed. By the same rule, in due time in the periodicity, Mr Rampson would revel in Latin puzzles; and Mr Morris would request the young gentlemen to build up curious constructions with perpendiculars, "slanting-diculars," and other varieties of the diagonal, in company with polygons and other forms of bodies with their many angles and curves, as set forth originally by a certain antique brain-puzzler of the name of Euclid, for the first part of the examination, the second portion consisting of that peculiar form of sport in which, instead of ordinary figures, the various letters of the alphabet were shuffled up and used for calculations, plused, minused, squared, and cubed up to any number of degrees, under the name of equations. It was one afternoon prior to Morris's day, which was to begin at ten o'clock the next morning, and when the young gentlemen were all out in the play-field fallowing their brains for the next day's work, so that they might begin rested and refreshed, this being the Doctor's invariable plan, that Mr Morris was the only person in the establishment who was busy. He had received the foolscap sheets from the printer, carried them to his desk, upon which lay quite a pile of new thick white blotting-paper, and taking his seat, sat quite alone, chuckling with delight as he skimmed over his series of mathematical questions, one and all extracted from those which had been used at Cambridge. "Ha, ha!" he chuckled. "This will puzzle some of them! This will make some of them screw up their foreheads! The stiffest paper I ever set. Eh? What's that?" He started up, looking round, for there had been a sound like a soft thump; but he could see nothing on account of intervening desks. But, all the same, Wrench's tom-cat had leaped gently down to the floor, and from there he bounded on to one of the lines of desks, along which he stole very carefully, pausing to sniff at each keyhole as he leaned over, fully aware as he was that several of these desks were used as menageries, in addition to a very favourite one where he had paused more than once on account of the delicious black-beetly odour stealing up through the cracks, and which denoted white mice. In one desk silkworms began as eggs upon a sheet of paper, ate, and grew themselves into fine, fat, transparent straw-coloured larvae which afterwards spun cocoons. In another there were a couple of beautiful little green lizards; while one boy had his desk divided into two portions by means of a piece of board cut to a cardboard-plan by the Plymborough carpenter at a price. In one portion of the desk there were books and sundry tops and balls; the other was the home of a baby hedgehog, which lived upon bread and milk, and had a bad habit of sitting in its saucer. In the next row of desks there was rather an odorous creature which puzzled Tom a good deal; so much so that when the theatre was empty he made that desk a special spot for study in a very uncomfortable position, crouching as he did upon the slope with his head hanging over the edge and his nose close to the keyhole. That desk required much thought, for he was convinced by gliding sounds that there was a live occupant therein, and his impression was that it was good to eat; but he had never seen inside, and was not aware that it contained an ordinary grass-snake. Tom was convinced too, though he had never seen it, and was not aware of the differences in tails, that the inhabitant of another desk-- enlightened as he was by sundry scratchings and gnawings--was a rat, though it was only Fatty Brown's young squirrel, which was destroying the imprisoning wood in a way that was alarming to the owner of the desk. There were several other desks in the big theatre which gave forth sounds and excited Tom's curiosity, for Dr Bewley's young gentlemen affected zoology even as far as young birds, though not to any very great extent, as, not being nightingales, they did not nourish in the dark. But enough has been said to account for the cat's love of study when the theatre was vacated by the pupils, and upon this particular occasion, taking little heed of Mr Morris, Tom went on investigating with his nose till he had reached the end of one series of desks, and, bounding across the intervening space, he came down with a thump upon the next, making Mr Morris look up sharply, snatch up a pocket lexicon, and send it flying, in company with the words, "Tsh! Cat!" The next moment he was alone; and, in perfect satisfaction with the stiffness of his papers, he descended from his place and proceeded to lay neatly along the rows before him a carefully doubled set of half-a-dozen sheets of white blotting-paper, till one stood out clear and clean upon every pupil's desk. This done, he proceeded to work his way back by placing a blue printed sheet of foolscap upon each improvised blotting-pad. It was all carefully and neatly done, for Mr Morris's mathematical brain led him to square the paper parallelograms, as he would have termed them, with the greatest exactitude, before going away to his own desk to gaze back over the blue and white patchwork before him, and give utterance once more to his thoughts regarding the puzzledom which would exist the next morning when the boys took their places. "A magnificent mental exercise," he said proudly, before marching slowly down the big room like a mathematical general surveying the field where he was to do battle next day with the enemy in the shape of sloth and ignorance. So wrapped up was he in self that he passed out without noticing that he was watched by one who waited till he was out of sight, and then, though the door was open, preferred to enter by the window, leap on to a desk, and then slowly proceed from one to the other; not in a bold open way, but in a slinking, snaky, crawling fashion, as if about to spring upon some object of prey. The peculiarity of this was that it necessitated great extension of person; and as, after the fashion of all cats save those that belong to the Isle of Man, Tom carried his tail behind him, he went on in ignorance of the fact that more than once the furry end touched lightly in a more than usually well-filled ink-well, the result being an inky trail, which, however, dried rapidly in the warm theatre, and was not likely to excite notice upon unpainted desk-lids which were dotted with the blots and smudges made by hundreds of boys. But sometimes great discoveries come from very small things, and Wrench's Tom played his part in one of the little comedies of life, those of Terence and Plautus not being intended here. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. SOMETHING UNPLEASANT. The examination-days were not looked forward to with joy by Dr Bewley's pupils; and, sad to say, Morris's days were liked least. In fact, his was the only joyous countenance upon the morning after he had prepared the theatre, when he glanced round at the heavy expressions that pervaded the breakfast-tables. But possibly the most severe face in the room that morning was the Doctor's, as he paid his customary visit, and he took it with him afterwards into the theatre, which he entered punctually at ten o'clock, when the boys were all assembled in their places, while the masters were all at their desks, ready under Morris's leadership to sit out the examination, using their eyes, and making perfectly certain that no pupil whispered a question, furtively passed a piece of paper to another, or dipped down into his desk in search of a so-called helping "crib." To use the schoolboy phrase popular at Plymborough--"What was up?" The Doctor rose deliberately upon his throne-like place at the end of the theatre, coughed sonorously, settled his plump chin in his very stiff white cravat, and then gazed frowningly through his spectacles at the assembled pupils. There was silence for quite a couple of minutes, and every boy present felt that the Doctor was singling him out and was about to speak to him about the committal of some fault, while internally he asked himself what it could be. At last the great brain-ruler put an end to the suspense by addressing his pupils collectively; and every individual but one drew a breath of relief. "Young gentlemen," he said, "in my long career of tuition of the boys who have been entrusted to my charge it has been my great desire to inculcate honour." The three masters glanced at each other, making suggestive grimaces as if questioning what was to come, and at the same time expressing ignorance. "Now, I regret very much to have to tell you that this morning I have been made aware of a most dishonourable act committed by one of my pupils. I have received by post what I can only term a very degrading letter, which I am sorry to say I fully believe to have been written by some one present. Who that is I do not know, and I tell you all that I would rather not know until the culprit allows his better feelings to obtain the mastery, and comes to me privately and says, `Dr Bewley, I was guilty of that act of folly; but now I bitterly repent, and am here humbly to ask your forgiveness and at the same time that of my fellow-pupil whom I have maligned.' Now, young gentlemen, it gives me pain to address you all for one boy's sin, and I have only this to say, that you whose consciences are clear can let it pass away like a cloud; to him who has this black speck upon his conscience I only say I am waiting; come to me when the examination is done.--Mr Morris, it is ten minutes past ten. At one o'clock your examination is over, and the studies are at an end for the day.--Now, my dear boys, I wish you all success, and I trust that you will show Mr Morris that his mathematical efforts on your behalf have not been in vain." There was an end to the painful silence half a minute later, as the Doctor closed the door after him, not loudly, but it seemed to echo among the great beams of the building, while it was long before his slow, heavy step died away upon the gravel path outside. "Now, young gentlemen," said Morris sharply, "our Principal's address is not to interfere with my examination. You have your papers. Pro--" There was a pause. "--Ceed!" shouted Mr Morris. There was the scratching of pens upon papers, but upon very few; most of the boys taking their pens and putting them down again, to rest their elbows on the desks and their chins upon their thumbs, as they fixed their eyes upon the column-like pile of questions printed quite close to the left side of the sheets of foolscap, while the three masters at the two ends and in the middle of the theatre seated themselves, book in hand, ready to hold up high before their faces so that they could conveniently peer over the top and make certain that there were not any more culprits than one within reach of their piercing eyes. Mr Morris, to pass his three hours gently and pleasantly, opened a very old copy, by Blankborough, upon logarithms; Monsieur Brohanne had armed himself with a heavy tome of _La Grande Encyclopedie_, with a bookmark therein at the page dealing with the ancient _langue d'oc_; while Mr Rampson, also linguistical, opened a sickly-looking vellum volume, horribly mildewy and stained, and made as if to read a very brown page of Greek whose characters looked like so many tiny creases and shrinkings in a piece of dry skin. Only one boy spoke, and that was Glyn Severn, and he to himself; but at the same time he had caught Singh's eye as he sat some distance from him, and, placing his sheet of foolscap by his side, he raised his blotting-pad so that his companion could see a great blotch of ink thereon which seemed as if it had been roughly made by a brush that had been dipped in ink. This done, he laid the pad back in its place, twisted the fold towards him, and taking a bright, new two-bladed knife that had been purchased with the proceeds of the Colonel's cheque, he opened the large blade and carefully passed it along the fold, setting free one half-sheet of the absorbent paper. This he folded and put in his pocket; but the ink had gone through to the next half-sheet, and this he also separated, treating it as he did the first. This left two half-sheets, with the possibility of their slipping about and away from the rest. So, after pocketing his knife, he opened the remainder where they were folded, and refolded the pad inside out, so as to leave the two cut half-sheets in the middle. "That nasty nuisance of a cat!" he muttered to himself. "It must have come along smelling after poor little Burton's white mice, and smudged my paper like this. Ah," he continued, to himself, "I have promised the poor little chap that I'll lick Master Slegge, and--Hullo! What's this? What does old Morris mean by giving me half-used paper, and the other fellows new?" His hands had been busy redoubling and smoothing the fold over the now prisoned half-sheets, and he was about to hold up his hand as a sign to the nearest master that he wanted to speak; but he let it fall again upon the desk, and sat gazing down at some indistinctly seen lines upon the blotting-paper, which looked as if a letter had been inserted wet within the pad and hastily blotted. He could barely read a word, but somehow his curiosity was aroused, and he turned the leaf over, to find that the newly written letter had been placed in contact with the other side, the lines looking far blacker there, but seen like a page of printing type the reverse way on, so that he could not read a word. Glyn closed the leaf again and tried to read once more, but with very little success; but for some reason or another his interest was more deeply excited, and he doubled two more leaves over so as to hide the writing, drew forward the foolscap paper to place it once more on the blotting-pad, and then began to read hard at the first section, trying the while to forget all about the freshly blotted letter, but in vain. For two questions very different from Mr Morris's kept on appealing to him, neither of them algebraic or dealing with Euclid. One was, "How came that letter to be blotted on my pad?" and, "Who was it that wrote it?" There was no answer; but the boy felt that he knew enough about one of Mr Morris's questions to begin to write the answer, and over this he had been busy for about ten minutes when another question flashed across his brain: "Was this the letter of which the Doctor spoke?" CHAPTER THIRTY. BROUGHT TO BOOK. Not until late that same evening did Glyn have an opportunity of investigating the mystery, for he had purposely refrained from making a confidant of Singh; so that it was after the latter was asleep that Glyn, rising softly, went over to the dressing-table and there lighted the chamber candle, which stood at the side of the looking-glass. "Will it be too blurred?" he thought, and he held up in front of the mirror a piece of blotting-paper, and then started, for the occupant of the other bed stirred slightly, causing Glyn to step cautiously to the side of the sleeper. "He won't wake," muttered Glyn, and he went back to the table and recommenced his task, to find that with the aid of reflection the written words on the spongy surface of the blotting-paper stood out fairly plain, though there was a break here and there. And this is what he read: "_it was g----ern oo thev the princes_--" Then there was a blurred line where the ink had run, with only a letter or two distinct at intervals. Then half a blank line, and then, very much blurred and obscure, more resembling a row of blots than so much writing: "_e as idden--sum whare--for sertane_." Another line all blotted and indistinct; then: "_umble Suvvent,--Wun oo nose_." Then a line in which so obscure and run were the letters that minutes had elapsed before the reader could make out what they meant: "_toe the doktor_." Glyn drew back from the glass as if stung, and then the question which came to him was who had written this abominable, ill-spelt accusation, evidently pointed at himself? "That was the letter, then, that the Doctor mentioned," he said to himself, and he tried to read the words again, instinctively filling up some of the blanks so as to make the letter fit himself; and it seemed to him that there could only have been one person who was capable of writing such a thing. He examined the lettering once again--a back-slanting hand, disguised. "And I have only one enemy--Slegge," he thought to himself, as he softly blew out the candle and crept back into bed; but it was long ere sleep came, for the writing, run by the blotting-paper but still vivid, seemed to dance before his eyes, and as he now mentally read it: "It was Glyn Severn who stole the Prince's belt." And it was with this to form the subject of his dreams that he fell fast asleep. On the following morning Glyn entered the class-room early and proceeded to Slegge's desk. "Just as I thought," he said, and he took up one of the writing folio books which lay with other volumes on the desk-cover. There was no one else in the theatre at that early hour, and Glyn had time to compare as he wished certain of the letters and capitals in Slegge's handwriting with the wording on the blotting-paper. "It was he; there can be no doubt," he exclaimed, and he went out of the room, making for the playground, intending to find his detractor; but he was not to be seen. Fortune, however, favoured him as he was making his way back to the schoolhouse, for near the boys' gardens he suddenly caught sight of the object of his search. "I say, Slegge," he said, approaching the lad, "I want to talk to you." It did not seem to be quite the same self-confident bully of the day previous who responded, "Eh? You do, Severn? What's up?" "Come into the class-room," said Severn. "I want you." "What!" began Slegge. "What do you mean? Why are you trying to order me about?" "Because I have something to tell you." "Ha, ha, Cocky Severn! It's time you had that thrashing." "Is it?" said Glyn. "Well, I don't think I should care to fight with a fellow who writes anonymous letters." "What do you mean by that?" cried the other. "I will show you what I mean if you come with me. I don't suppose you want the other fellows to hear it." "I don't care," said Slegge. "Some cock-and-bull story you are hatching, Severn." "You wrote that letter," said Glyn abruptly, and his voice sounded husky with the emotion and rage that were gathering in his breast. "Letter? Letter? What do you mean? Has one come for me by the post?" "You know what letter I mean," burst out Severn. "Here, I say," cried Slegge, with a most perfect assumption of innocence; and he looked round as if speaking to a whole gathering of their schoolfellows, "what's he talking about? I don't know. Isn't going off his head, is he?" "That letter the Doctor was talking about yesterday morning," cried Glyn, with the passion within beginning to master him. "Here, I don't know what you mean," cried Slegge. "You seem to have got out of bed upside down, or else you haven't woke up yet. What do you mean by your letters?" "You miserable shuffler!" cried Glyn, in a voice almost inaudible from rage. "The Doctor only talked about a letter; but I've found you out." "No, you haven't," cried Slegge truculently; "you have found me in--in here by the gardens, and if you have come down here to have it out once more before breakfast, come along down to the elms. I am your man." "That's just what I should like to do," panted Severn, whose hands kept opening and shutting as they hung by his sides; and there was something in the boy's looks that made Slegge change colour slightly, and he glanced quickly to right and left as if in search of the support of his fellows; but there was no one within sight. "But," continued Glyn, "if you think I am going to lower myself by fighting a dirty, cowardly hound who has struck at me behind the back like the dishonourable cur that the Doctor said he was waiting to see come and confess what he had done, you are mistaken." "There, I knew it!" cried Slegge. "You are afraid. Put up your hands, or I will give you the coward's blow." To the bully's utter astonishment, one of Glyn's hands only rose quick as lightning and had him by the throat. "You dare!" he cried. "Strike me if you dare! Yes, it would be a coward's blow. But if you do I won't answer for what will happen, for I shall forget what you have done, and--and--" "Here, Severn! Severn! What's the matter with you?" gasped Slegge excitedly. "I haven't done anything. Are you going mad?" "You have, you blackguard!" cried Glyn, forcing the fellow back till he had him up against the garden-fence. "You have always hated me ever since I licked you, and like the coward you are you stooped to write that dirty, ill-spelt, abominable letter to make the Doctor think I had stolen Singh's belt." "Oh, I don't know what you mean," whined Slegge. "Let go, will you?" "No!" cried Glyn, raising his other hand to catch Slegge by the wrist. "Not till I've made you do what the Doctor asked for--taken you to his room and made you confess." "Confess? I haven't got anything to confess. You are mad, and I don't know what you mean," cried Slegge, whose face was now white. "Let go, or I'll call for help." "Do," cried Glyn, "and I'll expose you before everybody. You coward! Why, a baby could have seen through your miserable sham, ill-spelt letter, with the words all slanting the wrong way." "I don't know what letter you mean. Has the Doctor been showing you the letter he was talking about?" "No," said Glyn mockingly, as he read in the troubled face before him that he was quite right. "But I have read it all the same, on the piece of blotting-paper that you used to dry what you had written--the sheet of blotting-paper that was put ready on my desk so that if it were found it might seem that I was the writer." "That I wrote?" said Slegge, with a forced laugh. "That you wrote, you mean, before you sent it. I don't know what for, unless you wanted people to think that it was done by some one who didn't like you. What do you mean by accusing me?" "Because you are not so clever as you thought. Come on here to the class-room. I have been there this morning, and laid the blotting-paper by the side of one of your exercises on your desk; and, clever as you thought yourself, the Doctor will see at a glance that some of the letters, in spite of the way you wrote them, could only have been written by you." And here he took a piece of paper out--a piece that he had torn from Slegge's exercise-book--and laid beside it the unfolded blotting-paper. Slegge made a dash at them, but Glyn was too quick. Throwing one hand behind his back, he pressed Slegge with the other fiercely against the fence. "There!" he cried triumphantly. "That's like confessing it. Come on to the Doctor. There's Mr Morris yonder.--Mr--" "No, no, don't! Pray don't call!" "Hah!" cried Glyn triumphantly. "Then you did write it?" "I--I--" "Speak! You did write it, you coward! Now confess!" "Well, I--I was in a passion, and I only thought it would be a lark." "You were in a passion, and you thought it would be a lark!" cried Glyn scornfully. "You muddle-headed idiot, you did it to injure me, for you must have had some idea in your stupid thick brain that it would do me harm. But come on. You have confessed it, and you shan't go alone to the Doctor to say that you repent and that you are sorry for it all, for you shall come with me. Quick! Now, at once, before the breakfast-bell rings; and we will see what the Doctor says. Perhaps he will understand it better than I do, for I hardly know what you meant." "No, no, don't! Pray don't, Severn! Haven't I owned up? What more do you want?" And the big lad spoke with his lips quivering and a curious twitching appearing about the corners of his mouth; but Glyn seemed as hard as iron. "What more do I want? I want the Doctor to know what a miserable coward and bully he has in the school." "No, no," gasped Slegge, in a low, husky voice, and with his face now all of a quiver. "I can't--I won't! I tell you I can't come!" "And I tell you you shall come," cried Glyn, dragging him along a step or two. "Don't, I tell you! You will have Morris see," gasped Slegge. "I want him to see, and all the fellows to see what a coward we have got amongst us. So come along." Slegge caught him by the lapel of his jacket, and with his voice changing into a piteous whisper, "Pray, pray don't, Severn!" he panted. "Do you know what it means?" "I know what it ought to mean," cried Glyn mockingly; "a good flogging; but the Doctor won't give you that." "No," whispered the lad piteously. "I'd bear that; but he'd send me back home in disgrace. There was a fellow here once, and the Doctor called it expelled. Severn, old chap, I am going to leave at the end of this half. It will be like ruin to me, for everything will be known. There, I confess. I was a fool, and what you called me." "Then come like a man and say that to the Doctor." "I can't! I can't! I--oh, Severn! Severn!" The poor wretch could get out no more articulately, but sank down upon his knees, fighting hard for a few moments to master himself, but only to burst forth into a fit of hysterical sobbing. The pitiful, appealing face turned up to him mastered Glyn on the instant, and he loosened his hold, to glance round directly in the direction of Morris, and then back. "Get up," he said, "and don't do that. Come along here." "No, no; I can't go before the Doctor. Severn, you always were a good fellow--a better chap than I am. Pray, pray, forgive me this once!" "And you will never do so any more?" cried Glyn half-mockingly. "Never! never! I swear I won't!" "Well," said Glyn, whose rage seemed to have entirely evaporated, "I suppose that it would pretty well ruin you, at all events for this school. I don't want to be hard on you; but I can't help half-hating you, Slegge, for the way you have behaved to that poor little beggar Burton. Look here, Slegge, if you say honestly that you beg pardon--" "Yes," cried the lad. "I do beg your pardon, Severn!" "No; I don't want you to beg my pardon," cried Glyn. "I can take care of myself. I want you to tell that poor little chap that you are sorry you ill-used him, and promise that you will never behave badly to him again." "Yes, yes. I will, I will. But you are going to tell the Doctor?" "No, I shall not. I am not a sneak," said Glyn, "nor a coward neither. I have shown you that, and I am not going to jump on a fellow when he's down. But come along here." "To the Doctor's? Oh no, no!" "Be quiet, I tell you, and wipe your eyes and blow your nose. You don't want everybody to see?" "No, no.--Thank you!--No," cried the big fellow hurriedly. "I couldn't help it. I am not well. I must go to my room and have a wash before the breakfast-bell rings. May I go now?" "No; you will be all right. The fellows won't see. I only want you to come over here to where Burton is. No, there he goes! I'll call him here. There, don't show that we have been quarrelling.--Hi! Burton!" cried Glyn, stepping to the garden-hedge and shouting loudly, with the effect that as soon as the little fellow realised who called he came bounding towards him, but every now and then with a slight limp. "Just a quiet word or two that you are sorry you hurt him; and I want you to show it afterwards--not in words." "You want me, Severn?" cried the little fellow, looking from one to the other wonderingly as soon as he realised that his friend was not alone. "Yes. Slegge and I have been talking about you. He wants to say a word or two to you about hurting you the other day." The little fellow glanced more wonderingly than ever at his big enemy. "Does he?" he said dubiously, and he turned his eyes from one to the other again. "Oh yes," said Slegge, with rather a pitiful attempt to speak in a jocular tone, which he could not continue to the end. "I am precious sorry I kicked you so hard. But you'll forgive me and shake hands-- won't you, Burton?" "Ye-es, if you really are sorry," said the little fellow, slowly raising his hand, which was snatched at and forcibly wrung, just as the breakfast-bell rang out, and Slegge turned and dashed off towards the schoolhouse as hard as he could run. "I say, Severn," said little Burton, turning his eyes wonderingly up at his companion, who had playfully caught him by the ear and begun leading him towards where the bell was clanging out loudly as Sam Grigg tugged at the rope, "do you think Slegge means that?" "Oh yes. I have been talking to him about it, and I am sure he's very sorry now." "Oh, I say, Severn," cried the little fellow joyously, and with his eyes full of the admiration he felt, "what a chap you are!" Some one who sat near took an observation that morning over the breakfast that Slegge did not seem to enjoy his bread and butter, and set it down to the butter being too salt; and though the Doctor waited for days in the anticipation that the sender of the anonymous letter would come to him to confess, he expressed himself to the masters as disappointed, for the culprit did not come, and the affair died out in the greater interest that was taken later on in the matter of the belt. Still, somebody did go to see the Doctor, and he looked at him wonderingly, for it was not the boy he expected to see, but the very last whom he would have ventured to suspect. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GLYN'S WORRIED BRAIN. "Is any one with the Doctor, Wrench?" "No, sir," replied the man distantly, and he looked curiously at Glyn. "Aren't you well this morning, sir?" "Yes--no. Don't ask questions," cried the boy petulantly. "All right, sir," said the man. "I don't want to ask no questions. There's been too much of it lately. Suspicions and ugly looks, and the rest of it. I'd have given warning the other day, only if I had, the next thing would have been more suspicion and the police perhaps had in to ask me why I wanted to go. Shall I ask the Doctor, sir, if he will see you?" "No," cried Glyn, and walking past the man he tapped at the study-door, and in response to the Doctor's deep, "Come in," entered. "What does this mean?" muttered Wrench. "I don't like listening; but if I went there and put my ear to the keyhole I could catch every word; and so sure as I did somebody would come into the hall and find me at it. So I won't go. But what does it mean? Young Severn's found out all about it, as sure as I stand here. Then it's one of the boys after all. Well, I don't care about it as long as it ain't me or Sam, so I'll go on with my work." Meanwhile Glyn had entered, closed the door after him, and stood gazing at the Doctor with a curious sensation in his breast that seemed to stop all power of speaking connectedly, as he had meant to do when he had obeyed the impulse to make a clean breast to his old preceptor. "Well, Severn," said the Doctor gravely, as he laid down his pen, thrust up his glasses till they were stopped by the stiff grey hair, and allowed himself to sink back in his writing-chair, "you wish to speak to me?" "Yes, sir, please; I--" Glyn stopped short. That was all that would come, so the Doctor waited for a few moments to give him time to collect himself, and then with an encouraging smile: "Are you unwell, my boy? Do you wish to see our physician?" Glyn uttered a kind of gasp, and then, making a tremendous effort, the power to speak returned, and he cried, "Oh no, sir; I am quite well, only--only I am in great trouble, and I want to speak to you." "Indeed!" said the Doctor gravely, as he placed his elbows upon the table, joined his finger-tips, and looked over them rather sadly at his visitor. "I am glad you have come, my boy," he continued gently, "for I like my pupils to look up to me as if for the time being I stood in the place of their parents. Now then, speak out. What is it? Some fresh quarrel between you and Mr Slegge?" "No, sir," cried Glyn. "It's about that dreadful business of Singh's belt." "Ah!" said the Doctor, rather more sharply. "You know something about it?" "Yes, sir. It's about that I have come. About people being wrongfully suspected, and all the unpleasantry." "Indeed!" said the Doctor, and he now spoke rather coldly. "You know, Severn, where it is?" "I--I think so, sir. Yes, sir," continued the boy, speaking more firmly, "and I want to tell you all I do know." The Doctor fixed his eyes rather sternly now, for a strange suspicion was entering his mind, due to the boy's agitated manner and his hesitating, half-reticent speech. "Well," he said, "go on; and I beg, my boy, that you tell me everything without reservation, though I am sorry, deeply grieved, that you should have to come and speak to me like this." Glyn seemed to breathe far more freely now, and as if the nervous oppression at his breast had passed away. "You see, sir," he began, "I have known all along that Singh had that very valuable belt. It was his father's, and the Maharajah used to wear it; and when he died my father took charge of it and all the Maharajah's valuable jewels as well." "Yes," said the Doctor slowly. "He was the late Prince's executor and Singh's guardian." "Yes, sir; and Singh was very eager to have it--oh, months and months before we came over here to school, and my father used to smile at him and tell him that he had far better not have it until he had grown older, and asked him why he who was such a boy yet should want such a rich ornament, and told him it was vanity. But Singh said it wasn't that; it was because the people had been used to see his father wear it, and that now he was dead and he had become Maharajah they would think more of him and look up to him if he wore the belt himself. You see, sir, Singh told me it was like being crowned." "I see," said the Doctor gravely, and he kept his eyes fixed upon the young speaker. "Go on." "Well, sir, father always put him off, and Singh didn't like it, and asked for it again and again; but my father would never let him have it till we were coming slowly over here to England. We stopped for a month in Ceylon, and when we sailed again to come here, one day Singh asked father again to let him have it, so that he could wear the belt as soon as we reached England. And then father said he should have it if he would make a promise not to wear it unless he had to appear before the Queen. Then he was to put it away again, and not make a parade of himself in a country where the greatest people in the land were always dressed in the plainest way." "Your father spoke wisely and well, my boy," said the Doctor gravely. "Great men do not depend upon show, but upon the jewels of worth and wisdom with which they have adorned themselves in their careers. Well, I repeat I am very glad you have come. Go on." "Yes, sir," said Glyn, clearing his throat. "Singh promised father that he would do exactly as he was told, and the next day my father told me to try and keep Singh to his word. He said it would be very absurd now that we were going among strangers and a lot of boys of our own ages if Singh were tempted to make a show of the royal belt. `You be watchful,' he said, `and help him when he seems weak, for he has naturally a good deal of Eastern vanity and pride in him.'" "Quite true," said the Doctor softly; "but he has improved wonderfully since he has been here." "Yes, sir; but every now and then he has bad fits, and has wanted to show off; but I was always able to stop him. Then, you see, sir--" Glyn broke down, and as he met the Doctor's steady gaze he seemed to make effort after effort to proceed, but in vain. "I told you, my boy," said the Doctor encouragingly, "to speak to me as if I were your father." "Yes, sir, I know," cried Glyn passionately, "and I want to speak out plainly and clearly, but it won't come." "Yes," said the Doctor gravely; "it will, my boy. Go on to the end." "Yes, sir," cried Glyn. "Well, sir, there has been all this trouble about the belt when it was missed out of Singh's box." The Doctor bowed his head. "I seem to have been able to think of nothing else, and I couldn't do my lessons--I could hardly eat my meals--and at night I couldn't sleep for thinking about the belt and what my father would say about it being lost." The Doctor bowed his head again very slowly and solemnly, and fixed his eyes once more upon Glyn's flushed face. "You see, sir, my father said so much to me about Singh being as it were in my charge, and told me how he trusted in my example, and in me being ready to give Singh a sensible word whenever he was disposed to do anything not becoming to an English lad." "Exactly, my boy," said the Doctor. "Your father is a worthy trustee of this young ward, and it will be a terrible shock to him when he hears of this--er--er--accident and the loss." "Yes, sir, for you see, as he is the old Maharajah's executor, the royal belt was in his care till Singh is old enough to be his own master; and father will feel that he is to blame for giving way and letting Singh have it so soon." "Exactly," said the Doctor; "but, my boy, it seems to me that you are rather wandering away from your purpose, and are not telling me everything exactly as I should wish." "It's because, sir, it won't come; something seems to stop me. But I am trying, sir." "Well, I believe you, my boy," said the Doctor. "Go on." "Yes, sir. Well, I told you that I could hardly eat or sleep for thinking about it." The Doctor sighed. "And it seemed so horrid, sir, that so many people should be suspected for what one person alone must have done." "Yes," said the Doctor, fixing him with his eyes again; and then as he met the boy's frank, unblenching eyes his brow began to wear a curious look of perplexity, and he disjoined the tips of his fingers, picked up his quill-pen, and began slowly to litter the table-top by stripping off the plume. "Well, sir," continued Glyn, speaking very hurriedly now, "I have always been dreaming about it, and waking up with starts, sir, fancying I heard some one creeping into the room to get to Singh's box; and one night it was so real that I seemed to hear some one go to Singh's bedside, take out the keys from his pocket, crawl to his box, unlock it, and lift the lid, and then shut it and lock it again. And I lay there, sir, with my hands and face wet with perspiration, wanting to call out to Singh; but I couldn't stir. But when all was silent again I crept out of bed and went to his box to find the keys in it; and I opened it quickly and felt inside, feeling sure that it was one of the boys who had stolen the belt and who had repented and come and put it back again." "And had he?" cried the Doctor, startled out of his grave calmness. "No, sir; I think it was only my fancy. But I have been something like that over and over again." "Ah!" said the Doctor gravely once more. "The workings, my boy, of an uneasy mind." "Yes, sir, and that's what held me back from coming to you to speak out." "Go on," said the Doctor; "and speak plainly and to the point, my boy. What more have you to say?" "Only this, sir," cried Glyn huskily, "that the night before last I lay awake for a long time, thinking and thinking about the belt and about Singh lying there sleeping so easily and not troubling himself in the least about the loss of the emeralds; and then all at once, when my head was so hot with the worry that I felt as if I must get out and drink some cold water.--I don't know how it was, but I began going over the big cricket-match in the field, and it was as if it was the day before, and I was fidgeting and fidgeting about the crowd there'd be, and a lot of strangers walking about the grounds and perhaps finding their way into the empty dormitories; and it all worried me so, sir, that it made me think that somebody dishonest might go to Singh's box and carry off the emeralds, and they would never be found again." The Doctor leaned forward a little to gaze more fixedly in his pupil's eyes. Then rising slowly, he reached over and placed his cool white hand upon Glyn's forehead. "Yes, sir," said the boy quickly, "it's hot--it's hot; but it comes like that sometimes. I believe it's from thinking too much." "Ah!" said the Doctor, subsiding again into his chair. "Well, sir, I was so worried about the belt that I thought I wouldn't say anything to Singh, but that I would take his keys, get out the case, and bring it to you in the morning." "Ah!" cried the Doctor excitedly now. "It would not have been right, my boy. But you did not do that." "No, sir," said the boy, with a bitter laugh; "for the next minute I thought you would put it in your table-drawer, and that it wouldn't be safe there, for strangers might come into this room, so I--" Glyn stopped, and the Doctor waited patiently. "It seemed so weak and foolish, sir," continued Glyn at last, after moistening his parched lips with his tongue, "but I must tell you. I seemed to be obliged to do it. I took out the case and went downstairs past all the boys' rooms, and got out through the lecture-hall window to go across the playground to the cricket-shed where the boys' lockers are, and there I opened our locker and took out a ball of kite-string." "Yes," said the Doctor. "Go on, go on." "Then, sir, I came back across the playground and turned into the yard to go into the well-house, where I tied the end of the kite-string round the case very tightly and safely, and then leaned over and lifted one of the flaps of the well lid--" "And lowered the case down into the well?" cried the Doctor excitedly. "Yes, sir," said Glyn; "and I could smell the cool, damp sides of the place, and hear a faint dripping of the water as I let the string run through my fingers, till at last the case splashed and it ran down more slowly, seeming to jerk a little to and fro as a flat thing does when it sinks, till I felt it touch the bottom. And then I leaned over to feel for a place where I could tie the string to one of the loose bricks at the side." "But there are no loose bricks at the side, my boy," said the Doctor. "No, sir," said the boy. "I couldn't feel one; and then all at once, as I was feeling about, the ball slipped out of my fingers and fell below with a splash." "So that you could not pull the case up again?" cried the Doctor. "Yes, sir," said Glyn very slowly, and looking at him in a peculiar manner. "And then," said the Doctor, "what did you do?" "Nothing, sir," replied Glyn, "for just then the first bell rang." "What?" exclaimed the Doctor. "And I started up in bed, sir. It was all a dream." "A dream!" cried the Doctor angrily. "Why, my good lad--" "But it was all so real, sir, and I was thinking about it all day yesterday, and that perhaps it's possible that I really did do it walking in my sleep." "Oh, impossible!" cried the Doctor. "I don't know, sir," said the boy; "but you see, I might have done so." "Well--yes, you might," said the Doctor slowly. "I did have a pupil once who was troubled with somnambulism. He used to walk into the next dormitory and scare the other boys.--Oh, but this is impossible!" "I thought you'd say so, sir." "Yes," said the Doctor, "impossible. Why, if it were true the belt must have been lying at the bottom of the well ever since the cricket-match weeks ago." "Yes, sir, and I must have done it then in my sleep; and the night before last I dreamed again what I dreamed before." "Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the Doctor, rising now from his chair and beginning to walk to and fro excitedly. "Strange--most strange, and I feel sceptical in the extreme. It must all be imagination. An empty dream, brought about by the worry and anxiety of this unfortunate loss. Well, I am glad you have come, my boy, and--er-- er--I must be frank with you. Your manner and the strangeness of your words half made me think that you had come, urged by your conscience, to make a confession of a very different kind." Glyn started; his lips parted, and he looked wildly in the Doctor's eyes. "Don't look at me like that, my lad. Your manner suggested it, and I cannot tell you how relieved I feel." As the Doctor spoke he leaned over his writing-table and caught the boy's hand in his, to press it warmly. "But," he said, as he subsided once more into his chair, "this must be a hallucination, an offspring of an overworked brain; and yet there are strange things in connection with the mental organisation, and I feel as if I ought to take some steps. What a relief it would be, my boy, to us all, the clearing away of a load of ungenerous suspicion. But one word: whom have you told of this?" "No one, sir," said Glyn. "Not even Mr Singh?" "No, sir. I have been ever since yesterday thinking about what I ought to do, and I came to the conclusion at last that I ought to come to you, sir." "Quite right, my boy; quite right." "But it was very hard work, sir--very hard indeed." "Yes, yes; so I suppose," said the Doctor thoughtfully; "and you have placed a problem before me, my boy, that I feel is as difficult to resolve. I am very, very glad that you have kept it in your own breast, Severn; and the more I think of it the more I feel that it is only an intangible vapour of the brain. But, all the same, the matter is so mysterious and so important that I should not be doing my duty if I did not have the well examined." "You will, sir?" cried the boy eagerly. "Yes, Severn, I will," said the Doctor firmly, "and at once. But this must be a private matter between us two. Let those who like consider the act eccentric; I shall have it done, and I look to you to take no one else into your confidence over the matter." "No, sir; I'll not say a word," cried Glyn. "But,"--he hesitated--"but--" "Well, Severn; speak out." "If it all turns out fancy, all imagination, sir, you will not be angry?" "No, Severn, not in the least," said the Doctor, smiling. "Now go and send Wrench to me." As he spoke the Doctor turned and rang, with the consequence that Glyn met the footman in the passage coming to answer the bell, and half an hour later, when the boy made it his business to casually stroll towards the well-house, he heard voices, and on looking in found Wrench, who had changed his livery for an old pair of trousers and vest, talking to the gardener and making plans for the emptying of the well. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. THE DOCTOR'S DICTUM. "It'd take a month," said the gardener, as Glyn was coming up. "Don't tell me! Should think I know more about wells than you do. Fast as you take a bucketful out another one runs in. You go and tell him that if he means to have the old well emptied we shall want half-a-dozen men, for we could never do it by oursens." "Yah!" cried Wrench; "such fellows as you gardeners are. It's always the same old tune: more help, more help.--Hear him, Mr Severn, sir? I expect the water isn't so clear as it has been, and the Doctor says he will have the well emptied and cleaned out.--Look here, Taters, you can go and tell the Doctor that if you like; I am going to work." "Oh, I shan't tell him," growled the gardener. "I aren't afraid of a bit of wuck; only, mark my words, as I says again, it'd take a month." The unusual task did not take a month; but after a hard day's toil so little progress had been made, and Wrench's indoor work had come to such a standstill, that the Doctor gave orders for the gardener to get the assistance of a couple of labouring men, when the water was so much lowered at the end of the next day that unless a great deal filtered in during the coming night there was a fair prospect of the bottom being reached before long. By a tacit understanding with the Doctor, Glyn was excused from lessons during the clearing out of the well, and spent his time watching the emptying of every bucketful as it was wound slowly up; and it was put about by Slegge that Glyn had been planted there by the Doctor to keep the juniors off for fear any of them should tumble down. It was an anxious task for the boy, who had to resist appeal after appeal made by Singh to come and join him in some sport or go for a walk. But Glyn kept fast to his post, watching in vain, and without much hope, for if the case was there it would probably be sunk in the mud. One hour he found himself full of faith in the belief that there was something in his dream, and the next he thought that it was all nonsense. And so the days passed on, with Glyn paying constant visits to the well-house, where Wrench went on toiling away; while, in spite of the sloppiness of the place, his big tom-cat came regularly to perch himself upon a shelf, and with his big eyes looking fierce and glowing in the semi-darkness of the building, he seemed to look upon it as his duty to see that all went on steadily and well. The sixth day had come round, and the gardener reiterated with a grin, as he stared grimly at Glyn, "Ah, we shan't be done yet. It's my opinion that it will take a month; and that's what the ganger thinks too." "The ganger?" said Glyn. "Who's he?" "Him," said Wrench, with a sidewise nod in the direction of his feline favourite, who was crouched together in the spot he had selected for looking on. "Oh, nonsense!" cried Glyn. "Ah, you may call it nonsense; but you know, Mr Severn, I shouldn't be at all surprised if that cat thinks. It's my opinion that he knows there's holes somewhere down below, just above where the water used to be, and that sooner or later if he waits patiently he will see some of them as lives there come up in the empty bucket for him to hunt." "And what are they that live down there?" said Glyn. "Rats, sir--rats." There was some colour given to Slegge's assertion that Glyn was there to keep the juniors from tumbling down; for the slow, steady lowering and drawing up of the big buckets had a peculiar fascination for some of the youngest boys, notably the little set whose playtime was nearly all monopolised by hard work--to wit, the bowling and fielding for Slegge. Their anxiety was wonderful. If Glyn was not constantly on the watch, one or other would be getting in the men's way, to peer down into the darkness or rush to where the full buckets were emptied into a drain. On commencing work upon the sixth morning the water was found to be so lowered that the big buckets had to be removed from rope and chains, for they would not descend far enough to fill. So they were replaced by small ordinary pails; and, the work becoming much lighter, they were wound up and down at a much more rapid rate. "We shan't be long now, Mr Severn, sir," said Wrench, for each pail as it came up had for its contents half-water and half-mud, the sediment of many, many years. And at last Glyn's heart began to throb, for hanging out over the side of the last-raised bucket was a long length of muddy string. "Then I am right," he said to himself. "How strange!" And as he followed to the mouth of the drain into which the contents of the pail were to be poured he caught hold of the string. "Here, don't do that, sir," cried Wrench. "You'll cover yourself with mud. Let me," and before the boy could stop him the man had snatched the string from his hand and drawn it out. "Broken away," said Glyn to himself, as the end was drawn from the bucket, and he now peered anxiously into the pail, expecting to see one end of the long morocco case standing up out of the thick contents. But as the half-fluid mud was poured away the empty bucket went down and its fellow rose similarly filled. Glyn expected to see the rest of the string, for nothing like half of that which he believed he had lost had come up. Again he was disappointed, for there was neither string nor case, and for some time bucket after bucket rose, at first full of mud, but by slow degrees containing half, a quarter, and then only a small portion of mud and water at a time, while each time the empty ones reached the bottom a hollow scraping sound arose, as by clever manipulation of the rope by Wrench they were dragged along the bottom. "I say, Mr Severn, sir," he cried, "who'd ever have thought that there was all that mud under the beautiful clear water? Ah, it must be a mort of years since it was cleared out, and now we are at it we will do it well--let the water come in a little and give it a good wash out two or three times over. I won't let it fill up at all till we have scraped this all clear. That's the way to do it," he continued, giving the rope a swing so as to turn the bucket on its side and scrape it along the bottom. "Hear that, sir? All hard stone at the bottom down there, and mud and mud. Now, I half-expected to find a lot of things that had fallen down, and the hoops of some old bucket that had been lost." Glyn started at the man's words, and saw in his mind's eye the long red morocco case, blackened now and saturated with water, while he wondered what effect the moisture would have had on the beautiful gold-embroidered leather of the belt. "Yes," continued Wrench, giving Glyn as he stood close beside the mouth of the well what seemed to the boy a malicious grin, "I did expect to find something curious down there; but the buckets run easily over the bottom, and there don't seem to be--yes, there is," he shouted excitedly. "Nothing like patience in fishing. I have got a bite." Glyn's heart seemed to stand still as the man gave a snatch at the rope. "That's the way to strike," he cried excitedly. "I've caught him, and a heavy one too." Glyn's heart sank with disappointment, for there was no heaviness about the belt, and he stood waiting now as the winch was steadily turned and the bucket began to rise. They had not been observed before, but a little party of about a dozen of the younger boys had been hovering for some time about the well-house-door, and first one and then another made a dash in from time to time when Wrench was too busy with the buckets to take any notice of them. Burton had come inside now, to range up close to Glyn, and in an affectionate way passed his arm round that of the lad who had been his defender more than once. Glyn responded by withdrawing his arm, placing both hands on the little fellow's shoulders, and thrusting him in front so that the boy could have a good view of all that there was to see. "I say, Severn," he cried, turning his head to look up, "no larks--no shoving me down the well!" "Why not?" said Severn merrily, as he gripped the little fellow tighter. "Because old Slegge will want me to bowl for him, and he likes kicking me." "Likes kicking you? Why?" said Glyn, speaking almost mechanically, for he was anxiously watching the dark hole for the ascent of the next bucket. "Because I'm so soft and don't hurt his feet." "Don't let it drop out, mates," cried the gardener, who was on the other side of the well, turning one winch. "Hold tight now you have got him. Do you know what it is?" "No," replied Wrench; "but I think by the feel of it when I got it slithered into the bucket that it must be an old brick out of the side somewhere." "Yah! Not it!" said the gardener. "I'll tell you what it is: it's that big old tom-cat of the Doctor's that used to be about the garden and was always scratching up my young plants. He was missing four or five years ago, and I dare say he got into the top bucket to curl up for a nap one night, and went down in it and was drowned." "If it is," said Wrench, "he's got to be pretty heavy with soaking up so much water down below. Maybe you know better than that how it was he did get drowned and left off scratching up your plants." As the man said these words little Burton gave quite a jump, and made a peculiar sound. "Here," said Glyn quietly, "what are you starting at? Did you think I was going to pretend to push you in?" "N-n-no," said the little fellow in a peculiar tone. "What are you laughing at?" said Glyn, tightening his hold on the boy's shoulders. The little fellow squirmed. "It--it--it--it--it,"--he stuttered--"it does tickle me so!" "There, there! Steady, steady!" said Glyn. "No nonsense, or I shall send you out of the well-house." "No, no; please don't, Severn," whispered the boy excitedly. "Let me stay, please. I do so want to see." "Very well, then, only no games now," and in rather a hopeless way, feeling as he did that there would be no morocco case and belt brought up this time, Glyn patiently waited till from out of the darkness the bucket came into sight, was wound up till it was well within reach, a thump and a scraping noise coming echoing up from the bottom to announce that its fellow had reached the end of its journey, and Wrench cried out "Wo--ho!" for the gardener to hold on tightly by the handle and prevent the heavy bucket running down again. "Why, Crumpets!" cried Wrench, "what in the world have we got here?" while Burton reached both hands back behind him so as to get a good grip at the lapels of Severn's jacket, and began to dance with delight. "Why, it's a cricket-bat!" cried Wrench. "Hanging over the side of the bucket by a string tied round the handle!" At this Burton began to make uncouth sounds as if he were being choked in his efforts to suppress a hearty burst of laughter. "Well, this 'ere's a pretty game," continued Wrench, as he took hold of the bat by the handle and ran his hand along the muddy string till at the bottom of the bucket his hand came in contact with a heavy brick. "Why, any one would think it was a tom-cat with a string round its neck and a brick at the other end of the string so as to keep him down. Four or five years ago! Why, that would be time enough for all the flesh and skin to have gone; but I never knowed that cats' skillingtons was shaped like a cricket-bat.--Here, steady, youngster!" he continued to the little fellow, "if you laugh like that you will have a fit." "Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" panted the little chap, and wrenching himself free from Glyn's grasp he rushed out at the well-house door, ten or a dozen of his comrades bounding up to him as he shouted, "Oh, come and look! come and look! Here it is! They've pulled it up, drowned and quite dead." There was a yell of delight from the little crowd, and all rushed up to the well-house-door, to begin performing something like a triumphant war-dance about the blackened and muddy bat. "Here, I say, some one," cried Burton, "run and tell old Slegge that they have found his cricket-bat drowned in the well like a dead dog in a pond." "Hush! Hush! Oh no. Hold your tongue!" whispered another of the boys excitedly. "Let him find it out for himself. Don't let the cat out of the bag." "Bat out of the bag, you mean," said Glyn, who knew of the disappearance of the bat and began to see through what had been done. "Which of you did this?" There was no reply. "Do you hear?" cried Glyn, catching Burton by the collar of his jacket. "I shan't tell," replied the little fellow. "Serve him right for loading the old bat with lead.--Chuck it down again, somebody." "Nay," cried Wrench; "I am not going to have any more things drowned in my well. Now then, stand aside, some of you! Clear out, and take that bat away." "Here," cried Burton. "Come on, boys! Bring it along." "Stop a moment," said Glyn. "Here's a painted wooden label here. What's this on it?" "B--e--a--s--t," said Wrench, "only it's turned nearly black with being in the water, and very badly done; but that's it, sure enough, sir--_beast_." "Yes, that's it--_beast_," said another of the boys, snatching the bat from Glyn's hand, while another boy got hold of the brick. "Come on, boys," cried Burton. "Let's get a spade from the potting-shed and bury the beast before old Slegge knows." And away they galloped, followed by a shout from the gardener: "Here, I say, you mind you put that there spade away again!--They're nice uns, Mr Severn, sir, and knew about it all the time." "Yes," said Wrench; "that young Burton was chuckling and laughing so that he could hardly bear himself while he was waiting to see it come up.--Now, then, twist t'other bucket over, mate, and give it a drag round the bottom. What are we going to catch next?" Glyn started once more, his heart beginning to beat fast with expectation; but it gradually calmed down as the time went on, bucket after bucket after a careful scraping along the bottom bringing up nothing but a very little mud, and he began to feel convinced that if there had been a morocco case down at the bottom of the well it must have been felt in the careful dredging the live rock received, even if it had not been brought up. "There," said Wrench, "that'll do for to-day. It's only scraping for nothing to get a little mud like that. I dare say there'll be six inches of water in the bottom by to-morrow morning, and we will give the whole place a good scraping round in getting that out; then another the next day, and it ought to do." "But do you feel sure there's nothing down there now?" said Glyn. "Certain, sir. What do you say to going down yourself to see? You could stand in the bucket, and we'd let you down. You wouldn't mind turning round as you went down?" "No," cried Glyn eagerly; "and there's no water there now." "Not much more than enough to fill a teacup, sir. What do you say?" "I'll go," cried Glyn excitedly. "I could take a lantern with me so as to make sure there was nothing left." "Well, yes, sir, it would be wise to take a candle," said Wrench.--"Wouldn't it, gardener?" "Nay, my lad; you ought to send the light down first. Then, if it didn't go out, him as went down wouldn't go out." "What do you mean?" said Glyn. "Foul air, sir. Like enough there's some down at the bottom of that well." "Oh, there couldn't be any to hurt," cried Glyn eagerly. "I'll go, Wrench. Get a candle." "Not I, sir," said the man sturdily. "If any one was to go down that well it would be me; but there ain't no need for it. I could swear there's nothing down there, and I shan't go." "Nobody wants you to go," cried Glyn. "I'll go myself." "That you don't, sir, if I know it," said Wrench sturdily. "Pst! Here's the Doctor." For at that moment the entrance was darkened and the Doctor came in, picking his way very carefully lest he should step into one of the puddles of the muddy floor. "Well, my men," he said in his slow, pompous way, "have you nearly emptied the well?" "Quite, sir," said Wrench. "Was there any mud?" "Yes, sir; we got out about two cart-loads, and scraped out all we could. To-morrow, when there's a little more water come back, we're going to try again." "Yes," said the Doctor; "clean it out thoroughly while you are about it; and mind and carefully secure the door when you come away. You had better lock it, so that nobody can get in.--Well, Mr Severn, you must be tired of watching here. Come and walk down the garden with me." Glyn followed the Doctor, who made room for him to walk abreast till they were half-way down the main path, when the latter said quietly, "Well, Severn, what have you found?" "Nothing, sir," replied Severn, who did not consider it necessary to allude to the bat. "No," said the Doctor; "I did not expect you would. Of course, you see, my boy, that it was only a dream." CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. BETWEEN BOYS. "Oh, I say, what a lovely morning!" Glyn, who had lain awake half the night, woke up with a start, to see Singh standing barefooted by the window, which he had just thrown wide open to let in the joyous sunshine and the soft sweet air. "Yes, jolly," he cried, inhaling a deep breath. "No! Most miserable morning I ever saw," and he sank back sitting on the edge of his bed, to utter a deep groan. Singh sprang to his side in an instant. "Glyn, old chap, what's the matter? Are you ill?" "Yes, horribly. In my head. Oh, I say! I couldn't sleep for ever so long last night for thinking about it." "Then why didn't you wake me, old fellow? I'd have dressed directly and gone and told the Doctor." "What about?" "You being so ill." "Bah!" cried Glyn angrily. "It isn't salts and senna. What a fellow you are! You don't mean to say that you'd forgotten that the dad's coming down to-day?" Singh plumped himself down on the carpet like a native of Dour, untroubled by clothes, with his knees nearly to his ears and his crossed hands before him resting on the floor, while his face lost its sympathetic expression and puckered up into one of misery and despair. "Yes, I had," he said, with a groan; "all about it. Here," he cried passionately, "I won't be treated like a schoolboy! I am a prince and a chief, and the belt was mine. It's gone, and I won't be bullied about it by any one." "Not even by your guardian, eh?" "Not even by my guardian," cried the boy haughtily. "If Colonel Severn says anything to me about it I shall tell him I won't hear another word, and that he is to go to the best jeweller in London and order another exactly like the one that has been stolen." "Of course," said Glyn solemnly. "It'll be as easy as kissing your hand, and they'll know at once how to engrave the emeralds with the old Sanskrit inscription, and make the belt of the same kind of leather, so beautifully soft, dull, and yellow; and there are plenty of people in London who can do that Indian embroidery." Singh nodded his head shortly. "Bah! You jolly old Tom Noodle!" continued Glyn; "why, even if they could get as big emeralds and manage somehow to have the exact words of the inscription cut, would it be the same old belt and stones as came down from the past, and that your father used to wear?" Singh's eyes dilated and his lips parted. "No," he said with a groan. "Oh, Glynny, what a beast you are! And you call yourself my friend!" "Never," cried Glyn. "It was you said I was." "Yes, and instead of helping me in my trouble, and saying a few words to comfort me, you call me names." "Yes, but I didn't call you a beast. Is it being a friend to hide the truth from you and let you snuggle yourself up with a lot of sham? Answer me this: would a fresh belt be anything more than an imitation?" "No, I suppose not," groaned Singh. "I am a prince, and going to be very rich some day, and rule over my people, with a little army of my own, and elephants, and everything any one could wish for; but I am not a bit clever, except at wicket-keeping. I haven't got half such a head as you have, Glyn, and such a head as I have got is now all muddled and full of what you may call it." "Brains," said Glyn cynically. "No, no; I don't mean that," said Singh piteously. "Don't tease me, old chap; I am so miserable. I mean, my head's full of that stuff, I don't remember what you call it--I mean what you have when you are very sorry for something you have done." "Misery?" "No, no. Here, I remember--remorse. I know well enough now, though I don't like owning it, that if I had done as you told me, and taken care always to lock it up, that belt wouldn't be gone." "Well, it's too late to talk about that," said Glyn, "and it's no use to cry over spilt milk. You have got to face it all out with the dad when he comes, and take your blowing-up like a man." "I can't. I shall do just as I said, and even if it isn't going to be the same belt," cried the boy passionately, "I shall give your father orders. Yes, I can see you sneering. Orders, orders," he repeated, with increased emphasis, "to have a new one made." Glyn threw himself back on his bed, and gave his heels a kick in the air. "Ho, ho! ha, ha!" he roared with laughter. "What a game! Mind and do it when I am there. I should like to see you jump on a fence and cry `Cock-a-doodle-doo' at my father. Fancy you playing the haughty prince to him! Why, he'd stare at you. You know his way. And he'd take a grab of his moustache in each hand and pull it out straight before he began; and then he'd get up out of his chair, take hold of you by one of your ears, lead you back, and put you between his knees as he seated himself again. And then he'd talk, and at the first word he said, he'd blow all the haughty wind out of you, and you'd curl up like a--oh, I don't know what. It's nonsense to try and think of similes, for you'd never say what you pretend." "Well, then, I shall bolt, as you call it," cried Singh. "I won't face him. I can't face him." "Why?" "Because I am too proud I suppose, and the Colonel isn't my master." "I say, Singhy, get off the stilts, old chap, and be a man over it. You know what the dad always used to say to both of us: `A fellow who has done wrong and owns up like a man is half-forgiven at once.'" "Oh yes, I recollect. But do help me now, I am in such trouble." "You are in no worse trouble than I am." "Oh yes, I am. You are not to blame, for you did tell me to be careful; and though I didn't like it at the time, I can see now how right you were." "Yes; but I wasn't half right enough. I ought to have made you tell the Doctor what you'd got in the box, and then he'd have insisted upon its being kept in a safer place." "But I wouldn't have given it up," cried Singh angrily. "Oh yes, you would," continued Glyn; "and I feel now that I ought to have gone straight to the Doctor and told about your going to see Professor Barclay." "No, you oughtn't, and you wouldn't have been such a sneak. Besides, it would have been getting poor Mr Morris into trouble, too, for taking me there. Did you want him to lose his place?" "Well, no," said Glyn thoughtfully. "And as to my going to see Professor Barclay and lending him a little money now and then--I mean, giving it--it was my own money, and what's the good of having money if you don't do good with it?" "Well," said Glyn thoughtfully, "there is something in that," and the boy seemed yielding to his companion's attack. Singh realised this, and pressed it home. "I am sure it was doing more good with my allowance than you do with yours, always stuffing yourself with fruit and sweets and things." "That I am not!" cried Glyn indignantly. "Yes, you are. Why, you have got quite half of that big three-shilling cake in your box now." "Oh, but that was to eat of a night when we came to bed and felt as if we ought to have a little more supper." "Oh, bother!" cried Singh angrily. "What shall I do. Here, I know. I shall go." "What, run away?" "Yes," cried Singh, "and stop away till my guardian writes to me and begs of me to come back; and then I shall make terms, and not give way till he promises that he won't say another word about the belt." Glyn chuckled to himself softly. "How are you going to make terms?" he said. "I shall write to him," cried Singh importantly. "Without giving any address?" said Glyn, with a mirthful look dancing in his eye. "What rubbish! Why, of course I shall put my address, so that he can write to me again--" "And then he won't write to you," said Glyn. "He'll come to you and fetch you back with a flea in your ear." "Oh, you are a brute!" cried Singh viciously. "And I feel as if I could--No, I won't. I shall treat you with contempt." "That's right; do. I say, you are comforting me nicely, aren't you? Pig! disagreeable old jungle-pig! That's what you are." "Well, why don't you help me then? What am I to do?" "Get dressed, I think," said Glyn. "Don't be what old Brohanne calls a _bete_--big fool. Do as I do. Go and have it out with the dad, and get out of one's misery. He won't be very hard." "Oh, if it was only a good--good--good--What's that you say?" "Bullying?" "No, no. It was a bit of slang, and I like to use bits of English slang when I can; they'll be so useful to know by-and-by when I am scolding my people. Not bullying, but--" "Oh, you mean tongue-thrashing?" said Glyn. "Yes, that's it, tongue-thrashing. I wouldn't mind then. I feel so ashamed of myself." "All right. So do I, I suppose, for making a mess of it when I wanted the dad to think that I had managed you so well that I was making myself fit to be your friend and companion when we both grew up to be men." The next minute the lads were busy making their preparations to descend for a little study before the breakfast-bell should ring; and as he washed and dressed, Glyn's brow looked wrinkled and cloudy, for he was thinking very seriously all the while. On the other hand, Singh dressed himself as if he had a quarrel with everything. He chipped the edge of the basin as he handled the ewer, dropped the lid of the soap-dish with a clatter, and as he washed himself he burst out with an angry ejaculation, for the wet soap was gripped so tightly and viciously that it flew out of his hand as if in fear, and dived right under the bed to the farthest end, where it had to be hunted out and retrieved, covered with the flue that had been forgotten by one of the maids; while the way in which he finished off with his towel was harsh enough to produce a smarting sensation upon his skin. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. A WITNESS CALLED. Neither of the boys enjoyed his breakfast that morning, and their studies afterwards fared very badly, for their attention was principally directed from their books to the door, which opened again and again for some reason or another, but not for the delivery of the message they expected. Knowing the military precision of the Colonel, both boys began to wonder at a quarter-past eleven why they had not been summoned, for the Colonel had said in his curt epistle to Glyn--which "looked cross," so the boy said--that he would be at the Doctor's at eleven. Half-past was marked by the hands of the big dial, quarter to twelve, and then five minutes to mid-day, and in a few minutes the masters would rise; but there was no summons, and, what was more, the Doctor had not been in the class-room that morning. It was exactly one minute to twelve, and just as Singh's spirits were rising fast from the effect of having fully settled in his own mind that the Colonel would not come down that day, that his heart sank with a rush, for Wrench entered with the familiar announcement that the Doctor wished to see Mr Severn and Mr Singh in his study. The boys followed the footman, and as soon as they were outside Glyn began to question him. "Has my father come, Wrench?" "Yes, sir," said the man coldly, for since the beginning of the trouble and the sharp examinations that had taken place, the behaviour of the servants had been distant in the extreme, and such friendly intercourse as had existed between the pupils and masters had received a decided check. In fact, as the days glided away, the Doctor's establishment had become more and more haunted by the evil spirit, suspicion. "How long has my father been here?" asked Glyn. "About an hour, sir," replied the man shortly. "I didn't look at the clock. This way, please, sir. I am busy." It was so different from the Wrench of the past that it sent a chill through the boys, as they followed on and began whispering so that the man should not hear. "Go on first, Glynny," whispered Singh. "Get out! I haven't lost my belt," was the reply. "But the Colonel's your father." "Well, I can't help that, can I? It's about your business. You go on first." "I shan't. I have got something wrong with my legs," said Singh. "They feel quite weak." "Come on together," cried Glyn, and he thrust his arm through Singh's, as the door was opened and the boys uttered a sigh of relief in concert, for the Doctor was not present, and at first they had to see the Colonel alone. It was a strange sensation that ran through both, a mingling of dread, despair, and misery, as they gazed in imagination into the stern, threatening countenance of the fierce-looking old soldier, and wished themselves a thousand miles away. For Glyn felt more uncomfortable than ever before in his life, and as he darted a quick sideways glance at his companion it was to see no haughty indignant prince ready to stand defiantly upon his rights, but a fellow-pupil appearing as mild and troubled as could be. All this was little more than momentary, and the fierce threatening face they had come to encounter was all fancy made; for the Colonel's looks as he held out his hand was very much the same as when they had dined with him the last time at his hotel, and his salute was just a hearty English: "Well, boys, how are you? But you two fellows have been making a pretty mess of it over that belt!" And before either of them could reply, he continued, in his short, giving-order style, "Great nuisance and bother to me. I have had quite two months taken up with your affairs, Singh-- Dour business, you know--and I shall be very glad when you are old enough to take the reins in your hand and drive yourself." "But, guardian--" began Singh, who was breathing more freely, the warm pressure of the Colonel's hand having thrilled him through and through. "Oh yes, I know, my boy; I didn't mean that. I am not going to be pensioned off. I am going to be a sort of House of Lords to you two commoners, and you will come and refer all big matters to me. Let's see, what was I saying? Oh, I've been busy two months over the Dour affairs. Got them pretty straight, and I was going up into Scotland for a month's rest. I meant to write from there if you had been doing your sums a little better, Glyn, and if you, Singh, had improved a bit in your spelling, for the way in which you break your shins over the big words in your letters is rather startling." "Oh, guardian, aren't you rather too hard?" said the boy appealingly. "But you weren't only going to write to the Doctor about that?" "Humph! No. I had some idea about salmon-fishing when the season comes on." "Oh, fishing!" cried the boys in a breath. "Yes," said the Colonel. "It won't be like getting up in the hills amongst the mahseer. Bah! Here am I running away about fishing! I caught a forty-pounder last time I tried, and a big fight too. But the Doctor wanted me to come out here about this wretched belt business, and I have had to leave my club and put off my journey to come down and see about this.--It's a bad business, Glyn. I am afraid you have not been so sharp as you should have been." "I have tried my best, father." "I suppose so; but the best's bad." "Don't be hard on him, guardian," said Singh, laying his hand affectionately on the Colonel's shoulder. "It was all my fault, and I know better now." "Know better? What do you mean by that, sir?" "Well, sir," said Singh hesitatingly, "I know it was weak and foolish of me to want to have a showy thing like that to wear; but I was not so English then as I am now." "Showy thing like that, eh?" said the Colonel. "Ahem! Well, I don't know that you need excuse yourself about that. It's rather natural. A soldier likes showy regimentals. I was always proud of my uniform, boys. No, I am not going to fall foul of you about that, Singh, so long as you didn't make a goose of yourself with it. But when you had such a showy thing, you ought to have had gumption enough to know how to take care of it. Well, it will be a lesson to you to know how to behave by-and-by when you come out among your own people as a prince. You won't go pitching your jewels about then as if you were asking people to come and help themselves." "But it was like this, father--" began Glyn. "Halt!" cried the Colonel sharply. "Wait till the Doctor comes. He is going through it all quietly with you, and he has asked me to sit like a judge till it has all been put before me, and then I am to give my verdict. He asks me to say whether the matter shall be placed in the hands of the police. Well, one of you had better ring, and--" As he was speaking, there was a tap at the door, which was gently opened, and the Doctor said, "May I come in?" "Yes, sir. Come in, come in. I have had my say to the boys, and told them what I think about their carelessness, and to a certain extent our young friend here, Singh, agrees, I believe, that it was rather a mistake for him to have that piece of vanity at school." "I am glad, Colonel," said the Doctor, seating himself, "that they are ready to confess a fault; but as one who seeks to hold the scales of justice evenly, I hope you will excuse me for saying that I think my pupils are not entirely to blame; for--I beg you will not be offended--I venture to think it was rather indiscreet on your part to give way to my young friend Singh, however much he may have pressed you, and placed in his hands so valuable an heirloom." "Humph! You think so, do you?" grunted the Colonel. "However, it is not of so much consequence. He has got plenty more valuable jewels-- enough to make himself look as gay as a peacock by-and-by." "Excuse me, Colonel Severn," said the Doctor stiffly; "I think the matter is of very great consequence. Not only is it a serious loss--" The Colonel grunted again. "But I feel as if the honour and reputation of my school are at stake, and it was for that reason that I wrote and asked you to come down to consult with me as to what steps should be taken now towards the recovery of the belt. This, before placing the matter in the hands of the police." "Oh, hang the police!" said the Colonel shortly. "We can settle this little matter, I am sure, without calling in the help of policeman A or Z." "I am very glad to hear you say so, Colonel; for it would be most repugnant to me, and painful to my staff of assistants, and for my pupils, I may add. There are the servants too, and the publicity in the town, where I am afraid the matter is too much talked about already. You think, then, that we may dispense with the police?" "Certainly," said the Colonel; "unless," he added drily, "Singh here wants the business carried to the bitter end." "I, sir? Oh no!" cried Singh. "If I could do as I liked I wouldn't have another word said about it. I hate the old belt. Can't even think of it without seeming to have a nasty taste in my mouth." "Oh," said the Colonel; "but we can't stop like that. I think, for every one's sake, the shoe should be put on the right foot.--What do you say, Dr Bewley?" "I quite agree with you, sir. We have talked the matter pretty well over this morning, and I have told you what I have done. I was bound to question the servants, though all of them have been with me for years, and I have perfect confidence in their honesty. As to my pupils, I could not examine and cross-examine every boy. It would have been like expressing a doubt of every little fellow's truth. It has been a most painful thing for me, sir; and if you can help me or advise me in the wearisome business, I should be most grateful." "Very well, sir. I suppose I have had a little experience acting the part of magistrate in India, where petty thefts are very common; and I have attended trials in England, and have been vain enough to think to myself that I could examine a witness or cross-examine more to the point than I have heard it done in some of our courts." "Then," said the Doctor, "you were good enough to suggest two or three little things this morning. What should you do first?" "Well," said the Colonel thoughtfully, "I think, first of all, it is due to those gentlemen who act as your ushers that they should be asked to join in our consultation." "Certainly. Quite right," said the Doctor, and, ringing the bell, he sent a message by Wrench to the class-room, and if the masters were not there, bade the man find them in the grounds. There was a pause in the proceedings here, during which the Doctor and his visitor chatted about political matters, and the boys sat whispering together about the last match. But they had not long to wait. Morris came bustling in to bow to the Colonel and take the seat to which the Doctor pointed, while Rampson and Monsieur Brohanne came in together from a walk round the grounds. Then, after a very few preliminaries, forming a sort of introduction to the masters of the boys' father and guardian, the Colonel spoke about the great unpleasantness of the matter and the Doctor's desire to have what seemed like a cloud hanging over his establishment swept away. He addressed a few words then to Rampson, who had nothing more to say after declaring his perfect certainty that not one of the boys he had the honour of instructing would have been guilty of such a crime. Monsieur Brohanne, too, declared himself as lost in astonishment at the trouble which had come upon them like a sudden tempest. No, by his faith, he said, he could not think how such an outrage could have taken place. Morris was disposed to be more voluble, and the Colonel more ready to examine him, while the master was prompt and eager in his replies, sighing as if with relief as the Colonel at length stopped short and sat patting the carpet with his right toe. "Well, sir," said the Doctor at last, "seeing that, as I told you, I carefully examined the servants, I had plunged as far as this in the mystery before." "Humph!" grunted the Colonel, with his eyes closed, and Glyn and Singh exchanged glances. "The servants," said the Colonel softly; "the servants. Doctor, I should like you to ring for that man of yours." Morris glanced at the Doctor, who bowed his head, and the usher stepped to the bell. "Oh, father!" cried Glyn excitedly, "pray don't suspect Wrench!" "Hold your tongue, sir," said the Colonel sternly. "Wait and hear what is said, and don't jump at conclusions." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. UNDER EXAMINATION. Then there was a tap and Wrench appeared. "Come in, my man," said the Colonel, "and close the door." Wrench started, turned pale and then red, as he looked sharply at his master, who sat perfectly still and avoided his gaze. "Come a step nearer, my man," said the Colonel. Wrench gazed at him defiantly, shook himself, jerked up his head, looked hard at the two boys, who were watching him, tightening his lips the while, and then, after taking two steps instead of one, stood facing the Colonel, as much as to say: "Now, ask me as many questions as you like." "Your master has deputed me, my man, to carry on this investigation, and I should be obliged by your replying in a straightforward, manly way. You are not before a magistrate, and hence are not sworn. Doctor Bewley gives you an admirable character for honesty and straightforward conduct, and if I ask you questions that sound unpleasant in your ears, don't run away with the idea that it is because you are suspected." Wrench's manner changed a little, for the references to his uprightness and rectitude sounded pleasant in his ears. "I give you credit," continued the Colonel, "for being as desirous as these gentlemen here and I am to find out the culprit." "Yes, sir; certainly, sir, and Mr Singh and Mr Severn, sir, will tell you that I have been as much cut up about it as if the blessed--I beg your pardon, gentlemen--as if the belt had been my own." "Exactly," said the Colonel. "Now then, it seems that the time when the belt was lost cannot be exactly pointed out, since it may have been taken at one of the times when Mr Singh's travelling-case was left unlocked." "Oh, sir, but nobody ever goes up into his room except the maids and Mrs Hamton and me; and, bless your heart, sir, the Doctor will tell you that he wouldn't doubt any of us to save his life." "Hah!" said the Colonel. "A good character, my man, is a fine thing. Now, what about strangers--people from the town--peddlers, or hawkers, or people with books to be subscribed for? You have such people come, I suppose, to the house?" "Lots of them, sir; but they never come any farther than the door," cried Wrench, laughing. "You see, sir, Mr Singh's dormitory is on the first floor of the new building, over the little lecture-hall. Nobody ever went there." "Could any strangers come up through the grounds and get into the passage or corridor after dusk?" "No, sir; not without coming through the house. I have laid awake lots of times, sir, trying to put that and that together; but it's all been like a maze, sir--a sort of maze, sir, made like with no way in and no way out." "Humph!" said the Colonel, looking at the man searchingly. "I have heard of cases where people have come to a house and asked the servants if somebody was at home when the speaker knew that he was out, and then made an excuse to be shown into a room to write a letter to the gentleman, say the Doctor, whom he wanted to see; Did such a thing happen in your recollection? No, no; don't hurry. Tax your memory.-- Ah!--What is it?" "I've got it, sir!" cried Wrench excitedly. "Oh!" said the Colonel quietly. "Well, what did happen?" "To be sure, somebody did come just as you said, sir, as you asked me that question, once. But it hasn't got anything to do with the stealing of that belt." "Perhaps not," said the Colonel; "but let us hear. You say somebody did once come and ask for the Doctor when he was out?" "Begging your pardon, sir, no, sir. It wasn't to see the Doctor, sir. It was on the day when everybody was out, gone to the Strongley cricket-match, and there was nobody at home but the maids and me, for Mrs Hamton our housekeeper, sir, had leave from the Doctor to go and see a friend who was ill." "Well," said the Colonel sharply, "what is it, Glyn?" For the boy had jumped up excitedly. "That was the day, father, when Singh left the keys in the lock of his box." "Exactly," said the Colonel. "Sit down, my boy.--Well, my man, whom did this stranger ask to see?" "Please, sir, it wasn't a stranger; it was a gentleman the Doctor knew, and who came here to dinner once, and he asked for Mr Morris." "Oh!" cried Morris, springing up. "Impossible!" "Mr Morris, I must ask you to be silent," said the Colonel sternly. "But--" "I will hear anything you have to say, sir, when I have finished with this witness," said the Colonel firmly.--"Go on, my man. Who was this gentleman?" "Pro--Professor Barlow, sir. No, sir; Professor Barclay, sir. And he said he was very much disappointed, as he had come down expressly from London to see Mr Morris. He said he couldn't stop, but he would write a letter if I would give him pens, ink, and paper." "Go on," said the Colonel, as the hearers bent forward with eager interest. "Did you supply him with pens, ink, and paper?" "Yes, sir. You see, he wasn't a stranger, but a friend of master's." "And you took him to my study?" said the Doctor almost fiercely. "I beg your pardon, Doctor," said the Colonel stiffly. "I beg yours, Colonel Severn, for the interruption." "Now then, my man," continued the Colonel; "you took this visitor, this Professor Barclay--" There was a low, indignant murmur here, and the Colonel looked round sharply. "You took this Professor Barclay into your master's study, I understand, and gave him pens, ink, and paper, and left him to write the letter?" "No, sir, that I didn't," said Wrench, grinning with triumph. "I have been a servant too many years, sir, to go and do a thing like that. What, take him into master's room, where he keeps his cash-box and cheque-book in the little iron safe in the closet! And there's the presentation clock on the chimney-piece, and his old gold watch that he never wears in the table-drawer! No, sir. That gentleman was master's friend to some extent; but he was a stranger to me, and if he'd been a royal duke I shouldn't have done it." "Then, what did you do?" said the Colonel. "Took him into the theaytre lecture-room, sir, where there's little tables, and the young gentlemen writes out their exercises. That's what I did, sir," said Wrench triumphantly; and he looked hard at his master, who sat shaking his head at him solemnly.--"What! Wasn't that right, sir?" cried Wrench. "Oh Wrench, Wrench, Wrench!" said the Doctor. "And you left him there, with the staircase close at hand leading right up to the corridor and the young gentlemen's dormitories?" Wrench's jaw dropped, and one hand went slowly up to the back of his head and began to scratch. "Well," continued the Colonel; "and how long did this gentleman stay?" "I don't know, sir. Not half an hour--I'd swear to that. I gave him long enough to write a letter, and then I come back to see if he was ready to go." "Let me protest," cried Morris indignantly. "No such letter was written for or delivered to me; that I declare." "Pray be calm, sir," said the Colonel judicially. "You can ask this man any questions when I have done with him.--Now, my man, go on. Did you find this gentleman where you left him?" "Yes, sir." "And he gave you a letter to deliver to Mr Morris?" "No, sir," cried Wrench sharply. "I'd forgotten all about it till you began arxing me questions like this. When I come in he got up in a disappointed sort of way and began tearing up the letter he had written quite small, and throwing it into the waste-paper basket. `It's no use, my lad,' he said. `I can't say in a letter one-hundredth part'--I ain't sure, sir, he didn't say a thousandth-part--`of what I want to tell Mr Morris. I'll stay in the town to-night, and come and see Mr Morris in the morning.'" "And did he come and see Mr Morris in the morning?" Morris half-rose in his chair, but sat down again. "No, sir; and I haven't seen him from that day to this, though I had often seen them together before." "That will do, my man," said the Colonel quietly.--"Now, Mr Morris; you wish to ask this man some questions?" "Yes, sir," cried Morris springing up.--"Now, Wrench, did you ever tell me that Professor Barclay called when I was absent?" "No, sir. I suppose it was the cricket-match put it all out of my head." "Bah!" cried Morris. "And then, you see, sir, I have so many things to think of about my work and the young gentlemen that I haven't got room to remember everything; and I always have to tick things off." "Tick things off? What do you mean by that?" cried Morris. "Well, sir, there's things to do and there's things that's done; things I have got to remember, and things I haven't. The Professor said that he'd come and see you, so that was his job and not mine; and if you'll believe me, gentlemen all, I never remembered about his coming until Colonel Severn here asked me about any one coming and wanting to write a letter." "I believe you," said the Colonel quietly, as if speaking to himself; but it was sufficiently loud for Morris to hear, and he turned upon the speaker fiercely. "I protest, sir," he cried indignantly, "partly against my name being dragged into this despicable theft, and partly on behalf of my friend Professor Barclay, a scholar, a gentleman, and a professor of Sanskrit and other Eastern languages; a gentleman, sir, though a poor and needy gentleman upon whom the world had frowned, but whom I considered it an honour and a privilege to know, as I should any gentleman whom I was introduced to by my revered principal the Doctor. I cannot sit still and hear such a man even suspected of being dishonest; and I beg you, sir, and the Doctor will go on with this investigation so as to prove to the world that Professor Barclay was a gentleman indeed." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. THE COLONEL OPENS FOLK'S EYES. Morris sat down, panting, and began wiping the perspiration from his forehead. He looked very much agitated, and then he smiled with satisfaction, for Singh sprang up and cried, "Mr Morris is quite right, guardian. The Professor was a scholar and a gentleman, whom I knew too." "Indeed!" said the Colonel. "Yes, sir. He spoke Hindustani very well for an Englishman. Why, you saw him, sir!" "I?" said the Colonel sharply. "Yes, sir; that night we were dining with you at your hotel." "The Colonel forgets," said Morris quickly. "He was with me in the hall, sir, and wanted to be introduced to you." "Oh," said the Colonel; "that man? No, I don't forget. I remember perfectly well." "And, guardian, he took such an interest in my belt!" "Indeed!" said the Colonel quietly. "Yes, sir, when I showed it to him. He asked to see it, you know, when I told him about the Sanskrit letters." "Naturally, as a Sanskrit scholar," said the Colonel drily. "Sit down, my boy.--Doctor, I am very glad you sent for me, and that I am able to clear up this miserable little mystery. You knew this Professor Barclay?" "Only as coming to me with testimonials to prove that he had been one of the professors at Stillham College." "Yes; and his name?" "Barclay--Professor Barclay, Professor of Sanskrit and Hindustani. He applied for an engagement here." "Humph! All wrong," said the Colonel. "I thought I knew his face when he tried to thrust himself upon me in the hotel; and I was right. I did know it, though thirty years had elapsed since we last met. A man who had been out in Calcutta and picked up a little Sanskrit and a pretty good smattering of Hindustani--a man who can chatter a bit in a foreign tongue always seems a big scholar to one who can't. This fellow, on the strength of his acquirements, came back to England and obtained an appointment near London where military cadets were in training for the Honourable East India Company's Service. I was there--not Stillham, but Barniscombe; name not Barclay, but Roberts. He was kicked out, Doctor, for blackmailing the students. He was not much more than a boy himself in those days." "Colonel," cried the Doctor indignantly, "are you prepared to say you are sure, and that this is a fact?" "Yes," said the Colonel coolly. "He blackmailed me." "Oh, impossible!" cried Morris wildly. "No, sir," said the Colonel, smiling. "Quite possible. But you don't offend me, sir. I admire the way in which you defend the man whom you seem to have made your friend.--Well, Doctor, there's your man.--Why, boys, you seem to have been babies in his hands. Glyn, I'm ashamed of you." Glyn looked at the Doctor, and then at Morris, as he felt that his father was not treating him fairly; but he held his tongue, and then his eyes flashed with satisfaction as Singh gave him a quick look and then spoke out. "Glyn had nothing to do with it, sir," he said. "He protested against it, and regularly bullied me for showing this man the belt and lending him money." "Ha, ha!" said the Colonel. "Then he fleeced you a little, did he, my boy?" "Well, yes, sir. I lent or gave him some money, because I thought that he was a poor gentleman. How was I to know that he was not honest, when--when--" He was about to say "when my teachers were deceived," but the Colonel checked him. "There, there, there," he said; "that'll do, Singh. You are not the first fellow of your age who has been imposed upon by a needy scoundrel." "No," said the Doctor sharply. "If any one is to blame it is I, who pitied the position of a man out of employment and tried to befriend him. Well, Colonel Severn, I am very sorry; but it is forced upon me. I feel it a duty to you to try and make some recompense." "Oh, nonsense!" said the Colonel rather haughtily. "I need no recompense." "Indeed, sir," said the Doctor, "but I am answerable to Mr Singh here for his loss through my want of care and foresight." "Oh, pooh, sir! pooh! The belt was not worth much; eh, Singh?" "Oh no," said the boy contemptuously, and raising his head he walked up to the Doctor and held out his hand. "Don't say any more about it, sir, please," he added rather proudly. "I don't mind losing the belt a bit." "Oh, but," cried the Doctor, catching at and pressing the boy's hand warmly, "this is very brave and noble of you, my boy. Still I must put aside all false shame and accept the punishment that may fall upon me from the want of confidence that people may feel in the future.--Colonel Severn, this must go into the hands of the police. Such a man as this must be run down; it is a duty, and before he imposes upon others as he has imposed upon me." "No, no, no, my dear sir! No, no," cried the Colonel. "The swindling scoundrel has had his punishment before this, so let him go." "I beg your pardon," said the Doctor; "he cannot have had his punishment; and such a man as this should not be allowed to be at large." "There, there, sir," cried the Colonel, laughing pleasantly, and greatly to the annoyance of the Doctor that he should treat the loss of his ward's valuable belt in so light a way. "I find that I must make a confession. That belt really was not intrinsically worth more than a ten-pound note. It cost me about twenty; but I very much doubt whether the scoundrel would be able to sell it for a tithe of the amount." "Guardian," cried Singh, "what are you saying?" "Something in very plain English, my boy. Let's see, how old are you now?" "Sixteen, sir." "Well, it's about two years since you began to attack me about letting you have that part of the Dour regalia, and I wanted to satisfy you and do my duty in the trust my good old friend your father placed in me." "I don't understand, sir," cried the boy, flushing. "You soon will, my lad. I, in my desire to do my duty by you, felt that it would not be right to let a mere schoolboy like you come away to make your home at some place of education with so costly, and, from its associations, unique a jewel as the one in question." "You used to say so to me, sir," said the boy quickly. "Yes. But in your young hot-blooded Indian nature you were not pacified, and I felt bound to do something that I thought then would be right." Singh looked at him and then at Glyn, while the rest of those assembled listened eagerly for the Colonel's next words. "Do you remember, boys, our long stay in Colombo?" "Yes!" they cried in a breath. "Well, they are famous people for working in jewellery there, and I easily found a man ready to undertake the task of making a facsimile of the belt." "Facsimile!" cried Singh, starting away from the speaker. "Yes, my boy; and he did it beautifully--so well that I was almost startled by its exactitude and the way in which a few pieces of green glass resembled emeralds." "But the Sanskrit inscription?" cried the Doctor. "Exactly copied," said the Colonel; "cut in the glass. I tell you it was so well done that I was almost startled." "Then--then--then," cried Singh wildly, "I have been deceived!" and his voice seemed to cut down that of Glyn, who was about to burst out in a triumphant "Hooray!" "Well, yes, my boy," said the Colonel quietly. "I told you I must confess. I did deceive you in that, but with the best intentions." A look of agony crossed the boy's face, and he turned from father to son and then back. "Treated as a child!" he cried. "Deceived again! Oh, in whom am I to trust?" "In me, I hope, boy," almost thundered the Colonel in the deepest tones. "I had the trust imposed on me by your dead father to care for you and your wealth until you came of age. Should I have been acting my part had I given up to you and let you treat as a toy that valuable jewel that was almost sacred in his eyes?" "But to--but to--Then where--where is it now?" "Lying safely with others, sir, in the bankers' vaults." "Oh-h-h-oh!" cried Singh, and his whole manner changed as he stood for a few moments striving for utterance yet unable to speak. But at last the words came, hoarsely and with a violent effort, as in the reaction from his fit of indignation he almost murmured, "What have I done? What have I said?" "Nothing, my boy," said the Colonel, holding out his hands, "but what had my son been in your place I would have gladly seen him do and heard him say." One moment Singh's face, quivering with emotion, was hidden in the Colonel's breast; the next, he rushed from the room, closely followed by Glyn. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE SORE PLACE IN THE FENCE. Time had gone on after his good old fashion, moving silently and insidiously, seeming to crawl to those who were waiting for something, till it suddenly dawns upon them that he has been making tremendous strides with those long legs of his which puzzled the little girl who asked her mother whether it was true that Time had those means of progression. Many will remember that the mother asked the child why she supposed that Time had legs, "Because," she replied, "people speak about the lapse of Time, and if he has laps he must have legs to make them of." The troubles connected with the disappearance of the belt, and the unpleasant weeks during which masters, scholars, and servants seemed to have been mentally poisoned by suspicion and were all disposed to look askant at each other, had passed away, and, in his busy avocations and joining in the school sports, Singh was disposed to look upon the theft of his pseudo-heirloom as something which had never happened. "Even if it had been real, Glyn," he said one night as they lay talking across the room in the dark, and the boy had grown into a much more philosophical state of mind, "what would it have mattered?" "Not a jolly bit," said Glyn drowsily. "I suppose it's being here in England," continued Singh, "where you people don't think so much about dressing up, and getting to be more English myself, that I don't seem to care about ornaments as I used. Sometimes I think it was very stupid of me to want to bring such a thing to school with me in my travelling-trunk." "Awfully," grumbled Glyn. "What!" cried Singh sharply. Glyn started. "Eh! What say?" he cried, and a yawn followed. "You said `awfully.'" "Did I?" said Glyn, more sleepily than ever. "Why, you know you did," cried Singh petulantly. "What did I say that for?" "Ugh!" grunted Singh. "There, go to sleep. What's the good of talking to you?" "Not a bit," replied Glyn; "it only sounds like _buzz, buzz_." "I haven't patience with you," cried Singh; "when I was trying to talk quietly and sensibly about losing my belt." "Bother your old belt!" cried Glyn. "Who wants to talk quietly and sensibly now? I came to bed to sleep, and every time I'm dozing off nicely and comfortably you begin _burr, burr, burr_, and I can't understand you a bit." "I wish we were in India," said Singh angrily. "I wish you were," growled Glyn. "I should like to set a punkah-wallah to pick up a chatty of water and douse it all over you." "He'd feel very uncomfortable afterwards," said Glyn, "if I got hold of him. Oh, bother! bother! bother!" he cried, sitting up in bed. "Now then, preach away. What do you want to say about your ugly old belt?" "Go to sleep," cried Singh, and there was a dull sound of Glyn's head going bang down into the pillow, in which his right ear was deeply buried while his left was carefully corked with a finger, and a minute or two later nothing was heard in the dormitory but the steady restful breathing of two strong healthy lads. "What shall we do to-day; go out somewhere for a good walk?" asked Glyn the next morning. "No; I want to have a quiet talk. Let's go down to the jungle, as you call it," said Singh. "Thy slave obeys," cried Glyn. "But, jungle! poor old jungle! What wouldn't I give for a ride on a good elephant again--a well-trained fellow, who would snap off boughs and turn one into a _chowri_ to whisk off the flies." "Wouldn't old Ramball's Rajah do for you?" "To be sure. I wonder what has become of the old boy. Roaming round the country somewhere, I suppose. What a rum old chap he was, with his hat in one hand, yellow silk handkerchief in the other, and his shiny bald head. Yes, I wonder where he is." "Ramballing," cried Singh, with a peculiar smile on his countenance; and then he started in wonder, for Glyn made a dash at him, caught him by the wrist, and made believe to feel his pulse in the most solemn manner. "What are you doing that for?" cried Singh. "Wait a moment," replied Glyn.--"No. Beating quite steadily. Skin feels cool and moist." "Why, of course," said Singh. "What do you mean?" "I thought you must be ill to burst out with a bad joke like that." "Oh, stuff!" cried Singh impatiently. "It's just as good as yours. Yes," he continued thoughtfully, "it is very nice here; but I should like another ride through the old jungle; and this old row of elm-trees--pah! how different." The two lads remained very thoughtful as they walked slowly across the cricket-field, mentally seeing the wild forest of the East with its strange palms that run from tree to tree, rising up or growing down, here forming festoons, there tangling and matting the lower growth together, and always beautiful whenever seen. Strange musings for a couple of schoolboys, who never once connected these objects of their thoughts with the stringent master's cane--the rattan or properly _rotan_-cane or climbing-palm. They stopped at last in their favourite place beneath the elms, and stood with their hands in their pockets and their shoulders against the park-palings--the patch that looked newish, but which was gradually growing grey under the influence of the weather that was oxidising the new nails and sending a ruddy stain through the wood. Neither spoke, but stood gazing up through the elm boughs, their thoughts far away in Northern India, dwelling upon active monkeys, peacocks and other gorgeously plumaged birds, tigers haunting nullahs and crouching among the reeds. All at once there was a strange panting sound, and a scratching behind them on the park-palings which made the two lads start away and turn to gaze at their late support, for the sound suggested, if not a tiger some other savage beast trying to climb the division between the Doctor's premises and the adjoining estate. The next moment eight fat fingers appeared grasping the palings, there was the scratching of a boot on one of the supporting posts, and a round, red, fat face rose above the top of the fence like a small representation of the sun gradually topping a bank of mist upon a foggy morning. Glyn Severn's Schooldays--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. HIS GREAT ATTRACTION. "Mr Ramball!" cried the boys in a breath. "Aha! Good-morning! Only to think of me looking over here to see if I could catch sight of you two young gents, and hitting upon just the right spot, and--Oh my!" There was a rushing sound as the wild-beast proprietor suddenly disappeared--so suddenly that, moved as by one impulse, the two lads made a dash at the palings, sprang up, and held on to look over, and see Ramball seated on the ground in the act of taking off his hat and extricating his yellow silk handkerchief to dab his bald and dewy head. "Hurt?" cried Glyn anxiously. "Well, I--I don't quite know yet," said their unexpected visitor. "I haven't sat down as quick as that for a precious long time. Well, no, I don't think I am; it wasn't pleasant, though. But my toe might have given me notice that it was coming off that ledge. Well, how are you? If you'd come over here I'd offer to shake hands, but I would rather sit still for a few minutes to get my breath again. It seemed to be all knocked out of me at once." The two lads glanced across the fields towards the orchard where the elephant had eaten his fill of apples, and, seeing nobody near, they both broke bounds by swinging their legs over the palings and dropping on the other side by the fat little man. Glyn offered his hand to help him up, and Ramball took it and shook it. "By-and-by," he said. "I am all right here.--And how are you, my hero?" he continued, extending his hand to Singh. "Quite well," said Singh good-humouredly, looking at the showman but in imagination seeing the great elephant instead. "That's right," cried Ramball. "You look it--hearty, both of you!" "Where's the elephant?" said Singh. "Oh, he's all right, sir. Fine." "Is he coming into the town?" cried Glyn. "What, here, sir? Bless you, no! He's in Birmingham, where we are doing a splendid business; crowded houses--tents, I mean--twice a day." "And what are you doing here?" cried Singh. "Oh, killing two birds with one stone," said the man, laughing. "Where are they?" asked Glyn, laughing in turn. "Get out! Poking fun at me! It was like this 'ere. The gent yonder,"--and the man gave his head a jerk backwards--"wrote to me and said that he'd had to pay a pound for a bit of damage to the fence about his orchard, and that he thought, as my elephant had done the mischief, and I had only paid him for the apples he ate, the money ought to come out of my pocket. Well, young gentlemen, I always pay up directly for any damage done by my beasts if the claim's made honest. This gent, your neighbour, sent in a very honest demand, and I set that down as one of the birds I wanted to kill. T'other was that I wanted to see my farm and how some of the young stock was getting on. So I nips into the train yesterday, travelled all night, and been to see the gentleman, paid up, and he was very civil--give me a bit of breakfast, and when I said I should like to look round the place again where my elephant went in for his apples he said I was quite welcome to look about as much as I liked. Well, we have been lately in the iron country and among the potteries; and bless you, it's quite a treat to be away from the smoke and to see things all a-growing and a-blowing. Then I catches sight of this bit of new fence, and that set me thinking of your school and you two young gents; and for the moment I thought that I would go back, say good-morning to the gentleman, and come round to the school and ask to see you two. But then I said to myself, `Well, they are not their own masters yet, and the Doctor mightn't be pleased to have a common sort of fellow like me coming the visitor where I had no business,' and I says to myself, `It might make it unpleasant for those two young fellows, and so I won't go.' Then I thought I should like to catch sight of you both again, for I took quite a fancy to you young gents. And here I am." "Well," said Glyn, laughing, "we are glad to see you; eh, Singh?" "Yes, of course. But hadn't you better get up, Mr Ramball? It seems so queer for us to be standing talking to you and you sitting there," said Singh. "Oh, I'm all right, bless you, my lad. It makes me think about my Rajah." "And me too. He's a grand beast." "Isn't he, my lad? And the way he's been putting flesh on is wonderful. I won't say he weighs a ton more than when you saw him last, but he's a heap heavier than he was." "But," cried Glyn mischievously, "his trunk's fine enough, only he's got such a miserable little tail." "You leave his tail alone," said Ramball, wagging his head. "What he's got is his nature to." "But I say, Mr Ramball," cried Singh merrily, "don't you want me to come and ride him in your show?" "Well, no, sir; you chucked your opportunity away. I have got a new keeper now as fits exactly." "What a pity!" said Glyn merrily. "Well, that's what I thought, sir," said Ramball quite seriously, "when the young gent threw away his chance. You know we are common sort of people; but the money we earn sometimes ain't to be sneezed at. Why, of course I ought to tell you. Who do you think I have got?" "Oh, how should we know?" cried Glyn. "Friend of yours, gentlemen, that come to my show when it was here and wanted me to take him on." "Friend of ours?" said Glyn. "Yes; just after squire here had ridden Rajah. Said he was hard-up and couldn't get anything to do, but that he could talk Ingyrubber tongue as well as squire here. But I wouldn't have anything to do with him then, for I didn't believe in him." "Professor Barclay!" cried Glyn excitedly. "That's the man, sir. Well, he come to me, followed me up like, and I engaged him." "But he's gone to India!" cried Singh excitedly. "Gone to India, sir? Well, he's only got as far as the elephant, and that's in Brummagem town as sure as I am sitting here." "Do you hear this, Glyn?" cried Singh excitedly. "Oh yes, I hear," was the reply, and the two lads exchanged glances, while Ramball sat shaking and nodding his head like a mandarin image. "It's no use, gentlemen. You threw that chance away. He come after me and followed me up all through the Midlands. Half-starved he was, pore chap. I never see such a gentlemanly sort of chap so hard pushed as he was; and at last out of charity like I took him on. And very glad I am, for he's turned out capital. He talks that Indian gibberish to the old Rajah, and the big beast follows him about like a lamb. Never have a bit of trouble with him now, only when he tries to shove one of the caravans over with that big head of his, just in play; and then Bah Klay--that's his show-name, and a very good one too--comes and says `Hookah-bah-dah' and `Shallahballah,' and the Rajah follows him as quiet as can be." "Oh," said Singh. "Ah, I wish you could see him, sir," continued Ramball, dabbing his head pleasantly with his yellow handkerchief. "Bah Klay is quite an addition to my show, and the people come in hundreds to see him and the Rajah alone. It was him himself as came to me one day and proposed it." "What, the Rajah?" cried Glyn. "The Rajah! Tchah! What are you talking about? No; Bah Klay. He said it wouldn't cost much, and that if I'd pay for the white cotton bed-gown sort of thing for him to wear and some scarlet muslin to roll up to make a muzzle to wear upon his head--" "Muzzle! Over his mouth, you mean," cried Glyn. "Who said anything about muzzle?" cried Ramball tetchily. "I said puggamaree--and that if I'd buy them, he'd dress up, and that he'd got a property to finish it all up fine. Well, I'd never seen any property that he'd got except a few things in a very shabby old carpet-bag that I wouldn't have picked up off the street. Still, I couldn't help thinking that him in a white bed-gown and a red turban on his head, cocked up there on the elephant's neck, wouldn't make a bad picture; so I said I would, and the very next week when we had paraded for a procession to go through one of the pottery towns and draw the people in, Mr Bah Klay came out in what he called his property. Ah, and he done it well! He'd washed his face in walnut juice, and his hands too. There he was in his white bed-gown and scarlet puggaree turban thing, and round his waist he'd got on a yellow leathern belt all dekkyrated with gold and buckled on with three great green glass ornaments that twinkled in the sun like hooray." Singh started, his lips dropped apart, and he made a snatch at Glyn's wrist just as his companion clutched him by the arm, and the lads stood gazing into each other's eyes. "Yes, gents, I tell you he looked fine, and it would have done your hearts good to see him. That there idea of his put steady vittles into his mouth and a few shillings a week into his pockets; but it always puzzled me why, him being so hard-up, he hadn't tried to sell that there belt. I said so to him one day, but he only gave a curious kind of grin and said he should have done so, but nobody would buy it, for it wasn't real. Well, of course I never supposed it was, being a theaytrical kind of property. Still, I don't suppose it was made for less than a five-pun note. Well, gentlemen," cried Ramball, rising slowly and giving his head a final dab, "I must be off. I go back to Brummagem again this afternoon, and all the better for seeing you two gents; so if you will shake hands, your sarvint to command, Titus Ramball, of the Imperial Wide World Menagerie." The two lads shook hands heartily, but they were too full of thought to say much; and as the visitor went in one direction, they slipped over the palings and sat down with their backs against the fence to have a good long talk, for Fate seemed to have provided them with a subject upon which they could discourse; and it was this: There was the criminal, almost within touch, for they had only to give notice to the police and the Professor would be lodged in jail for theft. "And what then?" said Singh slowly. "I wouldn't have that belt again if it were brought to me. And what was it your father said about the Professor being punished?" "Oh! about the punishment coming when he found that he had made himself a thief to get something that was not worth the pains." "Yes," said Singh, "but not in those words. Then we don't want to punish the miserable cheat any more." "And do harm to droll old Ramball," said Glyn. "My word, though, I should almost like to go to Birmingham and suddenly come upon the Professor riding upon old Rajah's neck!" "Pah!" exclaimed Singh, with his lip curling and a look of disgust in his eyes, "I shouldn't like to see the miserable creature for the poor elephant's sake. Here, let's go and tell Mr Morris." "No, no!" cried Glyn excitedly. "All that trouble is being forgotten, and it would hurt his feelings if it were brought up again." "Think so?" said Singh. "Yes. Promise me you'll never say a word to any one here." "Well," said Singh thoughtfully, "I won't." Salaam To All! THE END. 
7162	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 9. Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day. Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster Abbey, at four o'clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation Day. We are not without company; for although it is still night, we find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people who are well content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to see twice in their lives --the coronation of a King. Yes, London and Westminster have been astir ever since the warning guns boomed at three o'clock, and already crowds of untitled rich folk who have bought the privilege of trying to find sitting-room in the galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved for their sort. The hours drag along tediously enough. All stir has ceased for some time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. We may sit, now, and look and think at our leisure. We have glimpses, here and there and yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many galleries and balconies, wedged full with other people, the other portions of these galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by intervening pillars and architectural projections. We have in view the whole of the great north transept--empty, and waiting for England's privileged ones. We see also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs, whereon the throne stands. The throne occupies the centre of the platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four steps. Within the seat of the throne is enclosed a rough flat rock--the stone of Scone--which many generations of Scottish kings sat on to be crowned, and so it in time became holy enough to answer a like purpose for English monarchs. Both the throne and its footstool are covered with cloth of gold. Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily. But at last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are extinguished, and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces. All features of the noble building are distinct now, but soft and dreamy, for the sun is lightly veiled with clouds. At seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs; for on the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the transept, clothed like Solomon for splendour, and is conducted to her appointed place by an official clad in satins and velvets, whilst a duplicate of him gathers up the lady's long train, follows after, and, when the lady is seated, arranges the train across her lap for her. He then places her footstool according to her desire, after which he puts her coronet where it will be convenient to her hand when the time for the simultaneous coroneting of the nobles shall arrive. By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream, and the satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere, seating them and making them comfortable. The scene is animated enough now. There is stir and life, and shifting colour everywhere. After a time, quiet reigns again; for the peeresses are all come and are all in their places, a solid acre or such a matter, of human flowers, resplendent in variegated colours, and frosted like a Milky Way with diamonds. There are all ages here: brown, wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to go back, and still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning of Richard III. and the troublous days of that old forgotten age; and there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely and gracious young matrons; and gentle and beautiful young girls, with beaming eyes and fresh complexions, who may possibly put on their jewelled coronets awkwardly when the great time comes; for the matter will be new to them, and their excitement will be a sore hindrance. Still, this may not happen, for the hair of all these ladies has been arranged with a special view to the swift and successful lodging of the crown in its place when the signal comes. We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick with diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous spectacle--but now we are about to be astonished in earnest. About nine, the clouds suddenly break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the mellow atmosphere, and drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies; and every rank it touches flames into a dazzling splendour of many-coloured fires, and we tingle to our finger-tips with the electric thrill that is shot through us by the surprise and the beauty of the spectacle! Presently a special envoy from some distant corner of the Orient, marching with the general body of foreign ambassadors, crosses this bar of sunshine, and we catch our breath, the glory that streams and flashes and palpitates about him is so overpowering; for he is crusted from head to heel with gems, and his slightest movement showers a dancing radiance all around him. Let us change the tense for convenience. The time drifted along--one hour--two hours--two hours and a half; then the deep booming of artillery told that the King and his grand procession had arrived at last; so the waiting multitude rejoiced. All knew that a further delay must follow, for the King must be prepared and robed for the solemn ceremony; but this delay would be pleasantly occupied by the assembling of the peers of the realm in their stately robes. These were conducted ceremoniously to their seats, and their coronets placed conveniently at hand; and meanwhile the multitude in the galleries were alive with interest, for most of them were beholding for the first time, dukes, earls, and barons, whose names had been historical for five hundred years. When all were finally seated, the spectacle from the galleries and all coigns of vantage was complete; a gorgeous one to look upon and to remember. Now the robed and mitred great heads of the church, and their attendants, filed in upon the platform and took their appointed places; these were followed by the Lord Protector and other great officials, and these again by a steel-clad detachment of the Guard. There was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of music burst forth, and Tom Canty, clothed in a long robe of cloth of gold, appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform. The entire multitude rose, and the ceremony of the Recognition ensued. Then a noble anthem swept the Abbey with its rich waves of sound; and thus heralded and welcomed, Tom Canty was conducted to the throne. The ancient ceremonies went on, with impressive solemnity, whilst the audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and nearer to completion, Tom Canty grew pale, and still paler, and a deep and steadily deepening woe and despondency settled down upon his spirits and upon his remorseful heart. At last the final act was at hand. The Archbishop of Canterbury lifted up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over the trembling mock-King's head. In the same instant a rainbow-radiance flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised it over his or her head--and paused in that attitude. A deep hush pervaded the Abbey. At this impressive moment, a startling apparition intruded upon the scene--an apparition observed by none in the absorbed multitude, until it suddenly appeared, moving up the great central aisle. It was a boy, bareheaded, ill shod, and clothed in coarse plebeian garments that were falling to rags. He raised his hand with a solemnity which ill comported with his soiled and sorry aspect, and delivered this note of warning-- "I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited head. I am the King!" In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but in the same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a swift step forward, and cried out in a ringing voice-- "Loose him and forbear! He IS the King!" A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they partly rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one another and at the chief figures in this scene, like persons who wondered whether they were awake and in their senses, or asleep and dreaming. The Lord Protector was as amazed as the rest, but quickly recovered himself, and exclaimed in a voice of authority-- "Mind not his Majesty, his malady is upon him again--seize the vagabond!" He would have been obeyed, but the mock-King stamped his foot and cried out-- "On your peril! Touch him not, he is the King!" The hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house; no one moved, no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to say, in so strange and surprising an emergency. While all minds were struggling to right themselves, the boy still moved steadily forward, with high port and confident mien; he had never halted from the beginning; and while the tangled minds still floundered helplessly, he stepped upon the platform, and the mock-King ran with a glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees before him and said-- "Oh, my lord the King, let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty to thee, and say, 'Put on thy crown and enter into thine own again!'" The Lord Protector's eye fell sternly upon the new-comer's face; but straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an expression of wondering surprise. This thing happened also to the other great officers. They glanced at each other, and retreated a step by a common and unconscious impulse. The thought in each mind was the same: "What a strange resemblance!" The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then he said, with grave respectfulness-- "By your favour, sir, I desire to ask certain questions which--" "I will answer them, my lord." The Duke asked him many questions about the Court, the late King, the prince, the princesses--the boy answered them correctly and without hesitating. He described the rooms of state in the palace, the late King's apartments, and those of the Prince of Wales. It was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable--so all said that heard it. The tide was beginning to turn, and Tom Canty's hopes to run high, when the Lord Protector shook his head and said-- "It is true it is most wonderful--but it is no more than our lord the King likewise can do." This remark, and this reference to himself as still the King, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his hopes crumbling from under him. "These are not PROOFS," added the Protector. The tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed--but in the wrong direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the throne, and sweeping the other out to sea. The Lord Protector communed with himself --shook his head--the thought forced itself upon him, "It is perilous to the State and to us all, to entertain so fateful a riddle as this; it could divide the nation and undermine the throne." He turned and said-- "Sir Thomas, arrest this--No, hold!" His face lighted, and he confronted the ragged candidate with this question-- "Where lieth the Great Seal? Answer me this truly, and the riddle is unriddled; for only he that was Prince of Wales CAN so answer! On so trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!" It was a lucky thought, a happy thought. That it was so considered by the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot from eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving glances. Yes, none but the true prince could dissolve the stubborn mystery of the vanished Great Seal--this forlorn little impostor had been taught his lesson well, but here his teachings must fail, for his teacher himself could not answer THAT question--ah, very good, very good indeed; now we shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order! And so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction, and looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion. How surprised they were, then, to see nothing of the sort happen--how they marvelled to hear him answer up promptly, in a confident and untroubled voice, and say-- "There is nought in this riddle that is difficult." Then, without so much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this command, with the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such things: "My Lord St. John, go you to my private cabinet in the palace--for none knoweth the place better than you--and, close down to the floor, in the left corner remotest from the door that opens from the ante-chamber, you shall find in the wall a brazen nail-head; press upon it and a little jewel-closet will fly open which not even you do know of--no, nor any soul else in all the world but me and the trusty artisan that did contrive it for me. The first thing that falleth under your eye will be the Great Seal--fetch it hither." All the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more to see the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy or apparent fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a placidly convincing air of having known him all his life. The peer was almost surprised into obeying. He even made a movement as if to go, but quickly recovered his tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with a blush. Tom Canty turned upon him and said, sharply-- "Why dost thou hesitate? Hast not heard the King's command? Go!" The Lord St. John made a deep obeisance--and it was observed that it was a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not being delivered at either of the kings, but at the neutral ground about half-way between the two--and took his leave. Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official group which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and persistent--a movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is turned slowly, whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall away and join themselves to another--a movement which, little by little, in the present case, dissolved the glittering crowd that stood about Tom Canty and clustered it together again in the neighbourhood of the new-comer. Tom Canty stood almost alone. Now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and waiting--during which even the few faint hearts still remaining near Tom Canty gradually scraped together courage enough to glide, one by one, over to the majority. So at last Tom Canty, in his royal robes and jewels, stood wholly alone and isolated from the world, a conspicuous figure, occupying an eloquent vacancy. Now the Lord St. John was seen returning. As he advanced up the mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of conversation in the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by a profound hush, a breathless stillness, through which his footfalls pulsed with a dull and distant sound. Every eye was fastened upon him as he moved along. He reached the platform, paused a moment, then moved toward Tom Canty with a deep obeisance, and said-- "Sire, the Seal is not there!" A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient with more haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the Crown. In a moment he stood all alone, without friend or supporter, a target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks. The Lord Protector called out fiercely-- "Cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the town--the paltry knave is worth no more consideration!" Officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but Tom Canty waved them off and said-- "Back! Whoso touches him perils his life!" The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree. He said to the Lord St. John-- "Searched you well?--but it boots not to ask that. It doth seem passing strange. Little things, trifles, slip out of one's ken, and one does not think it matter for surprise; but how so bulky a thing as the Seal of England can vanish away and no man be able to get track of it again--a massy golden disk--" Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted-- "Hold, that is enough! Was it round?--and thick?--and had it letters and devices graved upon it?--yes? Oh, NOW I know what this Great Seal is that there's been such worry and pother about. An' ye had described it to me, ye could have had it three weeks ago. Right well I know where it lies; but it was not I that put it there--first." "Who, then, my liege?" asked the Lord Protector. "He that stands there--the rightful King of England. And he shall tell you himself where it lies--then you will believe he knew it of his own knowledge. Bethink thee, my King--spur thy memory--it was the last, the very LAST thing thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that insulted me." A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact, which, found, would seat him upon a throne--unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and all--a pauper and an outcast. Moment after moment passed--the moments built themselves into minutes--still the boy struggled silently on, and gave no sign. But at last he heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and said, with a trembling lip and in a despondent voice-- "I call the scene back--all of it--but the Seal hath no place in it." He paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, "My lords and gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own for lack of this evidence which he is not able to furnish, I may not stay ye, being powerless. But--" "Oh, folly, oh, madness, my King!" cried Tom Canty, in a panic, "wait! --think! Do not give up!--the cause is not lost! Nor SHALL be, neither! List to what I say--follow every word--I am going to bring that morning back again, every hap just as it happened. We talked--I told you of my sisters, Nan and Bet--ah, yes, you remember that; and about mine old grandam--and the rough games of the lads of Offal Court--yes, you remember these things also; very well, follow me still, you shall recall everything. You gave me food and drink, and did with princely courtesy send away the servants, so that my low breeding might not shame me before them--ah, yes, this also you remember." As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his head in recognition of them, the great audience and the officials stared in puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history, yet how could this impossible conjunction between a prince and a beggar-boy have come about? Never was a company of people so perplexed, so interested, and so stupefied, before. "For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. Then we stood before a mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if there had been no change made--yes, you remember that. Then you noticed that the soldier had hurt my hand--look! here it is, I cannot yet even write with it, the fingers are so stiff. At this your Highness sprang up, vowing vengeance upon that soldier, and ran towards the door--you passed a table--that thing you call the Seal lay on that table--you snatched it up and looked eagerly about, as if for a place to hide it--your eye caught sight of--" "There, 'tis sufficient!--and the good God be thanked!" exclaimed the ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. "Go, my good St. John--in an arm-piece of the Milanese armour that hangs on the wall, thou'lt find the Seal!" "Right, my King! right!" cried Tom Canty; "NOW the sceptre of England is thine own; and it were better for him that would dispute it that he had been born dumb! Go, my Lord St. John, give thy feet wings!" The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its mind with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement. On the floor and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation burst forth, and for some time nobody knew anything or heard anything or was interested in anything but what his neighbour was shouting into his ear, or he was shouting into his neighbour's ear. Time--nobody knew how much of it--swept by unheeded and unnoted. At last a sudden hush fell upon the house, and in the same moment St. John appeared upon the platform, and held the Great Seal aloft in his hand. Then such a shout went up-- "Long live the true King!" For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of musical instruments, and was white with a storm of waving handkerchiefs; and through it all a ragged lad, the most conspicuous figure in England, stood, flushed and happy and proud, in the centre of the spacious platform, with the great vassals of the kingdom kneeling around him. Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out-- "Now, O my King, take these regal garments back, and give poor Tom, thy servant, his shreds and remnants again." The Lord Protector spoke up-- "Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the Tower." But the new King, the true King, said-- "I will not have it so. But for him I had not got my crown again--none shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. And as for thee, my good uncle, my Lord Protector, this conduct of thine is not grateful toward this poor lad, for I hear he hath made thee a duke"--the Protector blushed--"yet he was not a king; wherefore what is thy fine title worth now? To-morrow you shall sue to me, THROUGH HIM, for its confirmation, else no duke, but a simple earl, shalt thou remain." Under this rebuke, his Grace the Duke of Somerset retired a little from the front for the moment. The King turned to Tom, and said kindly--"My poor boy, how was it that you could remember where I hid the Seal when I could not remember it myself?" "Ah, my King, that was easy, since I used it divers days." "Used it--yet could not explain where it was?" "I did not know it was THAT they wanted. They did not describe it, your Majesty." "Then how used you it?" The red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks, and he dropped his eyes and was silent. "Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing," said the King. "How used you the Great Seal of England?" Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out-- "To crack nuts with!" Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly swept him off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that Tom Canty was not the King of England and familiar with the august appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly. Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom's shoulders to the King's, whose rags were effectually hidden from sight under it. Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true King was anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst cannon thundered the news to the city, and all London seemed to rock with applause. Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King. Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on London Bridge--he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little money when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing. But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his campaign. What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go? Well --argued Miles--he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the search for him be difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself King, as usual. Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never be separated any more. So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy. This greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him. To his notion, there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be short. When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy. He wanted some breakfast, but there was no way to get it. To beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could spare some of his clothes--yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a disease as for such clothes. At noon he was still tramping--among the rabble which followed after the royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal display would attract his little lunatic powerfully. He followed the pageant through all its devious windings about London, and all the way to Westminster and the Abbey. He drifted here and there amongst the multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off, thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of campaign. By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day was growing old. He was near the river, and in the country; it was a region of fine rural seats--not the sort of district to welcome clothes like his. It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the lee of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently began to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, "The new King is crowned," and straightway fell asleep. He had not slept or rested, before, for more than thirty hours. He did not wake again until near the middle of the next morning. He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off toward Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so much time. Hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and--but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished. Toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and although a host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction, he was not inconspicuous--his costume took care of that. He watched these people's faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant--as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply out of the question. Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and scanned his figure well, saying to himself, "An' that is not the very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an ass--though belike I was that before. He answereth the description to a rag--that God should make two such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. I would I could contrive an excuse to speak with him." Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy's eyes, he stepped toward him and said-- "You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?" "Yes, your worship." "Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?" The boy started, and said to himself, "Lord! mine old departed father!" Then he answered aloud, "Right well, your worship." "Good--is he within?" "Yes," said the boy; and added, to himself, "within his grave." "Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg to say a word in his ear?" "I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir." "Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without--I shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad." The boy looked disappointed. "The King did not name him so," he said to himself; "but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother, and can give his Majesty news of t'other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I warrant." So he said to Miles, "Step in there a moment, good sir, and wait till I bring you word." Hendon retired to the place indicated--it was a recess sunk in the palace wall, with a stone bench in it--a shelter for sentinels in bad weather. He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in charge of an officer, passed by. The officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded Hendon to come forth. He obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the palace. Things began to look ugly. Poor Miles was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered his men to disarm him and search him. "God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat," said poor Miles; "I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than theirs." Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it open, and Hendon smiled when he recognised the 'pot-hooks' made by his lost little friend that black day at Hendon Hall. The officer's face grew dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to the opposite colour as he listened. "Another new claimant of the Crown!" cried the officer. "Verily they breed like rabbits, to-day. Seize the rascal, men, and see ye keep him fast whilst I convey this precious paper within and send it to the King." He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the halberdiers. "Now is my evil luck ended at last," muttered Hendon, "for I shall dangle at a rope's end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of writing. And what will become of my poor lad!--ah, only the good God knoweth." By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as became a man. The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner and return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said-- "Please you, sir, to follow me." Hendon followed, saying to himself, "An' I were not travelling to death and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, I would throttle this knave for his mock courtesy." The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with profound respect and led him forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room, clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of England, then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles. Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the young King, under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise--a duke, maybe. Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public humiliation added. He wished the King would hurry about it--some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty offensive. At this moment the King raised his head slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face. The sight nearly took his breath away!--He stood gazing at the fair young face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated-- "Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!" He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling; then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, "But these are REAL--verily these are REAL --surely it is not a dream." He stared at the King again--and thought, "IS it a dream . . . or IS he the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the friendless poor Tom o' Bedlam I took him for--who shall solve me this riddle?" A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall, gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and sat down in it! A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him and a voice exclaimed-- "Up, thou mannerless clown! would'st sit in the presence of the King?" The disturbance attracted his Majesty's attention, who stretched forth his hand and cried out-- "Touch him not, it is his right!" The throng fell back, stupefied. The King went on-- "Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my trusty and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his good sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible death--and for this he is a knight, by the King's voice. Also learn, that for a higher service, in that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame, taking these upon himself, he is a peer of England, Earl of Kent, and shall have gold and lands meet for the dignity. More--the privilege which he hath just exercised is his by royal grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line shall have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the Majesty of England henceforth, age after age, so long as the crown shall endure. Molest him not." Two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from the country during this morning, and had now been in this room only five minutes, stood listening to these words and looking at the King, then at the scarecrow, then at the King again, in a sort of torpid bewilderment. These were Sir Hugh and the Lady Edith. But the new Earl did not see them. He was still staring at the monarch, in a dazed way, and muttering-- "Oh, body o' me! THIS my pauper! This my lunatic! This is he whom _I_ would show what grandeur was, in my house of seventy rooms and seven-and-twenty servants! This is he who had never known aught but rags for raiment, kicks for comfort, and offal for diet! This is he whom _I_ adopted and would make respectable! Would God I had a bag to hide my head in!" Then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he dropped upon his knees, with his hands between the King's, and swore allegiance and did homage for his lands and titles. Then he rose and stood respectfully aside, a mark still for all eyes--and much envy, too. Now the King discovered Sir Hugh, and spoke out with wrathful voice and kindling eye-- "Strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates, and put him under lock and key till I have need of him." The late Sir Hugh was led away. There was a stir at the other end of the room, now; the assemblage fell apart, and Tom Canty, quaintly but richly clothed, marched down, between these living walls, preceded by an usher. He knelt before the King, who said-- "I have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am well pleased with thee. Thou hast governed the realm with right royal gentleness and mercy. Thou hast found thy mother and thy sisters again? Good; they shall be cared for--and thy father shall hang, if thou desire it and the law consent. Know, all ye that hear my voice, that from this day, they that abide in the shelter of Christ's Hospital and share the King's bounty shall have their minds and hearts fed, as well as their baser parts; and this boy shall dwell there, and hold the chief place in its honourable body of governors, during life. And for that he hath been a king, it is meet that other than common observance shall be his due; wherefore note this his dress of state, for by it he shall be known, and none shall copy it; and wheresoever he shall come, it shall remind the people that he hath been royal, in his time, and none shall deny him his due of reverence or fail to give him salutation. He hath the throne's protection, he hath the crown's support, he shall be known and called by the honourable title of the King's Ward." The proud and happy Tom Canty rose and kissed the King's hand, and was conducted from the presence. He did not waste any time, but flew to his mother, to tell her and Nan and Bet all about it and get them to help him enjoy the great news. {1} Conclusion. Justice and retribution. When the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by confession of Hugh Hendon, that his wife had repudiated Miles by his command, that day at Hendon Hall--a command assisted and supported by the perfectly trustworthy promise that if she did not deny that he was Miles Hendon, and stand firmly to it, he would have her life; whereupon she said, "Take it!"--she did not value it--and she would not repudiate Miles; then the husband said he would spare her life but have Miles assassinated! This was a different matter; so she gave her word and kept it. Hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing his brother's estates and title, because the wife and brother would not testify against him--and the former would not have been allowed to do it, even if she had wanted to. Hugh deserted his wife and went over to the continent, where he presently died; and by-and-by the Earl of Kent married his relict. There were grand times and rejoicings at Hendon village when the couple paid their first visit to the Hall. Tom Canty's father was never heard of again. The King sought out the farmer who had been branded and sold as a slave, and reclaimed him from his evil life with the Ruffler's gang, and put him in the way of a comfortable livelihood. He also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted his fine. He provided good homes for the daughters of the two Baptist women whom he saw burned at the stake, and roundly punished the official who laid the undeserved stripes upon Miles Hendon's back. He saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the stray falcon, and also the woman who had stolen a remnant of cloth from a weaver; but he was too late to save the man who had been convicted of killing a deer in the royal forest. He showed favour to the justice who had pitied him when he was supposed to have stolen a pig, and he had the gratification of seeing him grow in the public esteem and become a great and honoured man. As long as the King lived he was fond of telling the story of his adventures, all through, from the hour that the sentinel cuffed him away from the palace gate till the final midnight when he deftly mixed himself into a gang of hurrying workmen and so slipped into the Abbey and climbed up and hid himself in the Confessor's tomb, and then slept so long, next day, that he came within one of missing the Coronation altogether. He said that the frequent rehearsing of the precious lesson kept him strong in his purpose to make its teachings yield benefits to his people; and so, whilst his life was spared he should continue to tell the story, and thus keep its sorrowful spectacles fresh in his memory and the springs of pity replenished in his heart. Miles Hendon and Tom Canty were favourites of the King, all through his brief reign, and his sincere mourners when he died. The good Earl of Kent had too much sense to abuse his peculiar privilege; but he exercised it twice after the instance we have seen of it before he was called from this world--once at the accession of Queen Mary, and once at the accession of Queen Elizabeth. A descendant of his exercised it at the accession of James I. Before this one's son chose to use the privilege, near a quarter of a century had elapsed, and the 'privilege of the Kents' had faded out of most people's memories; so, when the Kent of that day appeared before Charles I. and his court and sat down in the sovereign's presence to assert and perpetuate the right of his house, there was a fine stir indeed! But the matter was soon explained, and the right confirmed. The last Earl of the line fell in the wars of the Commonwealth fighting for the King, and the odd privilege ended with him. Tom Canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome, white-haired old fellow, of grave and benignant aspect. As long as he lasted he was honoured; and he was also reverenced, for his striking and peculiar costume kept the people reminded that 'in his time he had been royal;' so, wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making way for him, and whispering, one to another, "Doff thy hat, it is the King's Ward!"--and so they saluted, and got his kindly smile in return--and they valued it, too, for his was an honourable history. Yes, King Edward VI. lived only a few years, poor boy, but he lived them worthily. More than once, when some great dignitary, some gilded vassal of the crown, made argument against his leniency, and urged that some law which he was bent upon amending was gentle enough for its purpose, and wrought no suffering or oppression which any one need mightily mind, the young King turned the mournful eloquence of his great compassionate eyes upon him and answered-- "What dost THOU know of suffering and oppression? I and my people know, but not thou." The reign of Edward VI. was a singularly merciful one for those harsh times. Now that we are taking leave of him, let us try to keep this in our minds, to his credit. FOOTNOTES AND TWAIN'S NOTES {1} For Mark Twain's note see below under the relevant chapter heading. {2} He refers to the order of baronets, or baronettes; the barones minores, as distinct from the parliamentary barons--not, it need hardly be said, to the baronets of later creation. {3} The lords of Kingsale, descendants of De Courcy, still enjoy this curious privilege. {4} Hume. {5} Ib. {6} Leigh Hunt's 'The Town,' p.408, quotation from an early tourist. {7} Canting terms for various kinds of thieves, beggars and vagabonds, and their female companions. {8} From 'The English Rogue.' London, 1665. {9} Hume's England. {10} See Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 11. NOTE 1, Chapter IV. Christ's Hospital Costume. It is most reasonable to regard the dress as copied from the costume of the citizens of London of that period, when long blue coats were the common habit of apprentices and serving-men, and yellow stockings were generally worn; the coat fits closely to the body, but has loose sleeves, and beneath is worn a sleeveless yellow under-coat; around the waist is a red leathern girdle; a clerical band around the neck, and a small flat black cap, about the size of a saucer, completes the costume.--Timbs' Curiosities of London. NOTE 2, Chapter IV. It appears that Christ's Hospital was not originally founded as a SCHOOL; its object was to rescue children from the streets, to shelter, feed, clothe them.--Timbs' Curiosities of London. NOTE 3, Chapter V. The Duke of Norfolk's Condemnation commanded. The King was now approaching fast towards his end; and fearing lest Norfolk should escape him, he sent a message to the Commons, by which he desired them to hasten the Bill, on pretence that Norfolk enjoyed the dignity of Earl Marshal, and it was necessary to appoint another, who might officiate at the ensuing ceremony of installing his son Prince of Wales.--Hume's History of England, vol. iii. p. 307. NOTE 4, Chapter VII. It was not till the end of this reign (Henry VIII.) that any salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were produced in England. The little of these vegetables that was used was formerly imported from Holland and Flanders. Queen Catherine, when she wanted a salad, was obliged to despatch a messenger thither on purpose.--Hume's History of England, vol. iii. p. 314. NOTE 5, Chapter VIII. Attainder of Norfolk. The House of Peers, without examining the prisoner, without trial or evidence, passed a Bill of Attainder against him and sent it down to the Commons . . . The obsequious Commons obeyed his (the King's) directions; and the King, having affixed the Royal assent to the Bill by commissioners, issued orders for the execution of Norfolk on the morning of January 29 (the next day).--Hume's History of England, vol iii. p 306. NOTE 6, Chapter X. The Loving-cup. The loving-cup, and the peculiar ceremonies observed in drinking from it, are older than English history. It is thought that both are Danish importations. As far back as knowledge goes, the loving-cup has always been drunk at English banquets. Tradition explains the ceremonies in this way. In the rude ancient times it was deemed a wise precaution to have both hands of both drinkers employed, lest while the pledger pledged his love and fidelity to the pledgee, the pledgee take that opportunity to slip a dirk into him! NOTE 7, Chapter XI. The Duke of Norfolk's narrow Escape. Had Henry VIII. survived a few hours longer, his order for the duke's execution would have been carried into effect. 'But news being carried to the Tower that the King himself had expired that night, the lieutenant deferred obeying the warrant; and it was not thought advisable by the Council to begin a new reign by the death of the greatest nobleman in the kingdom, who had been condemned by a sentence so unjust and tyrannical.' --Hume's History of England, vol. iii, p. 307. NOTE 8, Chapter XIV. The Whipping-boy. James I. and Charles II. had whipping-boys, when they were little fellows, to take their punishment for them when they fell short in their lessons; so I have ventured to furnish my small prince with one, for my own purposes. NOTES to Chapter XV. Character of Hertford. The young King discovered an extreme attachment to his uncle, who was, in the main, a man of moderation and probity.--Hume's History of England, vol. iii, p324. But if he (the Protector) gave offence by assuming too much state, he deserves great praise on account of the laws passed this session, by which the rigour of former statutes was much mitigated, and some security given to the freedom of the constitution. All laws were repealed which extended the crime of treason beyond the statute of the twenty-fifth of Edward III.; all laws enacted during the late reign extending the crime of felony; all the former laws against Lollardy or heresy, together with the statute of the Six Articles. None were to be accused for words, but within a month after they were spoken. By these repeals several of the most rigorous laws that ever had passed in England were annulled; and some dawn, both of civil and religious liberty, began to appear to the people. A repeal also passed of that law, the destruction of all laws, by which the King's proclamation was made of equal force with a statute. --Ibid. vol. iii. p. 339. Boiling to Death. In the reign of Henry VIII. poisoners were, by Act of Parliament, condemned to be BOILED TO DEATH. This Act was repealed in the following reign. In Germany, even in the seventeenth century, this horrible punishment was inflicted on coiners and counterfeiters. Taylor, the Water Poet, describes an execution he witnessed in Hamburg in 1616. The judgment pronounced against a coiner of false money was that he should 'BE BOILED TO DEATH IN OIL; not thrown into the vessel at once, but with a pulley or rope to be hanged under the armpits, and then let down into the oil BY DEGREES; first the feet, and next the legs, and so to boil his flesh from his bones alive.'--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 13. The Famous Stocking Case. A woman and her daughter, NINE YEARS OLD, were hanged in Huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings!--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 20. NOTE 10, Chapter XVII. Enslaving. So young a King and so ignorant a peasant were likely to make mistakes; and this is an instance in point. This peasant was suffering from this law BY ANTICIPATION; the King was venting his indignation against a law which was not yet in existence; for this hideous statute was to have birth in this little King's OWN REIGN. However, we know, from the humanity of his character, that it could never have been suggested by him. NOTES to Chapter XXIII. Death for Trifling Larcenies. When Connecticut and New Haven were framing their first codes, larceny above the value of twelve pence was a capital crime in England--as it had been since the time of Henry I.--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 17. The curious old book called The English Rogue makes the limit thirteen pence ha'penny: death being the portion of any who steal a thing 'above the value of thirteen pence ha'penny.' NOTES to Chapter XXVII. From many descriptions of larceny the law expressly took away the benefit of clergy: to steal a horse, or a HAWK, or woollen cloth from the weaver, was a hanging matter. So it was to kill a deer from the King's forest, or to export sheep from the kingdom.--Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p.13. William Prynne, a learned barrister, was sentenced (long after Edward VI.'s time) to lose both his ears in the pillory, to degradation from the bar, a fine of 3,000 pounds, and imprisonment for life. Three years afterwards he gave new offence to Laud by publishing a pamphlet against the hierarchy. He was again prosecuted, and was sentenced to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, to pay a fine of 5,000 pounds, to be BRANDED ON BOTH HIS CHEEKS with the letters S. L. (for Seditious Libeller), and to remain in prison for life. The severity of this sentence was equalled by the savage rigour of its execution.--Ibid. p. 12. NOTES to Chapter XXXIII. Christ's Hospital, or Bluecoat School, 'the noblest institution in the world.' The ground on which the Priory of the Grey Friars stood was conferred by Henry VIII. on the Corporation of London (who caused the institution there of a home for poor boys and girls). Subsequently, Edward VI. caused the old Priory to be properly repaired, and founded within it that noble establishment called the Bluecoat School, or Christ's Hospital, for the EDUCATION and maintenance of orphans and the children of indigent persons . . . Edward would not let him (Bishop Ridley) depart till the letter was written (to the Lord Mayor), and then charged him to deliver it himself, and signify his special request and commandment that no time might be lost in proposing what was convenient, and apprising him of the proceedings. The work was zealously undertaken, Ridley himself engaging in it; and the result was the founding of Christ's Hospital for the education of poor children. (The King endowed several other charities at the same time.) "Lord God," said he, "I yield Thee most hearty thanks that Thou hast given me life thus long to finish this work to the glory of Thy name!" That innocent and most exemplary life was drawing rapidly to its close, and in a few days he rendered up his spirit to his Creator, praying God to defend the realm from Papistry.--J. Heneage Jesse's London: its Celebrated Characters and Places. In the Great Hall hangs a large picture of King Edward VI. seated on his throne, in a scarlet and ermined robe, holding the sceptre in his left hand, and presenting with the other the Charter to the kneeling Lord Mayor. By his side stands the Chancellor, holding the seals, and next to him are other officers of state. Bishop Ridley kneels before him with uplifted hands, as if supplicating a blessing on the event; whilst the Aldermen, etc., with the Lord Mayor, kneel on both sides, occupying the middle ground of the picture; and lastly, in front, are a double row of boys on one side and girls on the other, from the master and matron down to the boy and girl who have stepped forward from their respective rows, and kneel with raised hands before the King.--Timbs' Curiosities of London, p. 98. Christ's Hospital, by ancient custom, possesses the privilege of addressing the Sovereign on the occasion of his or her coming into the City to partake of the hospitality of the Corporation of London.--Ibid. The Dining Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the entire storey, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet wide, and 47 feet high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass on the south side; and is, next to Westminster Hall, the noblest room in the metropolis. Here the boys, now about 800 in number, dine; and here are held the 'Suppings in Public,' to which visitors are admitted by tickets issued by the Treasurer and by the Governors of Christ's Hospital. The tables are laid with cheese in wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from leathern jacks, and bread brought in large baskets. The official company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President, takes his seat in a state chair made of oak from St. Catherine's Church, by the Tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a 'Grecian,' or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer. After prayer the supper commences, and the visitors walk between the tables. At its close the 'trade-boys' take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the Governors being curiously formal. This spectacle was witnessed by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845. Among the more eminent Bluecoat boys are Joshua Barnes, editor of Anacreon and Euripides; Jeremiah Markland, the eminent critic, particularly in Greek Literature; Camden, the antiquary; Bishop Stillingfleet; Samuel Richardson, the novelist; Thomas Mitchell, the translator of Aristophanes; Thomas Barnes, many years editor of the London Times; Coleridge, Charles Lamb, and Leigh Hunt. No boy is admitted before he is seven years old, or after he is nine; and no boy can remain in the school after he is fifteen, King's boys and 'Grecians' alone excepted. There are about 500 Governors, at the head of whom are the Sovereign and the Prince of Wales. The qualification for a Governor is payment of 500 pounds.--Ibid. GENERAL NOTE. One hears much about the 'hideous Blue Laws of Connecticut,' and is accustomed to shudder piously when they are mentioned. There are people in America--and even in England!--who imagine that they were a very monument of malignity, pitilessness, and inhumanity; whereas in reality they were about the first SWEEPING DEPARTURE FROM JUDICIAL ATROCITY which the 'civilised' world had seen. This humane and kindly Blue Law Code, of two hundred and forty years ago, stands all by itself, with ages of bloody law on the further side of it, and a century and three-quarters of bloody English law on THIS side of it. There has never been a time--under the Blue Laws or any other--when above FOURTEEN crimes were punishable by death in Connecticut. But in England, within the memory of men who are still hale in body and mind, TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE crimes were punishable by death! {10} These facts are worth knowing--and worth thinking about, too. 
39385	----	THE JESTER'S SWORD [Illustration] BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON _The JESTER'S SWORD_ The Johnston Jewel Series BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON Each, small 16mo, cloth, decorated cover and frontispiece, with decorative text borders _75c._ * * * * * LIST OF TITLES THE RESCUE OF THE PRINCESS WINSOME: A Fairy Play for Old and Young. KEEPING TRYST: A Tale of King Arthur's Time. *IN THE DESERT OF WAITING: The Legend of Camelback Mountain. *THE THREE WEAVERS: A Fairy Tale for Fathers and Mothers as Well as for Their Daughters. THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART. *THE JESTER'S SWORD. *Also bound in full flexible leather, with special tooling in gold, boxed _$2.00_ * * * * * THE PAGE COMPANY 53 BEACON STREET, BOSTON, MASS. [Illustration] _THE JESTER'S SWORD_ * * * * * How Aldebaran, the King's Son, Wore the Sheathed Sword of Conquest * * * * * BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON _Author of "The Little Colonel Series," "Big Brother," "Joel: A Boy of Galilee," "In the Desert of Waiting," etc._ [Illustration] BOSTON _THE PAGE COMPANY_ Publishers _Copyright, 1908_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _Copyright, 1909_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ First Impression, June, 1909 Second Impression, August, 1909 Third Impression, October, 1910 Fourth Impression, November, 1911 Fifth Impression, November, 1912 Sixth Impression, January, 1916 Seventh Impression, August, 1917 Eighth Impression, April, 1920 TO John "_To renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered._" R. L. STEVENSON. _The Jester's Sword_ BECAUSE he was born in Mars' month, which is ruled by that red war-god, they gave him the name of a red star--Aldebaran; the red star that is the eye of Taurus. And because he was born in Mars' month, the bloodstone became his signet, sure token that undaunted courage would be the jewel of his soul. Now all his brothers were as stalwart and as straight of limb as he, and each one's horoscope held signs foretelling valorous deeds. But Aldebaran's so far out-blazed them all, with comet's trail and planets in most favourable conjunction, that from his first year it was known the Sword of Conquest should be his. This sword had passed from sire to son all down a line of kings. Not to the oldest one always, as did the throne, though now and then the lot fell so, but to the one to whom the signs all pointed as being worthiest to wield it. So from the cradle it was destined for Aldebaran, and from the cradle it was his greatest teacher. His old nurse fed him with such tales of it, that even in his play the thought of such an heritage urged him to greater ventures than his mates dared take. Many a night he knelt beside his casement, gazing through the darkness at the red eye of Taurus, whispering to himself the words the old astrologers had written, "_As Aldebaran the star shines in the heavens, Aldebaran the man shall shine among his fellows._" Day after day the great ambition grew within him, bone of his bone and strength of his sinew, until it was as much a part of him as the strong heart beating in his breast. But only to one did he give voice to it, to the maiden Vesta, who had always shared his play. Now it chanced that she, too, bore the name of a star, and when he told her what the astrologers had written, she repeated the words of her own destiny: "_As Vesta the star keeps watch in the heavens above the hearths of mortals, so Vesta the maiden shall keep eternal vigil beside the heart of him who of all men is the bravest._" When Aldebaran heard that he swore by the bloodstone on his finger that when the time was ripe for him to wield the sword he would show the world a far greater courage than it had ever known before. And Vesta smiling, promised by that same token to keep vigil by one fire only, the fire that she had kindled in his heart. One by one his elder brothers grew up and went out into the world to win their fortunes, and like a restless steed that frets against the rein, impatient to be off, he chafed against delay and longed to follow. For now the ambition that had grown with his growth had come to be more than bone of his bone and strength of his sinew. It was an all-consuming desire which coursed through him even as his heart's blood; for with the years had come an added reason for the keeping of his youthful vow. Only in that way could Vesta's destiny be linked with his. When the great day came at last for the Sword to be put into his hands, with a blare of trumpets the castle gates flew open, and a long procession of nobles filed through. To the sound of cheers and ringing of bells, Aldebaran fared forth on his quest. The old king, his father, stepped down in the morning sun, and with bared head Aldebaran knelt to receive his blessing. With his hand on the Sword he swore that he would not come home again, until he had made a braver conquest than had ever been made with it before, and by the bloodstone on his finger the old king knew that Aldebaran would fail not in the keeping of that oath. With the godspeed of the villagers ringing in his ears, he rode away. Only once he paused to look back, when a white hand fluttered at a casement, and Vesta's sorrowful face shone down on him like a star. Then she, too, saw the bloodstone on his finger as he waved her a farewell, and she, too, knew by that token he would fail not in the keeping of his oath. 'Twas passing wonderful how soon Aldebaran began to taste the sweets of great achievement. His name was on the tongue of every troubadour, his deeds in every minstrel's song. And though he travelled far to alien lands, scarce known by hearsay even to the folk at home, his fame was carried back, far over seas again, and in his father's court his name was spoken daily in proud tones, as they recounted all his honours. Young, strong, with the impetuous blood begotten of success tingling through all his veins, he had no thought that dire mishap could seize on _him_; that pain or malady or mortal weakness could pierce _his_ armour, which youth and health had girt about him. From place to place he went, wherever there was need of some brave champion to espouse a weak ones cause. It mattered not who was arrayed against him, whether a tyrant king, a dragon breathing fire, or some hideous scaly monster that preyed upon the villages. His Sword of Conquest was unsheathed for each; and as his courage grew with every added victory, he thirsted for some greater foe to vanquish, remembering his youthful vow. And as he journeyed on he pictured often to himself the day of his returning, the day on which his vow should find fulfilment. How wide the gates would be thrown open for his welcome! How loud would swell the cheers of those who thronged to do him honour! His dreams were always of that triumphal entrance, and of Vesta's approving smile. Never once the shadow of a thought stole through his mind that it might be far otherwise. Was not he born for conquest? Did not the very stars foretell success? One night, belated in a mountain pass, he sought the shelter of a shelving rock, and with his mantle wrapped about him lay down to sleep. Upon the morrow he would sally forth and beard the Province Terror in his stronghold; would challenge him to combat, and after long and glorious battle would rid the country of its dreaded foe. Already tasting victory, he fell asleep, a smile upon his lips. But in the night a storm swept down the mountain pass with sudden fury, uprooting trees a century old, and rending mighty rocks with sword thrusts of its lightning. And when it passed Aldebaran lay prone upon the earth borne down by rocks and fallen trees. Lay as if dead until two passing goat-herds found him and bore him down in pity to their hut. Long weeks went by before the fever craze and pains began to leave him, and when at last he crawled out in the sun, he found himself a poor misshapen thing, all maimed and marred, with twisted back and face all drawn awry and foot that dragged. One hand hung nerveless by his side. Never more would it be strong enough to use the Sword. He could not even draw it from its scabbard. As in a daze he looked upon himself, thinking some hideous nightmare had him in its hold. "That is not _I_!" he cried, in horror at the thought. Then as the truth began to pierce his soul, he sat with starting eyes and lips that gibbered in cold fear, the while they still persisted in their fierce denial. "This is not _I_!" Again he said it and again as if his frenzied words could work a miracle and make him as he was before. Then when the sickening sense of his calamity swept over him like a flood in all its fulness, he cast himself upon the earth and prayed to die. Despair had seized him. But Death comes not at such a call; kind Death, who waits that one may have a chance to rise again and grapple with the foe that downed him, and conquering, wipe the stigma coward from his soul. So with Aldebaran. At first it seemed that he could not endure to face the round of useless days now stretching out before him. An eagle, broken winged and drooping in a cage, he sat within the goat-herd's hut and gloomed upon his lot, and cursed the vital force within that would not let him die. To fall asleep with all the world within one's grasp and waken empty-handed--that is small bane to one who may spring up again, and by sheer might wrest all his treasures back from Fortune. But to wake helpless as well as empty-handed, the strength for ever gone from arms that were invincible; to crawl, a poor crushed worm, the mark for all men's pity, where one had thought to win the meed of all men's praise, ah, then to live is agony! Each breath becomes a venomed adder's sting. Most of all Aldebaran thought of Vesta. The stroke that marred his comeliness and took his strength had robbed him of all power to win his happiness. It was written "by the hearth of him who is the bravest she shall keep eternal vigil." As yet he had not risen above the level of his forbears' bravery, only up to it. Now 'twas impossible to show the world a greater courage, shorn as he was of strength. And even had her horoscope willed otherwise, and she should come to him all filled with maiden pity to share his ruined hearth, he could not say her yea. His man's pride rose up in him, rebellious at the thought of pity from one in whose sight he fain would be all that is strong and comely. Looking down upon his twisted limbs, the pain that racked him was greater torture than mere flesh can feel. Although 'twas casting heaven from him, he drew his mantle closer, hiding his disfigured form, and prayed with groans and writhings that she might never look on him again. So days went by. There came a time when, even through his all-absorbing thought of self, there pierced the consciousness that he no longer could impose upon the goat-herds' bounty. Food was scarce within the hut, and even though he groaned to die, the dawns brought hunger. So at the close of day he dragged him down the mountainside, thinking that under cover of the dusk he would steal into the village and seek a chance to earn his bread. But as he neared the little town and the sound of evening bells broke on his ear, and lighted windows marked the homes where welcome waited other men, he winced as from a blow. This was the village he had thought to enter in the midst of loud acclaims, its brave deliverer from the Province Terror. Then every window in the hamlet would have blazed for him. Then every door would have been set wide to welcome Aldebaran, the royal son of kings, fittest to bear the Sword of Conquest. And now Aldebaran was but the crippled makeshift of a man, who could not even draw that Sword from out its scabbard; at whose wry features all must turn away in loathing, and some perchance might even set the dogs to snarling at his heels, in haste to have him gone. "In all the world," he cried in bitterness, "there breathes no other man whom Faith hath used so cruelly! Emptied of hope, robbed of my all, life doth become a prison-house that dooms me to its lowest dungeon! Why struggle any longer 'gainst my lot? Why not lie here and starve, and thus force Death to turn the key, and break the manacles which bind me to my misery?" While he thus mused, footsteps came up the mountainside, a lusty voice was raised in song, and before he could draw back into cover, a head in a fantastic cap appeared above the bushes. It was the village Jester capering along the path as if the world were thistledown and every day a holiday. But when he saw Aldebaran he stopped agape and crossed himself. Then he pushed nearer. Now those who saw the Jester only on a market day or at the country fair plying his trade of merriment for all 'twas worth knew not a sage was hid behind that motley or that his sympathies were tender as a saint's. Yet so it was. The motto written deep across his heart was this: "_To ease the burden of the world!_" It was beyond belief how wise he'd grown in wheedling men to think no load lay on their shoulders. Now he stood and gazed upon the prostrate man who turned away his face and would not answer his low-spoken words: "What ails thee, brother?" It boots not in this tale what wiles he used to gain Aldebaran's ear and tongue. Another man most surely must have failed, because he shrank from pity as from salt rubbed in a wound, and felt that none could hear his woeful history and not bestow that pity. But if the Jester felt its throbs he gave no sign. Seated beside him on the grass he talked in the light tone that served his trade, as if Aldebaran's woes were but a flight of swallows 'cross a summer sky, and would as soon be gone. And when between his quirks he'd drawn the piteous tale entirely from him, he doubled up with laughter and smote his sides. "And I'm the fool and thou'rt the sage!" he gasped between his peals of mirth. "Gadzooks! Methinks it is the other way around. Why, look ye, man! Here thou dost go a-junketing through all the earth to find a chance to show unequalled courage, and when kind Fate doth shove it underneath thy very nose, thou turn'st away, lamenting. I've heard of those who know not beans although the bag be opened, and now I laugh to see one of that very kind before me." Then dropping his unseemly mirth and all his wanton raillery, he stood up with his face a-shine, and spake as if he were the heaven-sent messenger of hope. "Rise up!" he cried. "_Knowest thou not it takes a thousandfold more courage to sheathe the sword when one is all on fire for action than to go forth against the greatest foe?_ Here is thy chance to show the world the kingliest spirit it has ever known! Here is a phalanx thou mayst meet all single-handed--a daily struggle with a host of hurts that cut thee to the quick. This sheathèd sword upon thy side will stab thee hourly with deeper thrusts than any adversary can give. 'Twill be a daily 'minder of thy thwarted hopes. For foiled ambition is the hydra-headed monster of the Lerna marsh. Two heads will rise for every one thou severest. 'Twill be a fight till death. Art brave enough to lift the gauntlet that Despair flings down and wage this warfare to thy very grave?'" Such call to arms seemed mockery as Aldebaran looked down upon his twisted limbs, but as the bloodstone on his finger met his sight his kingly soul leapt up. "I'll keep the oath!" he cried, and struggling to his feet laid hand upon the jewelled hilt that decked his side. "By sheathèd sword, since blade is now denied me," he swore. "I'll win the future that my stars foretold!" In that exalted moment all things seemed possible, and though his body limped as haltingly he followed on behind his new-found friend, his spirit walked erect, and faced his future for the time, undaunted. His merry-Andrew of a host made festival when they at last came to his dwelling; lit a great fire upon the hearth, brewed him a drink that warmed him to the core, brought wheaten loaves and set a bit of savoury meat to turning on the spit. "Ho, ho!" he laughed. "They say it is an ill wind that blows good to none. Now thou dost prove the proverb. The tempest that didst blow thee from thy course mayhap may send me on my way rejoicing. I long have wished to leave this land and seek the distant province where my kindred dwell, but there was never one to take my place. And when I spake of going, my townsmen said me nay. 'Twas quite as bad, they vowed, as if the priest should suddenly desert his parish, with none to shepherd his abandoned flock. 'Who'll cheer us in our doldrums?' they demanded. 'Who'll help us bear our troubles by making us forget them? Thou canst not leave us, Piper, until some other merry soul comes by to set our feet a-dancing.' Now thou art come." "Yes, _I_! A merry soul indeed!" Aldebaran cried in bitterness. "Well, maybe not quite that," his host admitted. "But thou couldst pass as one. Thou couldst at least put on my grotesque garb, couldst learn the quips and quirks by which I make men laugh. Thou wouldst not be the first man who has hid an aching heart behind a smile. The tune thou pipest may not bring _thee_ pleasure, but if it sets the world to dancing it is enough. And, too, it is an honest way to earn thy bread. Canst think of any other?" Aldebaran hid his face within his hands. "No, no!" he groaned. "There is no other way, and yet my soul abhors the thought, that I, a king's son, should descend to this! The jester's motley and the cap and bells. How can _I_ play such a part?" "Because thou _art_ a king's son," said the Jester. "That in itself is ample reason that thou shouldst play more royally than other men whatever part Fate may assign thee." Aldebaran sat wrapped in thought. "Well," was the slow reply after long pause, "an hundred years from now, I suppose, 'twill make no difference how circumstances chafe me now. A poor philosophy, but still there is a grain of comfort in it. I'll take thy offer, friend, and give thee gratitude." And so next day the two went forth together. Aldebaran showed a brave front to the crowd, glad of the painted mask that hid his features, and no one guessed the misery that lurked beneath his laugh, and no one knew what mighty tax it was upon his courage to follow in the Jester's lead and play buffoon upon the open street. It was a thing he loathed, and yet, 'twas as the Jester said, his training in the royal court had made him sharp of wit and quick to read men's minds; and to the countrymen who gathered there agape, around him in the square, his keen replies were wonderful as wizard's magic. And when he piped--it was no shallow fluting that merely set the rustic feet a-jig, it was a strange and stirring strain that made the simplest one among them stand with his soul a-tiptoe, as he listened, as if a kingly train with banners went a-marching by. So royally he played his part, that even on that first day he surpassed his teacher. The Jester, jubilant that this was so, thought that his time to leave was near at hand, but when that night they reached his dwelling Aldebaran tore off the painted mask and threw himself upon the hearth. "'Tis more than flesh can well endure!" he cried. "All day the thought of what I've lost was like a constant sword-thrust in my heart. Instead of deference and respect that once was mine from high and low, 'twas laugh and jibe and pointing finger. And, too" (his voice grew shrill and querulous), "I saw young lovers straying in the lanes together. How can I endure that sight day after day when my arms must remain for ever empty? And little children prattled by their father's side no matter where I turned. I, who shall never know a little son's caress, felt like a starving man who looks on bread and may not eat. Far better that I crawl away from haunts of men where I need never be tormented by such contrasts." The Jester looked down on Aldebaran's wan face. It was as white and drawn as if he had been tortured by the rack and thumbscrew, so he made no answer for the moment. But when the fire was kindled, and they had supped the broth set out in steaming bowls upon the table, he ventured on a word of cheer. "At any rate," he said, "for one whole day thou hast kept thy oath. No matter what the anguish that it cost thee, from sunrise to sunsetting thou hast held Despair at bay. It was the bravest stand that thou hast ever made. And now, if thou hast lived through this one day, why not another? 'Tis only one hour at a time that thou art called on to endure. Come! By the bloodstone that is thy birthright, pledge me anew thou'lt keep thy oath until the going down of one more sun." So Aldebaran pledged him one more day, and after that another and another, until a fortnight slowly dragged itself away. And then because he met his hurt so bravely and made no sign, the Jester thought the struggle had grown easier with time, and spoke again of going to his kindred. "Nay, do not leave me yet," Aldebaran plead. "Wouldst take my only crutch? It is thy cheerful presence that alone upholds me." "Yet it would show still greater courage if thou couldst face thy fate alone," the Jester answered. "Despair cannot be vanquished till thou hast taught thyself to really feel the gladness thou dost feign. I've heard that if one will count his blessings as the faithful tell their rosary beads he will forget his losses in pondering on his many benefits. Perchance if thou wouldst try that plan it might avail." So Aldebaran went out determined to be glad in heart as well as speech, if so be it he could find enough of cheer. "I will be glad," he said, "because the morning sun shines warm across my face." He slipped a golden beam upon his memory string. "I will be glad because that there are diamond sparkles on the grass and larks are singing in the sky." A dew-drop and a bird's trill for his rosary. "I will be glad for bread, for water from the spring, for eyesight and the power to smell the budding lilacs by the door; for friendly greetings from the villages." A goodly rosary, symbol of all the things for which he should be glad, was in his hand at close of day. He swung it gaily by the hearth that night, recounting all his blessings till the Jester thought, "At last he's found the cure." But suddenly Aldebaran flung the rosary from him and hid his face within his hands. "'Twill drive me mad!" he cried. "To go on stringing baubles that do but set my mind the firmer on the priceless jewel I have lost. May heaven forgive me! I am not really glad. 'Tis all a hollow mockery and pretence!" Then was the Jester at his wit's end for a reply. It was a welcome sound when presently a knocking at the door broke on the painful silence. The visitor who entered was an aged friar beseeching alms at every door, as was the custom of his brotherhood, with which to help the sick and poor. And while the Jester searched within a chest for some old garments he was pleased to give, he bade the friar draw up to the hearth and tarry for their evening meal, which then was well-nigh ready. The friar, glad to accept the hospitality, spread out his lean hands to the blaze, and later, when the three sat down together, warmed into such a cheerfulness of speech that Aldebaran was amazed. "Surely thy lot is hard, good brother," he said, looking curiously into the wrinkled face. "Humbling thy pride to beg at every door, forswearing thine own good in every way that others may be fed, and yet thy face speaks an inward joy. I pray thee tell me how thou hast found happiness." "_By never going in its quest_," the friar answered. "Long years ago I learned a lesson from the stars. Our holy Abbot took me out one night into the quiet cloister, and pointing to the glittering heavens showed me my duty in a way I never have forgot. I had grown restive in my lot and chafed against its narrow round of cell and cloister. But in a word he made me see that if I stepped aside from that appointed path, merely for mine own pleasure, 'twould mar the order of God's universe as surely as if a planet swerved from its eternal course. "'No shining lot is thine,' he said. 'Yet neither have the stars themselves a light. They but reflect the Central Sun. And so mayst thou, while swinging onward, faithful to thy orbit, reflect the light of heaven upon thy fellow men.' "Since then I've had no need to go a-seeking happiness, for bearing cheer to others keeps my own heart a-shine. "I pass the lesson on to thee, good friend. Remember, men need laughter sometimes more than food, and if thou hast no cheer thyself to spare, why, thou mayst go a-gathering it from door to door as I do crusts, and carry it to those who need." Long after the good friar had supped and gone, Aldebaran sat in silence. Then crossing to the tiny casement that gave upon the street, he stood and gazed up at the stars. Long, long he mused, fitting the friar's lesson to his own soul's need, and when he turned away, the old astrologer's prophecy had taken on new meaning. "As Aldebaran the star shines in the heavens" (_no light within itself, but borrowing from the Central Sun_), "so Aldebaran the man might shine among his fellows." (_Beggared of joy himself, yet flashing its reflection athwart the lives of others._) When next he went into the town he no longer shunned the sights that formerly he'd passed with face averted, for well he knew that if he would shed joy and hope on others he must go to places where they most abound. What matter that the thought of Vesta stabbed him nigh to madness when he looked on hearth-fires that could never blaze for him? With courage almost more than human he put that fond ambition out of mind as if it were another sword he'd learned to sheathe. At first it would not stay in hiding, but flew the scabbard of his will to thrust him sore as often as he put it from him. But after awhile he found a way to bind it fast, and when he'd found that way it gave him victory over all. A little child came crying towards him in the marketplace, its world a waste of woe because the toy it cherished had been broken in its play. Aldebaran would have turned aside on yesterday to press the barbed thought still deeper in his heart that he had been denied the joy of fatherhood. But now he stooped as gently as if he were the child's own sire to wipe its tears and soothe its sobs. And when with skilful fingers he restored the toy, the child bestowed on him a warm caress out of its boundless store. He passed on with his pulses strangely stirred. 'Twas but a crumb of love the child had given, yet, as Aldebaran held it in his heart, behold a miracle! It grew full-loaf, and he would fain divide it with all hungering souls! So when a stone's throw farther on he met a man well-nigh distraught from many losses, he did not say in bitterness as once he would have done, that 'twas the common lot of mortals; to look on him if one would know the worst that Fate can do. Nay, rather did he speak so bravely of what might still be wrung from life though one were maimed like he, that hope sprang up within his hearer and sent him on his way with face a-shine. That grateful smile was like a revelation to Aldebaran, showing him he had indeed the power belonging to the stars. Beggared of joy, no light within himself, yet from the Central Sun could he reflect the hope and cheer that made him as the eye of Taurus 'mong his fellows. The weeks slipped into months, months into years. The Jester went his way unto his kindred and never once was missed, because Aldebaran more than filled his place. In time the town forgot it ever had another Jester, and in time Aldebaran began to feel the gladness that he only feigned before. _And then it came to pass, whenever he went by, men felt a strange, strength-giving influence radiating from his presence,--a sense of hope. One could not say exactly what it was, it was so fleeting, so intangible, like warmth that circles from a brazier, or perfume that is wafted from an unseen rose._ Thus he came down to death at last, and there was dole in all the Province, so that pilgrims, journeying through that way, asked when they heard his passing-bell, "What king is dead, that all thus do him reverence?" "'Tis but our Jester," one replied. "A poor maimed creature in his outward seeming, and yet so blithely did he bear his lot, it seemed a kingly spirit dwelt among us, and earth is poorer for his going." All in his motley, since he'd willed it so, they laid him on his bier to bear him back again unto his father's house. And when they found the Sword of Conquest hidden underneath his mantle, they marvelled he had carried such a treasure with him through the years, all unbeknown even to those who walked the closest at his side. When, after many days, the funeral train drew through the castle gate, the king came down to meet it. There was no need of blazoned scroll to tell Aldebaran's story. All written in his face it was, and on his scarred and twisted frame; and by the bloodstone on his finger the old king knew his son had failed not in the keeping of his oath. More regal than the royal ermine seemed his motley now. More eloquent the sheathed sword that told of years of inward struggle than if it bore the blood of dragons, for on his face there shone the peace that comes alone of mighty triumph. The king looked round upon his nobles and his stalwart sons, then back again upon Aldebaran, lying in silent majesty. "Bring royal purple for the pall," he faltered, "and leave the Sword of Conquest with him! No other hands will ever be found worthier to claim it!" That night when tall white candles burned about him there stole a white-robed figure to the flower-strewn bier. 'Twas Vesta, decked as for a bridal, her golden tresses falling round her like a veil. They found her kneeling there beside him, her face like his all filled with starry light, and round them both was such a wondrous shining, the watchers drew aside in awe. "'Tis as the old astrologers foretold," they whispered. "Her soul hath entered on its deathless vigil. In truth he was the bravest that this earth has ever known." THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 
6353	----	THE PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK BY GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON Author of "Graustark", "Beverly of Graustark," etc. With Illustrations by A.I. KELLER 1914 CONTENTS CHAPTER I MR. AND MRS. BLITHERS DISCUSS MATRIMONY II TWO COUNTRIES DISCUSS MARRIAGE III MR. BLITHERS GOES VISITING IV PROTECTING THE BLOOD V PRINCE ROBIN is ASKED TO STAND UP VI THE PRINCE AND MR. BLITHERS VII A LETTER FROM MAUD VIII ON BOARD THE JUPITER IX THE PRINCE MEETS MISS GUILE X AN HOUR ON DECK XI THE LIEUTENANT RECEIVES ORDERS XII THE LIEUTENANT REPORTS XIII THE RED LETTER B XIV THE CAT IS AWAY XV THE MICE IN A TRAP XVI THREE MESSAGES XVII THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER XVIII A WORD OF ENCOURAGEMENT XIX "WHAT WILL MY PEOPLE DO" XX LOVE IN ABEYANCE XXI MR. BLITHERS ARRIVES IN GRAUSTARK XXII A VISIT TO THE CASTLE XXIII PINGARI'S XIV JUST WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED ILLUSTRATIONS Her eyes were starry bright, her red lips were parted. _Frontispiece_ "You will be her choice," said the other, without the quiver of an eye-lash. "I shall pray for continuous rough weather." The dignified Ministry of Graustark sat agape. CHAPTER I MR. AND MRS. BLITHERS DISCUSS MATRIMONY "My dear," said Mr. Blithers, with decision, "you can't tell me." "I know I can't," said his wife, quite as positively. She knew when she could tell him a thing and when she couldn't. It was quite impossible to impart information to Mr. Blithers when he had the tips of two resolute fingers embedded in his ears. That happened to be his customary and rather unfair method of conquering her when an argument was going against him, not for want of logic on his part, but because it was easier to express himself with his ears closed than with them open. By this means he effectually shut out the voice of opposition and had the discussion all to himself. Of course, it would have been more convincing if he had been permitted to hear the sound of his own eloquence; still, it was effective. She was sure to go on talking for two or three minutes and then subside in despair. A woman will not talk to a stone wall. Nor will she wantonly allow an argument to die while there remains the slightest chance of its survival. Given the same situation, a man would get up and leave his wife sitting there with her fingers in her ears; and, as he bolted from the room in high dudgeon, he would be mean enough to call attention to her pig-headedness. In most cases, a woman is content to listen to a silly argument rather than to leave the room just because her husband elects to be childish about a perfectly simple elucidation of the truth. Mrs. Blithers had lived with Mr. Blithers, more or less, for twenty-five years and she knew him like a book. He was a forceful person who would have his own way, even though he had to put his fingers in his ears to get it. At one period of their joint connubial agreement, when he had succeeded in accumulating a pitiful hoard amounting to but little more than ten millions of dollars, she concluded to live abroad for the purpose of educating their daughter, allowing him in the meantime to increase his fortune to something like fifty millions without having to worry about household affairs. But she had sojourned with him long enough, at odd times, to realise that, so long as he lived, he would never run away from an argument--unless, by some dreadful hook or crook, he should be so unfortunate as to be deprived of the use of both hands. She found room to gloat, of course, in the fact that he was obliged to stop up his ears in order to shut out the incontrovertible. Moreover, when he called her "my dear" instead of the customary Lou, it was a sign of supreme obstinacy on his part and could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be regarded as an indication of placid affection. He always said "my dear" at the top of his voice and with a great deal of irascibility. Mr. William W. Blithers was a self-made man who had begun his career by shouting lustily at a team of mules in a railway construction camp. Other drivers had tried to improve on his vocabulary but even the mules were able to appreciate the futility of such an ambition, and later on, when he came to own two or three railroads, to say nothing of a few mines and a steam yacht, his ability to drive men was even more noteworthy than his power over the jackasses had been. But driving mules and men was one thing, driving a wife another. What incentive has a man, said he, when after he gets through bullying a creature that very creature turns in and caresses him? No self-respecting mule ever did such a thing as that, and no man would think of it except with horror. There is absolutely no defence against a creature who will rub your head with loving, gentle fingers after she has worked you up to the point where you could kill her with pleasure--or at least so said Mr. Blithers with rueful frequency. Mr. and Mrs. Blithers had been discussing royalty. Up to the previous week they had restricted themselves to the nobility, but as an event of unexampled importance had transpired in the interim, they now felt that it would be the rankest stupidity to consider any one short of a Prince Royal in picking out a suitable husband--or, more properly speaking, consort--for their only daughter, Maud Applegate Blithers, aged twenty. Mrs. Blithers long ago had convinced her husband that no ordinary human being of the male persuasion was worthy of their daughter's hand, and had set her heart on having nothing meaner than a Duke on the family roll,--(Blithers alluded to it for a while as the pay-roll)--, with the choice lying between England and Italy. At first, Blithers, being an honest soul, insisted that a good American gentleman was all that anybody could ask for in the way of a son-in-law, and that when it came to a grandchild it would be perfectly proper to christen him Duke--lots of people did!--and that was about all that a title amounted to anyway. She met this with the retort that Maud might marry a man named Jones, and how would Duke Jones sound? He weakly suggested that they could christen him Marmaduke and--but she reminded him of his oft-repeated boast that there was nothing in the world too good for Maud and instituted a pictorial campaign against his prejudices by painting in the most alluring colours the picture of a ducal palace in which the name of Jones would never be uttered except when employed in directing the fifth footman or the third stable-boy--or perhaps a scullery maid--to do this, that or the other thing at the behest of her Grace, the daughter of William W. Blithers. This eventually worked on his imagination to such an extent that he forgot his natural pride and admitted that perhaps she was right. But now, just as they were on the point of accepting, in lieu of a Duke, an exceptionally promising Count, the aforesaid event conspired to completely upset all of their plans--or notions, so to speak. It was nothing less than the arrival in America of an eligible Prince of the royal blood, a ruling Prince at that. As a matter of fact he had not only arrived in America but upon the vast estate adjoining their own in the Catskills. Fortunately nothing definite had been arranged with the Count. Mrs. Blithers now advised waiting a while before giving a definite answer to his somewhat eager proposal, especially as he was reputed to have sufficient means of his own to defend the chateau against any immediate peril of profligacy. She counselled Mr. Blithers to notify him that he deemed it wise to take the matter under advisement for a couple of weeks at least, but not to commit himself to anything positively negative. Mr. Blithers said that he had never heard anything so beautifully adroit as "positively negative," and directed his secretary to submit to him without delay the draft of a tactful letter to the anxious nobleman. They were agreed that a Prince was more to be desired than a Count and, as long as they were actually about it, they might as well aim high. Somewhat hazily Mr. Blithers had Inquired if it wouldn't be worth while to consider a King, but his wife set him straight in short order. Peculiarly promising their hopes was the indisputable fact that the Prince's mother had married an American, thereby establishing a precedent behind which no constitutional obstacle could thrive, and had lived very happily with the gentleman in spite of the critics. Moreover, she had met him while sojourning on American soil, and that was certainly an excellent augury for the success of the present enterprise. What could be more fitting than that the son should follow in the footsteps of an illustrious mother? If an American gentleman was worthy of a princess, why not the other way about? Certainly Maud Blithers was as full of attributes as any man in America. It appears that the Prince, after leisurely crossing the continent on his way around the world, had come to the Truxton Kings for a long-promised and much-desired visit, the duration of which depended to some extent on his own inclinations, and not a little on the outcome of the war-talk that affected two great European nations--Russia and Austria. Ever since the historic war between the Balkan allies and the Turks, in 1912 and 1913, there had been mutterings, and now the situation had come to be admittedly precarious. Mr. Blithers was in a position to know that the little principality over which the young man reigned was bound to be drawn into the cataclysm, not as a belligerent or an ally, but in the matter of a loan that inconveniently expired within the year and which would hardly be renewed by Russia with the prospect of vast expenditures of war threatening her treasury. The loan undoubtedly would be called and Graustark was not in a position to pay out of her own slender resources, two years of famine having fallen upon the people at a time when prosperity was most to be desired. He was in touch with the great financial movements in all the world's capitals, and he knew that retrenchment was the watchword. It would be no easy matter for the little principality to negotiate a loan at this particular time, nor was there even a slender chance that Russia would be benevolently disposed toward her debtors, no matter how small their obligations. They who owed would be called upon to pay, they who petitioned would be turned away with scant courtesy. It was the private opinion of Mr. Blithers that the young Prince and the trusted agents who accompanied him on his journey, were in the United States solely for the purpose of arranging a loan through sources that could only be reached by personal appeal. But, naturally, Mr. Blithers couldn't breathe this to a soul. Under the circumstances he couldn't even breathe it to his wife who, he firmly believed, was soulless. But all this is beside the question. The young Prince of Graustark was enjoying American hospitality, and no matter what he owed to Russia, America owed to him its most punctillious consideration. If Mr. Blithers was to have anything to say about the matter, it would be for the ear of the Prince alone and not for the busybodies. The main point is that the Prince was now rusticating within what you might call a stone's throw of the capacious and lordly country residence of Mr. Blithers; moreover, he was an uncommonly attractive chap, with a laugh that was so charged with heartiness that it didn't seem possible that he could have a drop of royal blood in his vigorous young body. And the perfectly ridiculous part of the whole situation was that Mr. and Mrs. King lived in a modest, vine-covered little house that could have been lost in the servants' quarters at Blitherwood. Especially aggravating, too, was the attitude of the Kings. They were really nobodies, so to speak, and yet they blithely called their royal guest "Bobby" and allowed him to fetch and carry for their women-folk quite as if he were an ordinary whipper-snapper up from the city to spend the week-end. The remark with which Mr. Blithers introduces this chapter was in response to an oft-repeated declaration made by his wife in the shade of the red, white and blue awning of the terrace overlooking, from its despotic heights, the modest red roof of the King villa in the valley below. Mrs. Blithers merely had stated--but over and over again--that money couldn't buy everything in the world, referring directly to social eminence and indirectly to their secret ambition to capture a Prince of the royal blood for their daughter Maud. She had prefaced this opinion, however, with the exceedingly irritating insinuation that Mr. Blithers was not in his right mind when he proposed inviting the Prince to spend a few weeks at Blitherwood, provided the young man could cut short his visit in the home of Mr. and Mrs. King, who, he had asseverated, were not in a position to entertain royalty as royalty was in the habit of being entertained. Long experience had taught Mr. Blithers to read the lip and eye language with some degree of certainty, so by watching his wife's indignant face closely he was able to tell when she was succumbing to reason. He was a burly, domineering person who reasoned for every one within range of his voice, and it was only when his wife became coldly sarcastic that he closed his ears and boomed his opinions into her very teeth, so to say, joyfully overwhelming her with facts which it were futile for her to attempt to deny. He was aware, quite as much so as if he had heard the words, that she was now saying: "Well, there is absolutely no use arguing with you, Will. Have it your way if it pleases you." Eying her with some uneasiness, he cautiously inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his brocaded waistcoat, and proclaimed: "As I said before, Lou, there isn't a foreign nobleman, from the Emperor down, who is above grabbing a few million dollars. They're all hard up, and what do they gain by marrying ladies of noble birth if said ladies are the daughters of noblemen who are as hard up as all the rest of 'em? Besides, hasn't Maud been presented at Court? Didn't you see to that? How about that pearl necklace I gave her when she was presented? Wasn't it the talk of the season? There wasn't a Duke in England who didn't figure the cost of that necklace to within a guinea or two. No girl ever had better advertising than--" "We were speaking of Prince Robin," remarked his wife, with a slight shudder. Mrs. Blithers came of better stock than her husband. His gaucheries frequently set her teeth on edge. She was born in Providence and sometimes mentioned the occurrence when particularly desirous of squelching him, not unkindly perhaps but by way of making him realise that their daughter had good blood in her veins. Mr. Blithers had heard, in a round-about way, that he first saw the light of day in Jersey City, although after he became famous Newark claimed him. He did not bother about the matter. "Well, he's like all the rest of them," said he, after a moment of indecision. Something told him that he really ought to refrain from talking about the cost of things, even in the bosom of his family. He had heard that only vulgarians speak of their possessions. "Now, there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't consider his offer. He--" "Offer?" she cried, aghast. "He has made no offer, Will. He doesn't even know that Maud is in existence. How can you say such a thing?" "I was merely looking ahead, that's all. My motto is 'Look Ahead.' You know it as well as I do. Where would I be to-day if I hadn't looked ahead and seen what was going to happen before the other fellow had his eyes open? Will you tell me that? Where, I say? What's more, where would I be now if I hadn't looked ahead and seen what a marriage with the daughter of Judge Morton would mean to me in the long run?" He felt that he had uttered a very pretty and convincing compliment. "I never made a bad bargain in my life, Lou, and it wasn't guess-work when I married you. You, my dear old girl, you were the solid foundation on which I--" "I know," she said wearily; "you've said it a thousand times: 'The foundation on which I built my temple of posterity'--yes, I know, Will. But I am still unalterably opposed to making ourselves ridiculous in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. King." "Ridiculous? I don't understand you." "Well, you will after you think it over," she said quietly, and he scowled in positive perplexity. "Don't you think he'd be a good match for Maud?" he asked, after many minutes. He felt that he had thought it over. "Are you thinking of kidnapping him, Will?" she demanded. "Certainly not! But all you've got to do is to say that he's the man for Maud and I'll--I'll do the rest. That's the kind of a man I am, Lou. You say you don't want Count What's-His-Name,--that is, you don't want him as much as you did,--and you do say that it would be the grandest thing in the world if Maud could be the Princess of Grosstick--" "Graustark, Will." "That's what I said. Well, if you want her to be the Princess of _THAT_, I'll see that she is, providing this fellow is a gentleman and worthy of _her_. The only Prince I ever knew was a damned rascal, and I'm going to be careful about this one. You remember that measly--" "There is no question about Prince Robin," said she sharply. "I suppose the only question is, how much will he want?" "You mean--settlement?" "Sure." "Have you no romance in your soul, William Blithers?" "I never believed in fairy stories," said he grimly. "And what's more, I don't take any stock in cheap novels in which American heroes go about marrying into royal families and all that sort of rot. It isn't done, Lou. If you want to marry into a royal family you've got to put up the coin." "Prince Robin's mother, the poor Princess Yetive, married an American for love, let me remind you." "Umph! Where is this Groostock anyway?" "'Somewhere east of the setting sun,'" she quoted. "You _must_ learn how to pronounce it." "I never was good at foreign languages. By the way, where is Maud this afternoon?" "Motoring." He waited for additional information. It was not vouchsafed, so he demanded somewhat fearfully: "Who with?" "Young Scoville." He scowled. "He's a loafer, Lou. No good in the world. I don't like the way you let--" "He is of a very good family, my dear. I--" "Is he--er--in love with her?" "Certainly." "Good Lord!" "And why not? Isn't every one she meets in love with her?" "I--I suppose so," he admitted sheepishly. His face brightened. "And there's no reason why this Prince shouldn't fall heels over head, is there? Well, there you are! That will make a difference in the settlement, believe me--a difference of a couple of millions at least, if--" She arose abruptly. "You are positively disgusting, Will. Can't you think of anything but--" "Say, ain't that Maudie coming up the drive now? Sure it is! By gracious, did you ever see anything to beat her? She's got 'em all beat a mile when it comes to looks and style and--Oh, by the way," lowering his voice to a hoarse, confidential whisper, "--I wouldn't say anything to her about the marriage just yet if I were you. I want to look him over first." CHAPTER II TWO COUNTRIES DISCUSS MARRIAGE Prince Robin of Graustark was as good-looking a chap as one would see in a week's journey. Little would one suspect him of being the descendant of a long and distinguished line of princes, save for the unmistakeable though indefinable something in his eye that exacted rather than invited the homage of his fellow man. His laugh was a free and merry one, his spirits as effervescent as wine, his manner blithe and boyish; yet beneath all this fair and guileless exposition of carelessness lay the sober integrity of caste. It looked out through the steady, unswerving eyes, even when they twinkled with mirth; it met the gaze of the world with a serene imperiousness that gave way before no mortal influence; it told without boastfulness a story of centuries. For he was the son of a princess royal, and the blood of ten score rulers of men had come down to him as a heritage of strength. His mother, the beautiful, gracious and lamented Yetive, set all royal circles by the ears when she married the American, Lorry, back in the nineties. A special act of the ministry had legalised this union and the son of the American was not deprived of his right to succeed to the throne which his forebears had occupied for centuries. From his mother he had inherited the right of kings, from his father the spirit of freedom; from his mother the power of majesty, from his father the power to see beyond that majesty. When little more than a babe in arms he was orphaned and the affairs of state fell upon the shoulders of three loyal and devoted men who served as regents until he became of age. Wisely they served both him and the people through the years that intervened between the death of the Princess and her consort and the day when he reached his majority. That day was a glorious one in Graustark. The people worshipped the little Prince when he was in knickerbockers and played with toys; they saw him grow to manhood with hearts that were full of hope and contentment; they made him their real ruler with the same joyous spirit that had attended him in the days when he sat in the great throne and "made believe" that he was one of the mighty, despite the fact that his little legs barely reached to the edge of the gold and silver seat,--and slept soundly through all the befuddling sessions of the cabinet. He was seven when the great revolt headed by Count Marlanx came so near to overthrowing the government, and he behaved like the Prince that he was. It was during those perilous times that he came to know the gallant Truxton King in whose home he was now a happy guest. But before Truxton King he knew the lovely girl who became the wife of that devoted adventurer, and who, to him, was always to be "Aunt Loraine." As a very small boy he had paid two visits to the homeland of his father, but after the death of his parents his valuable little person was guarded so jealously by his subjects that not once had he set foot beyond the borders of Graustark, except on two widely separated occasions of great pomp and ceremony at the courts of Vienna and St. Petersburgh, and a secret journey to London when he was seventeen. (It appears that he was determined to see a great football match.) On each of these occasions he was attended by watchful members of the cabinet and certain military units in the now far from insignificant standing army. As a matter of fact, he witnessed the football match from the ordinary stands, surrounded by thousands of unsuspecting Britons, but carefully wedged in between two generals of his own army and flanked by a minister of police, a minister of the treasury and a minister of war, all of whom were excessively bored by the contest and more or less appalled by his unregal enthusiasm. He had insisted on going to the match incog, to enjoy it for all it was worth to the real spectators--those who sit or stand where the compression is not unlike that applied to a box of sardines. The regency expired when he was twenty years of age, and he became ruler in fact, of himself as well as of the half-million subjects who had waited patiently for the great day that was to see him crowned and glorified. Not one was there in that goodly half million who stood out against him on that triumphant day; not one who possessed a sullen or resentful heart. He was their Prince, and they loved him well. After that wonderful coronation day he would never forget that he was a Prince or that the hearts of a half million were to throb with love for him so long as he was man as well as Prince. Mr. Blithers was very close to the truth when he said (to himself, if you remember) that the financial situation in the far-off principality was not all that could be desired. It is true that Graustark was in Russia's debt to the extent of some twenty million gavvos,--about thirty millions of dollars, in other words,--and that the day of reckoning was very near at hand. The loan was for a period of twelve years, and had been arranged contrary to the advice of John Tullis, an American financier who long had been interested in the welfare of the principality through friendship for the lamented Prince Consort, Lorry. He had been farsighted enough to realise that Russia would prove a hard creditor, even though she may have been sincere in her protestations of friendship for the modest borrower. A stubborn element in the cabinet overcame his opposition, however, and the debt was contracted, taxation increased by popular vote and a period of governmental thriftiness inaugurated. Railroads, highways, bridges and aqueducts were built, owned and controlled by the state, and the city of Edelweiss rebuilt after the devastation created during the revolt of Count Marlanx and his minions. There seemed to be some prospect of vindication for the ministry and Tullis, who lived in Edelweiss, was fair-minded enough to admit that their action appeared to have been for the best. The people had prospered and taxes were paid in full and without complaint. The reserve fund grew steadily and surely and there was every prospect that when the huge debt came due it would be paid in cash. But on the very crest of their prosperity came adversity. For two years the crops failed and a pestilence swept through the herds. The flood of gavvos that had been pouring into the treasury dwindled into a pitiful rivulet; the little that came in was applied, of necessity, to administration purposes and the maintenance of the army, and there was not so much as a penny left over for the so-called sinking fund. A year of grace remained. The minister of finance had long since recovered from the delusion that it would be easy to borrow from England or France to pay the Russians, there being small prospect of a renewal by the Czar even for a short period at a higher rate of interest. The great nations of Europe made it plain to the little principality that they would not put a finger in Russia's pie at this stage of the game. Russia was ready to go to war with her great neighbour, Austria. Diplomacy--caution, if you will,--made it imperative that other nations should sit tight and look to their own knitting, so to say. Not one could afford to be charged with befriending, even in a round-about way, either of the angry grumblers. It was only too well known in diplomatic circles that Russia coveted the railroads of Graustark, as a means of throwing troops into a remote and almost impregnable portion of Austria. If the debt were paid promptly, it would be impossible, according to international law, for the great White Bear to take over these roads and at least a portion of the western border of the principality. Obviously, Austria would be benefitted by the prompt lifting of the debt, but her own relations with Russia were so strained that an offer to come to the rescue of Graustark would be taken at once as an open affront and vigorously resented. Her hands were tied. The northern and western parts of Graustark were rich with productive mines. The government had built railroads throughout these sections so that the yield of coal and copper might be given an outlet to the world at large. In making the loan, Russia had demanded these prosperous sections as security for the vast sum advanced, and Graustark in an evil hour had submitted, little suspecting the trick that Dame Nature was to play in the end. Private banking institutions in Europe refused to make loans under the rather exasperating circumstances, preferring to take no chances. Money was not cheap in these bitter days, neither in Europe nor America. Caution was the watchword. A vast European war was not improbable, despite the sincere efforts on the part of the various nations to keep out of the controversy. Nor was Mr. Blithers far from right in his shrewd surmise that Prince Robin and his agents were not without hope in coming to America at this particular time. Graustark had laid by barely half the amount required to lift the debt to Russia. It was not beyond the bounds of reason to expect her Prince to secure the remaining fifteen millions through private sources in New York City. Six weeks prior to his arrival in New York, the young Prince landed in San Francisco. He had come by way of the Orient, accompanied by the Chief of Staff of the Graustark Army, Count Quinnox,--hereditary watch-dog to the royal family!--and a young lieutenant of the guard, Boske Dank. Two men were they who would have given a thousand lives in the service of their Prince. No less loyal was the body-servant who looked after the personal wants of the eager young traveller, an Englishman of the name of Hobbs. A very poor valet was he, but an exceptionally capable person when it came to the checking of luggage and the divining of railway time-tables. He had been an agent for Cook's. It was quite impossible to miss a train that Hobbs suspected of being the right one. Prince Robin came unheralded and traversed the breadth of the continent without attracting more than the attention that is bestowed upon good-looking young men. Like his mother, nearly a quarter of a century before, he travelled incognito. But where she had used the somewhat emphatic name of Guggenslocker, he was known to the hotel registers as "Mr. R. Schmidt and servant." There was romance in the eager young soul of Prince Robin. He revelled in the love story of his parents. The beautiful Princess Yetive first saw Grenfell Lorry in an express train going eastward from Denver. Their wonderful romance was born, so to speak, in a Pullman compartment car, and it thrived so splendidly that it almost upset a dynasty, for never--in all of nine centuries--had a ruler of Graustark stooped to marriage with a commoner. And so when the far-sighted ministry and House of Nobles in Graustark set about to select a wife for their young ruler, they made overtures to the Prince of Dawsbergen whose domain adjoined Graustark on the south. The Crown Princess of Dawsbergen, then but fifteen, was the unanimous choice of the amiable match-makers in secret conclave. This was when Robin was seventeen and just over being fatuously in love with his middle-aged instructress in French. The Prince of Dawsbergen despatched an embassy of noblemen to assure his neighbour that the match would be highly acceptable to him and that in proper season the betrothal might be announced. But alack! both courts overlooked the fact that there was independent American blood in the two young people. Neither the Prince of Graustark nor the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen,--whose mother was a Miss Beverly Calhoun of Virginia,--was disposed to listen to the voice of expediency; in fact, at a safe distance of three or four hundred miles, the youngsters figuratively turned up their noses at each other and frankly confessed that they hated each other and wouldn't be bullied into getting married, no matter what _anybody_ said, or something of the sort. "S'pose I'm going to say I'll marry a girl I've never seen?" demanded seventeen-year-old Robin, full of wrath. "Not I, my lords. I'm going to look about a bit, if you don't mind. The world is full of girls. I'll marry the one I happen to want or I'll not marry at all." "But, highness," they protested, "you must listen to reason. There must be a successor to the throne of Graustark. You would not have the name die with you. The young Princess is--" "Is fifteen you say," he interrupted loftily. "Come around in ten years and we'll talk it over again. But I'm not going to pledge myself to marry a child in short frocks, name or no name. Is she pretty?" The lords did not know. They had not seen the young lady. "If she is pretty you'd be sure to know it, my lords, so we'll assume she isn't. I saw her when she was three years old, and she certainly was a fright when she cried, and, my lords, she cried all the time. No, I'll not marry her. Be good enough to say to the Prince of Dawsbergen that I'm very much obliged to him, but it's quite out of the question." And the fifteen-year-old Crown Princess, four hundred miles away, coolly informed her doting parents that she was tired of being a Princess anyway and very much preferred marrying some one who lived in a cottage. In fine, she stamped her little foot and said she'd jump into the river before she'd marry the Prince of Graustark. "But he's a very handsome, adorable boy," began her mother. "And half-American just as you are, my child," put in her father encouragingly. "Nothing could be more suitable than--" "I don't intend to marry anybody until I'm thirty at least, so that ends it, daddy,--I mean, your poor old highness." "Naturally we do not expect you to be married before you are out of short frocks, my dear," said Prince Dantan stiffly. "But a betrothal is quite another thing. It is customary to arrange these marriages years before--" "Is Prince Robin in love with me?" "I--ahem!--that's a very silly question. He hasn't seen you since you were a baby. But he _will_ be in love with you, never fear." "He may be in love with some one else, for all we know, so where do I come in?" "Come in?" gasped her father. "She's part American, dear," explained the mother, with her prettiest smile. "Besides," said the Crown Princess, with finality, "I'm not even going to be engaged to a man I've never seen. And if you insist, I'll run away as sure as anything." And so the matter rested. Five years have passed since the initial overtures were made by the two courts, and although several sly attempts were made to bring the young people to a proper understanding of their case, they aroused nothing more than scornful laughter on the part of the belligerents, as the venerable Baron Dangloss was wont to call them, not without pride in his sharp old voice. "It all comes from mixing the blood," said the Prime Minister gloomily. "Or improving it," said the Baron, and was frowned upon. And no one saw the portentous shadow cast by the slim daughter of William W. Blithers, for the simple reason that neither Graustark nor Dawsbergen knew that it existed. They lived in serene ignorance of the fact that God, while he was about it, put Maud Applegate Blithers into the world on precisely the same day that the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen first saw the light of day. On the twenty-second anniversary of his birth, Prince Robin fared forth in quest of love and romance, not without hope of adventure, for he was a valorous chap with the heritage of warriors in his veins. Said he to himself in dreamy contemplation of the long journey ahead of him: "I will traverse the great highways that my mother trod and I will look for the Golden Girl sitting by the wayside. She must be there, and though it is a wide world, I am young and my eyes are sharp. I will find her sitting at the roadside eager for me to come, not housed in a gloomy; castle surrounded by the spooks of a hundred ancestors. They who live in castles wed to hate and they who wed at the roadside live to love. Fortune attend me! If love lies at the roadside waiting, do not let me pass it by. All the princesses are not inside the castles. Some sit outside the gates and laugh with glee, for love is their companion. So away I go, la, la! looking for the princess with the happy heart and the smiling lips! It is a wide world but my eyes are sharp. I shall find my princess." But, alas, for his fine young dream, he found no Golden Girl at the roadside nor anything that suggested romance. There were happy hearts and smiling lips--and all for him, it would appear--but he passed them by, for his eyes were _sharp_ and his wits awake. And so, at last, he came to Gotham, his heart as free as the air he breathed, confessing that his quest had been in vain. History failed to repeat itself. His mother's romance would stand alone and shine without a flicker to the end of time. There could be no counterpart. "Well, I had the fun of looking," he philosophised (to himself, for no man knew of his secret project) and grinned with a sort of amused tolerance for the sentimental side of his nature. "I'm a silly ass to have even dreamed of finding her as I passed along, and if I had found her what the deuce could I have done about it anyway? This isn't the day for mediaeval lady-snatching. I dare say I'm just as well off for not having found her. I still have the zest for hunting farther, and there's a lot in that." Then aloud: "Hobbs, are we on time?" "We are, sir," said Hobbs, without even glancing at his watch. The train was passing 125th Street. "To the minute, sir. We will be in in ten minutes, if nothing happens. Mr. King will be at the station to meet you, sir. Any orders, sir?" "Yes, pinch me, Hobbs." "Pinch your Highness?" in amazement. "My word, sir, wot--" "I just want to be sure that the dream is over, Hobbs. Never mind. You needn't pinch me. I'm awake," and to prove it he stretched his fine young body in the ecstasy of realisation. That night he slept soundly in the Catskills. CHAPTER III MR. BLITHERS GOES VISITING I repeat: Prince Robin was as handsome a chap as you'll see in a week's journey. He was just under six feet, slender, erect and strong in the way that a fine blade is strong. His hair was dark and straight, his eyes blue-black, his cheek brown and ruddy with the health of a life well-ordered. Nose, mouth and chin were clean-cut and indicative of power, while his brow was broad and smooth, with a surface so serene that it might have belonged to a woman. At first glance you would have taken him for a healthy, eager American athlete, just out of college, but that aforementioned seriousness in his deep-set, thoughtful eyes would have caused you to think twice before pronouncing him a fledgling. He had enjoyed life, he had made the most of his play-days, but always there had hung over his young head the shadow of the cross that would have to be supported to the end of his reign, through thick and thin, through joy and sorrow, through peace and strife. He saw the shadow when he was little more than a baby; it was like a figure striding beside him always; it never left him. He could not be like other boys, for he was a prince, and it was a serious business being a prince! A thousand times, as a lad, he had wished that he could have a few "weeks off" from being what he was and be just a common, ordinary, harum scarum boy, like the "kids" of Petrove, the head stableman. He would even have put up with the thrashings they got from their father, just for the sake of enjoying the mischief that purchased the punishment. But alas! no one would ever dream of giving him the lovely "tannings" that other boys got when they were naughty. Such joys were not for him; he was mildly reproved and that was all. But his valiant spirit found release in many a glorious though secret encounter with boys both large and small, and not infrequently he sustained severe pummelings at the hands of plebeians who never were quite sure that they wouldn't be beheaded for obliging him in the matter of a "scrap," but who fought like little wild-cats while they were about it. They were always fair fights, for he fought as a boy and not as a prince. He took his lickings like a prince, however, and his victories like a boy. The one thing he wanted to do above all others was to play foot-ball. But they taught him fencing, riding, shooting and tennis instead, for, said they, foot-ball is only to be looked-at, not played,--fine argument, said Robin! Be that as it may, he was physically intact and bodily perfect. He had no broken nose, smashed ribs, stiff shoulder joints or weak ankles, nor was he toothless. In all his ambitious young life he had never achieved anything more enduring than a bloody nose, a cracked lip or a purple eye, and he had been compelled to struggle pretty hard for even those blessings. And to him the pity of it all was that he was as hard as nails and as strong as a bullock--a sad waste, if one were to believe him in his bitter lamentations. Toward the end of his first week at Red Roof, the summer home of the Truxton Kings, he might have been found on the broad lawn late one afternoon, playing tennis with his hostess, the lovely and vivacious "Aunt Loraine." To him, Mrs. King would always be "Aunt Loraine," even as he would never be anything but Bobby to her. She was several years under forty and as light and active as a young girl. Her smooth cheek glowed with the happiness and thrill of the sport, and he was hard put to hold his own against her, even though she insisted that he play his level best. Truxton King, stalwart and lazy, lounged on the turf, umpiring the game, attended by two pretty young girls, a lieutenant in flannels and the ceremonious Count Quinnox, iron grey and gaunt-faced battleman with the sabre scars on his cheek and the bullet wound in his side. "Good work, Rainie," shouted the umpire as his wife safely placed the ball far out of her opponent's reach. "Hi!" shouted Robin, turning on him with a scowl. "You're not supposed to cheer anybody, d' you understand? You're only an umpire." "Outburst of excitement, Kid," apologised the umpire complacently. "Couldn't help it. Forty thirty. Get busy." "He called him 'kid,'" whispered one of the young girls to the other. "Well I heard the Prince call Mr. King 'Truck' a little while ago," whispered the other. "Isn't he good-looking?" sighed the first one. They were sisters, very young, and lived in the cottage across the road with their widowed mother. Their existence was quite unknown to Mr. and Mrs. Blithers, although the amiable Maud was rather nice to them. She had once picked them up in her automobile when she encountered them walking to the station. After that she called them by their Christian names and generously asked them to call her Maud. It might appear from this that Maud suffered somewhat from loneliness in the great house on the hill. The Felton girls had known Robin a scant three-quarters of an hour and were deeply in love with him. Fannie was eighteen and Nellie but little more than sixteen. He was their first Prince. "Whee-ee!" shrilled Mrs. King, going madly after a return that her opponent had lobbed over the net. She missed. "Deuce," said her husband laconically. A servant was crossing the lawn with a tray of iced drinks. As he neared the recumbent group he paused irresolutely and allowed his gaze to shift toward the road below. Then he came on and as he drew alongside the interested umpire he leaned over and spoke in a low tone of voice. "What?" demanded King, squinting. "Just coming in the gate, sir," said the footman. King shot a glance over his shoulder and then sat up in astonishment. "Good Lord! Blithers! What the deuce can he be doing here? I say, Loraine! Hi!" "Vantage in," cried his pretty wife, dashing a stray lock from her eyes. Mr. King's astonishment was genuine. It might better have been pronounced bewilderment. Mr. Blithers was paying his first visit to Red Roof. Up to this minute it is doubtful if he ever had accorded it so much as a glance of interest in passing. He bowed to King occasionally at the station, but that was all. But now his manner was exceedingly friendly as he advanced upon the group. One might have been pardoned for believing him to be a most intimate friend of the family and given to constantly dropping in at any and all hours of the day. The game was promptly interrupted. It would not be far from wrong to say that Mrs. King's pretty mouth was open not entirely as an aid to breathing. She couldn't believe her eyes as she slowly abandoned her court and came forward to meet their advancing visitor. "Take my racket, dear," she said to one of the Peltons, It happened to be Fannie and the poor child almost fainted with joy. The Prince remained in the far court, idly twirling his racket. "Afternoon, King," said Mr. Blithers, doffing his panama--to fan a heated brow. "Been watching the game from the road for a spell. Out for a stroll. Couldn't resist running in for a minute. You play a beautiful game, Mrs. King. How do you do! Pretty hot work though, isn't it?" He was shaking hands with King and smiling genially upon the trim, panting figure of the Prince's adversary. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blithers," said King, still staring. "You--you know my wife?" Mr. Blithers ignored what might have been regarded as an introduction, and blandly announced that tennis wasn't a game for fat people, patting his somewhat aggressive extension in mock dolefulness as he spoke. "You should see my daughter play," he went on, scarcely heeding Mrs. King's tactless remark that she affected the game because she had a horror of getting fat. "Corking, she is, and as quick as a cat. Got a medal at Lakewood last spring. I'll fix up a match soon, Mrs. King, between you and Maud. Ought to be worth going miles to see, eh, King?" "Oh, I am afraid, Mr. Blithers, that I am not in your daughter's class," said Loraine King, much too innocently. "We've got a pretty fair tennis court up at Blitherwood," said Mr. Blithers calmly. "I have a professional instructor up every week to play with Maud. She can trim most of the amateurs so--" "May I offer you a drink of some kind, Mr. Blithers?" asked King, recovering his poise to some extent. "We are having lemonades, but perhaps you'd prefer something--" "Lemonade will do for me, thanks," said the visitor affably. "We ought to run in on each other a little more often than--thanks! By jove, it looks refreshing. Your health, Mrs. King. Too bad to drink a lady's health in lemonade but--the sentiment's the same." He was looking over her shoulder at the bounding Prince in the far court as he spoke, and it seemed that he held his glass a trifle too high in proposing the toast. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blithers," mumbled King. "Permit me to introduce Count Quinnox and Lieutenant Dank." Both of the foreigners had arisen and were standing very erect and soldierly a few yards away. "You know Miss Felton, of course." "Delighted to meet you, Count," said Mr. Blithers, advancing with outstretched hand. He shook the hand of the lieutenant with a shade less energy. "Enjoying the game?" "Immensely," said the Count. "It is rarely played so well." Mr. Blithers affected a most degage manner, squinting carelessly at the Prince. "That young chap plays a nice game. Who is he?" The two Graustarkians stiffened perceptibly, and waited for King to make the revelation to his visitor. "That's Prince Robin of--" he began but Mr. Blithers cut him short with a genial wave of the hand. "Of course," he exclaimed, as if annoyed by his own stupidity. "I did hear that you were entertaining a Prince. Slipped my mind, however. Well, well, we're coming up in the world, eh?--having a real nabob among us." He hesitated for a moment. "But don't let me interrupt the game," he went on, as if expecting King to end the contest in order to present the Prince to him. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Blithers?" said Mrs. King. "Or would you prefer a more comfortable chair on the porch? We--" "No, thanks, I'll stay here if you don't mind," said he hastily, and dragged up the camp chair that Lieutenant Dank had been occupying. "Fetch another chair, Lucas," said King to the servant. "And another glass of lemonade for Miss Felton." "Felton?" queried Mr. Blithers, sitting down very carefully on the rather fragile chair, and hitching up his white flannel trousers at the knees to reveal a pair of purple socks, somewhat elementary in tone. "We know your daughter, Mr. Blithers," said little Miss Nellie eagerly. "I was just trying to remember--" "We live across the road--over there in the little white house with the ivy--" "--where I'd heard the name," proceeded Mr. Blithers, still looking at the Prince. "By jove, I should think my daughter and the Prince would make a rattling good match. I mean," he added, with a boisterous laugh, "a good match at tennis. We'll have to get 'em together some day, eh, up at Blitherwood. How long is the Prince to be with you, Mrs. King?" "It's rather uncertain, Mr. Blithers," said she, and no more. Mr. Blithers fanned himself in patience for a moment or two. Then he looked at his watch. "Getting along toward dinner-time up our way," he ventured. Everybody seemed rather intent on the game, which was extremely one-sided. "Good work!" shouted King as Fannie Felton managed to return an easy service. Lieutenant Dank applauded vigorously. "Splendid!" he cried out. "Capitally placed!" "They speak remarkably good English, don't they?" said Mr. Blithers in an audible aside to Mrs. King. "Beats the deuce how quickly they pick it up." She smiled. "Officers in the Graustark army are required to speak English, French and German, Mr. Blithers." "It's a good idea," said he. "Maud speaks French and Italian like a native. She was educated in Paris and Rome, you know. Fact is, she's lived abroad a great deal." "Is she at home now, Mr. Blithers?" "Depends on what you'd call home, Mrs. King. We've got so many I don't know just which is the real one. If you mean Blitherwood, yes, she's there. Course, there's our town house in Madison Avenue, the place at Newport, one at Nice and one at Pasadena--California, you know--and a little shack in London. By the way, my wife says you live quite near our place in New York." "We live in Madison Avenue, but it's a rather long street, Mr. Blithers. Just where is your house?" she inquired, rather spitefully. He looked astonished. "You surely must know where the Blithers house is at--" "Game!" shrieked Fannie Felton, tossing her racket in the air, a victor. "They're through," said Mr. Blithers in a tone of relief. He shifted his legs and put his hands on his knees, suggesting a readiness to arise on an instant's notice. "Shall we try another set?" called out the Prince. "Make it doubles," put in Lieutenant Dank, and turned to Nellie. "Shall we take them on?" And doubles it was, much to the disgust of Mr. Blithers. He sat through the nine games, manifesting an interest he was far from feeling, and then--as dusk fell across the valley--arose expectantly with the cry of "game and set." He had discoursed freely on the relative merits of various motor cars, stoutly maintaining that the one he drove was without question the best in the market (in fact, there wasn't another "make" that he would have as a gift); the clubs he belonged to in New York were the only ones that were worth belonging to (he wouldn't be caught dead in any of the others); his tailor was the only tailor in the country who knew how to make a decent looking suit of clothes (the rest of them were "the limit"); the Pomeranian that he had given his daughter was the best dog of its breed in the world (he was looking at Mrs. King's Pomeranian as he made the remark); the tennis court at Blitherwood was pronounced by experts to be the finest they'd, ever seen--and so on and so on, until the long-drawn-out set was ended. To his utter amazement, at the conclusion of the game, the four players made a dash for the house without even so much as a glance in his direction. It was the Prince who shouted something that sounded like "now for a shower!" as he raced up the terrace, followed by the other participants. Mr. Blithers said something violent under his breath, but resolutely retained his seat. It was King who glanced slyly at his watch this time, and subsequently shot a questioning look at his wife. She was frowning in considerable perplexity, and biting her firm red lips. Count Quinnox coolly arose and excused himself with the remark that he was off to dress for dinner. He also looked at his watch, which certainly was an act that one would hardly have expected of a diplomat. "Well, well," said Mr. Blithers profoundly. Then he looked at his own watch--and settled back in his chair, a somewhat dogged compression about his jaws. He was not the man to be thwarted. "You certainly have a cosy little place here. King," he remarked after a moment or two. "We like it," said King, twiddling his fingers behind his back. "Humble but homelike." "Mrs. Blithers has been planning to come over for some time, Mrs. King. I told her she oughtn't to put it off--be neighbourly, don't you know. That's me. I'm for being neighbourly with my neighbours. But women, they--well, you know how it is, Mrs. King. Always something turning up to keep 'em from doing the things they want to do most. And Mrs. Blithers has so many sociable obli--I beg pardon?" "I was just wondering if you would stay and have dinner with us, Mr. Blithers," said she, utterly helpless. She wouldn't look her husband in the eye--and it was quite fortunate that she was unable to do so, for it would have resulted in a laughing duet that could never have been explained. "Why," said Mr. Blithers, arising and looking at his watch again, "bless my soul, it is _past_ dinner time, isn't it? I had no idea it was so late. 'Pon my soul, it's good of you, Mrs. King. You see, we have dinner at seven up at Blitherwood and--I declare it's half-past now. I don't see where the time has gone. Thanks, I _will_ stay if you really mean to be kind to a poor old beggar. Don't do anything extra on my account, though, just your regular dinner, you know. No frills, if you please." He looked himself over in some uncertainty. "Will this rag of mine do?" "We shan't notice it, Mr. Blithers," said she, and he turned the remark over in his mind several times as he walked beside her toward the house. Somehow it didn't sound just right to him, but for the life of him he couldn't tell why. "We are quite simple folk, you see," she went on desperately, making note of the fact that her husband lagged behind like the coward he was. "Red Roof is as nothing compared to Blitherwood, with its army of servants and--" Mr. Blithers magnanimously said "Pooh!" and, continuing, remarked that he wouldn't say exactly how many they employed but he was sure there were not more than forty, including the gardeners. "Besides," he added gallantly, "what is an army of servants compared to the army of Grasstock? You've got the real article, Mrs. King, so don't you worry. But, I say, if necessary, I can telephone up to the house and have a dress suit sent down. It won't take fifteen minutes, Lou--er--Mrs. Blithers always has 'em laid out for me, in case of an emergency, and--" "Pray do not think of it," she cried. "The men change, of course, after they've been playing tennis, but we--we--well, you see, you haven't been playing," she concluded, quite breathlessly. At that instant the sprightly Feltons dashed pell mell down the steps and across the lawn homeward, shrieking something unintelligible to Mrs. King as they passed. "Rather skittish," observed Mr. Blithers, glaring after them disapprovingly. "They are dears," said Mrs. King. "The--er--Prince attracted by either one of 'em?" he queried. "He barely knows them, Mr. Blithers." "I see. Shouldn't think they'd appeal to him. Rather light, I should say--I mean up here," and he tapped his forehead so that she wouldn't think that he referred to pounds and ounces. "I don't believe Maud knows 'em, as the little one said. Maud is rather--" "It is possible they have mistaken some one else for your daughter," said she very gently. "Impossible," said he with force. "They are coming back here to dinner," she said, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I shall put you between them, Mr. Blithers. You will find that they are very bright, attractive girls." "We'll see," said he succinctly. King caught them up at the top of the steps. He seemed to be slightly out of breath. "Make yourself at home, Mr. Blithers. I must get into something besides these duds I'm wearing," he said. "Would you like to--er--wash up while we're--" "No, thanks," interposed Mr. Blithers. "I'm as clean as a whistle. Don't mind me, please. Run along and dress, both of you. I'll sit out here and--count the minutes," the last with a very elaborate bow to Mrs. King. "Dinner's at half-past eight," said she, and disappeared. Mr. Blithers recalled his last glance at his watch, and calculated that he would have at least fifty minutes to count, provided dinner was served promptly on the dot. "You will excuse me if I leave you--" "Don't mention it, old man," said the new guest, rather more curtly than he intended. "I'll take it easy." "Shall I have the butler telephone to Blitherwood to say that you won't be home to dinner?" "It would be better if he were to say that I wasn't home to dinner," said Mr. Blithers. "It's over by this time." "Something to drink while you're--" "No, thanks. I can wait," and he sat down. "You don't mind my--" "Not at all." Mr. Blithers settled himself in the big porch chair and glowered at the shadowy hills on the opposite side of the valley. The little cottage of the Feltons came directly in his line of vision. He scowled more deeply than before. At the end of fifteen minutes he started up suddenly and, after a quick uneasy glance about him, started off across the lawn, walking more rapidly than was his wont. He had remembered that his chauffeur was waiting for him with the car just around a bend in the road--and had been waiting for two hours or more. "Go home," he said to the man. "Come back at twelve. And don't use the cut-out going up that hill, either." Later on, he met the Prince. Very warmly he shook the tall young man's hand,--he even gave it a prophetic second squeeze,--and said: "I am happy to welcome you to the Catskills, Prince." "Thank you," said Prince Robin. CHAPTER IV PROTECTING THE BLOOD "A most extraordinary person," said Count Quinnox to King, after Mr. Blithers had taken his departure, close upon the heels of the Feltons who were being escorted home by the Prince and Dank. The venerable Graustarkian's heroic face was a study. He had just concluded a confidential hour in a remote corner of the library with the millionaire while the younger people were engaged in a noisy though temperate encounter with the roulette wheel at the opposite end of the room. "I've never met any one like him, Mr. King." He mopped his brow, and still looked a trifle dazed. King laughed. "There isn't any one like him, Count. He is the one and only Blithers." "He is very rich?" "Millions and millions," said Mrs. King. "Didn't he tell you how many?" "I am not quite sure. This daughter of his--is she attractive?" "Rather. Why?" "He informed me that her dot would be twenty millions if she married the right man. Moreover, she is his only heir. 'Pon my soul, Mrs. King, he quite took my breath away when he announced that he knew all about our predicament in relation to the Russian loan. It really sounded quite--you might say significant. Does--does he imagine that--good heaven, it's almost stupefying!" King smoked in silence for many seconds. There was a pucker of annoyance on his wife's fair brow as she stared reflectively through the window at the distant lights of Blitherwood, far up the mountain side. "Sounds ominous to me," said King drily. "Is Bobby for sale?" The Count favoured him with a look of horror. "My dear Mr. King!" Then as comprehension came, he smiled. "I see. No, he isn't for sale. He is a Prince, not a pawn. Mr. Blithers may be willing to buy but--" he proudly shook his head. "He was feeling you out, however," said King, ruminating. "Planting the seed, so to speak." "There is a rumour that she is to marry Count Lannet," said his wife. "A horrid creature. There was talk in the newspapers last winter of an Italian duke. Poor girl! From what I hear of her, she is rather a good sort, sensible and more genuinely American in her tastes than might be, expected after her bringing-up. And she _is_ pretty." "How about this young Scoville, Rainie?" "He's a nice boy but--he'll never get her. She is marked up too high for him. He doesn't possess so much as the title to an acre of land." "Extraordinary, the way you Americans go after our titles," said the Count good-naturedly. "No more extraordinary than the way you Europeans go after our money," was her retort. "I don't know which is the cheaper, titles or money in these days," said King. "I understand one can get a most acceptable duke for three or four millions, a nice marquis or count for half as much, and a Sir on tick." He eyed the Count speculatively. "Of course a prince of the royal blood comes pretty high." "Pretty high," said the Count grimly. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. "Your amazing Mr. Blithers further confided to me that he might be willing to take care of the Russian obligation for us if no one else turns up in time. As a matter of fact, without waiting for my reply, he said that he would have his lawyers look into the matter of security at once. I was somewhat dazed, but I think he said that it would be no trouble at all for him to provide the money himself and he would be glad to accommodate us if we had no other plan in mind. Amazing, amazing!" "Of course, you told him it was not to be considered," said King sharply. "I endeavoured to do so, but I fear he did not grasp what I was saying. Moreover, I tried to tell him that it was a matter I was not at liberty to discuss. He didn't hear that, either." "He is not in the habit of hearing any one but himself, I fear," said King. "I am afraid poor Robin is in jeopardy," said his wife, ruefully. "The Bogieman is after him." "Does the incomprehensible creature imagine--" began the Count loudly, and then found it necessary to pull his collar away from his throat as if to save himself from immediate strangulation. "Mr. Blithers is not blessed with an imagination, Count," said she. "He doesn't imagine anything." "If he should presume to insult our Prince by--" grated the old soldier, very red in the face and erect--"if he should presume to--" Words failed him and an instant later he was laughing, but somewhat uncertainly, with his amused host and hostess. Mr. Blithers reached home in high spirits. His wife was asleep, but he awoke her without ceremony. "I say, Lou, wake up. Got some news for you. We'll have a prince in the family before you can say Jack Robinson." She sat up in bed, blinking with dismay. "In heaven's name, Will, what have you been doing? What--_have_ you been--" "Cutting bait," said he jovially. "In a day or two I'll throw the hook in, and you'll see what I land. He's as good as caught right now, but we'll let him nibble a while before we jerk. And say, he's a corker, Lou. Finest young fellow I've seen in many a day. He--" "You don't mean to say that you--you actually said anything to him about--about--Oh, my God, Will, don't tell me that you were crazy enough to--" cried the poor woman, almost in tears. "Now cool down, cool down," he broke in soothingly. "I'm no fool, Lou. Trust me to do the fine work in a case like this. Sow the right kind of seeds and you'll get results every time. I merely dropped a few hints, that's all,--and in the right direction, believe me. Count Equinox will do the rest. I'll bet my head we'll have this prince running after Maud so--" "What _did_ you say?" she demanded. There was a fine moisture on her upper lip. He sat down on the edge of the bed and talked for half an hour without interruption. When he came to the end of his oration, she turned over with her face to the wall and fairly sobbed: "What will the Kings think of us? What will they think?" "Who the dickens cares what the Kings think?" he roared, perfectly aghast at the way she took it. "Who are the Kings? Tell me that! who are they?" "I--I can't bear to talk about it. Go to bed." He wiped his brow helplessly. "You beat anything I've ever seen. What's the matter with you? Don't you want this prince for Maud? Well, then, what the deuce are you crying about? You said you wanted him, didn't you? Well, I'm going to get him. If I say I'll do a thing, you can bet your last dollar I'll do it. That's the kind of a man William W. Blithers is. You leave it to me. There's only one way to land these foreign noblemen, and I'm--" She faced him once more, and angrily. "Listen to me," she said. "I've had a talk with Maud. She has gone to bed with a splitting headache and I'm not surprised. Don't you suppose the poor child has a particle of pride? She guessed at once just what you had gone over there for and she cried her eyes out. Now she declares she will never be able to look the Prince in the face, and as for the Kings--Oh, it's sickening. Why can't you leave these things to me? You go about like a bull in a china shop. You might at least have waited until the poor child had an opportunity to see the man before rushing in with your talk about money. She--" "Confound it, Lou, don't blame me for everything. We all three agreed at lunch that he was a better bargain than this measly count we've been considering. Maud says she won't marry the count, anyhow, and she _did_ say that if this prince was all that he's cracked up to be, she wouldn't mind being the Princess of Groostock. You can't deny that, Lou. You heard her say it. You--" "She didn't say Groostock," said his wife shortly. "And you forget that she said she wouldn't promise anything until she'd met him and decided whether she liked him." "She'll like him all right," said he confidently. "She will refuse to even meet him, if she hears of your silly blunder to-night." "Refuse to meet him?" gasped Mr. Blithers. "I may be able to reason with her, Will, but--but she's stubborn, as well you know. I'm afraid you've spoiled everything." His face brightened. Lowering his voice to a half-whisper, he said: "We needn't tell her what I said to that old chap, Lou. Just let her think I sat around like a gump and never said a word to anybody. We can--" "But she'll pin you down, Will, and you know you can't lie with a straight face." "Maybe--maybe I'd better run down to New York for a few days," he muttered unhappily. "You can square it better than I can." "In other words, I can lie with a straight face," she said ironically. "I never thought she'd balk like this," said he, ignoring the remark. "I fancy you'd better go to New York," she said mercilessly. "I've got business there anyhow," muttered he. "I--I think I'll go before she's up in the morning." "You can save yourself a bad hour or two if you leave before breakfast," said she levelly. "Get around her some way, Lou," he pleaded. "Tell her I'm sorry I had to leave so early, and--and that I love her better than anything on earth, and that I'll be back the end of the week. If--if she wants anything in New York, just have her wire me. You say she cried?" "She did, and I don't blame her." Mr. Blithers scowled. "Well--well, you see if you can do any better than I did. Arrange it somehow for them to meet. She'll--she'll like him and then--by George, she'll thank us both for the interest we take in her future. It wouldn't surprise me if she fell in love with him right off the reel. And you may be sure he'll fall in love with her. He can't help it. The knowledge that she'll have fifty millions some day won't have anything to do with his feeling for her, once he--" "Don't mention the word millions again. Will Blithers." "All right," said he, more humbly than he knew, "But listen to this, old girl; I'm going to get this prince for her if it's the last act of my life. I never failed in anything and I won't fail in this." "Well, go to bed, dear, and don't worry. I may be able to undo the mischief. It--it isn't hopeless, of course." "I'll trust you, Lou, to do your part. Count on me to do mine when the time comes. And I still insist that I have sowed the right sort of seed to-night. You'll see. Just wait." Sure enough, Mr. Blithers was off for New York soon after daybreak the next morning, and with him went a mighty determination to justify himself before the week was over. His wily brain was working as it had never worked before. Two days later, Count Quinnox received a message from New York bearing the distressing information that the two private banking institutions on which he had been depending for aid in the hour of trouble had decided that it would be impossible for them to make the loan under consideration. The financial agents who had been operating in behalf of the Graustark government confessed that they were unable to explain the sudden change of heart on the part of the bankers, inasmuch as the negotiations practically had been closed with them. The decision of the directors was utterly incomprehensible under the circumstances. Vastly disturbed, Count Quinnox took the first train to New York, accompanied by Truxton King, who was confident that outside influences had been brought to bear upon the situation, influences inimical to Graustark. Both were of the opinion that Russia had something to do with it, although the negotiations had been conducted with all the secrecy permissible in such cases. "We may be able to get to the banks through Blithers," said King. "How could he possibly be of assistance to us?" the Count inquired. "He happens to be a director in both concerns, besides being such a power in the financial world that his word is almost law when it comes to the big deals." All the way down to the city Count Quinnox was thoughtful, even pre-occupied. They were nearing the Terminal when he leaned over and, laying his hand on King's knee, said, after a long interval of silence between them: "I suppose you know that Graustark has not given up hope that Prince Robin may soon espouse the daughter of our neighbour, Dawsbergen." King gave him a queer look. "By jove, that's odd. I was thinking of that very thing when you spoke." "The union would be of no profit to us in a pecuniary way, my friend," explained the Count. "Still it is most desirable for other reasons. Dawsbergen is not a rich country, nor are its people progressive. The reigning house, however, is an old one and rich in traditions. Money, my dear King, is not everything in this world. There are some things it cannot buy. It is singularly ineffective when opposed to an honest sentiment. Even though the young Princess were to come to Graustark without a farthing, she would still be hailed with the wildest acclaim. We are a race of blood worshippers, if I may put it in that way. She represents a force that has dominated our instincts for a great many centuries, and we are bound hand and foot, heart and soul, by the so-called fetters of imperialism. We are fierce men, but we bend the knee and we wear the yoke because the sword of destiny is in the hand that drives us. To-day we are ruled by a prince whose sire was not of the royal blood. I do not say that we deplore this infusion, but it behooves us to protect the original strain. We must conserve our royal blood. Our prince assumes an attitude of independence that we find difficult to overcome. He is prepared to defy an old precedent in support of a new one. In other words, he points out the unmistakably happy union of his own mother, the late Princess Yetive, and the American Lorry, and it is something we cannot go behind. He declares that his mother set an example that he may emulate without prejudice to his country if he is allowed a free hand in choosing his mate. "But we people of Graustark cannot look with complaisance on the possible result of his search for a sharer of the throne. Traditions must be upheld--or we die. True, the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen has American blood in her veins but her sire is a prince royal. Her mother, as you know, was an American girl. She who sits on the throne with Robin must be a princess by birth or the grip on the sword of destiny is weakened and the dynasty falters. I know what is in your mind. You are wondering why our Prince should not wed one of your fabulously rich American girls--" "My dear Count," said King warmly, "I am not thinking anything of the sort. Naturally I am opposed to your pre-arranged marriages and all that sort of thing, but still I appreciate what it means as a safe-guard to the crown you support. I sincerely hope that Robin may find his love-mate in the small circle you draw for him, but I fear it isn't likely. He is young, romantic, impressionable, and he abhors the thought of marriage without love. He refuses to even consider the princess you have picked out for him. Time may prove to him that his ideals are false and he may resign himself to the--I was about to say the inevitable." "Inevitable is the word, Mr. King," said Count Quinnox grimly. "'Pon my word, sir, I don't know what our princes and princesses are coming to in these days. There seems to be a perfect epidemic of independence among them. They marry whom they please in spite of royal command, and the courts of Europe are being shorn of half their glory. It wouldn't surprise me to see an American woman on the throne of England one of these days. 'Gad, sir, you know what happened in Axphain two years ago. Her crown prince renounced the throne and married a French singer." "And they say he is a very happy young beggar," said King drily. "It is the prerogative of fools to be happy," said Count Quinnox. "Not so with princes, eh?" "It is a duty with princes, Mr. King." They had not been in New York City an hour before they discovered that William W. Blithers was the man to whom they would have to appeal if they expected to gain a fresh hearing with the banks. The agents were in a dismal state of mind. The deal had been blocked no later than the afternoon of the day before and at a time when everything appeared to be going along most swimmingly. Blithers was the man to see; he and he alone could bring pressure to bear on the directorates that might result in a reconsideration of the surprising verdict. Something had happened during the day to alter the friendly attitude of the banks; they were now politely reluctant, as one of the agents expressed it, which really meant that opposition to the loan had appeared from some unexpected source, as a sort of eleventh hour obstacle. The heads of the two banks had as much as said that negotiations were at an end, that was the long and short of it; it really didn't matter what was back of their sudden change of front, the fact still remained that the transaction was as "dead as a door nail" unless it could be revived by the magnetic touch of a man like Blithers. "What can have happened to cause them to change their minds so abruptly?" cried the perplexed Count. "Surely our prime minister and the cabinet have left nothing undone to convince them of Graustark's integrity and--" "Pardon me. Count," interrupted one of the brokers, "shall I try to make an appointment for you with Mr. Blithers? I hear he is in town for a few days." Count Quinnox looked to Truxton King for inspiration and that gentleman favoured him with a singularly dis-spiriting nod of the head. The old Graustarkian cleared his throat and rather stiffly announced that he would receive Mr. Blithers if he would call on him at the Ritz that afternoon. "What!" exclaimed both agents, half-starting from their chairs in amazement. The Count stared hard at them. "You may say to him that I will be in at four." "He'll tell you to go to--ahem!" The speaker coughed just in time. "Blithers isn't in the habit of going out of his way to--to oblige anybody. He wouldn't do it for the Emperor of Germany." "But," said the Count with a frosty smile, "I am not the Emperor of Germany." "Better let me make an appointment for you to see him at his office. It's just around the corner." There was a pleading note in the speaker's voice. "You might save your face, Calvert, by saying that the Count will be pleased to have him take tea with him at the Ritz," suggested King. "Tea!" exclaimed Calvert scornfully. "Blithers, doesn't drink the stuff." "It's a figure of speech," said King patiently. "All right, I'll telephone," said the other dubiously. He came back a few minutes later with a triumphant look in his eye. "Blithers says to tell Count Quinnox he'll see him to-morrow morning at half-past eight at his office. Sorry he's engaged this afternoon." "But did you say I wanted him to have tea with us!" demanded the Count, an angry flush leaping to his cheek. "I did. I'm merely repeating what he said in reply. Half-past eight, at his office, Count. Those were his words." "It is the most brazen exhibition of insolence I've ever--" began the Count furiously, but checked himself with an effort. "I--I hope you did not say that I would come, sir!" "Yes. It's the only way--" "Well, be good enough to call him up again and say to him that I'll--I'll see him damned before I'll come to his office to-morrow at eight-thirty or at any other hour." And with that the Count got up and stalked out of the office, putting on his hat as he did so. "Count," said King, as they descended in the elevator, "I've got an idea in my head that Blithers will be at the Ritz at four." "Do you imagine, sir, that I will receive him?" "Certainly. Are you not a diplomat?" "I am a Minister of War," said the Count, and his scowl was an indication of absolute proficiency in the science. "And what's more," went on King, reflectively, "it wouldn't in the least surprise me if Blithers is the man behind the directors in this sudden move of the banks." "My dear King, he displayed the keenest interest and sympathy the other night at your house. He--" "Of course I may be wrong," admitted King, but his brow was clouded. Shortly after luncheon that day, Mrs. Blithers received a telegram from her husband. It merely stated that he was going up to have tea with the Count at four o'clock, and not to worry as "things were shaping themselves nicely." CHAPTER V PRINCE ROBIN IS ASKED TO STAND UP Late the same evening. Prince Robin, at Red Roof, received a long distance telephone communication from New York City. The Count was on the wire. He imparted the rather startling news that William W. Blithers had volunteered to take care of the loan out of his own private means! Quinnox was cabling the Prime Minister for advice and would remain in New York for further conference with the capitalist, who, it was to be assumed, would want time to satisfy himself as to the stability of Graustark's resources. Robin was jubilant. The thought had not entered his mind that there could be anything sinister in this amazing proposition of the great financier. If Count Quinnox himself suspected Mr. Blithers of an ulterior motive, the suspicion was rendered doubtful by the evidence of sincerity on the part of the capitalist who professed no sentiment in the matter but insisted on the most complete indemnification by the Graustark government. Even King was impressed by the absolute fairness of the proposition. Mr. Blithers demanded no more than the banks were asking for in the shape of indemnity; a first lien mortgage for 12 years on all properties owned and controlled by the government and the deposit of all bonds held by the people with the understanding that the interest would be paid to them regularly, less a small per cent as commission. His protection would be complete,--for the people of Graustark owned fully four-fifths of the bonds issued by the government for the construction of public service institutions; these by consent of Mr. Blithers were to be limited to three utilities: railroads, telegraph and canals. These properties, as Mr. Blithers was by way of knowing, were absolutely sound and self-supporting. According to his investigators in London and Berlin, they were as solid as Gibraltar and not in need of one-tenth the protection required by the famous rock. Robin inquired whether he was to come to New York at once in relation to the matter, and was informed that it would not be necessary at present. In fact, Mr. Blithers preferred to let the situation remain in statu quo (as he expressed it to the Count), until it was determined whether the people were willing to deposit their bonds, a condition which was hardly worth while worrying about in view of the fact that they had already signified their readiness to present them for security in the original proposition to the banks. Mr. Blithers, however, would give himself the pleasure of calling upon the Prince at Red Roof later in the week, when the situation could be discussed over a dish of tea or a cup of lemonade. That is precisely the way Mr. Blithers put it. The next afternoon Mrs. Blithers left cards at Red Roof--or rather, the foot-man left them--and on the day following the Kings and their guests received invitations to a ball at Blitherwood on the ensuing Friday, but four days off. While Mrs. King and the two young men were discussing the invitation the former was called to the telephone. Mrs. Blithers herself was speaking. "I hope you will pardon me for calling you up, Mrs. King, but I wanted to be sure that you can come on the seventeenth. We want so much to have the Prince and his friends with us. Mr. Blithers has taken a great fancy to Prince Robin and Count Quinnox, and he declares the whole affair will be a fiasco if they are not to be here." "It is good of you to ask us, Mrs. Blithers. The Prince is planning to leave for Washington within the next few days and I fear--" "Oh, you must prevail upon him to remain over, my Dear Mrs. King. We are to have a lot of people up from Newport and Tuxedo--you know the crowd--it's the _real_ crowd--and I'm sure he will enjoy meeting them. Mr. Blithers has arranged for a special train to bring them up--a train de luxe, you may be sure, both as to equipment and occupant. Zabo's orchestra, too. A notion seized us last night to give the ball, which accounts for the short notice. It's the way we do everything--on a minute's notice. I think they're jollier if one doesn't go through the agony of a month's preparation, don't you? Nearly every one has wired acceptance, so we're sure to have a lot of nice people. Loads of girls,--you know the ones I mean,--and Mr. Blithers is trying to arrange a sparring match between those two great prizefighters,--you know the ones, Mrs. King,--just to give us poor women a chance to see what a real man looks like in--I mean to say, what marvellous specimens they are, don't you know. Now please tell the Prince that he positively cannot afford to miss a real sparring match. Every one is terribly excited over it, and naturally we are keeping it very quiet. Won't it be a lark? My daughter thinks it's terrible, but she is finicky. One of them is a negro, isn't he?" "I'm sure I don't know." "You can imagine how splendid they must be when I tell you that Mr. Blithers is afraid they won't come up for less than fifteen thousand dollars. Isn't it ridiculous?" "Perfectly," said Mrs. King. "Of course, we shall insist on the Prince receiving with us. He is our _piece de resistance_. You--" "I'm sure it will be awfully jolly, Mrs. Blithers. What did you say?" "I beg pardon?" "I'm sorry. I was speaking to the Prince. He just called up stairs to me." "What does he say?" "It was really nothing. He was asking about Hobbs." "Hobbs? Tell him, please, that if he has any friends he would like to have invited we shall be only too proud to--" "Oh, thank you! I'll tell him." "You must not let him go away before--" "I shall try my best, Mrs. Blithers. It is awfully kind of you to ask us to--" "You must all come up to dinner either to-morrow night or the night after. I shall be so glad if you will suggest anything that can help us to make the ball a success. You see, I know how terribly clever you are, Mrs. King." "I am dreadfully stupid." "Nonsense!" "I'm sorry to say we're dining out to-morrow night and on Thursday we are having some people here for--" "Can't you bring them all up to Blitherwood? We'd be delighted to have them, I'm sure." "I'm afraid I couldn't manage it. They--well, you see, they are in mourning." "Oh, I see. Well, perhaps Maud and I could run in and see you for a few minutes to-morrow or next day, just to talk things over a little--what's that, Maud? I beg your pardon, Mrs. King. Ahem! Well, I'll call you up to-morrow, if you don't mind being bothered about a silly old ball. Good-bye. Thank you so much." Mrs. King confronted Robin in the lower hall a few seconds later and roundly berated him for shouting up the steps that Hobbs ought to be invited to the ball. Prince Robin rolled on a couch and roared with delight. Lieutenant Dank, as became an officer of the Royal Guard, stood at attention--in the bow window with his back to the room, very red about the ears and rigid to the bursting point. "I suppose, however, we'll have to keep on the good side of the Blithers syndicate," said Robin soberly, after his mirth and subsided before her wrath. "Good Lord, Aunt Loraine, I simply cannot go up there and stand in line like a freak in a side show for all the ladies and girls to gape at I'll get sick the day of the party, that's what I'll do, and you can tell 'em how desolated I am over my misfortune." "They've got their eyes on you, Bobby," she said flatly. "You can't escape so easily as all that. If you're not very, very careful they'll have you married to the charming Miss Maud before you can say Jack Rabbit." "Think that's their idea?" "Unquestionably." He stretched himself lazily. "Well, it may be that she's the very one I'm looking for, Auntie. Who knows?" "You silly boy!" "She may be the Golden Girl in every sense of the term," said he lightly. "You say she's pretty?" "My notion of beauty and yours may not agree at all." "That's not an answer." "Well, I consider her to be a very good-looking girl." "Blonde?" "Mixed. Light brown hair and very dark eyes and lashes. A little taller than I, more graceful and a splendid horse-woman. I've seen her riding." "Astride?" "No. I've seen her in a ball gown, too. Most men think she's stunning." "Well, let's have a game of billiards," said he, dismissing Maud in a way that would have caused the proud Mr. Blithers to reel with indignation. A little later on, at the billiard table, Mrs. King remarked, apropos of nothing and quite out of a clear sky, so to speak: "And she'll do anything her parents command her to do, that's the worst of it." "What are you talking about? It's your shot." "If they order her to marry a title, she'll do it. That's the way she's been brought up, I'm afraid." "Meaning Maud?" "Certainly. Who else? Poor thing, she hasn't a chance in the world, with that mother of hers." "Shoot, please. Mark up six for me, Dank." "Wait till you see her, Bobby." "All right. I'll wait," said he cheerfully. The next day Count Quinnox and King returned from the city, coming up in a private car with Mr. Blithers himself. "I'll have Maud drive me over this afternoon," said Mr. Blithers, as they parted at the station. But Maud did not drive him over that afternoon. The pride, joy and hope of the Blithers family flatly refused to be a party of any such arrangement, and set out for a horse-back ride in a direction that took her as far away from Red Roof as possible. "What's come over the girl?" demanded Mr. Blithers, completely non-plused. "She's never acted like this before, Lou." "Some silly notion about being made a laughingstock, I gather," said his wife. "Heaven knows I've talked to her till I'm utterly worn out. She says she won't be bullied into even meeting the Prince, much less marrying him. I've never known her to be so pig-headed. Usually I can make her see things in a sensible way. She would have married the duke, I'm sure, if--if you hadn't put a stop to it on account of his so-called habits. She--" "Well, it's turned out for the best, hasn't it? Isn't a prince better than a duke?" "You've said all that before, Will. I wanted her to run down with me this morning to talk the ball over with Mrs. King, and what do you think happened?" "She wouldn't go?" "Worse than that. She wouldn't let _me_ go. Now, things are coming to a pretty pass when--" "Never mind. I'll talk to her," said Mr. Blithers, somewhat bleakly despite his confident front. "She loves her old dad. I can do _anything_ with her." "She's on a frightfully high horse lately," sighed Mrs. Blithers fretfully. "It--it can't be that young Scoville, can it?" "If I thought it was, I'd--I'd--" There is no telling what Mr. Blithers would have done to young Scoville, at the moment, for he couldn't think of anything dire enough to inflict upon the suspected meddler. "In any event, it's dreadfully upsetting to me, Will. She--she won't listen to anything. And here's something else: She declares she won't stay here for the ball on Friday night." Mr. Blithers had her repeat it, and then almost missed the chair in sitting down, he was so precipitous about it. "Won't stay for her own ball?" he bellowed. "She says it isn't her ball," lamented his wife. "If it isn't hers, in the name of God whose is it?" "Ask her, not me," flared Mrs. Blithers. "And don't glare at me like that. I've had nothing but glares since you went away. I thought I was doing the very nicest thing in the world when I suggested the ball. It would bring them together--" "The only two it will actually bring together, it seems, are those damned prize-fighters. They'll get together all right, but what good is it going to do us, if Maud's going to act like this? See here, Lou, I've got things fixed so that the Prince of Groostuck can't very well do anything but ask Maud to--" "That's just it!" she exclaimed. "Maud sees through the whole arrangement, Will. She said last night that she wouldn't be at all surprised if you offered to assume Graustark's debt to Russia in order to--" "That's just what I've done, old girl," said he in triumph. "I'll have 'em sewed up so tight by next week that they can't move without asking me to loosen the strings. And you can tell Maud once more for me that I'll get this Prince for her if--" "But she doesn't want him!" "She doesn't know what she wants!" he roared. "Where is she going?" "You saw her start off on Katydid, so why--" "I mean on the day of the ball." "To New York." "By gad, I'll--I'll see about _that_," he grated. "I'll see that she doesn't leave the grounds if I have to put guards at every gate. She's got to be reasonable. What does she think I'm putting sixteen millions into the Grasstork treasury for? She's got to stay here for the ball. Why, it would be a crime for her to--but what's the use talking about it? She'll be here and she'll lead the grand march with the Prince. I've got it all--" "Well, you'll have to talk to her. I've done all that I can do. She swears she won't marry a man she's never seen." "Ain't we trying to show him to her?" he snorted. "She won't have to marry him till she's seen him, and when she does see him she'll apologise to me for all the nasty things she's been saying about me." For a moment it looked as though Mr. Blithers would dissolve into tears, so suddenly was he afflicted by self-pity. "By the way, didn't she like the necklace I sent up to her from Tiffany's?" "I suppose so. She said you were a dear old foozler." "Foozler? What's that mean?" He wasn't quite sure, but somehow it sounded like a term of opprobrium. "I haven't the faintest idea," she said shortly. "Well, why didn't you ask her? You've had charge of her bringing up. If she uses a word that you don't know the meaning of, you ought to--" "Are you actually going to lend all that money to Graustark?" she cut in. He glared at her uncertainly for a moment and then nodded his head. The words wouldn't come. "Are you not a trifle premature about it?" she demanded with deep significance in her manner. This time he did not nod his head, nor did he shake it. He simply got up and walked out of the room. Half way across the terrace he stopped short and said it with a great fervour and instantly felt very much relieved. In fact, the sensation of relief was so pleasant that he repeated it two or three times and then had to explain to a near by gardener that he didn't mean him at all. Then he went down to the stables. All the grooms and stableboys came tumbling into the stable yard in response to his thunderous shout. "Saddle Red Rover, and be quick about it," he commanded. "Going out, sir?" asked the head groom, touching his fore-lock. "I am," said Mr. Blithers succinctly and with a withering glare. Red Rover must have been surprised by the unusual celerity with which he was saddled and bridled. If there could be such a thing as a horse looking shocked, that beast certainly betrayed himself as he was yanked away from his full manger and hustled out to the mounting block. "Which way did Miss Blithers go?" demanded Mr. Blithers, in the saddle. Two grooms were clumsily trying to insert his toes into the stirrups, at the same time pulling down his trousers legs, which had a tendency to hitch up in what seemed to them a most exasperating disregard for form. To their certain knowledge, Mr. Blithers had never started out before without boot and spur; therefore, the suddenness of his present sortie sank into their intellects with overwhelming impressiveness. "Down the Cutler road, sir, three quarters of an hour ago. She refused to have a groom go along, sir." "Get ap!" said Mr. Blithers, and almost ran down a groom in his rush for the gate. For the information of the curious, it may be added that he did not overtake his daughter until she had been at home for half an hour, but he was gracious enough to admit to himself that he had been a fool to pursue a stern chase rather than to intercept her on the back road home, which _any_ fool might have known she would take. His wife came upon him a few minutes later while he was feverishly engaged in getting into his white flannels. "Tell Maud I'm going over to have tea with the Prince," he grunted, without looking up from the shoe lace he was tying in a hard knot. "I want her to go with me in fifteen minutes. Told 'em I would bring her over to play tennis. Tell her to put on tennis clothes. Hurry up, Lou. Where's my watch? What time is it? For God's sake, look at the watch, not at me! I'm not a clock! What?" "Mrs. King called up half an hour ago to say that they were all motoring over to the Grandby Tavern for tea and wouldn't be back till half-past seven--" He managed to look up at that. For a moment he was speechless. No one had ever treated him like this before. "Well, I'll be--hanged! Positive engagement. But's it's all right," he concluded resolutely. "I can motor to Grandby Tavern, too, can't I? Tell Maud not to mind tennis clothes, but to hurry. Want to go along?" "No, I don't," she said emphatically. "And Maud isn't going, either." "She isn't, eh?" "No, she isn't. Can't you leave this affair to me?" "I'm pretty hot under the collar," he warned her, and it was easy to believe that he was. "Don't rush in where angels fear to tread, Will dear," she pleaded. It was so unusual for her to adopt a pleading tone that he overlooked the implication. Besides he had just got through calling himself a fool, so perhaps she was more or less justified. Moreover, at that particular moment she undertook to assist him with his necktie. Her soft, cool fingers touched his double chin and seemed to caress it lovingly. He lifted his head very much as a dog does when he is being tickled on that velvety spot under the lower jaw. "Stuff and nonsense," he murmured throatily. "I thought you would see it that way," she said so calmly that he blinked a couple of times in sheer perplexity and then diminished his double chin perceptibly by a very helpful screwing up of his lower lip. He said nothing, preferring to let her think that the most important thing in the world just then was the proper adjustment of the wings of his necktie. "There!" she said, and patted him on the cheek, to show that the task had been successfully accomplished. "Better come along for a little spin," he said, readjusting the tie with man-like ingenuousness. "Do you good, Lou." "Very well," she said. "Can you wait a few minutes?" "Long as you like," said he graciously. "Ask Maud if she wants to come, too." "I am sure she will enjoy it," said his wife, and then Mr. Blithers descended to the verandah to think. Somehow he felt if he did a little more thinking perhaps matters wouldn't be so bad. Among other things, he thought it would be a good idea not to motor in the direction of Grandby Tavern. And he also thought it was not worth while resenting the fact that his wife and daughter took something over an hour to prepare for the little spin. In the meantime, Prince Robin was racing over the mountain roads in a high-power car, attended by a merry company of conspirators whose sole object was to keep him out of the clutches of that far-reaching octopus, William W. Blithers. CHAPTER VI THE PRINCE AND MR. BLITHERS In order to get on with the narrative, I shall be as brief as possible in the matter of the Blitherwood ball. In the first place, mere words would prove to be not only feeble but actually out of place. Any attempt to define the sensation of awe by recourse to a dictionary would put one in the ridiculous position of seeking the unattainable. The word has its meaning, of course, but the sensation itself is quite another thing. As every one who attended the ball was filled with awe, which he tried to put forward as admiration, the attitude of the guest was no more limp than that of the chronicler. In the second place, I am not qualified by experience or imagination to describe a ball that stood its promoter not a penny short of one hundred thousand dollars. I believe I could go as high as a fifteen or even twenty thousand dollar affair with some sort of intelligence, but anything beyond those figures renders me void and useless. Mr. Blithers not only ran a special train de luxe from New York City, but another from Washington and still another from Newport, for it appears that the Newporters at the last minute couldn't bear the idea of going to the Metropolis out of season. He actually had to take them around the city in such a way that they were not even obliged to submit to a glimpse of the remotest outskirts of the Bronx. From Washington came an amazing company of foreign ladies and gentlemen, ranging from the most exalted Europeans to the lowliest of the yellow races. They came with gold all over them; they tinkled with the clash of a million cymbals. The President of the United States almost came. Having no spangles of his own, he delegated a Major-General and a Rear-Admiral to represent Old Glory, and no doubt sulked in the White House because a parsimonious nation refuses to buy braid and buttons for its chief executive. Any one who has seen a gentleman in braid, buttons and spangles will understand how impossible it is to describe him. One might enumerate the buttons and the spangles and even locate them precisely upon his person, but no mortal intellect can expand sufficiently to cope with an undertaking that would try even the powers of Him who created the contents of those wellstuffed uniforms. A car load of orchids and gardenias came up, fairly depleting the florists' shops on Manhattan Island, and with them came a small army of skilled decorators. In order to deliver his guests at the doors of Blitherwood, so to speak, the incomprehensible Mr. Blithers had a temporary spur of track laid from the station two miles away, employing no fewer than a thousand men to do the work in forty-eight hours. (Work on a terminal extension in New York was delayed for a week or more in order that he might borrow the rails, ties and worktrains!) Two hundred and fifty precious and skillfully selected guests ate two hundred and fifty gargantuan dinners and twice as many suppers; drank barrels of the rarest of wines; smoked countless two dollar Perfectos and stuffed their pockets with enough to last them for days to come; burnt up five thousand cigarettes and ate at least two dozen eggs for breakfast, and then flitted away with a thousand complaints in two hundred and fifty Pullman drawing-rooms, Nothing could have been more accurately pulled-off than the wonderful Blitherwood ball. (The sparring match on the lawn, under the glare of a stupendous cluster of lights, resulted in favour of Mr. Bullhead Brown, who successfully--if accidentally--landed with considerably energy on the left lower corner of Mr. Sledge-hammer Smith's diaphragm, completely dividing the purse with him in four scientifically satisfactory rounds, although they came to blows over it afterwards when Mr. Smith told Mr. Brown what he thought of him for hitting with such fervour just after they had eaten a hearty meal.) A great many mothers inspected Prince Robin with interest and confessed to a really genuine enthusiasm: something they had not experienced since one of the German princes got close enough to Newport to see it quite clearly through his marine glasses from the bridge of a battleship. The ruler of Graustark--(four-fifths of the guests asked where in the world it was!)--was the lion of the day. Mr. Blithers was annoyed because he did not wear his crown, but was somewhat mollified by the information that he had neglected to bring it along with him in his travels. He was also considerably put out by the discovery that the Prince had left his white and gold uniform at home and had to appear in an ordinary dress-suit, which, to be sure, fitted him perfectly but did not achieve distinction. He did wear a black and silver ribbon across his shirt front, however, and a tiny gold button in the lapel of his coat; otherwise he might have been mistaken for a "regular guest," to borrow an expression from Mr. Blithers. The Prince's host manoeuvred until nearly one o'clock in the morning before he succeeded in getting a close look at the little gold button, and then found that the inscription thereon was in some sort of hieroglyphics that afforded no enlightenment whatsoever. Exercising a potentate's prerogative, Prince Robin left the scene of festivity somewhat earlier than was expected. As a matter of fact, he departed shortly after one. Moreover, being a prince, it did not occur to him to offer any excuse for leaving so early, but gracefully thanked his host and hostess and took himself off without the customary assertion that he had had a splendid time. Strange to say, he did not offer a single comment on the sumptuousness of the affair that had been given in his honor. Mr. Blithers couldn't get over that. He couldn't help thinking that the fellow had not been properly brought-up, or was it possible that he was not in the habit of going out in good society? Except for one heart-rending incident, the Blitherwood ball was the most satisfying event in the lives of Mr. and Mrs. William W. Blithers. That incident, however, happened to be the hasty and well-managed flight of Maud Applegate Blithers at an hour indefinitely placed somewhere between four and seven o'clock on the morning of the great day. Miss Blithers was not at the ball. She was in New York City serenely enjoying one of the big summer shows, accompanied by young Scoville and her onetime governess, a middle-aged gentlewoman who had seen even better days than those spent in the employ of William W. Blithers. The resolute young lady had done precisely what she said she would do, and for the first time in his life Mr. Blithers realised that his daughter was a creation and not a mere condition. He wilted like a famished water-lily and went about the place in a state of bewilderment so bleak that even his wife felt sorry for him and refrained from the "I told you so" that might have been expected under the circumstances. Maud's telegram, which came at three o'clock in the afternoon, was meant to be reassuring but it failed of its purpose. It said: "Have a good time and don't lose any sleep over me. I shall sleep very soundly myself at the Ritz to-night and hope you will be doing the same when I return home to-morrow afternoon, for I know you will be dreadfully tired after all the excitement. Convey my congratulations to the guest of honor and believe me to be your devoted and obedient daughter." The co-incidental absence of young Mr. Scoville from the ball was a cause of considerable uneasiness on the part of the agitated Mr. Blithers, who commented upon it quite expansively in the seclusion of his own bed-chamber after the last guest had sought repose. Some of the things that Mr. Blithers said about Mr. Scoville will never be forgotten by the four walls of that room, if, as commonly reported, they possess auricular attachments. Any one who imagines that Mr. Blithers accepted Maud's defection as a final disposition of the cause he had set his heart upon is very much mistaken in his man. Far from receding so much as an inch from his position, he at once set about to strengthen it in such a way that Maud would have to come to the conclusion that it was useless to combat the inevitable, and ultimately would heap praises upon his devoted head for the great blessing he was determined to bestow upon her in spite of herself. The last of the special coaches was barely moving on its jiggly way to the main line, carrying the tag end of the revellers, when he set forth in his car for a mid-day visit to Red Roof. Already the huge camp of Slavs and Italians was beginning to jerk up the borrowed rails and ties; the work trains were rumbling and snorting in the meadows above Blitherwood, tottering about on the uncertain road-bed. He gave a few concise and imperative orders to obsequious superintendents and foremen, who subsequently repeated them with even greater freedom to the perspiring foreigners, and left the scene of confusion without so much as a glance behind. Wagons, carts, motortrucks and all manner of wheeled things were scuttling about Blitherwood as he shot down the long, winding avenue toward the lodge gates, but he paid no attention to them. They were removing the remnants of a glory that had passed at five in the morning. He was not interested in the well-plucked skeleton. It was a nuisance getting rid of it, that was all, and he wanted it to be completely out of sight when he returned from Red Roof. If a vestige of the ruins remained, some one would hear from him! That was understood. And when Maud came home on the five-fourteen she would not find him asleep--not by a long shot! Half-way to Red Roof, he espied a man walking briskly along the road ahead of him. To be perfectly accurate, he was walking in the middle of the road and his back was toward the swift-moving, almost noiseless Packard. "Blow the horn for the dam' fool," said Mr. Blithers to the chauffeur. A moment later the pedestrian leaped nimbly aside and the car shot past, the dying wail of the siren dwindling away in the whirr of the wheels. "Look where you're going!" shouted Mr. Blithers from the tonneau, as if the walker had come near to running him down instead of the other way around. "Whoa! Stop 'er, Jackson!" he called to the driver. He had recognised the pedestrian. The car came to a stop with grinding brakes, and at the same time the pedestrian halted a hundred yards away. "Back up," commanded Mr. Blithers in some haste, for the Prince seemed to be on the point of deserting the highway for the wood that lined it. "Morning, Prince!" he shouted, waving his hat vigorously. "Want a lift?" The car shot backward with almost the same speed that it had gone forward, and the Prince exercised prudence when he stepped quickly up the sloping bank at the roadside. "Were you addressing me," he demanded curtly, as the car came to a stop. "Yes, your highness. Get in. I'm going your way," said Mr. Blithers beamingly. "I mean a moment ago, when you shouted 'Look where you are going,'" said Robin, an angry gleam in his eye. Mr. Blithers looked positively dumbfounded. "Good Heavens, no!" he cried. "I was speaking to the chauffeur." (Jackson's back seemed to stiffen a little.) "I've told him a thousand times to be careful about running up on people like that. Now this is the last time I'll warn you, Jackson. The next time you go. Understand? Just because you happen to be driving for me doesn't signify that you can run over people who--" "It's all right, Mr. Blithers," interrupted Robin, with his fine smile. "No harm done. I'll walk if you don't mind. Out for a bit of exercise, you know. Thank you just the same." "Where are you bound for?" asked Mr. Blithers. "I don't know. I ramble where my fancy leads me." "I guess I'll get out and stroll along with you. God knows I need more exercise than I get. Is it agreeable?" He was on the ground by this time. Without waiting for an answer, he directed Jackson to run on to Red Roof and wait for him. "I shall be charmed," said Robin, a twinkle in the tail of his eye. "An eight or ten mile jaunt will do you a world of good, I'm sure. Shall we explore this little road up the mountain and then drop down to Red Roof? I don't believe it can be more than five or six miles." "Capital," said Mr. Blithers with enthusiasm. He happened to know that it was a "short cut" to Red Roof and less than a mile as the crow flies. True, there was something of an ascent ahead of them, but there was also a corresponding descent at the other end. Besides, he was confident he could keep up with the long-legged youngster by the paradoxical process of holding back. The Prince, having suggested the route, couldn't very well be arbitrary in traversing it. Mr. Blithers regarded the suggestion as an invitation. They struck off into the narrow woodland road, not precisely side by side, but somewhat after the fashion of a horseback rider and his groom, or, more strictly speaking, as a Knight and his vassal. Robin started off so briskly that Mr. Blithers fell behind a few paces and had to exert himself considerably to keep from losing more ground as they took the first steep rise. The road was full of ruts and cross ruts and littered with boulders that had ambled down the mountain-side in the spring moving. To save his life, Mr. Blithers couldn't keep to a straight course. He went from rut to rut and from rock to rock with the fidelity of a magnetised atom, seldom putting his foot where he meant to put it, and never by any chance achieving a steady stride. He would take one long, purposeful step and then a couple of short "feelers," progressing very much as a man tramps over a newly ploughed field. At the top of the rise, Robin considerately slackened his pace and the chubby gentleman drew alongside, somewhat out of breath but as cheerful as a cricket. "Going too fast for you, Mr. Blithers?" inquired Robin. "Not at all," said Mr. Blithers. "By the way, Prince," he went on, cunningly seizing the young man's arm and thereby putting a check on his speed for the time being at least, "I want to explain my daughter's unfortunate absence last night. You must have thought it very strange. Naturally it was unavoidable. The poor girl is really quite heart-broken. I beg pardon!" He stepped into a rut and came perilously near to going over on his nose. "Beastly road! Thanks. Good thing I took hold of you. Yes, as I was saying, it was really a most unfortunate thing; missed the train, don't you see. Went down for the day--just like a girl, you know--and missed the train." "Ah, I see. She missed it twice." "Eh? Oh! Ha ha! Very good! She might just as well have missed it a dozen times as once, eh? Well, she could have arranged for a special to bring her up, but she's got a confounded streak of thriftiness in her. Couldn't think of spending the money. Silly idea of--I beg your pardon, did I hurt you? I'm pretty heavy, you know, no light weight when I come down on a fellow's toe like that. What say to sitting down on this log for a while? Give your foot a chance to rest a bit. Deucedly awkward of me. Ought to look out where I'm stepping, eh?" "It really doesn't matter, Mr. Blithers," said Robin hastily. "We'll keep right on if it's all the same to you. I'm due at home in--in half an hour. We lunch very punctually." "I was particularly anxious for you and Maud to meet under the conditions that obtained last night," went on Mr. Blithers, with a regretful look at the log they were passing. "Nothing could have been more--er--ripping." "I hear from every one that your daughter is most attractive," said Robin. "Sorry not to have met her, Mr. Blithers." "Oh, you'll meet her all right. Prince. She's coming home to-day. I believe Mrs. Blithers is expecting you to dinner to-night. She--" "I'm sure there must be some mistake," began Robin, but was cut short. "I was on my way to Red Roof to ask you and Count Quiddux to give us this evening in connection with that little affair we are arranging. It is most imperative that it should be to-night, as my attorney is coming up for the conference." "I fear that Mrs. King has planned something--" Mr. Blithers waved his hand deprecatingly. "I am sure Mrs. King will let you off when she knows how important it is. As a matter of fact, it has to be tonight or not at all." There was a note in his voice that Robin did not like. It savoured of arrogance. "I daresay Count Quinnox can attend to all the details, Mr. Blithers. I have the power of veto, of course, but I shall be guided by the counsel of my ministers. You need have no hesitancy in dealing with--" "That's not the point, Prince. I am a business man,--as perhaps you know. I make it a point never to deal with any one except the head of a concern, if you'll pardon my way of putting it. It isn't right to speak of Growstock as a concern, but you'll understand, of course. Figure of speech." "I can only assure you, sir, that Graustark is in a position to indemnify you against any possible chance of loss. You will be amply secured. I take it that you are not coming to our assistance through any desire to be philanthropic, but as a business proposition, pure and simple. At least, that is how we regard the matter. Am I not right?" "Perfectly," said Mr. Blithers. "I haven't got sixteen millions to throw away. Still I don't see that that has anything to do with my request that you be present at the conference to-night. To be perfectly frank with you, I don't like working in the dark. You have the power of veto, as you say. Well, if I am to lend Groostork a good many millions of hard-earned dollars, I certainly don't relish the idea that you may take it into your head to upset the whole transaction merely because you have not had the matter presented to you by me instead of by your cabinet, competent as its members may be. First hand information on any subject is my notion of simplicity." "The integrity of the cabinet is not to be questioned, Mr. Blithers. Its members have never failed Graustark in any--" "I beg your pardon, Prince," said Mr. Blithers firmly, "but I certainly suspect that they failed her when they contracted this debt to Russia. You will forgive me for saying it, but it was the most asinine bit of short-sightedness I've ever heard of. My office boys could have seen farther than your honourable ministers." To his utter amazement, Robin turned a pair of beaming, excited eyes upon him. "Do you really mean that, Mr. Blithers?" he cried eagerly. "I certainly do!" "By jove, I--I can't tell you how happy I am to hear you say it. You see it is exactly what John Tullis said from the first. He was bitterly opposed to the loan. He tried his best to convince the prime minister that it was inadvisable. I granted him the special privilege of addressing the full House of Nobles on the question, an honour that no alien had known up to that time. Of course I was a boy when all this happened, Mr. Blithers, or I might have put a stop to the--but I'll not go into that. The House of Nobles went against his judgment and voted in favour of accepting Russia's loan. Now they realise that dear old John Tullis was right. Somehow it gratifies me to hear you say that they were--ahem!--shortsighted." "What you need in Groostock is a little more good American blood," announced Mr. Blithers, pointedly. "If you are going to cope with the world, you've got to tackle the job with brains and not with that idiotic thing called faith. There's no such thing in these days as charity among men, good will, and all that nonsense. Now, you've got a splendid start in the right direction, Prince. You've got American blood in your veins and that means a good deal. Take my advice and increase the proportion. In a couple of generations you'll have something to brag about. Take Tullis as your example. Beget sons that will think and act as he is capable of doing. Weed out the thin blood and give the crown of Grasstick something that is thick and red. It will be the making of your--" "I suppose you are advising me to marry an American woman, Mr. Blithers," said Robin drily. Mr. Blithers directed a calculating squint into the tree-tops. "I am simply looking ahead for my own protection, Prince," said he. "In what respect?" "Well I am putting a lot of money into the hands of your people. Isn't it natural that I should look ahead to some extent?" "But my people are honest. They will pay." "I understand all that, but at the same time I do not relish the idea of some day being obliged to squeeze blood from a turnip. Now is the time for you to think for the future. Your people are honest, I'll grant. But they also are poor. And why? Because no one has been able to act for them as your friend Tullis is capable of acting. The day will come when they will have to settle with me, and will it be any easier to pay William W. Blithers than it is to pay Russia? Not a bit of it. As you have said, I am not a philanthropist. I shall exact full and prompt payment. I prefer to collect from the prosperous, however, and not from the poor. It goes against the grain. That's why I want to see you rich and powerful--as well as honest." "I grant you it is splendid philosophy," said Robin. "But are you not forgetting that even the best of Americans are sometimes failures when it comes to laying up treasure?" "As individuals, yes; but not as a class. You will not deny that we are the richest people in the world. On the other hand I do not pretend to say that we are a people of one strain of blood. We represent a mixture of many strains, but underneath them all runs the full stream that makes us what we are: Americans. You can't get away from that. Yes, I _do_ advise you to marry an American girl." "In other words, I am to make a business of it," said Robin, tolerantly. "It isn't beyond the range of possibility that you should fall in love with an American girl, is it? You wouldn't call that making a business of it, would you?" "You may rest assured, Mr. Blithers, that I shall marry to please myself and no one else," said Robin, regarding him with a coldness that for an instant affected the millionaire uncomfortably. "Well," said Mr. Blithers, after a moment of hard thinking, "it may interest you to know that I married for love." "It _does_ interest me," said Robin. "I am glad that you did." "I was a comparatively poor man when I married. The girl I married was well-off in her own right. She had brains as well. We worked together to lay the foundation for a--well, for the fortune we now possess. A fortune, I may add, that is to go, every dollar of it, to my daughter. It represents nearly five hundred million dollars. The greatest king in the world to-day is poor in comparison to that vast estate. My daughter will one day be the richest woman in the world." "Why are you taking the pains to enlighten me as to your daughter's future, Mr. Blithers?" "Because I regard you as a sensible young man, Prince." "Thank you. And I suppose you regard your daughter as a sensible young woman?" "Certainly!" exploded Mr. Blithers. "Well, it seems to me, she will be capable of taking care of her fortune a great deal more successfully than you imagine, Mr. Blithers. She will doubtless marry an excellent chap who has the capacity to increase her fortune, rather than to let it stand at a figure that some day may be surpassed by the possessions of an ambitious king." There was fine irony in the Prince's tone but no trace of offensiveness. Nevertheless, Mr. Blithers turned a shade more purple than before, and not from the violence of exercise. He was having some difficulty in controlling his temper. What manner of fool was this fellow who could sneer at five hundred million dollars? He managed to choke back something that rose to his lips and very politely remarked: "I am sure you will like her, Prince. If I do say it myself, she is as handsome as they grow." "So I have been told." "You will see her to-night." "Really, Mr. Blithers, I cannot--" "I'll fix it with Mrs. King. Don't you worry." "May I be pardoned for observing that Mrs. King, greatly as I love her, is not invested with the power to govern my actions?" said Robin haughtily. "And may I be pardoned for suggesting that it is your duty to your people to completely understand this loan of mine before you agree to accept it?" said Mr. Blithers, compressing his lips. "Forgive me, Mr. Blithers, but it is not altogether improbable that Graustark may secure the money elsewhere." "It is not only improbable but impossible," said Mr. Blithers flatly. "Impossible?" "Absolutely," said the millionaire so significantly that Robin would have been a dolt not to grasp the situation. Nothing could have been clearer than the fact that Mr. Blithers believed it to be in his power to block any effort Graustark might make in other directions to secure the much-needed money. "Will you come to the point, Mr. Blithers?" said the young Prince, stopping abruptly in the middle of the road and facing his companion. "What are you trying to get at?" Mr. Blithers was not long in getting to the point. In the first place, he was hot and tired and his shoes were hurting; in the second place, he felt that he knew precisely how to handle these money-seeking scions of nobility. He planted himself squarely in front of the Prince and jammed his hands deep into his coat pockets. "The day my daughter is married to the man of my choice, I will hand over to that man exactly twenty million dollars," he said slowly, impressively. "Yes, go on." "The sole object I have in life is to see my girl happy and at the same time at the top of the heap. She is worthy of any man's love. She is as good as gold. She--" "The point is this, then: You would like to have me for a son-in-law." "Yes," said Mr. Blithers. Robin grinned. He was amused in spite of himself. "You take it for granted that I can be bought?" "I have not made any such statement." "And how much will you hand over to the man of _her_ choice when she marries him?" enquired the young man. "You will be her choice," said the other, without the quiver of an eye-lash. "How can you be sure of that? Has she no mind of her own?" "It isn't incomprehensible that she should fall in love with you, is it?" "It might be possible, of course, provided she is not already in love with some one else." Mr. Blithers started. "Have you heard any one say that--but, that's nonsense! She's not in love with any one, take it from me. And just to show you how fair I am to her--and to you--I'll stake my head you fall in love with each other before you've been together a week." "But we're not going to be together for a week." "I should have said before you've known each other a week. You will find--" "Just a moment, please. We can cut all this very short, and go about our business. I've never seen your daughter, nor, to my knowledge, has she ever laid eyes on me. From what I've heard of her, she _has_ a mind of her own. You will not be able to force her into a marriage that doesn't appeal to her, and you may be quite sure, Mr. Blithers, that you can't force me into one. I do not want you to feel that I have a single disparaging thought concerning Miss Blithers. It is possible that I could fall in love with her inside of a week, or even sooner. But I don't intend to, Mr. Blithers, any more than she intends to fall in love with me. You say that twenty millions will go to the man she marries, if he is your choice. Well, I don't give a hang, sir, if you make it fifty millions. The chap who gets it will not be me, so what's the odds? You--" "Wait a minute, young man," said Mr. Blithers coolly. (He was never anything but cool when under fire.) "Why not wait until you have met my daughter before making a statement like that? After all, am I not the one who is taking chances? Well, I'm willing to risk my girl's happiness with you and that's saying everything when you come right down to it. She will make you happy in--" [Illustration: "You will be her choice," said the other, without the quiver of an eye-lash ] "I am not for sale. Mr. Blithers," said Robin abruptly. "Good morning." He turned into the wood and was sauntering away with his chin high in the air when Mr. Blithers called out to him from behind. "I shall expect you to-night, just the same." Robin halted, amazed by the man's assurance. He retraced his steps to the roadside. "Will you pardon a slight feeling of curiosity on my part, Mr. Blithers, if I ask whether your daughter consents to the arrangement you propose. Does she approve of the scheme?" Mr. Blithers was honest. "No, she doesn't," he said succinctly. "At least, not at present. I'll be honest with you. She stayed away from the ball last night simply because she did not want to meet you. That's the kind of a girl _she_ is." "By jove, I take off my hat to her," cried Robin. "She is a brick, after all. Take it from me, Mr. Blithers, you will not be able to hand over twenty millions without her consent. I believe that I should enjoy meeting her, now that I come to think of it. It would be a pleasure to exchange confidences with a girl of that sort." Mr. Blithers betrayed agitation. "See here, Prince, I don't want her to know that I've said anything to you about this matter," he said, unconsciously lowering his voice as if fearing that Maud might be somewhere within hearing distance. "This is between you and me. Don't breathe a word of it to her. 'Gad, she'd--she'd skin me alive!" At the very thought of it, he wiped his forehead with unusual vigour. Robin laughed heartily. "Rest easy, Mr. Blithers. I shall not even think of your proposition again, much less speak of it." "Come now, Prince; wait until you've seen her. I know you'll get on famously--" "I should like her to know that I consider her a brick, Mr. Blithers. Is it too much to ask of you? Just tell her that I think she's a brick." "Tell her yourself," growled Mr. Blithers, looking very black. "You will see her this evening," he added levelly. "Shall I instruct your chauffeur to come for you up here or will you walk back to--" "I'll walk to Red Roof," said Mr. Blithers doggedly. "I'm going to ask Mrs. King to let you off for to-night." CHAPTER VII A LETTER FROM MAUD Mr. Blithers, triumphant, left Red Roof shortly after luncheon; Mr. Blithers, dismayed, arrived at Blitherwood a quarter of an hour later. He had had his way with Robin, who, after all, was coming to dinner that evening with Count Quinnox. The Prince, after a few words in private with the Count, changed his mind and accepted Mr. Blithers' invitation with a liveliness that was mistaken for eagerness by that gentleman, who had made very short work of subduing Mrs. King when she tried to tell him that her own dinner-party would be ruined if the principal guest defaulted. He was gloating over his victory up to the instant he reached his own lodge gates. There dismay sat patiently waiting for him in the shape of a messenger from the local telegraph office in the village below. He had seen Mr. Blithers approaching in the distance, and, with an astuteness that argued well for his future success in life, calmly sat down to wait instead of pedaling his decrepit bicycle up the long slope to the villa. He delivered a telegram and kindly vouchsafed the information that it was from New York. Mr. Blithers experienced a queer sinking of the heart as he gazed at the envelope. Something warned him that if he opened it in the presence of the messenger he would say something that a young boy ought not to hear. "It's from Maud," said the obliging boy, beaming good-nature. It cost him a quarter, that bit of gentility, for Mr. Blithers at once said something that a messenger boy ought to hear, and ordered Jackson to go ahead. It was from Maud and it said: "I shall stay in town a few days longer. It is delightfully cool here. Dear old Miranda is at the Ritz with me and we are having a fine spree. Don't worry about money. I find I have a staggering balance in the bank. The cashier showed me where I had made a mistake in subtraction of an even ten thousand. I was amazed to find what a big difference a little figure makes. Have made no definite plans but will write Mother to-night. Please give my love to the Prince. Have you seen to-day's _Town Truth_? Or worse, has he seen it? Your loving daughter, Maud." The butler was sure it was apoplexy, but the chauffeur, out of a wide experience, announced, behind his hand, that he would be all right the instant the words ceased to stick in his throat. And he was right. Mr. Blithers _was_ all right. Not even the chauffeur had seen him when he was more so. A little later on, after he had cooled off to a quite considerable extent, Mr. Blithers lighted a cigar and sat down in the hall outside his wife's bed-chamber door. She was having her beauty nap. Not even he possessed the temerity to break in upon that. He sat and listened for the first sound that would indicate the appeasement of beauty, occasionally hitching his chair a trifle nearer to the door in the agony of impatience. By the time Jackson returned from the village with word that a copy of _Town Truth_ was not to be had until the next day, he was so close to the door that if any one had happened to stick a hat pin through the keyhole at precisely the right instant it would have punctured his left ear with appalling results. "What are we going to do about it?" he demanded three minutes after entering the chamber. His wife was prostrate on the luxurious couch from which she had failed to arise when he burst in upon her with the telegram in his hand. "Oh, the foolish child," she moaned. "If she only knew how adorable he is she wouldn't be acting in this perfectly absurd manner. Every girl who was here last night is madly in love with him. Why must Maud be so obstinate?" Mr. Blithers was very careful not to mention his roadside experience with the Prince, and you may be sure that he said nothing about his proposition to the young man. He merely declared, with a vast bitterness in his soul, that the Prince was coming to dinner, but what the deuce was the use? "She ought to be soundly--spoken to," said he, breaking the sentence with a hasty gulp. "Now, Lou, there's just one thing to do. I must go to New York on the midnight train and get her. That woman was all right as a tutor, but hanged if I like to see a daughter of mine traipsing around New York with a school teacher. She--" "You forget that she has retired on a competence. She is not in active employment. Will. You forget that she is one of the Van Valkens." "There you go, talking about good old families again. Why is it that so blamed many of your fine old blue stockings are hunting jobs--" "Now don't be vulgar, Will," she cut in. "Maud is quite safe with Miranda, and you know it perfectly well, so don't talk like that. I think it would be a fearful mistake for you to go to New York. She would never forgive you and, what is more to the point, she wouldn't budge a step if you tried to bully her into coming home with you. You know it quite as well as I do." He groaned. "Give me a chance to think, Lou. Just half a chance, that's all I ask. I'll work out some--" "Wait until her letter comes. We'll see what she has to say. Perhaps she intends coming home tomorrow, who can tell? This may be a pose on her part. Give her free rein and she will not pull against the bit. It may surprise her into doing the sensible thing if we calmly ignore her altogether. I've been thinking it over, and I've come to the conclusion that we'll be doing the wisest thing in the world if we pay absolutely no attention to her." "By George, I believe you've hit it, Lou! She'll be looking for a letter or telegram from me and she'll not receive a word, eh? She'll be expecting us to beg her to come back and all the while we just sit tight and say not a word. We'll fool her, by thunder. By to-morrow afternoon she'll be so curious to know what's got into us that she'll come home on a run. You're right. It takes a thief to catch a thief,--which is another way of saying that it takes a woman to understand a woman. We'll sit tight and let Maud worry for a day or two. It will do her good." Maud's continued absence was explained to Prince Robin that evening, not by the volcanic Mr. Blithers but by his practised and adroit better-half who had no compunction in ascribing it to the alarming condition of a very dear friend in New York,--one of the Van Valkens, you know. "Maud is so tender-hearted, so loyal, so really sweet about her friends, that nothing in the world could have induced her to leave this dear friend, don't you know." "I am extremely sorry not to have met your daughter," said Robin very politely. "Oh, but she will be here in a day or two, Prince." "Unfortunately, we are leaving to-morrow, Mrs. Blithers." "To-morrow?" murmured Mrs. Blithers, aghast. "I received a cablegram to-day advising me to return to Edelweiss at once. We are obliged to cut short a very charming visit with Mr. and Mrs. King and to give up the trip to Washington. Lieutenant Dank left for New York this afternoon to exchange our reservations for the first ship that we can--" "What's this?" demanded Mr. Blithers, abruptly withdrawing his attention from Count Quinnox who was in the middle of a sentence when the interruption came. They were on the point of going out to dinner. "What's this?" "The Prince says that he is leaving to-morrow--" "Nonsense!" exploded Mr. Blithers, with no effort toward geniality. "He doesn't mean it. Why,--why, we haven't signed a single agreement--" "Fortunately it isn't necessary for me to sign anything, Mr. Blithers," broke in Robin hastily. "The papers are to be signed by the Minister of Finance, and afterwards my signature is attached in approval. Isn't that true, Count Quinnox?" "I daresay Mr. Blithers understands the situation perfectly," said the Count. Mr. Blithers looked blank. He _did_ understand the situation, that was the worst of it. He knew that although the cabinet had sanctioned the loan by cable, completing the transaction so far as it could be completed at this time, it was still necessary for the Minister of Finance to sign the agreement under the royal seal of Graustark. "Of course I understand it," he said bluntly. "Still I had it in mind to ask the Prince to put his signature to a sort of preliminary document which would at least assure me that he would sign the final agreement when the time comes. That's only fair, isn't it?" "Quite fair, Mr. Blithers. The Prince will sign such an article to-morrow or the next day at your office in the city. Pray have no uneasiness, sir. It shall be as you wish. By the way, I understood that your solicitor--your lawyer, I should say,--was to be here this evening. It had occurred to me that he might draw up the statement,--if Mrs. Blithers will forgive us in our haste--" "He couldn't get here," said Mr. Blithers, and no more. He was thinking too intently of something more important. "What's turned up?" "Turned up, Mr. Blithers?" "Yes--in Groostock. What's taking you off in such a hurry?" "The Prince has been away for nearly six months," said the Count, as if that explained everything. "Was it necessary to cable for him to come home?" persisted the financier. "Graustark and Dawsbergen are endeavouring to form an alliance, Mr. Blithers, and Prince Robin's presence at the capitol is very much to be desired in connection with the project." "What kind of an alliance?" The Count looked bored. "An alliance prescribed for the general improvement of the two races, I should say, Mr. Blithers." He smiled. "It would in no way impair the credit of Graustark, however. It is what you might really describe as a family secret, if you will pardon my flippancy." The butler announced dinner. "Wait for a couple of days. Prince, and I'll send you down to New York by special train," said Mr. Blithers. "Thank you. It is splendid of you. I daresay everything will depend on Dank's success in--" "Crawford," said Mr. Blithers to the butler, "ask Mr. Davis to look up the sailings for next week and let me know at once, will you?" Turning to the Prince, he went on: "We can wire down to-night and engage passage for next week. Davis is my secretary. I'll have him attend to everything. And now let's forget our troubles." A great deal was said by her parents about Maud's unfortunate detention in the city. Both of them were decidedly upset by the sudden change in the Prince's plans. Once under pretext of whispering to Crawford about the wine, Mr. Blithers succeeded in transmitting a question to his wife. She shook her head in reply, and he sighed audibly. He had asked if she thought he'd better take the midnight train. Mr. Davis found that there were a dozen ships sailing the next week, but nothing came of it, for the Prince resolutely declared he would be obliged to take the first available steamer. "We shall go down to-morrow," he said, and even Mr. Blithers subsided. He looked to his wife in desperation. She failed him for the first time in her life. Her eyes were absolutely messageless. "I'll go down with you," he said, and then gave his wife a look of defiance. The next morning brought Maud's letter to her mother. It said: "Dearest Mother: I enclose the cutting from _Town Truth_. You may see for yourself what a sickening thing it is. The whole world knows by this time that the ball was a joke--a horrible joke. Everybody knows that you are trying to hand me over to Prince Robin neatly wrapped up in bank notes. And everybody knows that he is laughing at us, and he isn't alone in his mirth either. What must the Truxton Kings think of us? I can't bear the thought of meeting that pretty, clever woman face to face. I know I should die of mortification, for, of course, she must believe that I am dying to marry anything on earth that has a title and a pair of legs. Somehow I don't blame you and dad. You really love me, I know, and you want to give me the best that the world affords. But why, oh why, can't you let me choose for myself? I don't object to having a title, but I do object to having a husband that I don't want and who certainly could not, by any chance, want me. You think that I am in love with Channie Scoville. Well, I'm not. I am very fond of him, that's all, and if it came to a pinch I would marry him in preference to any prince on the globe. To-day I met a couple of girls who were at the ball. They told me that the Prince is adorable. They are really quite mad about him, and one of them had the nerve to ask what it was going to cost dad to land him. _Town Truth_ says he is to cost ten millions! Well, you may just tell dad that I'll help him to practice economy. He needn't pay a nickle for my husband--when I get him. The world is small. It may be that I shall come upon this same Prince Charming some place before it is too late, and fall in love with him all of a heap. Loads of silly girls do fall in love with fairy princes, and I'm just as silly as the rest of them. Ever since I was a little kiddie I've dreamed of marrying a real, lace-and-gold Prince, the kind Miranda used to read about in the story books. But I also dreamed that he loved me. There's the rub, you see. How could any prince love a girl who set out to buy him with a lot of silly millions? It's not to be expected. I know it is done in the best society, but I should want my prince to be happy instead of merely comfortable. I should want both of us to live happy ever afterwards. "So, dearest mother, I am going abroad to forget. Miranda is going with me and we sail next Saturday on the _Jupiter_ I think. We haven't got our suite, but Mr. Bliss says he is sure he can arrange it for me. If we can't get one on the _Jupiter_, we'll take some other boat that is just as inconspicuous. You see, I want to go on a ship that isn't likely to be packed with people I know, for it is my intention to travel incog, as they say in the books. No one shall stare at me and say: 'There is that Maud Blithers we were reading about in _Town Truth_--and all the other papers this week. Her father is going to buy a prince for her.' "I know dad will be perfectly furious, but I'm going or die, one or the other. Now it won't do a bit of good to try to stop me, dearest. The best thing for you and dad to do is to come down at once and say goodbye to me--but you are not to go to the steamer! Never! Please, please come, for I love you both and I do so want you to love me. Come to-morrow and kiss your horrid, horrid, disappointing, loathsome daughter--and forgive her, too." Mr. Blithers was equal to the occasion. His varying emotions manifested themselves with peculiar vividness during the reading of the letter by his tearful wife. At the outset he was frankly humble and contrite; he felt bitterly aggrieved over the unhappy position in which they innocently had placed their cherished idol. Then came the deep breath of relief over the apparent casting away of young Scoville, followed by an angry snort when Maud repeated the remark of her girl friend. His dismay was pathetic while Mrs. Blithers was fairly gasping out Maud's determination to go abroad, but before she reached the concluding sentences of the extraordinary missive, he was himself again. As a matter of fact, he was almost jubilant. He slapped his knee with resounding force and uttered an ejaculation that caused his wife to stare at him as if the very worst had happened: he was a chuckling lunatic! "Immense!" he exclaimed. "Immense!" "Oh, Will!" she sobbed. "Nothing could be better! Luck is with me, Lou. It always is." "In heaven's name, what are you saying, Will?" "Great Scott, can't you see? He goes abroad, she goes abroad. See? Same ship. See what I mean? Nothing could be finer. They--" "But I do not want my child to go abroad," wailed the unhappy mother. "I cannot bear--" "Stuff and nonsense! Brace up! Grasp the romance. Both of 'em sailing under assumed names. They see each other on deck. Mutual attraction. Love at first sight. Both of 'em. Money no object. There you are. Leave it to me." "Maud is not the kind of girl to take up with a stranger on board--" "Don't glare at me like that! Love finds the way, it doesn't matter what kind of a girl she is. But listen to me, Lou; we've got to be mighty careful that Maud doesn't suspect that we're putting up a job on her. She'd balk at the gang-plank and that would be the end of it. She must not know that he is on board. Now, here's the idea," and he talked on in a strangely subdued voice for fifteen minutes, his enthusiasm mounting to such heights that she was fairly lifted to the seventh heaven he produced, and, for once in her life, she actually submitted to his bumptious argument without so much as a single protesting word. The down train at two-seventeen had on board a most distinguished group of passengers, according to the Pullman conductor whose skilful conniving resulted in the banishment of a few unimportant creatures who had paid for chairs in the observation coach but who had to get out, whether or no, when Mr. Blithers loudly said it was a nuisance having everything on the shady side of the car taken "on a hot day like this." He surreptitiously informed the conductor that there was a prince in his party, and that highly impressed official at once informed ten other passengers that they had no business in a private car and would have to move up to the car ahead--and rather quickly at that. The Prince announced that Lieutenant Dank had secured comfortable cabins on a steamer sailing Saturday, but he did not feel at liberty to mention the name of the boat owing to his determination to avoid newspaper men, who no doubt would move heaven and earth for an interview, now that he had become a person of so much importance in the social world. Indeed, his indentity was to be more completely obscured than at any time since he landed on American soil. He thanked Mr. Blithers for his offer to command the "royal suite" on the _Jupiter_, but declined, volunteering the somewhat curt remark that it was his earnest desire to keep as far away from royalty as possible on the voyage over. (A remark that Mr. Blithers couldn't quite fathom, then or afterward.) Mrs. Blithers' retort to her husband's shocked comment on the un-princely appearance of the young man and the wofully ordinary suit of clothes worn by the Count, was sufficiently caustic, and he was silenced--and convinced. Neither of the distinguished foreigners looked the part of a nobleman. "I wouldn't talk about clothes if I were you," Mrs. Blithers had said on the station platform. "Who would suspect you of being one of the richest men in America?" She sent a disdainful glance at his baggy knees and bulging coat pockets, and for the moment he shrank into the state of being one of the poorest men in America. They were surprised and not a little perplexed by the fact that the Prince and his companion arrived at the station quite alone. Neither of the Kings accompanied them. There was, Mrs. Blithers admitted, food for thought in this peculiar omission on the part of the Prince's late host and hostess, and she would have given a great deal to know what was back of it. The "luggage" was attended to by the admirable Hobbs, there being no sign of a Red Roof servant about the place. Moreover, there seemed to be considerable uneasiness noticeable in the manner of the two foreigners. They appeared to be unnecessarily impatient for the train to arrive, looking at their watches now and again, and frequently sending sharp glances down the village street in the direction of Red Roof. Blithers afterwards remarked that they made him think of a couple of absconding cashiers. The mystery, however, was never explained. Arriving at the Grand Central Terminal, Prince Robin and the Count made off in a taxi-cab, smilingly declining to reveal their hotel destination. "But where am I to send my attorney with the agreement you are to sign, Prince?" asked Mr. Blithers, plainly irritated by the young man's obstinacy in declining to be "dropped" at his hotel by the Blithers motor. "I shall come to your office at eleven to-morrow morning, Mr. Blithers," said Robin, his hat in his hand. He had bowed very deeply to Mrs. Blithers. "But that's not right," blustered the financier. "A prince of royal blood hadn't ought to visit a money-grubber's office. It's not--" "_Noblesse oblige_," said Robin, with his hand on his heart. "It has been a pleasure to know you, Mrs. Blithers. I trust we may meet again. If you should ever come to Graustark, please consider that the castle is yours--as you hospitable Americans would say." "We surely will," said Mrs. Blithers. Both the Prince and Count Quinnox bowed very profoundly, and did not smile. "And it will be ours," added Mr. Blithers, more to himself than to his wife as the two tall figures moved off with the throng. Then to his wife: "Now to find out what ship they're sailing on. I'll fix it so they'll _have_ to take the _Jupiter_, whether they want to or not." "Wouldn't it be wisdom to find out what ship Maud is sailing on, Will? It seems to me that she is the real problem." "Right you are!" said he instantly. "I must be getting dotty in my old age, Lou." They were nearing the Ritz when she broke a prolonged period of abstraction by suddenly inquiring: "What did you mean when you said to him on the train: 'Better think it over, Prince,' and what did he mean by the insolent grin he gave you in reply?" Mr. Blithers looked straight ahead. "Business," said he, answering the first question but not the last. CHAPTER VIII ON BOARD THE "JUPITER" A grey day at sea. The _Jupiter_ seemed to be slinking through the mist and drizzle, so still was the world of waters. The ocean was as smooth as a mill pond; the reflected sky came down bleak and drab and no wind was stirring. The rush of the ship through the glassy, sullen sea produced a fictitious gale across the decks; aside from that there was dead calm ahead and behind. A threat seemed to lurk in the smooth, oily face of the Atlantic. Far ahead stretched the grey barricade that seemed to mark the spot where the voyage was to end. There was no going beyond that clear-cut line. When the ship came up to it, there would be no more water beyond; naught but a vast space into which the vessel must topple and go on falling to the end of time. The great sirens were silent, for the fog of the night before had lifted, laying bare a desolate plain. The ship was sliding into oblivion, magnificently indifferent to the catastrophe that awaited its arrival at the edge of the universe. And she was sailing the sea alone. All other ships had passed over that sinister line and were plunging toward a bottom that would never be reached, so long is eternity. The decks of the _Jupiter_ were wet with the almost invisible drizzle that filled the air, yet they were swarming with the busy pedestrians who never lose an opportunity to let every one know that they are on board. No ship's company is complete without its leg-stretchers. They who never walk a block on dry land without complaining, right manfully lop off miles when walking on the water, and get to be known--at least visually--to the entire first cabin before they have paraded half way across the Atlantic. (There was once a man who had the strutting disease so badly that he literally walked from Sandy Hook to Gaunt's Rock, but, who, on getting to London, refused to walk from the Savoy to the Cecil because of a weak heart.) The worst feature about these inveterate water-walkers is that they tread quite as proudly upon other people's feet as they do upon their own, and as often as not they appear to do it from choice. Still, that is another story. It has nothing to do with the one we are trying to tell. To resume, the decks of the _Jupiter_ were wet and the sky was drab. New York was twenty-four hours astern and the brief Sunday service had come to a peaceful end. It died just in time to escape the horrors of a popular programme by the band amidships. The echo of the last amen was a resounding thump on the big bass drum. Three tall, interesting looking men stood leaning against the starboard rail of the promenade deck, unmindful of the mist, watching the scurrying throng of exercise fiends. Two were young, the third was old, and of the three there was one who merited the second glance that invariably was bestowed upon him by the circling passers-by. Each succeeding revolution increased the interest and admiration and people soon began to favour him with frankly unabashed stares and smiles that could not have been mistaken for anything but tribute to his extreme good looks. He stood between the gaunt, soldierly old man with the fierce moustache, and the trim, military young man with one that was close cropped and smart. Each wore a blue serge suit and affected a short visored cap of the same material, and each lazily puffed at a very commonplace briar pipe. They in turn were watching the sprightly parade with an interest that was calmly impersonal. They saw no one person who deserved more than a casual glance, and yet the motley crowd passed before them, apparently without end, as if expecting a responsive smile of recognition from the tall young fellow to whom it paid the honest tribute of curiosity. The customary he-gossip and perennial snooper who is always making the voyage no matter what ship one takes or the direction one goes, nosed out the purser and discovered that the young man was R. Schmidt of Vienna. He was busy thereafter mixing with the throng, volunteering information that had not been solicited but which appeared to be welcome. Especially were the young women on board grateful to the he-gossip, when he accosted them as a perfect stranger to tell them the name of another and even more perfect stranger. "Evidently an Austrian army officer," he always proclaimed, and that seemed to settle it. Luckily he did not overhear R. Schmidt's impassive estimate of the first cabin parade, or he might have had something to repeat that would not have pleased those who took part in it. "Queer looking lot of people," said R. Schmidt, and his two companions moodily nodded their heads. "I am sorry we lost those rooms on the _Salammbo_," said the younger of his two companions. "I had them positively engaged, money paid down." "Some one else came along with more money, Dank," observed R. Schmidt. "We ought to be thankful that we received anything at all. Has it occurred to you that this boat isn't crowded?" "Not more than half full," said the older man. "All of the others appeared to be packed from hold to funnel. This must be an unpopular boat." "I don't know where we'd be, however, if Mr. Blithers hadn't thought of the _Jupiter_ almost at the last minute," said R. Schmidt. "Nine day boat, though," growled the old man. "I don't mind that in the least. She's a steady old tub and that's something." "Hobbs tells me that it is most extraordinary to find the east bound steamers crowded at this season of the year," said Dank. "He can't understand it at all. The crowds go over in June and July and by this time they should be starting for home. I thought we'd have no difficulty in getting on any one of the big boats, but, by jove, everywhere I went they said they were full up." "It was uncommonly decent of Blithers not coming down to see us off," said the elderly man, who was down on the passenger list as Totten. "I was apprehensive, 'pon my soul. He stuck like a leech up to the last minute." R. Schmidt was reflecting. "It struck me as queer that he had not heard of the transfer of our securities in London." "I cannot understand Bernstein & Sons selling out at a time when the price of our bonds is considerably below their actual value," said Totten, frowning. "A million pounds sterling is what their holdings really represented; according to the despatches they must have sold at a loss of nearly fifty thousand pounds. It is unbelievable that the house can be hard-pressed for money. There isn't a sounder concern in Europe than Bernstein's." "We should have a Marconi-gram to-night or tomorrow in regard to the bid made in Paris for the bonds held by the French syndicate," said Dank, pulling at his short moustache. "Mr. Blithers is investigating." "There is something sinister in all this," said R. Schmidt. "Who is buying up all of the out-standing bonds and what is behind the movement? London has sold all that were held there and Paris is approached on the same day. If Paris and Berlin should sell, nearly four million pounds in Graustark bonds will be in the hands of people whose identity and motives appear to be shrouded in the deepest mystery." "And four million pounds represents the entire amount of our bonds held by outside parties," said Totten, with a significant shake of his grizzled head. "The remainder are in the possession of our own institutions and the people themselves. We should hear from Edelweiss, too, in response to my cablegram. Perhaps Romano may be able to throw light on the situation. I confess that I am troubled." "Russia would have no object in buying up our general bonds, would she?" inquired R. Schmidt. "None whatever. She would have nothing to gain. Mr. Blithers assured me that he was not in the least apprehensive. In fact, he declared that Russia would not be buying bonds that do not mature for twelve years to come. There must be some private--eh?" A steward was politely accosting the trio. "I beg pardon, is this Mr. Totten?" "Yes." "Message for you, sir, at the purser's." "Bring it to my stateroom, Totten," said R. Schmidt briefly, and the old man hurried away on the heels of the messenger. The two young men sauntered carelessly in an opposite direction and soon disappeared from the deck. A few minutes later, Totten entered the luxurious parlour of R. Schmidt and laid an unopened wireless message on the table at the young man's elbow. "Open it, Totten." The old man slit the envelope and glanced at the contents. He nodded his head in answer to an unspoken question. "Sold?" asked R. Schmidt. "Paris and Berlin, both of them, Prince. Every bond has been gobbled up." "Does he mention the name of the buyer?" "Only by the use of the personal pronoun. He says--'I have taken over the Paris and Berlin holdings. All is well.' It is signed 'B.' So! Now we know." "By jove!" fell from the lips of both men, and then the three Graustarkians stared in speechless amazement at each other for the space of a minute before another word was spoken. "Blithers!" exclaimed Dank, sinking back into his chair. "Blithers," repeated Totten, but with an entirely different inflection. The word was conviction itself as he pronounced it. R. Schmidt indulged in a wry little smile. "It amounts to nearly twenty million dollars, Count. That's a great deal of money to spend in the pursuit of an idle whim." "Humph!" grunted the old Count, and then favoured the sunny-faced Prince with a singularly sharp glance. "Of course, you understand his game?" "Perfectly. It's as clear as day. He intends to be the crown father-in-law. I suppose he will expect Graustark to establish an Order of Royal Grandfathers." "It may prove to be no jest, Robin," said the Count seriously. "My dear Quinnox, don't look so sad," cried the Prince. "He may have money enough to buy Graustark but he hasn't enough to buy grandchildren that won't grow, you know. He is counting chickens before they're hatched, which isn't a good business principle, I'd have you to know." "What was it he said to you at Red Roof?" "That was nothing. Pure bluster." "He said he had never set his heart on anything that he didn't get in the end, wasn't that it?" "I think so. Something of the sort. I took it as a joke." "Well, I took it as a threat." "A threat?" "A pleasant, agreeable threat, of course. He has set his heart on having the crown of Graustark worn by a Blithers. That is the long and short of it." "I believe he did say to me in the woods that day that he could put his daughter on any throne in Europe if he set his mind to the job," said the Prince carelessly. "But you see, the old gentleman is not counting on two very serious sources of opposition when it comes to this particular case. There is Maud, you see,--and me." "I am not so sure of the young lady," said the Count sententiously. "The opposition may falter a bit there, and half of his battle is won." "You seem to forget, Quinnox, that such a marriage is utterly impossible," said the Prince coldly, "Do you imagine that I would marry--" "Pardon me, highness, I said _half_ the battle would be won. I do contemplate a surrender on your part. You are a very pig-headed young man. The most pig-headed I've ever known, if you will forgive me for expressing myself so--" "You've said it a hundred times," laughed the Prince, good-naturedly. "Don't apologise. Not only you but the entire House of Nobles have characterised me as pig-headed and I have never even thought of resenting it, so it must be that I believe it to be true." "We have never voiced the opinion, highness, except in reference to our own great desire to bring about the union between our beloved ruler and the Crown Princess of--" "So," interrupted R. Schmidt, "it ought to be very clear to you that if I will not marry to please my loyal, devoted cabinet I certainly shall not marry to please William W. Blithers. No doubt the excellent Maud is a most desirable person. In any event, she has a mind of her own. I confess that I am sorry to have missed seeing her. We might have got on famously together, seeing that our point of view is apparently unique in this day and age of the world, No, my good friends, Mr. Blithers is making a poor investment. He will not get the return for his money that he is expecting. If it pleases him to buy our securities, all well and good. He shall lose nothing in the end. But he will find that Graustark is not a toy, nor the people puppets. More than all that, I am not a bargain sale prince with Christmas tree aspirations, but a very unamiable devil who cultivates an ambition to throw stones at the conventions. Not only do I intend to choose my wife but also the court grandfather. And now let us forget the folly of Mr. Blithers and discuss his methods of business. What does he expect to gain by this extraordinary investment?" Count Quinnox looked at him rather pityingly. "It appears to be his way of pulling the strings, my boy. He has loaned us something like sixteen millions of dollars. We have agreed to deposit our public service bonds as security against the loan, so that practically equalises the situation. It becomes a purely business transaction. But he sees far ahead. This loan of his matures at practically the same time that our first series of government bonds are due for payment. It will be extremely difficult for a small country, such as Graustark, to raise nearly forty millions of dollars in, say ten years. The European syndicates undoubtedly would be willing to renew the loan under a new issue--I think it is called refunding, or something of the sort. But Mr. Blithers will be in a position to say no to any such arrangement. He holds the whip hand and--" "But, my dear Count," interrupted the Prince, "what if he does hold it? Does he expect to wait ten years before exercising his power? You forget that marriage is his ambition. Isn't he taking a desperate risk in assuming that I will not marry before the ten years are up? And, for that matter, his daughter may decide to wed some other chap who--" "That's just the point," said Quinnox. "He is arranging it so that you _can't_ marry without his consent." "The deuce you say!" "I am not saying that he can carry out his design, my dear boy, but it is his secret hope, just the same. So far as Graustark is concerned, she will stand by you no matter what betides. As you know, there is nothing so dear to our hearts as the proposed union of Dawsbergen's Crown Princess and--" "That's utterly out of the question, Count," said the Prince, setting his jaws. The count sighed patiently. "So you say, my boy, so you say. But you are not reasonable. How can you know that the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen is not the very mate your soul has been craving--" "That's not the point. I am opposed to this miserable custom of giving in marriage without the consent of the people most vitally concerned, and I shall never recede from my position." "You are very young, my dear Prince." "And I intend to remain young, my dear Count. Loveless marriages make old men and women of youths and maidens. I remember thinking that remark out for myself after a great deal of effort, and you may remember that I sprung it with considerable effect on the cabinet when the matter was formally discussed a year or two ago. You heard about it, didn't you, Dank?" "I did, highness." "And every newspaper in the world printed it as coming from me, didn't they? Well, there you are. I can't go behind my publicly avowed principles." The young fellow stretched his long body in a sort of luxurious defiance, and eyed his companions somewhat combatively. "Sounds very well," growled the Count, with scant reverence for royalty, being a privileged person. "Now, Dank here can marry any one he likes--if she'll have him--and he is only a lieutenant of the guard. Why should I,--prince royal and master of all he surveys, so to speak,--why should I be denied a privilege enjoyed by every good-looking soldier who carries a sword in my army--_my_ army, do you understand? I leave it to you, Dank, is it fair? Who are you that you should presume to think of a happy marriage while I, your Prince, am obliged to twiddle my thumbs and say 'all right, bring any old thing along and I'll marry her'? Who are you, Dank, that's what I'd like to know." His humour was so high-handed that the two soldiers laughed and Dank ruefully admitted that he was a lucky dog. "You shall not marry into the Blithers family, my lad, if we can help it," said the Count, pulling at his moustaches. "I should say not!" said Dank, feeling for his. "I should as soon marry a daughter of Hobbs," said R. Schmidt, getting up from his chair with restored sprightliness. "If he had one, I mean." "The bonds of matrimony and the bonds of government are by no means synonymous," said Dank, and felt rather proud of himself when his companions favoured him with a stare of amazement. The excellent lieutenant was not given to persiflage. He felt that for a moment he had scintillated. "Shall we send a wireless to Blithers congratulating him on his coup?" enquired the Prince gaily. "No," said the Count. "Congratulating ourselves on his coup is better." "Good! And you might add that we also are trusting to luck. It may give him something to think about. And now where is Hobbs?" said royalty. "Here, sir," said Hobbs, appearing in the bed-room door, but not unexpectedly. "I heard wot you said about my daughter, sir. It may set your mind at rest, sir, to hear that I am childless." "Thank you, Hobbs. You are always thinking of my comfort. You may order luncheon for us in the Ritz restaurant. The head steward has been instructed to reserve the corner table for the whole voyage." "The 'ead waiter, sir," corrected Hobbs politely, and was gone. In three minutes he was back with the information that two ladies had taken the table and refused to be dislodged, although the head waiter had vainly tried to convince them that it was reserved for the passage by R. Schmidt and party. "I am quite sure, sir, he put it to them very hagreeably and politely, but the young lady gave 'im the 'aughtiest look I've ever seen on mortal fice, sir, and he came back to me so 'umble that I could 'ardly believe he was an 'ead waiter." "I hope he was not unnecessarily persistent," said the Prince, annoyed. "It really is of no consequence where we sit." "Ladies first, world without end," said Dank. "Especially at sea." "He was not persistent, sir. In fact he was hextraordinary subdued all the time he was hexplaining the situation to them. I could tell by the way his back looked, sir." "Never mind, Hobbs. You ordered luncheon?" "Yes, your 'ighness. Chops and sweet potatoes and--" "But that's what we had yesterday, Hobbs." A vivid red overspread the suddenly dismayed face of Hobbs. "'Pon my soul, sir, I--I clean forgot that it was yesterday I was thinking of. The young lady gave me such a sharp look, sir, when the 'ead waiter pointed at me that I clean forgot wot I was there for. I will 'urry back and--" "Do, Hobbs, that's a good fellow. I'm as hungry as a bear. But no chops!" "Thank you, sir. No chops. Absolutely, sir." He stopped in the doorway. "I daresay it was 'er beauty, sir, that did it. No chops. Quite so, sir." "If Blithers were only here," sighed Dank. "He would make short work of the female invasion. He would have them chucked overboard." "I beg pardon, sir," further adventured Hobbs, "but I fancy not even Mr. Blithers could move that young woman, sir, if she didn't 'appen to want to be moved. Never in my life, sir, have I seen--" "Run along, Hobbs," said the Prince. "Boiled guinea hen." "And cantaloupe, sir. Yes, sir, I quite remember everything now, sir." Twenty minutes later, R. Schmidt, seated in the Ritz restaurant, happened to look fairly into the eyes of the loveliest girl he had ever seen, and on the instant forgave the extraordinary delinquency of the hitherto infallible Hobbs. CHAPTER IX THE PRINCE MEETS MISS GUILE Later on R. Schmidt sat alone in a sheltered corner of the promenade deck, where chairs had been secured by the forehanded Hobbs. The thin drizzle now aspired to something more definite in the shape of a steady downpour, and the decks were almost deserted, save for the few who huddled in the unexposed nooks where the sweep and swish of the rain failed to penetrate. There was a faraway look in the young man's eyes, as of one who dreams pleasantly, with little effort but excellent effect. His pipe had gone out, so his dream must have been long and uninterrupted. Eight bells sounded, but what is time to a dreamer? Then came one bell and two, and now his eyes were closed. Two women came and stood over him, but little did they suspect that his dream was of one of them: the one with the lovely eyes and the soft brown hair. They surveyed him, whispering, the one with a little perplexed frown on her brow, the other with distinct signs of annoyance in her face. The girl was not more than twenty, her companion quite old enough to be her mother: a considerate if not complimentary estimate, for a girl's mother may be either forty, fifty or even fifty-five, when you come to think of it. They were looking for something. That was quite clear. And it was deplorably clear that whatever it was, R. Schmidt was sitting upon it. They saw that he was asleep, which made the search if not the actual recovery quite out of the question. The older woman was on the point of poking the sleeper with the toe of her shoe, being a matter-of-fact sort of person, when the girl imperatively shook her head and frowned upon the lady in a way to prove that even though she was old enough to be the mother of a girl of twenty she was by no means the mother of this one. At that very instant, R. Schmidt opened his eyes. It must have been a kindly poke by the god of sleep that aroused him so opportunely, but even so, the toe of a shoe could not have created a graver catastrophe than that which immediately befell him. He completely lost his head. If one had suddenly asked what had become of it, he couldn't have told, not for the life of him. For that matter, he couldn't have put his finger, so to speak, on any part of his person and proclaimed with confidence that it belonged to R. Schmidt of Vienna. He was looking directly up into a pair of dark, startled eyes, in which there was a very pretty confusion and a far from impervious blink. "I beg your pardon," said the older woman, without the faintest trace of embarrassment,--indeed, with some asperity,--"I think you are occupying one of our chairs." He scrambled out of the steamer rug and came to his feet, blushing to the roots of his hair. "I beg your pardon," he stammered, and found his awkwardness rewarded by an extremely sweet smile--in the eyes of the one he addressed. "We were looking for a letter that I am quite sure was left in my chair," said she. "A letter?" he murmured vaguely, and at once began to search with his eyes. "From her father," volunteered the elderly one, as if it were a necessary bit of information. Then she jerked the rug away and three pairs of eyes examined the place where R. Schmidt had been reclining. "That's odd. Did you happen to see it when you sat down, sir?" "I am confident that there was no letter--" began he, and then allowed his gaze to rest on the name-card at the top of the chair. "This happens to be _my_ chair, madam," he went on, pointing to the card. "'R. Schmidt.' I am very sorry." "The steward must have put that card there while you were at luncheon, dear. What right has he to sell our chairs over again? I shall report this to the Captain--" "I am quite positive that this is my chair, sir," said the girl, a spot of red in each cheek. "It was engaged two days ago. I have been occupying it since--but it really doesn't matter. It has your name on it now, so I suppose I shall have to--" "Not at all," he made haste to say. "It's yours. There has been some miserable mistake. These deck stewards are always messing things up. Still, it is rather a mystery about the letter. I assure you I saw no--" "No doubt the steward who changed the cards had sufficient intelligence to remove all incriminating evidence," said she coolly. "We shall find it among the lost, strayed and stolen articles, no doubt. Pray retain the chair, Mr.--" She peered at the name-card--"Mr. Schmidt." Her cool insolence succeeded in nettling a nature that was usually most gentle. He spoke with characteristic directness. "Thank you, I shall do so. We thereby manage to strike a fair average. I seize your deck chair, you seize my table. We are quits." She smiled faintly. "R. Schmidt did not sound young and gentle, but old and hateful. That is why I seized the table. I expected to find R. Schmidt a fat, old German with very bad manners. Instead, you are neither fat, old, nor disagreeable. You took it very nicely, Mr. Schmidt, and I am undone. Won't you permit me to restore your table to you?" The elderly lady was tapping the deck with a most impatient foot. "Really my dear, we were quite within our rights in approaching the head waiter. He--" "He said it was engaged," interrupted the young lady. "R. Schmidt was the name he gave and I informed him it meant nothing to me. I am very sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I suppose it was all because I am so accustomed to having my own way." "In that case, it is all very easy to understand," said he, "for I have always longed to be in a position where I could have my own way. I am sure that if I could have it, I would be a most overbearing, selfish person." "We must enquire at the office for the letter, my dear, before--" "It may have dropped behind the chair," said the girl. "Right!" cried R. Schmidt, dragging the chair away and pointing in triumph at the missing letter. He stooped to recover the missive, but she was quick to forestall him. With a little gasp she pounced upon it and, like a child proceeded to hold it behind her back. He stiffened. "I remember that you said it was from your father." She hesitated an instant and then held it forth for his inspection, rather adroitly concealing the postmark with her thumb. It was addressed to "Miss B. Guile, S. S. _Jupiter_, New York City, N. Y.," and type-written. "It is only fair that we should be quits in every particular," she said, with a frank smile. He bowed. "A letter of introduction," he said, "in the strictest sense of the word. You have already had my card thrust upon you, so everything is quite regular. And now it is only right and proper that I should see what has become of your chairs. Permit me--" "Really, Miss Guile," interposed her companion, "this is quite irregular. I may say it is unusual. Pray allow me to suggest--" "I think it is only right that Mr. Schmidt should return good for evil," interrupted the girl gaily. "Please enquire, Mr. Schmidt. No doubt the deck steward will know." Again the Prince bowed, but this time there was amusement instead of uncertainty in his eyes. It was the first time that any one had ever urged him, even by inference, to "fetch and carry." Moreover, she was extremely cool about it, as one who exacts much of young men in serge suits and outing-caps. He found himself wondering what she would say if he were to suddenly announce that he was the Prince of Graustark. The thought tickled his fancy, accounting, no doubt, for the even deeper bow that he gave her. "They can't be very far away," he observed quite meekly. "Oh, I say, steward! One moment, here." A deck steward approached with alacrity. "What has become of Miss Guile's chair?" The man touched his cap and beamed joyously upon the fair young lady. "Ach! See how I have forgot! It is here! The best place on the deck--on any deck. See! Two--side by side,--above the door, away from the draft--see, in the corner, ha, ha! Yes! Two by side. The very best. Miss Guile complains of the draft from the door. I exchanged the chairs. See! But I forgot to speak. Yes! See!" And, sure enough, there were the chairs of Miss Guile and her companion snugly stowed away in the corner, standing at right angles to the long row that lined the deck, the foot rests pointed directly at the chair R. Schmidt had just vacated, not more than a yard and a half away. "How stupid!" exclaimed Miss Guile. "Thank you, steward. This is much better. So sorry, Mr. Schmidt, to have disturbed you. I abhor drafts, don't you?" "Not to the extent that I shall move out of this one," he replied gallantly, "now that I've got an undisputed claim to it. I intend to stand up for my rights, Miss Guile, even though you find me at your feet." "How perfectly love--" began Miss Guile, a gleam of real enthusiasm in her eyes. A sharp, horrified look from her companion served as a check, and she became at once the coolly indifferent creature who exacts everything. "Thank you, Mr. Schmidt, for being so nice when we were trying so hard to be horrid." "But you don't know how nice you are when you are trying to be horrid," he remarked. "Are you not going to sit down, now that we've captured the disappearing chair?" "No," she said, and he fancied he saw regret in her eyes. "I am going to my room,--if I can find it. No doubt it also is lost. This seems to be a day for misplacing things." "At any rate, permit me to thank you for discovering me, Miss Guile." "Oh, I daresay I shall misplace you, too, Mr. Schmidt." She said it so insolently that he flushed as he drew himself up and stepped aside to allow her to pass. For an instant their eyes met, and the sign of the humble was not to be found in the expression of either. "Even _that_ will be something for me to look forward to, Miss Guile," said he. Far from being vexed, she favoured him with a faint smile of--was it wonder or admiration? Then she moved away, followed by the uneasy lady--who was old enough to be her mother and wasn't. Robin remained standing for a moment, looking after her, and somehow he felt that his dream was not yet ended. She turned the corner of the deck building and was lost to sight. He sat down, only to arise almost instantly, moved by a livelier curiosity than he ever had felt before. Conscious of a certain feeling of stealth, he scrutinised the cards in the backs of the two chairs. The steward was collecting the discarded steamer-rugs farther down the deck, and the few passengers who occupied chairs, appeared to be snoozing,--all of which he took in with his first appraising glance. "Miss Guile" and "Mrs. Gaston" were the names he read. "Americans," he mused. "Young lady and chaperone, that's it. A real American beauty! And Blithers loudly boasts that his daughter is the prettiest girl in America! Shades of Venus! Can there be such a thing on earth as a prettier girl than this one? Can nature have performed the impossible? Is America so full of lovely girls that this one must take second place to a daughter of Blithers? I wonder if she knows the imperial Maud. I'll make it a point to inquire." Moved by a sudden restlessness, he decided that he was in need of exercise. A walk would do him good. The same spirit of restlessness, no doubt, urged him to walk rather rapidly in the direction opposite to that taken by the lovely Miss Guile. After completely circling the deck once he decided that he did not need the exercise after all. His walk had not benefitted him in the least. She _had_ gone to her room. He returned to his chair, conscious of having been defeated but without really knowing why or how. As he turned into the dry, snug corner, he came to an abrupt stop and stared. Miss Guile was sitting in her chair, neatly encased in a mummy-like sheath of grey that covered her slim body to the waist. She was quite alone in her nook, and reading. Evidently the book interested her, for she failed to look up when he clumsily slid into his chair and threw the rug over his legs--dreadfully long, uninteresting legs, he thought, as he stretched them out and found that his feet protruded like a pair of white obelisks. Naturally he looked seaward, but in his mind's eye he saw her as he had seen her not more than ten minutes before: a slim, tall girl in a smart buff coat, with a limp white hat drawn down over her hair by means of a bright green veil; he had had a glimpse of staunch tan walking-shoes. He found himself wondering how he had missed her in the turn about the deck, and how she could have ensconced herself so snugly during his brief evacuation of the spot. Suddenly it occurred to him that she had returned to the chair only after discovering that his was vacant. It wasn't a very gratifying conclusion. An astonishing intrepidity induced him to speak to her after a lapse of five or six minutes, and so surprising was the impulse that he blurted out his question without preamble. "How did you manage to get back so quickly?" he inquired. She looked up, and for an instant there was something like alarm in her lovely eyes, as of one caught in the perpetration of a guilty act. "I beg your pardon," she said, rather indistinctly. "I was away less than eight minutes," he declared, and she was confronted by the wonderfully frank smile that never failed to work its charm. To his surprise, a shy smile grew in her eyes, and her warm red lips twitched uncertainly. He had expected a cold rebuff. "You must have dropped through the awning." "Your imagination is superior to that employed by the author of this book," she said, "and that is saying a good deal, Mr.--Mr.--" "Schmidt," he supplied cheerfully. "May I inquire what book you are reading?" "You would not be interested. It is by an American." "I have read a great many American novels," said he stiffly. "My father was an American. Awfully jolly books, most of them." "I looked you up in the passenger list a moment ago," she said coolly. "Your home is in Vienna. I like Vienna." He was looking rather intently at the book, now partly lowered. "Isn't that the passenger list you have concealed in that book?" he demanded. "It is," she replied promptly. "You will pardon a natural curiosity? I wanted to see whether you were from New York." "May I look at it, please?" She closed the book. "It isn't necessary. I _am_ from New York." "By the way, do you happen to know a Miss Blithers,--Maud Blithers?" Miss Guile frowned reflectively. "Blithers? The name is a familiar one. Maud Blithers? What is she like?" "She's supposed to be very good-looking. I've never seen her." "How queer to be asking me if I know her, then. Why _do_ you ask?" "I've heard so much about her lately. She is the daughter of William Blithers, the great capitalist." "Oh, I know who he is," she exclaimed. "Perfect roodles of money, hasn't he?" "Roodles?" "Loads, if it means more to you. I forgot that you are a foreigner. He gave that wonderful ball last week for the Prince of--of--Oh, some insignificant little place over in Europe. There are such a lot of queer little duchies and principalities, don't you know; it is quite impossible to tell one from the other. They don't even appear on the maps." He took it with a perfectly straight face, though secretly annoyed. "It was the talk of the town, that ball. It must have cost roodles of money. Is that right?" "Yes, but it doesn't sound right when you say it. Naturally one doesn't say roodles in Vienna." "We say noodles," said he. "I am very fond of them. But to resume; I supposed every one in New York knew Miss Blithers. She's quite the rage, I'm told." "Indeed? I should think she might be, Mr. Schmidt, with all those lovely millions behind her." He smiled introspectively. "Yes; and I am told that, in spite of them, she is the prettiest girl in New York." She appeared to lose interest in the topic. "Oh, indeed?" "But," he supplemented gracefully, "it isn't true." "What isn't true?" "The statement that she is the prettiest girl in New York." "How can you say that, when you admit you've never seen her?" "I can say it with a perfectly clear conscience, Miss Guile," said he, and was filled with delight when she bit her lip as a sign of acknowledgment. "Oh, here comes the tea," she cried, with a strange eagerness in her voice. "I am so glad." She scrambled gracefully out of her rug and arose to her feet. "Aren't you going to have some?" he cried. "Yes," she said, quite pointedly. "In my room, Mr. Schmidt," and before he could get to his feet she was moving away without so much as a nod or smile for him. Indeed, she appeared to have dismissed him from her thoughts quite as completely as from her vision. He experienced a queer sensation of shrivelling. At dinner that night, she failed to look in his direction, a circumstance that may not appear extraordinary when it is stated that she purposely or inadvertently exchanged seats with Mrs. Gaston and sat with her back to the table occupied by R. Schmidt and his friends. He had to be content with a view of the most exquisite back and shoulders that good fortune had ever allowed him to gaze upon. And then there was the way that her soft brown hair grew above the slender neck, to say nothing of--but Mrs. Gaston was watching him with most unfriendly eyes, so the feast was spoiled. The following day was as unlike its predecessor as black is like white. During the night the smooth grey pond had been transformed into a turbulent, storm-threshed ocean; the once gentle wind was now a howling gale that swept the decks with a merciless lash in its grip and whipped into submission all who vaingloriously sought to defy its chill dominion. Not rain, but spray from huge, swashing billows, clouded the decks, biting and cutting like countless needles, each drop with the sting of a hornet behind it. Now the end of the world seemed far away, and the jumping off place was a rickety wall of white and black, leaning against a cold, drear sky. Only the hardiest of the passengers ventured on deck; the exhilaration they professed was but another name for bravado. They shivered and gasped for breath as they forged their bitter way into the gale, and few were they who took more than a single turn of the deck. Like beaten cowards they soon slunk into the sheltered spots, or sought even less heroic means of surrender by tumbling into bed with the considerate help of unsmiling stewards. The great ship went up and the great ship came down: when up so high that the sky seemed to be startlingly near and down so horribly low that the bottom of the ocean was even nearer. And it creaked and groaned and sighed even above the wild monody of the wind, like a thing in misery, yet all the while holding its sides to keep from bursting with laughter over the plight of the little creature whom God made after His own image but not until after all of the big things of the universe had been designed. R. Schmidt, being a good sailor and a hardy young chap, albeit a prince of royal blood, was abroad early, after a breakfast that staggered the few who remained unstaggered up to that particular crisis. A genial sailor-man and an equally ungenial deck swabber advised him, in totally different styles of address, to stay below if he knew what was good for him, only to be thanked with all the blitheness of a man who jolly well knows what is good for him, or who doesn't care whether it is good for him or not so long as he is doing the thing that he wants to do. He took two turns about the deck, and each time as he passed the spot he sent a covert glance into the corner where Miss Guile's chair was standing. Of course he did not expect to find her there in weather like this, but--well, he looked and that is the end to the argument. The going was extremely treacherous and unpleasant he was free to confess to the genial sailor-man after the second breathless turn, and gave that worthy a bright silver dollar upon receiving a further bit of advice: to sit down somewhere out of the wind, sir. Quinnox and Dank were hopelessly bed-ridden, so to speak. They were very disagreeable, cross and unpleasant, and somehow he felt that they hated their cheerful, happy-faced Prince. Never before had Count Quinnox scowled at him, no matter how mad his pranks as a child or how silly his actions as a youth. Never before had any one told him to go to the devil. He rather liked it. And he rather admired poor Dank for ordering him out of his cabin, with a perfectly astounding oath as a climax to the command. Moreover, he thought considerably better of the faithful Hobbs for an amazing exposition of human equality in the matter of a pair of boots that he desired to wear that morning but which happened to be stowed away in a cabin trunk. He told Hobbs to go to the devil and Hobbs repeated the injunction, with especial heat, to the boots, when he bumped his head in hauling them out of the trunk. Whereupon R. Schmidt said to Hobbs: "Good for you. Hobbs. Go on, please. Don't mind me. It was quite a thump, wasn't it?" And Hobbs managed, between other words, to say that it was a whacking thump, and one he would not forget to his dying day--(if he lived through this one!). "And you'd do well to sit in the smoke-room, sir," further advised the sailor-man, clinging to the rail with one hand and pocketing the coin with the other. "No," said R. Schmidt resolutely. "I don't like the air in the smoke-room." "There's quite a bit of air out 'ere, sir." "I need quite a bit." "I should think you might, sir, being a 'ealthy, strappin' sort of a chap, sir. 'Elp yourself. All the chairs is yours if you'll unpile 'em." The young man battled his way down the deck and soon found himself in the well-protected corner. A half-dozen unoccupied chairs were cluttered about, having been abandoned by persons who over-estimated their hardiness. One of the stewards was engaged in stacking them up and making them fast. Miss Guile's chair and that of Mrs. Gaston were staunchly fastened down and their rugs were in place. R. Schmidt experienced an exquisite sensation of pleasure. Here was a perfect exemplification of that much-abused thing known as circumstantial evidence. She contemplated coming on deck. So he had his chair put in place, called for his rug, shrugged his chin down into the collar of his thick ulster, and sat down to wait. CHAPTER X AN HOUR ON DECK She literally was blown into his presence. He sprang to his feet to check her swift approach before she could be dashed against the wall or upon the heap of chairs in the corner. The deep roll of the vessel had ended so suddenly that she was thrown off her balance, at best precariously maintained in the hurricane that swept her along the deck. She was projected with considerable violence against the waiting figure of R. Schmidt, who had hastily braced himself for the impact of the slender body in the thick sea-ulster. She uttered an excited little shriek as she came bang up against him and found his ready arms closing about her shoulders. "Oh, goodness!" she gasped, with what little breath she had left, and then began to laugh as she freed herself in confusion--a very pretty confusion he recalled later on, after he had recovered to some extent from the effects of an exceedingly severe bump on the back of his head. "How awkward!" "Not at all," he proclaimed, retaining a grip on one of her arms until the ship showed some signs of resuming its way eastward instead of downward. "I am sure it must have hurt dreadfully," she cried. "Nothing hurts worse than a bump. It seemed as though you must have splintered the wall." "I have a singularly hard head," said he, and forthwith felt of the back of it. "Will you please stand ready to receive boarders? My maid is following me, poor thing, and I can't afford to have her smashed to pieces. Here she is!" Quite a pretty maid, with wide, horrified eyes and a pale green complexion came hustling around the corner. R. Schmidt, albeit a prince, received her with open arms. "Merci, M'sieur!" she squealed and added something in muffled French that strangely reminded him of what Hobbs had said in English. Then she deposited an armful of rugs and magazines at Robin's feet, and clutched wildly at a post actually some ten feet away but which appeared to be coming toward her with obliging swiftness, so nicely was the deck rotating for her. "Mon dieu! Mon dieu!" "You may go back to bed, Marie," cried her mistress in some haste. "But ze rug, I feex it--" groaned the unhappy maid, and then once more: "Merci, M'sieur!" She clung to the arm he extended, and tried bravely to smile her thanks. "Here! Go in through this door," he said, bracing the door open with his elbow. "You'll be all right in a little while. Keep your nerve." He closed the door after her and turned to the amused Miss Guile. "Well, it's an ill wind that blows no good," he said enigmatically, and she flushed under the steady smile in his eyes. "Allow me to arrange your rug for you. Miss Guile." "Thank you, no. I think I would better go inside. It is really too windy--" "The wind can't get at you back here in this cubbyhole," he protested. "Do sit down. I'll have you as snug as a bug in a rug before you can say Jack Robinson. See! Now stick 'em out and I'll wrap it around them. There! You're as neatly done up as a mummy and a good deal better off, because you are a long way short of being two thousand years old." "How is your head, Mr. Schmidt?" she inquired with grave concern. "You seem to be quite crazy. I hope--" "Every one is a little bit mad, don't you think? Especially in moments of great excitement. I daresay my head _has_ been turned quite appreciably, and I'm glad that you've been kind enough to notice it. Where is Mrs. Gaston?" He was vastly exhilarated. She regarded him with eyes that sparkled and belied the unamiable nature of her reply. "The poor lady is where she is not at all likely to be annoyed, Mr. Schmidt." Then she took up a magazine and coolly began to run through the pages. He waited for a moment, considerably dashed, and then said "Oh," in a very unfriendly manner. She found her place in the magazine, assumed a more comfortable position, and, with noteworthy resolution, set about reading as if her life depended upon it. He sat down, pulled the rug up to his chin, and stared out at the great, heaving billows. Suddenly remembering another injury, he felt once more of the back of his head. "By jove!" he exclaimed. "There _is_ a lump there." "I can't hear you," she said, allowing the magazine to drop into her lap, but keeping her place carefully marked with one of her fingers. "I can hear you perfectly," he said. "It's the way the wind blows," she explained. "Easily remedied," said he. "I'll move into Mrs. Gaston's chair if you think it will help any." "Do!" she said promptly. "You will not disturb me in the least,--unless you talk." She resumed her reading, half a page above the finger tip. He moved over and arranged himself comfortably, snugly in Mrs. Gaston's chair. Their elbows almost met. He was prepared to be very patient. For a long time she continued to read, her warm, rosy cheek half-averted, her eyes applied to their task with irritating constancy. He did not despair. Some wise person once had told him that it was only necessary to give a woman sufficient time and she would be the one to despair. A few passengers possessed of proud sea-legs, staggered past the snug couple on their ridiculous rounds of the ship. If they thought of Miss Guile and R. Schmidt at all it was with the scorn that is usually devoted to youth at its very best. There could be no doubt in the passing mind that these two were sweethearts who managed to thrive on the smallest of comforts. At last his patience was rewarded. She lowered the magazine and stifled a yawn--but not a real one. "Have you read it?" she inquired composedly. "A part of it," he said. "Over your shoulder." "Is that considered polite in Vienna?" "If you only knew what a bump I've got on the back of my head you wouldn't be so ungracious." he said. "I couldn't possibly know, could I?" He leaned forward and indicated the spot on the back of his head, first removing his cap. She laughed nervously, and then gently rubbed her fingers over the thick hair. "There is a dreadful lump!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how sorry I am. Do--do you feel faint or--or--I mean, is it very painful?" "Not now," he replied, replacing his cap and favouring her with his most engaging smile. She smiled in response, betraying not the slightest sign of embarrassment. As a matter of fact, she was, if anything, somewhat too self-possessed. "I remember falling down stairs once," she said, "and getting a stupendous bump on my forehead. But that was a great many years ago and I cried. How was I to know that it hurt you, Mr. Schmidt, when you neglected to cry?" "Heroes never cry," said he. "It isn't considered first-class fiction, you know." "Am I to regard you as a hero?" "If you will be so kind, please." She laughed outright at this. "I think I rather like you, Mr. Schmidt," she said, with unexpected candour. "Oh, I fancy I'm not at all bad," said he, after a momentary stare of astonishment. "I am especially good in rough weather," he went on, trying to forget that he was a prince of the royal blood, a rather difficult matter when one stops to consider he was not in the habit of hearing people say that they rather liked him. "Do your friends come from Vienna?" she inquired abruptly. "Yes," he said, and then saved his face as usual by adding under his breath: "but they don't live there." It was not in him to lie outright, hence the handy way of appeasing his conscience. "They are very interesting looking men, especially the younger. I cannot remember when I have seen a more attractive man." "He is a splendid chap," exclaimed Robin, with genuine enthusiasm. "I am very fond of Dank." She was silent for a moment. Something had failed, and she was rather glad of it. "Do you like New York?" she asked. "Immensely. I met a great many delightful people there. Miss Guile. You say you do not know the Blithers family? Mr. Blithers is a rare old bird." "Isn't there some talk of his daughter being engaged to the Prince of Graustark?" He felt that his ears were red. "The newspapers hinted at something of the sort, I believe." He was suddenly possessed by the curious notion that he was being "pumped" by his fair companion. Indeed, a certain insistent note had crept into her voice and her eyes were searching his with an intentness that had not appeared in them until now. "Have you seen him?" "The Prince?" "Yes. What is he like?" "I've seen pictures of him," he equivocated. "Rather nice looking, I should say." "Of course he is like all foreign noblemen and will leap at the Blithers millions if he gets the chance. I sometimes feel sorry for the poor wretches." There was more scorn than pity in the way she said it, however, and her velvety eyes were suddenly hard and uncompromising. He longed to defend himself, in the third person, but could not do so for very strong and obvious reasons. He allowed himself the privilege, however, of declaring that foreign noblemen are not always as black as they are painted. And then, for a very excellent reason, he contrived to change the subject by asking where she was going on the continent. "I may go to Vienna," she said, with a smile that served to puzzle rather than to delight him. He was more than ever convinced that she was playing with him. "But pray do not look so gloomy, Mr. Schmidt, I shall not make any demands upon your time while I am there. You may--" "I am quite sure of that," he interrupted, with his ready smile. "You see, I am a person of no consequence in Vienna, while you--Ah, well, as an American girl you will be hobnobbing with the nobility while the humble Schmidt sits afar off and marvels at the kindness of a fate that befell him in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and yet curses the fate that makes him unworthy of the slightest notice from the aforesaid American girl. For, I daresay, Miss Guile, you, like all American girls, are ready to leap at titles." "That really isn't fair, Mr. Schmidt," she protested, flushing. "Why should you and I quarrel over a condition that cannot apply to either of us? You are not a nobleman, and I am not a title-seeking American girl. So, why all this beautiful irony?" "It only remains for me to humbly beg your pardon and to add that if you come to Vienna my every waking hour shall be devoted to the pleasure of--" "I am sorry I mentioned it, Mr. Schmidt," she interrupted coldly. "You may rest easy, for I shall not keep you awake for a single hour. Besides, I may not go to Vienna at all." "I am sure you would like Vienna," he said, somewhat chilled by her manner. "I have been there, with my parents, but it was a long time ago. I once saw the Emperor and often have I seen the wonderful Prince Liechtenstein." "Have you travelled extensively in Europe?" She was smiling once more. "I don't know what you would consider extensively," she said. "I was educated in Paris, I have spent innumerable winters in Rome and quite as many summers in Scotland, England, Switzerland, Germ--" "I know who you are!" he cried out enthusiastically. To his amazement, a startled expression leaped into her eyes. "You are travelling under an assumed name." She remained perfectly still, watching him with an anxious smile on her lips. "You are no other than Miss Baedeker, the well-known authoress." It seemed to him that she breathed deeply. At any rate, her brow cleared and her smile was positively enchanting. Never, in all his life, had he gazed upon a lovelier face. His heart began to beat with a rapidity that startled him, and a queer little sensation, as of smothering, made it difficult for him to speak naturally in his next attempt. "In that case, my pseudonym should be Guide, not Guile," she cried merrily. The dimples played in her cheeks and her eyes were dancing. "B. stands for Baedeker, I'm sure. Baedeker Guide. If the B. isn't for Baedeker, what is it for?" "Are you asking what the B. really stands for, Mr. Schmidt?" "In a round-about way, Miss Guile," he admitted. "My name is Bedelia," she said, with absolute sincerity. "Me mither is Irish, d'ye see?" "By jove, it's worth a lot of trouble to get you to smile like that," he cried admiringly. "It is the first really honest smile you've displayed. If you knew how it improves you, you'd be doing it all of the time." "Smiles are sometimes expensive." "It depends on the market." "I never take them to a cheap market. They are not classed as necessities." "You couldn't offer them to any one who loves luxuries more than I do." "You pay for them only with compliments, I see, and there is nothing so cheap." "Am I to take that as a rebuke?" "If possible," she said sweetly. At this juncture, the miserable Hobbs hove into sight, not figuratively but literally. He came surging across the deck in a mad dash from one haven to another, or, more accurately, from post to post. "I beg pardon, sir," he gasped, finally steadying himself on wide-spread legs within easy reach of Robin's sustaining person. "There is a wireless for Mr. Totten, sir, but when I took it to 'im he said to fetch it to you, being unable to hold up 'is head, wot with the wretched meal he had yesterday and the--" "I see, Hobbs. Well, where is it?" Hobbs looked embarrassed. "Well, you see, sir, I 'esitated about giving it to you when you appear to be so--" "Never mind. You may give it to me. Miss Guile will surely pardon me if I devote a second or two to an occupation she followed so earnestly up to a very short time ago." "Pray forget that I am present, Mr. Schmidt," she said, and smiled upon the bewildered Hobbs, who after an instant delivered the message to his master. Robin read it through and at the end whistled softly. "Take it to Mr. Totten, Hobbs, and see if it will not serve to make him hold up his head a little." "Very good, sir. I hope it will. Wouldn't it be wise for me to hannounce who it is from, sir, to sort of prepare him for--" "He knows who it is from, Hobbs, so you needn't worry. It is from home, if it will interest you, Hobbs." "Thank you, sir, it does interest me. I thought it might be from Mr. Blithers." Robin's scowl sent him scuttling away a great deal more rigidly than when he came. "Idiot!" muttered the young man, still scowling. There was silence between the two for a few seconds. Then she spoke disinterestedly: "Is it from the Mr. Blithers who has the millions and the daughter who wants to marry a prince?" "Merely a business transaction, Miss Guile," he said absently. He was thinking of Romano's message. "So it would appear." "I beg pardon? I was--er--thinking--" "It was of no consequence, Mr. Schmidt," she said airily. He picked up the thread once more. "As a matter of fact, I've heard it said that Miss Blithers refused to marry the Prince." "Is it possible?" with fine irony. "Is he such a dreadful person as all that?" "I'm sure I don't know," murmured Robin uncomfortably. "He may be no more dreadful than she." "I cannot hear you, Mr. Schmidt," she persisted, with unmistakeable malice in her lovely eyes. "I'm rather glad that you didn't," he confessed. "Silly remark, you know." "Well, I hope she doesn't marry him," said Miss Guile. "So do I," said R. Schmidt, and their eyes met. After a moment, she looked away, her first surrender to the mysterious something that lay deep in his. "It would prove that all American girls are not so black as they're painted, wouldn't it?" she said, striving to regain the ground she had lost by that momentary lapse. "Pray do not overlook the fact that I am half American," he said. "You must not expect me to say that they paint at all." "Schmidt is a fine old American name," she mused, the mischief back in her eyes. "And so is Bedelia," said he. "Will you pardon me, Mr. Schmidt, if I express surprise that you speak English without the tiniest suggestion of an accent?" "I will pardon you for everything and anything, Miss Guile," said he, quite too distinctly. She drew back in her chair and the light of raillery died in her eyes. "What an imperial sound it has!" "And why not? The R stands for Rex." "Ah, that accounts for the King's English!" "Certainly," he grinned. "The king can do no wrong, don't you see?" "Your servant who was here speaks nothing but the King's English, I perceive. Perhaps that accounts for a great deal." "Hobbs? I mean to say,'Obbs? I confess that he has taught me many tricks of the tongue. He is one of the crown jewels." Suddenly, and without reason, she appeared to be bored. As a matter of fact, she hid an incipient yawn behind her small gloved hand. "I think I shall go to my room. Will you kindly unwrap me, Mr. Schmidt?" He promptly obeyed, and then assisted her to her feet, steadying her against the roll of the vessel. "I shall pray for continuous rough weather," he announced, with as gallant a bow as could be made under the circumstances. "Thank you," she said, and he was pleased to take it that she was not thanking him for a physical service. A few minutes later he was in his own room, and she was in hers, and the promenade deck was as barren as the desert of Sahara. He found Count Quinnox stretched out upon his bed, attended not only by Hobbs but also the reanimated Dank. The crumpled message lay on the floor. "I'm glad you waited awhile," said the young lieutenant, getting up from the trunk on which he had been sitting. "If you had come any sooner you would have heard words fit only for a soldier to hear. It really was quite appalling." "He's better now," said Hobbs, more respectfully than was his wont. It was evident that he had sustained quite a shock. "Well, what do you think of it?" demanded the Prince, pointing to the message. "Of all the confounded impudence--" began the Count healthily, and then uttered a mighty groan of impotence. It was clear that he could not do justice to the occasion a second time. Robin picked up the Marconigram, and calmly smoothed out the crinkles. Then he read it aloud, very slowly and with extreme disgust in his fine young face. It was a lengthy communication from Baron Romano, the Prime Minister in Edelweiss. "'Preliminary agreement signed before hearing Blithers had bought London, Paris, Berlin. He cables his immediate visit to G. Object now appears clear. All newspapers in Europe print despatches from America that marriage is practically arranged between R. and M. Interviews with Blithers corroborate reported engagement. Europe is amused. Editorials sarcastic. Price on our securities advance two points on confirmation of report. We are bewildered. Also vague rumour they have eloped, but denied by B. Dawsbergen silent. What does it all mean? Wire truth to me. People are uneasy. Gourou will meet you in Paris.'" [Illustration: "I shall pray for continuous rough weather"] In the adjoining suite, Miss Guile was shaking Mrs. Gaston out of a long-courted and much needed sleep. The poor lady sat up and blinked feebly at the excited, starry-eyed girl. "Wake up!" cried Bedelia impatiently. "What do you think? I have a perfectly wonderful suspicion--perfectly wonderful." "How can you be so unfeeling?" moaned the limp lady. "This R. Schmidt is Prince Robin of Graustark!" cried the girl excitedly. "I am sure of it--just as sure as can be." Mrs. Gaston's eyes were popping, not with amazement but alarm. "Do lie down, child," she whimpered. "Marie! The sleeping powders at once! Do--" "Oh, I'm not mad," cried the girl. "Now listen to me and I'll tell you why I believe--yes, actually believe him to be the--" "Marie, do you hear me?" Miss Guile shook her vigorously. "Wake up! It isn't a nightmare. Now listen!" CHAPTER XI THE LIEUTENANT RECEIVES ORDERS The next day brought not only an agreeable change in the weather but a most surprising alteration in the manner of Mrs. Gaston, whose attitude toward R. Schmidt and his friends had been anything but amicable up to the hour of Miss Guile's discovery. The excellent lady, recovering very quickly from her indisposition became positively polite to the hitherto repugnant Mr. Schmidt. She melted so abruptly and so completely that the young man was vaguely troubled. He began to wonder if his incognito had been pierced, so to speak. It was not reasonable to suppose that Miss Guile was personally responsible for this startling transition from the inimical to the gracious on the part of her companion; the indifference of Miss Guile herself was sufficient proof to the contrary. Therefore, when Mrs. Gaston nosed him out shortly after breakfast and began to talk about the beautiful day in a manner so thoroughly respectful that it savoured of servility, he was taken-aback, flabbergasted. She seemed to be on the point of dropping her knee every time she spoke to him, and there was an unmistakable tremor of excitement in her voice even when she confided to him that she adored the ocean when it was calm. He forbore asking when Miss Guile might be expected to appear on deck for her constitutional but she volunteered the information, which was neither vague nor yet definite. In fact, she said that Miss Guile would be up soon, and soon is a word that has a double meaning when applied to the movements of capricious womanhood. It may mean ten minutes and it may mean an hour and a half. Mrs. Gaston's severely critical eyes were no longer severe, albeit they were critical. She took him in from head to foot with the eye of an appraiser, and the more she took him in the more she melted, until at last in order to keep from completely dissolving, she said good-bye to him and hurried off to find Miss Guile. Now it is necessary to relate that Miss Guile had been particularly firm in her commands to Mrs. Gaston. She literally had stood the excellent lady up in a corner and lectured her for an hour on the wisdom of silence. In the first place, Mrs. Gaston was given to understand that she was not to breathe it to a soul that R. Schmidt was not R. Schmidt, and she was not to betray to him by word or sign that he was suspected of being the Prince of Graustark. Moreover, the exacting Miss Guile laid great stress upon another command: R. Schmidt was never to know that she was _not_ Miss Guile, but some one else altogether. "You're right, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Gaston in an excited whisper as she burst in upon her fair companion, who was having coffee and toast in her parlour. The more or less resuscitated Marie was waiting to do up her mistress's hair, and the young lady herself was alluringly charming in spite of the fact that it was not already "done up." "He is the--er--he is just what you think." "Good heavens, you haven't gone and done it, have you," cried the girl, a slim hand halting with a piece of toast half way to her lips. "Gone and done it?" "You haven't been blabbing, have you?" "How can you say that to me? Am I not to be trusted? Am I so weak and--" "Don't cry, you old dear! Forgive me. But now tell me--absolutely--just what you've been up to. Don't mind Marie. She is French. She can always hold her tongue." "Well, I've been talking with him, that's all. I'm sure he is the Prince. No ordinary male could be as sweet and agreeable and sunny as--" "Stop!" cried Miss Guile, with a pretty moue, putting the tips of her fingers to her ears after putting the piece of toast into her mouth. "One would think you were a sentimental old maid instead of a cold-blooded, experienced, man-hating married woman." "You forget that I am a widow, my dear. Besides, it is disgusting for one to speak with one's mouth full of buttered toast. It--" "Oh, how I used to loathe you when you kept forever ding-donging at me about the way I ate when I was almost starving. Were you never a hungry little kid? Did you never lick jam and honey off your fingers and--" "Many and many a time," confessed Mrs. Gaston, beaming once more and laying a gentle, loving hand on the girl's shoulder. Miss Guile dropped her head over until her cheek rested on the caressing hand, and munched toast with blissful abandon. "Now tell me what you've been up to," she said, and Mrs. Gaston repeated every word of the conversation she had had with R. Schmidt, proving absolutely nothing but stoutly maintaining that her intuition was completely to be depended upon. "And, oh," she whispered in conclusion, "wouldn't it be perfectly wonderful if you two should fall in love with each other--" "Don't be silly!" "But you have said that if he should fall in love with you for yourself and not because--" "I have also said that I will not marry any man, prince, duke, king, count or anything else unless I am in love with him. Don't overlook that, please." "But he is really very nice. I should think you _could_ fall in love with him. Just think how it would please your father and mother. Just think--" "I won't be bullied!" "Am I bullying you?" in amazement. "No; but father tries to bully me, and you know it." "You must admit that the--this Mr. Schmidt is handsome, charming, bright--" "I admit nothing," said Miss Guile resolutely, and ordered Marie to dress her hair as carefully as possible. "Take as long as you like, Marie. I shall not go on deck for hours." "I--I told him you would be up soon," stammered the poor, man-hating ex-governess. "You did?" said Miss Guile, with what was supposed to be a deadly look in her eyes. "Well, he enquired," said the other. "Anything else?" domineered the beauty. "I forgot to mention one thing. He _did_ ask me if your name was really Bedelia." "And what did you tell him?" cried the girl, in sudden agitation. "I managed to tell him that it was," said Mrs. Gaston stiffly. "Good!" cried Miss Guile, vastly relieved, and not at all troubled over the blight that had been put upon a very worthy lady's conscience. When she appeared on deck long afterward, she found every chair occupied. A warm sun, a far from turbulent sea, and a refreshing breeze had brought about a marvellous transformation. Every one was happy, every one had come back from the grave to gloat over the grim reaper's failure to do his worst, although in certain cases he had been importuned to do it without hesitation. She made several brisk rounds of the deck; then, feeling that people were following her with their eyes,--admiringly, to be sure, but what of that?--she abandoned the pleasant exercise and sought the seclusion of the sunless corner where her chair was stationed. The ship's daily newspaper was just off the press and many of the loungers were reading the brief telegraphic news from the capitals of the world. During her stroll she passed several groups of men and women who were lightly, even scornfully employed in discussing an article of news which had to do with Mr. Blithers and the Prince of Graustark. Filled with an acute curiosity, she procured a copy of the paper from a steward, and was glancing at the head lines as she made her way into her corner. Double-leaded type appeared over the rumoured engagment of Miss Maud Applegate Blithers, the beautiful and accomplished daughter of the great capitalist, and Robin, Prince of Graustark. A queer little smile played about her lips as she folded the paper for future perusal. Turning the earner of the deck-building she almost collided with R. Schmidt, who stood leaning against the wall, scanning the little newspaper with eyes that were blind to everything else. "Oh!" she gasped. "I'm sorry," he exclaimed, crumpling the paper in his hand as he backed away, flushing. "Stupid of me. Good morning." "Good morning, Mr. Schmidt. It wasn't your fault. I should have looked where I was going. 'Stop, look and listen,' as they say at the railway crossing." "'Danger' is one of the commonest signs, Miss Guile. It lurks everywhere, especially around corners. I see you have a paper. It appears that Miss Blithers and the Prince are to be married after all." "Yes; it is quite apparent that the Blithers family intends to have a title at any cost," she said, and her eyes flashed. "Would you like to take a few turns, Miss Guile?" he inquired, a trace of nervousness in his manner. "I think I can take you safely over the hurdles and around the bunkers." He indicated the outstretched legs along the promenade deck and the immovable groups of chatterers along the rail. Before deciding, she shot an investigating glance into the corner. Mrs. Gaston was not only there but was engaged in conversation with the grey-moustached gentleman in a near-by chair. It required but half a glance to show that Mr. Totten was unmistakably interested in something the voluble lady had just said to him. "No, thank you, Mr. Schmidt," said Miss Guile hastily, and then hurried over to her chair, a distinct cloud on her smooth brow. Robin, considering himself dismissed, whirled and went his way, a dark flush spreading over his face. Never, in all his life, had he been quite so out of patience with the world as on this bright, sunny morning. Miss Guile's frown deepened when her abrupt appearance at Mrs. Gaston's side caused that lady to look up with a guilty start and to break off in the middle of a sentence that had begun with: "International marriages, as a rule, are--Oh!" Mr. Totten arose and bowed with courtly grace to the new arrival on the scene. He appeared to be immensely relieved. "A lovely morning, Miss Guile," he said as he stooped to arrange her rug. "I hear that you were not at all disturbed by yesterday's blow." "I was just telling Mr. Totten that you are a wonderful sailor," said Mrs. Gaston, a note of appeal in her voice. "He says his friend, Mr. Schmidt, is also a good sailor. Isn't it perfectly wonderful?" "I can't see anything wonderful about it," said Miss Guile, fixing the ex-governess with a look that seared. "We were speaking of this rumoured engagement of the Prince of Graustark and--er--what's the name?" He glanced at his newspaper. "Miss Blithers, of course. I enquired of Mrs.--er--Gaston if she happens to know the young lady. She remembers seeing her frequently as a very small child." "In Paris," said Mrs. Gaston. "One couldn't very well help seeing her, you know. She was the only child of the great Mr. Blithers, whose name was on every one's lips at the--" Miss Guile interrupted. "It would be like the great Mr. Blithers to buy this toy prince for his daughter--as a family plaything or human lap-dog, or something of the sort, wouldn't it?" Mr. Totten betrayed no emotion save amusement. Miss Guile was watching through half-closed eyes. There was a noticeable stiffening of the prim figure of Mrs. Gaston. "I've no doubt Mr. Blithers can afford to buy the most expensive of toys for his only child. You Americans go in for the luxuries of life. What could be more extravagant than the purchase of a royal lap-dog? The only drawback I can suggest is that the Prince might turn out to be a cur, and then where would Mr. Blithers be?" "It is more to the point to ask where Miss Blithers would be, Mr. Totten," said Miss Guile, with a smile that caused the fierce old warrior to afterwards declare to Dank that he never had seen a lovelier girl in all his life. "Ah, but we spoke of the Prince as a lap-dog or a cur, Miss Guile, not as a watch-dog," said he. "I see," said Miss Guile, after a moment. "He wouldn't sleep with one eye open. I see." "The lap of luxury is an enviable resting-place. I know of no prince who would despise it." "But a wife is sometimes a thing to be despised," said she. "Quite true," said Mr. Totten. "I've no doubt that the Prince of Graustark will despise his wife, and for that reason will be quite content to close both eyes and let her go on searching for her heart's desire." "She would be his Princess. Could he afford to allow his love of luxury to go as far as that?" "Quite as justifiably, I should say, as Mr. Blithers when he delivers his only child into--into bondage." "You were about to use another term." "I was, but I thought in time, Miss Guile." R. Schmidt sauntered briskly past at this juncture, looking neither to the right nor left. They watched him until he disappeared down the deck. "I think Mr. Schmidt is a perfectly delightful young man," said Mrs. Gaston, simply because she couldn't help it. "You really think he will marry Miss Blithers, Mr. Totten?" ventured Miss Guile. "He? Oh, I see--the Prince?" Mr. Totten came near to being no diplomat. "How should I know, Miss Guile?" "Of course! How _should_ you know?" she cried. Mr. Totten found something to interest him in the printed sheet and proceeded to read it with considerable avidity. Miss Guile smiled to herself and purposely avoided the shocked look in Mrs. Gaston's eyes. "Bouillon at last," cried the agitated duenna, and peremptorily summoned one of the tray-bearing stewards. "I am famished." Evidently Mr. Totten did not care for his mid-morning refreshment, for, with the most courtly of smiles, he arose and left them to their bouillon. "Here comes Mr. Schmidt," whispered Mrs. Gaston excitedly, a few moments later, and at once made a movement indicative of hasty departure. "Sit still," said Miss Guile peremptorily. R. Schmidt again passed them by without so much as a glance in their direction. There was a very sweet smile on Miss Guile's lips as she closed her eyes and lay back in her chair. Once, twice, thrice, even as many as six times R. Schmidt strode rapidly by their corner, his head high and his face aglow. At last a queer little pucker appeared on the serene brow of the far from drowsy young lady whose eyes peeped through half closed lids. Suddenly she threw off her rug and with a brief remark to her companion arose and went to her cabin. Mrs. Gaston followed, not from choice but because the brief remark was in the form of a command. Soon afterward, R. Schmidt who had been joined by Dank, threw himself into his chair with a great sigh of fatigue and said: "'Gad, I've walked a hundred miles since breakfast. Have you a match?" "Hobbs has made a very curious discovery," said the young lieutenant, producing his match-box. There was a perturbed look in his eyes. "If Hobbs isn't careful he'll discover a new continent one of these days. He is always discovering something," said Robin, puffing away at his pipe. "But this is really interesting. It seems that he was in the hold when Miss Guile's maid came down to get into one of her mistress's trunks. Now, the first letter in Guile is G, isn't it? Well, Hobbs says there are at least half-a-dozen trunks there belonging to the young lady and that all of them are marked with a large red B. What do you make of it?" The Prince had stopped puffing at his pipe. "Hobbs may be mistaken in the maid. Dank. It is likely that they are not Miss Guile's trunks, at all." "He appears to be absolutely sure of his ground. He heard the maid mention Miss Guile's name when she directed the men to get one of the trunks out of the pile. That's what attracted his attention. He confided to me that you are interested in the young lady, and therefore it was quite natural for him to be similarly affected. 'Like master, like man,' d'ye see?" "Really, you know, Dank, I ought to dismiss Hobbs," said Robin irritably. "He is getting to be a dreadful nuisance. Always nosing around, trying to--" "But after all, sir, you'll have to admit that he has made a puzzling discovery. Why should her luggage be marked with a B?" "I should say because her name begins with a B," said Robin shortly. "In that case, it isn't Guile." "Obviously." The young man was thinking very hard. "And if it isn't Guile, there must be an excellent reason for her sailing under a false name. She doesn't look like an adventuress." R. Schmidt rewarded this remark with a cold stare. "Would you mind telling me what she does look like, Dank?" he enquired severely. The lieutenant flushed. "I have not had the same opportunity for observation that you've enjoyed, sir, but I should say, off-hand, that she looks like a very dangerous young person." "Do you mean to imply that she is--er--not altogether what one would call right?" Dank grinned. "Don't you regard her as rather perilously beautiful?" "Oh, I see. That's what you mean. I suppose you got _that_ from Hobbs, too." "Not at all. I have an excellent pair of eyes." "What are you trying to get at, Dank?" demanded Robin abruptly. "I'm trying to get to the bottom of Miss Guile's guile, if it please your royal highness," said the lieutenant coolly. "It is hard to connect the B and the G, you know." "But why should we deny her a privilege that we are enjoying, all three of us? Are we not in the same boat?" "Literally and figuratively. That explains nothing, however." "Have you a theory?" "There are many that we could advance, but, of course, only one of them could be the right one, even if we were acute enough to include it in our list of guesses. She may have an imperative reason for not disclosing her identity. For instance, she may be running away to get married." "That's possible," agreed Robin. "But not probable. She may be a popular music-hall favourite, or one of those peculiarly clever creatures known as the American newspaper woman, against whom we have been warned. Don't you regard it as rather significant that of all the people on this ship she should be one to attach herself to the unrecognised Prince of Graustark? Put two and two together, sir, and--" "I find it singularly difficult to put one and one together, Dank," said the Prince ruefully. "No; you are wrong in both of your guesses. I've encountered music-hall favourites and I can assure you she isn't one of them. And as for your statement that she attached herself to me, you were never so mistaken in your life. I give you my word, she doesn't care a hang whether I'm on the ship or clinging to a life preserver out there in the middle of the Atlantic. I have reason to know, Dank." "So be it," said Dank, but with doubt in his eyes. "You ought to know. I've never spoken to her, so--" "She thinks you are a dreadfully attractive chap, Dank," said Robin mischievously. "She said so only yesterday." Dank gave his prince a disgusted look, and smoked on in silence. His dignity was ruffled. "Her Christian name is Bedelia," ventured Robin, after a pause. "That doesn't get us anywhere," said Dank sourly. "And her mother is Irish." "Which accounts for those wonderful Irish blue eyes that--" "So you've noticed them, eh?" "Naturally." "I consider them a very dark grey." "I think we'd better get back to the luggage," said Dank hastily. "Hobbs thinks that she--" "Oh, Lord, Dank, don't tell me what Hobbs thinks," growled Robin. "Let her make use of all the letters in the alphabet if it pleases her. What is it to us? Moreover, she may be utilising a lot of borrowed trunks, who knows? Or B may have been her initial before she was divorced and--" "Divorced?" "--her maiden name restored," concluded Robin airily. "Simple deduction, Dank. Don't bother your head about her any longer. What we know isn't going to hurt us, and what we don't know isn't--" "Has it occurred to you that Russia may have set spies upon you--" "Nonsense!" "It isn't as preposterous as you--" "Come, old fellow, let's forget Miss Guile," cried Robin, slapping the lieutenant on the shoulder. "Let's think of the real peril,--Maud Applegate Blithers." He held up the ship's paper for Dank to see and then sat back to enjoy his companion's rage. An hour later Dank and Count Quinnox might have been seen seated side by side on the edge of a skylight at the tip-top of the ship's structure, engaged in the closest conversation. There was a troubled look in the old man's eyes and the light of adventure in those of his junior. The sum and substance of their discussion may be given in a brief sentence: Something would have to be done to prevent Robin from falling in love with the fascinating Miss Guile. "He is young enough and stubborn enough to make a fool of himself over her," the Count had said. "I wouldn't blame him, 'pon my soul I wouldn't. She is very attractive--ahem! You must be his safeguard, Dank. Go in and do as I suggest. You are a good looking chap and you've nothing to lose. So far as she is concerned, you are quite as well worth while as the fellow known as R. Schmidt. There's no reason why you shouldn't make the remainder of the passage pleasant for her, and at the same time enjoy yourself at nobody's expense." "They know by instinct, confound 'em," lamented Dank; "they know the real article, and you can't fool 'em. She knows that he is the high muck-a-muck in this party and she won't even look at me, you take my word for it." "At any rate, you can try, can't you?" said the Count impatiently. "Is it a command, sir?" "It is." "Very well, sir. I shall do my best." "We can't afford to have him losing his head over a pretty--er--a nobody, perhaps an adventuress,--at this stage of the game. I much prefer the impossible Miss Blithers, Dank, to this captivating unknown. At least we know who and what she is, and what she represents. But we owe it to our country and to Dawsbergen to see that he doesn't do anything--er--foolish. We have five days left of this voyage, Dank. They may be fatal days for him, if you do not come to the rescue." "They may be fatal days for me," said Dank, looking out over the ocean. CHAPTER XII THE LIEUTENANT REPORTS Five days later as the _Jupiter_ was discharging passengers at Plymouth, Count Quinnox and Lieutenant Dank stood well forward on the promenade deck watching the operations. The younger man was moody and distrait, an unusual condition for him but one that had been noticeably recurrent during the past two or three days. He pulled at his smart little moustache and looked out upon the world through singularly lack-lustre eyes. Something had gone wrong with him, and it was something that he felt in duty bound to lay before his superior, the grim old Minister of War and hereditary chief of the Castle Guard. Occasionally his sombre gaze shifted to a spot farther down the deck, where a young man and woman leaned upon the rail and surveyed the scene of activity below. "What is on your mind, Dank?" asked the Count abruptly. "Out with it." Dank started. "It's true, then? I _do_ look as much of a fool as I feel, eh?" There was bitterness in his usually cheery voice. "Feel like a fool, eh?" growled the old soldier. "Pretty mess I've made of the business," lamented Dank surlily. "Putting myself up as a contender against a fellow like Robin, and dreaming that I could win out, even for a minute! Good Lord, what an ass I am! Why we've only made it worse, Count. We've touched him with the spur of rivalry, and what could be more calamitous than that? From being a rather matter-of-fact, indifferent observer, he becomes a bewildering cavalier bent on conquest at any cost. I am swept aside as if I were a parcel of rags. For two days I stood between him and the incomparable Miss Guile. Then he suddenly arouses himself. My cake is dough. I am nobody. My feet get cold, as they say in America,--although I don't know why they say it. What has the temperature of one's feet to do with it? See! There they are. They are constantly together, walking, sitting, standing, eating, drinking, reading--_Eh bien!_ You have seen with your own eyes. The beautiful Miss Guile has bewitched our Prince, and my labour is not only lost but I myself am lost. _Mon dieu!_" The Count stared at him in perplexity for a moment. Then a look of surprise came into his eyes,--surprise not unmingled with scorn. "You don't mean to say, Dank, that you've fallen in love with her? Oh, you absurd fledgelings. Will you--" "Forgive my insolence, Count, but it is forty years since you were a fledgeling. You don't see things as you saw them forty years ago. Permit me to remind you that you are a grandfather." "Your point is well taken, my lad," said the Count, with a twinkle in his eye. "You can't help being young any more than I can help being old. Youth is perennial, old age a winding-sheet. I am to take it, then, that you've lost your heart to the fair--" "Why not?" broke in Dank fiercely. "Why should it appear incredible to you? Is she not the most entrancing creature in all the world? Is she not the most appealing, the most adorable, the most feminine of all her sex? Is it possible that one can be so old that it is impossible for him to feel the charm, the loveliness, the--" "For heaven's sake, Dank," said the old man in alarm, "don't gesticulate so wildly. People will think we are quarrelling. Calm yourself, my boy." "You set a task for me and I obey. You urge me to do my duty by Graustark. You tell me I am a handsome dog and irresistible. She will be overwhelmed by my manly beauty, my valour, my soldierly bearing,--so say you! And what is the outcome? I--I, the vain-glorious,--I am wrapped around her little finger so tightly that all the king's horses and all the king's men--" "Halt!" commanded his general softly. "You are turning tail like the veriest coward. Right about, face! Would you surrender to a slip of a girl whose only weapons are a pair of innocent blue eyes and a roguish smile? Be a man! Stand by your guns. Outwardly you are the equal of R. Schmidt, whose sole--" "That sounds very well, sir, but how can I take up arms against my Prince? He stands by _his_ guns--as you may see, sir,--and, dammit all, I'm no traitor. I've just got to stand by 'em with him. That rot about all being fair in love and war is the silliest--Oh, well, there's no use whining about it. I'm mad about her, and so is he. You can't--" The Count stopped him with a sharp gesture. A look of real concern appeared in his eyes. "Do you believe that he is actually in love with this girl?" "Heels over head," barked the unhappy lieutenant. "I've never seen a worse case." "This is serious--more serious than I thought." "It's horrible," declared Dank, but not thinking of the situation from the Count's point of view. "We do not know who or what she is. She may be--" "I beg your pardon, sir, but we do know what she is," said the other firmly. "You will not pretend to say that she is not a gentlewoman. She is cultured, refined--" "I grant all of that," said the Count. "I am not blind, Dank, But it seems fairly certain that her name is not Guile. We--" "Nor is his name Schmidt. That's no argument, sir." "Still we cannot take the chance, my lad. We must put an end to this fond adventure. Robin is our most precious possession. We must not--Why do you shake your head?" "We are powerless, sir. If he makes up his mind to marry Miss Guile, he'll do it in spite of anything we can do. That is, provided she is of the same mind." "God defend us, I fear you are right," groaned the old Count. "He has declared himself a hundred times, and he is a wilful lad. I recall the uselessness of the opposition that was set up against his lamented mother when she decided to marry Grenfell Lorry. 'Gad, sir, it was like butting into a stone wall. She said she _would_ and she did. I fear me that Robin has much of his mother in him." "Behold in me the first sacrifice," declaimed Dank, lifting his eyes heavenward. "Oh, you will recover," was the unsympathetic rejoinder. "It is for him that I fear, not for you." "Recover, sir?" in despair. "I fear you misjudge my humble heart--" "Bosh! Your heart has been through a dozen accidents of this character, Dank, and it is good for a hundred more. I'll rejoice when this voyage is ended and we have him safe on his way to Edelweiss." "That will not make the slightest difference, sir. If he sets his head to marry her he'll do it if we take him to the North Pole. All Graustark can't stop him,--nor old man Blithers either. Besides, he says he isn't going to Edelweiss immediately." "That is news to me." "I thought it would be. He came to the decision not more than two hours ago. He is determined to spend a couple of weeks at Interlaken." "Interlaken?" "Yes. Miss Guile expects to stop there for a fortnight after leaving Paris." "I must remonstrate with Robin--at once," declared the old man. "He is needed in Graustark. He must be made to realise the importance of--" "And what are you going to do if he declines to realise anything but the importance of a fortnight in the shadow of the Jungfrau?" "God help me, I don't know, Dank." The Count's brow was moist, and he looked anything but an unconquerable soldier. "I told him we were expected to reach home by the end of next week, and he said that a quiet fortnight in the Alps would make new men of all of us." "Do you mean to say he expects me to dawdle--" "More than that, sir. He also expects me to dawdle too. I shall probably shoot myself before the two weeks are over." "I have it! I shall take Mrs. Gaston into my confidence. It is the only hope, I fear. I shall tell her that he is--" "No hope there," said Dank mournfully. "Haven't you noticed how keen she is to have them together all the time? She's as wily as a fox. Never misses a chance. Hasn't it occurred to you to wonder why she drags you off on the slightest pretext when you happen to be in the way? She's done it a hundred times. Always leaving them alone together. My God, how I despise that woman! Not once but twenty times a day she finds an excuse to interfere when I am trying to get in a few words with Miss Guile. She's forever wanting me to show her the engine-room or the Captain's bridge or the wireless office or--why, by Jove, sir, it was only yesterday that she asked me to come and look at the waves. Said she'd found a splendid place to see them from, just as if the whole damned Atlantic wasn't full of 'em. And isn't she always looking for porpoises on the opposite side of the ship? And how many whales and ice-bergs do you think she's been trying to find in the last five days? No, sir! There's no hope there!" "'Pon my soul!" was all that the poor Minister of War, an adept in strategy, was able to exclaim. The _Jupiter_ disgorged most of her passengers at Cherbourg and the descent upon Paris had scarcely begun when the good ship steamed away for Antwerp, Bremen and Hamburg. She was one of the older vessels in the vast fleet of ships controlled by the American All-Seas and All-Ports Company, and she called wherever there was a port open to trans-Atlantic navigation. She was a single factor in the great monopoly described as the "Billion Dollar Boast." The United States had been slow to recognise the profits of seas that were free, but when she did wake up she proceeded to act as if she owned them and all that therein lay. Her people spoke of the Gulf Stream as "ours"; of the Banks of Newfoundland as "ours"--or in some instances as "ourn"; of Liverpool, Hamburg, London, Bremen and other such places as "our European terminals"; and of the various oceans, seas and navigable waters as "a part of the system." Where once the Stars and Stripes were as rare as hummingbirds in Baffin's Bay, the flags were now so thick that they resembled Fourth of July decorations on Fifth avenue, and it was almost impossible to cross the Atlantic without dodging a hundred vessels on which Dixie was being played, coming and going. A man from New Hampshire declared, after one of his trips over and back, that he cheered the good old tune so incessantly that his voice failed on the third day out, both ways, and he had to voice his patriotism with a tin horn. Ships of the All-Seas and All-Ports Company fairly stuffed the harbours of the world. America was awake at last--wide awake!--and the necessity for prodding her was now limited to the task of putting her to sleep long enough to allow other nations a chance to scrape together enough able bodied seamen to man the ships. William W. Blithers was one of the directors of the All-Seas and All-Ports Company. He was the first American to awake. For some unaccountable reason Miss Guile and her companion preferred to travel alone to Paris. They had a private compartment, over which a respectful but adamantine conductor exercised an authority that irritated R. Schmidt beyond expression. The rest of the train was crowded to its capacity, and here was desirable space going to waste in the section occupied by the selfish Miss Guile. He couldn't understand it in her. Was it, after all, to be put down as a simple steamer encounter? Was she deliberately snubbing him, now that they were on land? Was he, a prince of the royal blood, to be tossed aside by this purse-proud American as if he were the simplest of simpletons? And what did she mean by stationing an officious hireling before her door to order him away when he undertook to pay her a friendly visit?--to offer his own and Hobbs' services in case they were needed in Paris. Why should she lock her confounded door anyway,--and draw the curtains? There were other whys too numerous to mention, and there wasn't an answer to a single one of them. The whole proceeding was incomprehensible. To begin with, she certainly made no effort to conceal the fact that she was trying to avoid him from the instant the tender drew alongside to take off the passengers. As a matter of fact, she seemed to be making a point of it. And yet, the evening before, she had appeared rather enchanted with the prospect of seeing him at Interlaken. It was not until the boat-train was nearing the environs of Paris that Hobbs threw some light over the situation, with the result that it instantly became darker than ever before. It appears that Miss Guile was met at the landing by a very good-looking young man who not only escorted her to the train but actually entered it with her, and was even now enjoying the luxury of a private compartment as well as the contents of a large luncheon hamper, to say nothing of an uninterrupted view of something far more inspiring than the scenery. "Frenchman?" inquired Dank listlessly. "American, I should say, sir," said Hobbs, balancing himself in the corridor outside the door and sticking his head inside with more confidence than a traveller usually feels when travelling from Cherbourg to Paris. "But I wouldn't swear to it, sir. I didn't 'ear a word he said, being quite some distance away at the time. Happearances are deceptive, as I've said a great many times. A man may look like an American and still be almost anything else, see wot I mean? On the other hand, a man may look like almost nothing and still be American to his toes. I remember once saying to--" "That's all right, Hobbs," broke in R. Schmidt sternly. "We also remember what you said, so don't repeat it. How soon do we get in?" Hobbs cheerfully looked at his watch. "I couldn't say positive, sir, but I should think in about fourteen and a 'alf minutes, or maybe a shade under--between fourteen and fourteen and a 'alf, sir. As I was saying, he was a most intelligent looking chap, sir, and very 'andsome of face and figger. Between twenty-four and twenty-five, I dare say. Light haired, smooth-faced, quite tall and dressed in dark blue with a cravat, sir, that looked like cerise but may have been--" "For heaven's sake, Hobbs, let up!" cried Robin, throwing up his hands. "Yes, sir; certainly, sir. Did I mention that he wears a straw 'at with a crimson band on it? Well, if I didn't, he does. Hincidentally, they seemed greatly pleased to see each other. He kissed her hand, and looked as though he might have gone even farther than that if it 'adn't been for the crowd--" "That will do!" said Robin sharply, a sudden flush mounting to his cheek. "Very good, sir. Shall I get the bags down for the porters, sir? I beg pardon, sir,--" to one of the three surly gentlemen who sat facing the travellers from Graustark,--"my fault entirely. I don't believe it is damaged, sir. Allow me to--" "Thank you," growled the stranger. "I can put it on myself," and he jerked his hat out of Hobbs' hand and set it at a rather forbidding angle above a lowering brow. "Look what you're doing after this, will you?" "Certainly, sir," said Hobbs agreeably. "It's almost impossible to see without eyes in the back of one's head, don't you know. I 'ope--" "All right, _all_ right!" snapped the man, glaring balefully. "And let me tell you something else, my man. Don't go about knocking Americans without first taking a look. Just bear that in mind, will you?" "The surest way is to listen," began Hobbs loftily, but, catching a look from his royal master, desisted. He proceeded to get down the hand luggage. At the Gare St. Lazare, Robin had a brief glimpse of Miss Guile as she hurried with the crowd down to the cab enclosure, where her escort, the alert young stranger, put her into a waiting limousine, bundled Mrs. Gaston and Marie in after her, and then dashed away, obviously to see their luggage through the _douane_. She espied the tall figure of her fellow voyager near the steps and leaned forward to wave a perfunctory farewell to him. The car was creeping out toward the packed thoroughfare. It is possible that she expected him to dash among the chortling machines, at risk of life or limb, for a word or two at parting. If so, she was disappointed. He remained perfectly still, with uplifted hat, a faint smile on his lips and not the slightest sign of annoyance in his face. She smiled securely to herself as she leaned back in the seat, and was satisfied! Curiosity set its demand upon her an instant later, however, and she peered slyly through the little window in the back. He lifted his hat once more and she flushed to her throat as she quickly drew back into the corner. How in the world could he have seen her through that abominable slit in the limousine? And why was he now grinning so broadly? Count Quinnox found him standing there a few minutes later, twirling his stick and smiling with his eyes. Accompanying the old soldier was a slight, sharp-featured man with keen black eyes and a thin, pointed moustache of grey. This man was Gourou, Chief of Police and Commander of the Tower in Edelweiss, successor to the celebrated Baron Dangloss. After he had greeted his prince, the quiet little man announced that he had reserved for him an apartment at the Bristol. "I am instructed by the Prime Minister, your highness, to urge your immediate return to Edelweiss," he went on, lowering his voice. "The people are disturbed by the reports that have reached us during the past week or two, and Baron Romano is convinced that nothing will serve to subdue the feeling of uneasiness that prevails except your own declaration--in person--that these reports arc untrue." "I shall telegraph at once to Baron Romano that it is all poppy-cock," said Robin easily. "I refer, of course, to the reported engagement. I am not going to marry Miss Blithers and that's all there is to be said. You may see to it, baron, that a statement is issued to all of the Paris newspapers to-day, and to the correspondents for all the great papers in Europe and America. I have prepared this statement, under my own signature, and it is to be the last word in the matter. It is in my pocket at this instant. You shall have it when we reach the hotel--And that reminds me of another thing. I'm sorry that I shall have to ask you to countermand the reservation for rooms at the hotel you mention. I have already reserved rooms at the Ritz,--by wireless. We shall stop there. Where is Dank?" "The Ritz is hardly the place for--" But Robin clapped him on the back and favoured him with the good-natured, boyish smile that mastered even the fiercest of his counsellors, and the Minister of Police, being an astute man, heaved a deep sigh of resignation. "Dank is looking after the trunks, highness, and Hobbs is coming along with the hand luggage," he said. "The Ritz, you say? Then I shall have to instruct Lieutenant Dank to send the luggage there instead of to the Bristol. Pardon, your highness." He was off like a flash. Count Quinnox was gnawing his moustache. "See here, Robin," he said, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, "you are in Paris now and not on board a ship at sea. Miss Guile is a beautiful, charming, highly estimable young woman, and, I might as well say it straight out to your face, you ought not to subject her to the notoriety that is bound to follow if the newspapers learn that she is playing around Paris, no matter how innocently, with a prince whom--" "Just a moment, Count," interrupted Robin, a cold light in his now unsmiling eyes. "You are getting a little ahead of the game. Miss Guile is not going to the Ritz, nor do I expect her to play around Paris with me. As a matter of fact, she refused to tell me where she is to stop while here, and I am uncomfortably certain that I shall not see her unless by chance. On the other hand, I may as well be perfectly frank with you and say it straight out to _your_ face that I am going to try to find her if possible, but I am not mean enough to employ the methods common to such enterprises. I could have followed her car in another when she left here a few minutes ago; I could manage in a dozen ways to run her to earth, as the detectives do in the books, but I'd be ashamed to look her in the face if I did any of these things. I shall take a gentleman's chance, my dear Count, and trust to luck and the generosity of fate. You may be sure that I shall not annoy Miss Guile, and you may be equally sure that she--" "I beg your pardon, Robin, but I did not employ the word annoy," protested the Count. "--that she takes me for a gentleman if not for a prince," went on Robin, deliberately completing the sentence before he smiled his forgiveness upon the old man. "I selected the Ritz because all rich Americans go there, I'm told. I'm taking a chance." Quinnox had an obstinate strain in his make-up. He continued: "There is another side to the case, my boy. As a gentleman, you cannot allow this lovely girl to--er--well, to fall in love with you. That would be cruel, wantonly cruel. And it is just the thing that is bound to happen if you go on with--" "My dear Count, you forget that I am only R. Schmidt to her and but one of perhaps a hundred young men who have placed her in the same perilous position. Moreover, it's the other way 'round, sir. It is I who take the risk, not Miss Guile. I regret to say, sir, that if there is to be any falling in love, I am the one who is most likely to fall, and to fall hard. You assume that Miss Guile is heart-whole and fancy free. 'Gad, I wish that I could be sure of it!" He spoke with such fervour that the Count was indeed dismayed. "Robin, my lad, I beg of you to consider the consequences that--" "There's no use discussing it, old friend. Trust to luck. There is a bully good chance that she will send me about my business when the time comes and then the salvation of Graustark will be assured." He said it lightly but there was a dark look in his eyes that belied the jaunty words. "Am I to understand that you intend to--to ask her to marry you?" demanded the Count, profoundly troubled. "Remember, boy, that you are the Prince of Graustark, that you--" "But I'm not going to ask her to marry the Prince of Graustark. I'm going to ask her to marry R. Schmidt," said Robin composedly. "God defend us, Robin, I--I--" "God has all he can do to defend us from William W. Blithers, Count. Don't ask too much of him. What kind of a nation are we if we can't get along without asking God to defend us every time we see trouble ahead? And do you suppose he is going to defend us against a slip of a girl--" "Enough! Enough!" cried the Count, compressing his lips and glaring straight ahead. "That's the way to talk," cried Robin enthusiastically. "By the way, I hope Dank is clever enough to find out who that young fellow is while they are clearing the luggage in there. I had a good look at him just now. He is all that Hobbs describes and a little more. He is a hustler." CHAPTER XIII THE RED LETTER B In the Baron's room at the Ritz late that night there was held a secret conference. Two shadowy figures stole down the corridor at midnight and were admitted to the room, while Prince Robin slept soundly in his remote four-poster and dreamed of something that brought a gentle smile to his lips. The three conspirators were of the same mind: it was clear that something must be done. But what? That was the question. Gourou declared that the people were very much disturbed over the trick the great capitalist had played upon the cabinet; there were sullen threats of a revolt if the government insisted on the deposit of bonds as required by the agreement. More than that, there were open declarations that the daughter of Mr. Blithers would never be permitted to occupy the throne of Graustark. Deeply as his subjects loved the young Prince, they would force him to abdicate rather than submit to the desecration of a throne that had never been dishonoured. They would accept William W. Blithers' money, but they would have none of William W. Blithers' daughter. That was more than could be expected of any self-respecting people! According to the Minister of Police, the name of Blithers was already a common synonym for affliction--and frequently employed in supposing a malediction. It signified all that was mean, treacherous, scurrilous. He was spoken of through clenched teeth as "the blood sucker." Children were ominously reproved by the threatening use of the word Blithers. "Blithers will get you if you don't wash your face," and all that sort of thing. There was talk in some circles of demanding the resignation of the cabinet, but even the pessimistic Gourou admitted that it was idle talk and would come to nothing if the menacing shadow of Maud Applegate Blithers could be banished from the vicinity of the throne. Graustarkians would abide by the compact made by their leading men and would be content to regard Mr. Blithers as a bona fide creditor. They would pay him in full when the loan matured, even though they were compelled to sacrifice their houses in order to accomplish that end. But, like all the rest of the world, they saw through the rich American's scheme. The world knew, and Graustark knew, just what Mr. Blithers was after, and the worst of it all was that Mr. Blithers also knew, which was more to the point. But, said Baron Gourou, Graustark knew something that neither the world nor Mr. Blithers knew, and that was its own mind. Never, said he, would Maud Applegate be recognised as the Princess of Graustark, not if she lived for a thousand years and married Robin as many times as she had hairs on her head. At least, he amended, that was the way every one felt about it at present. The afternoon papers had published the brief statement prepared by Robin in the seclusion of his stateroom on board the _Jupiter_ immediately after a most enjoyable hour with Miss Guile. It was a curt and extremely positive denial of the rumoured engagement, with the additional information that he never had seen Miss Blithers and was more or less certain that she never had set eyes on him. A rather staggering co-incidence appeared with the published report that Miss Blithers herself was supposed to be somewhere in Europe, word having been received that day from sources in London that she had sailed from New York under an assumed name. The imaginative French journals put two and two together and dwelt upon the possibility that the two young people who had never seen each other might have crossed the Atlantic on the same steamer, seeing each other frequently and yet remaining entirely in the dark, so to speak. Inspired writers began to weave a romance out of the probabilities. On one point Robin was adamantine. He refused positively to have his identity disclosed at this time, and Gourou had to say to the newspapers that the Prince was even then on his way to Vienna, hurrying homeward as fast as steel cars could carry him. He admitted that the young man had arrived on the _Jupiter_ that morning, having remained in the closest seclusion all the way across the Atlantic. This equivocation necessitated the most cautious rearrangement of plans on the part of the Baron. He was required to act as though he had no acquaintance with either of the three travellers stopping at the Ritz, although for obvious reasons he took up a temporary abode there himself. Moreover, he had to telegraph the Prime Minister in Edelweiss that the Prince was not to be budged, and would in all likelihood postpone his return to the capitol. All of which stamped the honest Baron as a most prodigious liar, if one stops to think of what he said to the reporters. The newspapers also printed a definite bit of news in the shape of a despatch from New York to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. William W. Blithers were sailing for Europe on the ensuing day, bound for Graustark! However, the chief and present concern of the three loyal gentlemen in midnight conclave was not centred in the trouble that Mr. Blithers had started, but in the more desperate situation created by Miss Guile. She was the peril that now confronted them, and she was indeed a peril. Quinnox and Dank explained the situation to the Minister of Police, and the Minister of Police admitted that the deuce was to pay. "There is but one way out of it," said he, speaking officially, "and that is the simplest one I know of." "Assassination, I suppose," said Dank scornfully. "It rests with me, gentlemen," said the Baron, ignoring the lieutenant's remark, "to find Miss Guile and take her into my confidence in respect--" "No use," said Dank, and, to his surprise, the Count repeated the words after him. "Miss Guile is a lady. Baron," said the latter gloomily. "You cannot go to her with a command to clear out, keep her hands off, or any such thing. She would be justified in having you kicked out of the house. We must not annoy Miss Guile. That is quite out of the question." "By jove!" exclaimed Dank, so loudly that his companions actually jumped in their seats. They looked at him in amazement,--the Count with something akin to apprehension in his eyes. Had the fellow lost his mind over the girl? Before they could ask what he meant by shouting at the top of his voice, he repeated the ejaculation, but less explosively. His eyes were bulging and his mouth remained agape. "What ails you, Dank?" demanded the Baron, removing his eyes from the young man's face long enough to glance fearfully at the transom. "I've--I've got it!" cried the soldier, and then sank back in his chair, quite out of breath. The Baron got up and took a peep into the hallway, and then carefully locked the door. "What are you locking the door for?" demanded Dank, sitting up suddenly. "It's only a theory that I've got--but it is wonderful. Absolutely staggering." "Oh!" said Gourou, but he did not unlock the door. "A theory, eh?" He came back and stood facing the young man. "Count," began Dank excitedly, "you remember the big red letter B on all of her trunks, don't you? Hobbs is positive he--" Count Quinnox sprang to his feet and banged the table with his fist. "By jove!" he shouted, suddenly comprehending. "The letter B?" queried Gourou, perplexed. "The newspapers say that she sailed from New York under an assumed name," went on Dank, thrilled by his own amazing cleverness. "There you are! Plain as day. The letter B explains everything. Now we know who Miss Guile really is. She's--" "Maud" exclaimed Quinnox, sinking back into his chair. "Miss Blithers!" cried Gourou, divining at last. "By jove!" And thus was the jovian circle completed. It was two o'clock before the three gentlemen separated and retired to rest, each fully convinced that the situation was even more complicated than before, for in view of this new and most convincing revelation there now could be no adequate defence against the alluring Miss Guile. Robin was informed bright and early the next morning. In fact, he was still in his pajamas when the news was carried to him by the exhausted Dank, who had spent five hours in bed but none in slumber. Never in all his ardent career had the smart lieutenant been so bitterly afflicted with love-sickness as now. "I don't believe a word of it," said the Prince, promptly. "You've been dreaming, old chap." "That letter B isn't a dream, is it?" "No, it isn't," said Robin, and instantly sat up in bed, his face very serious. "If she should turn out to be Miss Blithers, I've cooked my goose to a crisp. Good Lord, when I think of some of the things I said to her about the Blithers family! But wait! If she is Miss Blithers do you suppose she'd sit calmly by and hear the family ridiculed? No, sir! She would have taken my head off like a flash. She--" "I've no doubt she regarded the situation as extremely humorous," said Dank, "and laughed herself almost sick over the way she was fooling you." "That might sound reasonable enough, Dank, if she had known who I was. But where was the fun in fooling an utter outsider like R. Schmidt? It doesn't hold together." "Americans have an amazing notion of humour, I am reliably informed. They appear to be able to see a joke under the most distressing circumstances. I'll stake my head that she is Miss Blithers." "I can't imagine anything more terrible," groaned Robin, lying down flat again and staring at the ceiling. "I shouldn't call her terrible," protested Dank, rather stiffly. "I refer to the situation, Dank,--the mess, in other words. It _is_ a mess, isn't it?" "I suppose you'll see nothing more of her, your highness," remarked Dank, a sly hope struggling in his breast. "You'd better put it the other way. She'll see nothing more of me," lugubriously. "I mean to say, sir, you can't go on with it, can you?" "Go on with what?" "The--er--you know," floundered Dank. "If there is really anything to go on with, Dank, I'll go on with it, believe me." The lieutenant stared. "But if she _should_ be Miss Blithers, what then?" "It might simplify matters tremendously," said Robin, but not at all confidently. "I think I'll get up, Dank, if you don't mind. Call Hobbs, will you? And, I say, won't you have breakfast up here with me?" "I had quite overlooked breakfast, 'pon my soul, I had," said Dank, a look of pain in his face. "No wonder I have a headache, going without my coffee so long." Later on, while they were breakfasting in Robin's sitting room, Hobbs brought in the morning newspapers. He laid one of them before the Prince, and jabbed his forefinger upon a glaring headline. "I beg pardon, sir; I didn't mean to get it into the butter. Very awkward, I'm sure. Hi, _garcon!_ Fresh butter 'ere, and lively about it, too. _Buerre!_ That's the word--buttah." Robin and Dank were staring at the headline as if fascinated. Having successfully managed the butter, Hobbs at once restored his attention to the headline, reading it aloud, albeit both of the young men were capable of reading French at sight. He translated with great profundity. "'Miss Blithers Denies Report. Signed Statement Mysteriously Received. American Heiress not to wed Prince of Graustark.' Shall I read the harticle, sir?" Robin snatched up the paper and read aloud for himself. Hobbs merely wiped a bit of butter from his finger and listened attentively. The following card appeared at the head of the column, and was supplemented by a complete resume of the Blithers-Graustark muddle: "Miss Blithers desires to correct an erroneous report that has appeared in the newspapers. She is not engaged to be married to the Prince of Graustark, nor is there even the remotest probability that such will ever be the case. Miss Blithers regrets that she has not the honour of Prince Robin's acquaintance, and the Prince has specifically stated in the public prints that he does not know her by sight. The statements of the two persons most vitally affected by this disturbing rumour should be taken as final. Sufficient pain and annoyance already has been caused by the malicious and utterly groundless report." The name of Maud Applegate Blithers was appended to the statement, and it was dated Paris, August 29. Thereafter followed a lengthy description of the futile search for the young lady in Paris, and an interview with the local representatives of Mr. Blithers, all of whom declared that the signature was genuine, but refused to commit themselves further without consulting their employer. They could throw no light upon the situation, even going so far as to declare that they were unaware of the presence of Miss Blithers in Paris. It appears that the signed statement was left in the counting-rooms of the various newspapers by a heavily veiled lady at an hour agreed upon as "about ten o'clock." There was absolutely no clue to the identity of this woman. Instead of following the suggestion of Miss Blithers that "sufficient pain and annoyance already had been caused," the journalists proceeded to increase the agony by venturing the hope that fresh developments would materialise before the day was done. "Well, she appears to be here," said Robin, as he laid down the last of the three journals and stared at Dank as if expecting hope from that most unreliable source. "I suppose you will now admit that I am right about the letter B," said Dank sullenly. "When I see Miss Guile I shall ask point blank if she is Maud Applegate, Dank, and if she says she isn't, I'll take her word for it," said Robin. "And if she says she is?" "Well," said the Prince, ruefully, "I'll still take her word for it." "And then?" "Then I shall be equally frank and tell her that I am Robin of Graustark. That will put us all square again, and we'll see what comes of it in the end." "You don't mean to say you'll--you'll continue as you were?" gasped Dank. "That depends entirely on Miss Guile, Boske." "But you wouldn't dare to marry Maud Applegate Blithers, sir. You would be driven out of Graustark and--" "I think that would depend a good deal on Miss Guile, too, old chap," said Robin coolly. Dank swallowed very hard. "I want to be loyal to you, your highness," he said as if he did not think it would be possible to remain so. "I shall count on you, Dank," said Robin earnestly. "But--" began the lieutenant, and then stopped short. "Let me finish it for you. You don't feel as though you could be loyal to Miss Blithers, is that it?" "I think that would depend on Miss Blithers," said Dank, and then begged to be excused. He went out of the room rather hurriedly. "Well, Hobbs," said Robin, after his astonishment had abated, "what do _you_ think of it?" "I think he's in love with her, sir," said Hobbs promptly. "Good Lord! with--with Miss Guile?" "Precisely so, sir." "Well, I'll be _darned!_" said the American half of Prince Robin with great fervour. "Tut, tut, sir," reproved Hobbs, who, as has been said before, was a privileged character by virtue of long service and his previous calling as a Cook's interpreter. "Are you going out, sir?" "Yes. I'm going out to search the highways and by-ways for Bedelia," said Robin, a gay light in his eyes. "By the way, did you, by any chance, learn the name of the 'andsome young gent as went away with 'er, 'Obbs?" "I did not, sir. I stood at his helbow for quite some time at the Gare St. Lazare and the only words he spoke that I could hear distinctly was 'wot the devil do you mean, me man? Ain't there room enough for you here without standing on my toes like that? Move hover.' Only, of course, sir, he used the haspirates after a fashion of his own. The haitches are mine, sir." "Is he an American?" "It's difficult to say, sir. He may be from Boston, but you never can tell, sir." "Do you know Boston, Hobbs?" inquired the Prince, adjusting his tie before the mirror. "Not to speak it, sir," said Hobbs. The day was warm and clear, and Paris was gleaming. Robin stretched his long legs in a brisk walk across the Place Vendome and up the Rue de la Paix to the Boulevard. Here he hesitated and then retraced his steps slowly down the street of diamonds, for he suspected Miss Guile of being interested in things that were costly. Suddenly inspired, he made his way to the Place de la Concorde and settled himself on one of the seats near the entrance to the Champs Elysees. It was his shrewd argument that if she planned a ride on that exquisite morning it naturally would be along the great avenue, and in that event he might reasonably hope to catch her coming or going. A man came up and took a seat beside him. "Good morning, Mr. Schmidt," said the newcomer, and Robin somewhat gruffly demanded what the deuce he meant by following him. "I have some interesting news," said Baron Gourou quietly, removing his hat to wipe a damp brow. He also took the time to recover his breath after some rather sharp dodging of automobiles in order to attain his present position of security. Even a Minister of Police has to step lively in Paris. "From home?" asked Robin carelessly. "Indirectly. It comes through Berlin. Our special agent there wires me that the offices of Mr. Blithers in that city have received instructions from him to send engineers to Edelweiss for the purpose of estimating the cost of remodelling and rebuilding the castle,--in other words to restore it to its condition prior to the Marlanx rebellion fifteen years ago." There was a tantalising smile on the Baron's face as he watched the changing expressions in that of his Prince. "Are you in earnest?" demanded Robin, a bright red spot appearing in each cheek. The Baron nodded his head. "Well, he's got a lot of nerve!" "I shudder when I think of what is likely to happen to those architects when they begin snooping around the castle," said Gourou drily. "By the way, have you seen Miss Guile this morning?" Robin's cheeks were now completely suffused. "Certainly not." "She was in the Rue de la Paix half an hour ago. I thought you might--" "You saw her, Baron?" "Yes, highness, and it may interest you to know that she saw you." "The deuce you say! But how do you know that it was Miss Guile. You've no means of knowing." "It is a part of my profession to recognise people from given descriptions. In this case, however, the identification was rendered quite simple by the actions of the young lady herself. She happened to emerge from a shop just as you were passing and I've never seen any one, criminal or otherwise, seek cover as quickly as she did. She darted back into the shop like one pursued by the devil. Naturally I hung around for a few minutes to see the rest of the play. Presently she peered forth, looked stealthily up and down the street, and then dashed across the pavement to a waiting taxi-metre. It affords me pleasure to inform your highness that I took the number of the machine." He glanced at his cuff-band. "Where did she go from the Rue de la Paix?" asked Robin impatiently. "To the Ritz. I was there almost as soon as she. She handed an envelope--containing a letter, I fancy--to the carriage man and drove away in the direction of the Place de l'Opera. I have a sly notion, my Prince, that you will find a note awaiting you on your return to the hotel. Ah, you appear to be in haste, my young hunter." "I am in haste. If you expect to keep alongside, Baron, you'll have to run I'm afraid," cried the Prince, and was instantly in his seven-league boots. There was a note in Robin's rooms when he reached the hotel. It was not the delicately perfumed article that usually is despatched by fictional heroines but a rather business-like envelope bearing the well-known words "The New York Herald" in one corner and the name "R. Schmidt, Hotel Ritz," in firm but angular scrawl across its face. As Robin ripped it open with his finger, Baron Gourou entered the room, but not without giving vent to a slight cough in the way of an announcement. "You forget, highness, that I am a short man and not possessed of legs that travel by yards instead of feet," he panted. "Forgive me for lagging behind. I did my best to keep up with you." Robin stared at his visitor haughtily for a moment and then broke into a good-humoured laugh. "Won't you sit down, Baron? I'll be at liberty in a minute or two," he said, and coolly proceeded to scan the brief message from Miss Guile. "Well," said Gourou, as the young man replaced the letter in the envelope and stuck it into his pocket. CHAPTER XIV THE CAT IS AWAY Robins's face was glowing with excitement. He put his hands in his trousers pockets and nervously jingled the coins therein, all the while regarding his Minister of Police with speculative eyes. Then he turned to the window and continued to stare down into the Place Vendome for several minutes, obviously turning something over in his mind before coming to a decision. The Baron waited. None knew better than he how to wait. He realised that a great deal hung upon the next few sentences to be uttered in that room, and yet he could be patient. At last Robin faced him, but without speaking. An instant later he impulsively withdrew the letter from his pocket and held it out to the Baron, who strode across the room and took it from his hand. Without a word, he extracted the single sheet of paper and read what was written thereon. "I gather from the nature of the invitation that you are expected to enjoy stolen fruit, if I may be so bold as to put it in just that way," said he grimly. "Apparently Miss Guile finds the presence of a duenna unnecessarily wise." "There's no harm in a quiet little excursion such as she suggests, Baron," said Robin, defensively. "You forget that I have seen the beautiful Miss Guile," said Gourou drily. "I take it, then, that you approve of the young lady's scheme." "Scheme sounds rather sinister, doesn't it?" "Trick, if it please you more than the other. Moreover, I cannot say that she _suggests_ the quiet little excursion. It occurs to me that she commands, your highness." He held the missive to the light and read, a tender irony in his voice: "'My motor will call for you at three this afternoon, and we will run out to St. Cloud for tea; at the Pavilion Bleu. Mrs. Gaston is spending the day with relatives at Champigny, and we may as well be mice under the circumstances. If you have another engagement, pray do not let it interfere with the pleasure I am seeking.' Nothing could be more exacting, my dear Prince. She signs herself 'B. Guile,' and I am sure she is magnificently beguiling, if you will pardon the play on words." "You wouldn't adopt that tone of suspicion if you knew Miss Guile," said Robin stiffly. "I am sure nothing could be more frank and above-board than her manner of treating the--" "And nothing so cock-sure and confident," put in the Baron. "It would serve her right if you ignored the letter altogether." "If I were as old as you, Baron, I haven't the least doubt that I should do so," said Robin coolly. "And by the same token, if you were as young as I, you'd do precisely the thing that I intend to do. I'm going to St. Cloud with her." "Oh, I haven't been in doubt about that for an instant," said Gourou. "At your age I greatly favoured the clandestine. You will not pretend to assume that this is not a clandestine excursion." "It's a jolly little adventure," was all that Robin could say, in his youthfulness. The Baron was thoughtful. "There is something behind this extraordinary behaviour on the part of a lady generally accredited with sense and refinement," said he after a moment. "I think I have it, too. She is deliberately putting you to a rather severe test." "Test? What do you mean?" "She is trying you out, sir. Miss Guile,--or possibly Miss Blithers,--is taking a genuine risk in order to determine whether you are a real gentleman or only a make-believe. She is taking a chance with you. You may call it a jolly little adventure, but I call it the acid test. Young women of good breeding and refinement do not plan such adventures with casual, ship-board acquaintances. She intends to find out _what_, not _who_, you are. I must say she's exceedingly clever and courageous." Robin laughed. "Thank you, Baron. Forewarned is forearmed. I shall remain a gentleman at any cost." "She is so shrewd and resourceful that I am almost convinced she can be no other than the daughter of the amazing Mr. Blithers. I believe he achieved most of his success through sheer impudence, though it is commonly described as daring." "In any case. Baron, I shall make it a point to find out whether she is the lady who defies the amazing Mr. Blithers, and goes into print about it." "She has merely denied that she is engaged to the Prince of Graustark. Pray do not come back to us with the news that she is engaged to R. Schmidt," said Gourou significantly. Robin smiled reflectively. "That _would_ make a jolly adventure of it, wouldn't it?" At three o'clock, a big limousine swung under the porte cochere at the Ritz and a nimble footman hopped down and entered the hotel. Robin was waiting just inside the doors. He recognised the car as the one that had taken Miss Guile away from the Gare St. Lazare, and stepped forward instantly to intercept the man. "For Mr. Schmidt?" he inquired. "Oui, M'sieur." Thrilled by a pleasurable sense of excitement, the Prince of Graustark entered the car. He was quick to observe that the curtains in the side windows were partially drawn across the glass. The fact that she elected to journey to the country in a limousine on this hot day did not strike him as odd, for he knew that the comfort loving French people prefer the closed vehicle to the wind-inviting, dust-gathering touring body of the Americans and British. He observed the single letter L in gold in the panel of the door, and made mental note of the smart livery of the two men on the front seat. A delicate perfume lingered in the car, convincing proof that Miss Guile had left it but a few minutes before its arrival at the Ritz. As a matter of fact, she was nearer than he thought, for the car whirled into the Rue de la Paix and stopped at the curb not more than a hundred yards from the Place Vendome. Once more the nimble footman hopped down and threw open the door. A slender, swift-moving figure in a blue linen gown and a wide hat from which sprung two gorgeous blue plumes, emerged from the door of a diamond merchant's shop, and, before Robin could move from his corner, popped into the car and sat down beside him with a nervous little laugh on her lips--red lips that showed rose-like and tempting behind a thick chiffon veil, obviously donned for an excellent reason. The exquisite features of Miss Guile were barely distinguishable beneath the surface of this filmy barrier. The door closed sharply and, almost before the Prince had recovered from his surprise, the car glided off in the direction of the Place de l'Opera. "Isn't it just like an elopement?" cried Miss Guile, and it was quite plain to him that she was vastly pleased with the sprightly introduction to the adventure. Her voice trembled slightly and she sat up very straight in the wide, comfortable seat. "Is it really you?" cried Robin, and he was surprised to find that his own voice trembled. "Oh," she said, with a sudden diffidence, "how do you do? What must you think of me, bouncing in like that and never once speaking to you?" "If I were to tell you what I think of you, you'd bounce right out again without speaking to me," said he, smiling. "How do you do?" He extended his hand, but it was ignored. She sank back into the corner and looked at him for a moment as if uncertain what to say or do next. The shadowy red lips were smiling and the big dark eyes were eloquent, even through the screen. "I may as well tell you at the outset, Mr. Schmidt, that I've never--_never_--done a thing like this before," she said, an uneasy note in her voice. "I am quite sure of that," said he, "and therefore confess to a vast wealth of satisfaction." "What _do_ you think of me?" "I think that you are frightened almost out of your boots," said he boldly. "No, I'm not," said she resolutely. "I am only conscious of feeling extremely foolish." "I shouldn't feel that way about stealing off for a cup of tea," said he. "It's all quite regular, you know, and is frequently done in the very best circles when the cat's away." "You see, I couldn't quite scrape up the courage to go directly to the hotel for you," she said. "I know several people who are stopping there and I--I--well, you won't think I'm a dreadful person, will you?" "Not at all," he declared promptly. Then he resolved to put one of the questions he had made up his mind to ask at the first opportunity. "Do you mind telling me why you abandoned me so completely, so heartlessly on the day we landed?" "Because there was no reason why I should act otherwise, Mr. Schmidt," she said, the tremor gone from her voice. "And yet you take me to St. Cloud for tea," he said pointedly. "Ah, but no one is to know of this," she cried warmly. "This is a secret, a very secret adventure." He could not help staring. "And that is just why I am mystified. Why is to-day so different from yesterday?" "It isn't," she said. "Doesn't all this prove it?" His face fell. "Don't you want to be seen with me, Miss Guile? Am I not--" "Wait! Will you not be satisfied with things as they are and refrain from asking unnecessary questions?" "I shall have to be satisfied," said he ruefully. "I am sorry I said that, Mr. Schmidt," she cried, contrite at once. "There is absolutely no reason why I should not be seen with you. But won't you be appeased when I say that I wanted to be with you alone to-day?" He suddenly remembered the Baron's shrewd conjecture and let the opportunity to say something banal go by without a word. Perhaps it was a test, after all. He merely replied that she was paying him a greater compliment than he deserved. "There are many things I want to speak about, Mr. Schmidt, and--and you know how impossible it is to--to get a moment to one's self when one is being watched like a child, as I am being watched over by dear Mrs. Gaston. She is my shield and armour, my lovely one-headed dragon. I placed myself in her care and--well, she is a very dependable person. You _will_ understand, won't you?" "Pray do not distress yourself, Miss Guile," he protested. "The last word is spoken. I am too happy to spoil the day by doubting its integrity. Besides, I believe I know you better than you think I do." He expected her to reveal some sign of dismay, but she was suddenly on guard. "Then you will not mind my eccentricities," she said calmly, "and we shall have a very nice drive, some tea and a--lark in place of the more delectable birds prescribed by the chef at the Pavilion Bleu." As the car turned into the Boulevard des Capucines Robin suppressed an exclamation of annoyance on beholding Baron Gourou and Dank standing on the curb almost within arm's length of the car as it passed. The former was peering rather intently at the two men on the front seat, and evinced little or no interest in the occupants of the tonneau. "Wasn't that your friend Mr. Dank?" inquired Miss Guile with interest. He felt that she was chiding him. "Yes," said he, and then turned for another look at his compatriots. Gourou was jotting something down on his cuff-band. The Prince mentally promised him something for his pains. "But let us leave dull care behind," he went on gaily. "He isn't at all dull," said she. "But he _is_ a care," said he. "He is always losing his heart, Miss Guile." "And picking up some one else's, I fancy," said she. "By the way, who was the good-looking chap that came to Cherbourg to meet you?" "A very old friend, Mr. Schmidt. I've known him since I was that high." (That high was on a line with her knee.) "Attractive fellow," was his comment. "Do you think so?" she inquired innocently, and he thought she over-played it a little. He was conscious of an odd sense of disappointment in her. "Have you never been out to St. Cloud? No? I never go there without feeling a terrible pity for those poor prodigals who stood beside its funeral pyre and saw their folly stripped down to the starkest of skeletons while they waited. The day of glory is short, Mr. Schmidt, and the night that follows is bitterly long. They say possession is nine points of the law, but what do nine points mean to the lawless? The rich man of to-day may be the beggar of to-morrow, and the rich man's sons and daughters may be serving the beggars of yesterday. I have been told that in the lower east side of New York City there are men and women who were once princes and princesses, counts and countesses, dukes and duchesses. Why doesn't some one write a novel about the royalty that hides its beggary in the slums of that great city?" "What's this? Epigrams and philosophy, Miss Guile?" he exclaimed wonderingly. "You amaze me. What are you trying to convey? That some day you may be serving yesterday's beggar?" "Who knows!" she said cryptically. "I am not a philosopher, and I'm sorry about the epigrams. I loathe people who make use of them. They are a cheap substitution for wisdom. Do you take sugar in your tea?" It was her way of abandoning the topic, but he looked his perplexity. "I thought I'd ask now, just for the sake of testing my memory later on." She was laughing. "Two lumps and cream," he said. "Won't you be good enough to take off that veil? It seriously obstructs the view." She complacently shook her head. "It doesn't obstruct mine," she said. "Have you been reading what the papers are saying about your friend Mr. Blithers and his obstreperous Maud?" Robin caught his breath. In a flash he suspected an excellent reason for keeping the veil in place. It gave her a distinct advantage over him. "Yes. I see that she positively denies the whole business." "Likewise the prospective spouse," she added. "Isn't it sickening?" "I wonder what Mr. Blithers is saying to-day," said he audaciously. "Poor old cock, he must be as sore as a crab. By the way, it is reported that she crossed on the steamer with us." "I am quite certain that she did, Mr. Schmidt," said she. "You really think so?" he cried, regarding her keenly. "The man who came to meet me knows her quite well. He is confident that he saw her at Cherbourg." "I see," said he, and was thoroughly convinced. "I may as well confess to you. Miss Guile, that I also know her when I see her." "But you told me positively that you had never seen her, Mr. Schmidt," she said quickly. "I had not seen her up to the second day out on the _Jupiter_," he explained, enjoying himself immensely. "It was after that that you--" "I know," he said, as she hesitated; "but you see I didn't know she was Miss Blithers until sometime after I had met you." There was a challenge in his manner amounting almost to a declaration. She leaned forward to regard him more intently. "Is it possible, Mr. Schmidt, that you suspect _me_ of being that horrid, vulgar creature?" Robin was not to be trapped. There was something in the shadowy eyes that warned him. "At least, I may say that I do not suspect you of being a horrid, vulgar creature," he said evasively. "What else can this Miss Blithers be if not that?" "Would you say that she is vulgar because she refuses to acknowledge a condition that doesn't exist? I think she did perfectly right in denying the engagement." "You haven't answered my question, Mr. Schmidt." "Well," he began slowly, "I don't suspect you of being Miss Blithers." "But you did suspect it." "I was pleasantly engaged in speculation, that's all. It is generally believed that Miss Blithers sailed under an assumed name--literally, not figuratively." "Is there any reason why you should imagine that my name is not Guile?" "Yes. Your luggage is resplendently marked with the second letter in the alphabet--a gory, crimson B." "I see," she said reflectively. "You examined my luggage, as they say in the customs office. And you couldn't put B and G together, is that it?" "Obviously." "If you had taken the trouble to look, you would have found an equally resplendent G on the opposite end of each and every trunk, Mr. Schmidt," she said quietly. "I did not examine your luggage, Miss Guile," said he stiffly. She hadn't left much for him to stand upon. "Rather unique way to put one's initials on a trunk, isn't it?" "It possesses the virtue of originality," she admitted, "and it never fails to excite curiosity. I am sorry you were misled. Nothing could be more distressing than to be mistaken for the heroine of a story and then turn out to be a mere nobody in the end. I've no doubt that if the amiable Miss Blithers were to hear of it, she'd rush into print and belabour me with the largest type that money could buy." "Oh, come now, Miss Guile," he protested, "it really isn't fair to Miss Blithers. She was justified in following an illustrious example. You forget that the Prince of Graustark was the first to rush into print with a flat denial. What else could the poor girl do?" "Oh, I am not defending the Prince of Graustark. He behaved abominably, rushing into print as you say. Extremely bad taste, I should call it." Robin's ears burned. He could not defend himself. There was nothing left for him to do but to say that it "served him jolly well right, the way Miss Blithers came back at him." "Still," she said, "I would be willing to make a small wager that the well-advertised match comes off in spite of all the denials. Given a determined father, an ambitious mother, a purse-filled daughter and an empty-pursed nobleman, and I don't see how the inevitable can be avoided." His face was flaming. It was with difficulty that he restrained the impulse to put her right in the matter without further ado. "Are you sure that the Prince is so empty of purse as all that?" he managed to say, without betraying himself irretrievably. "There doesn't seem to be any doubt that he borrowed extensively of Mr. Blithers," she said scornfully. "He is under some obligations to his would-be-father-in-law, I submit, now isn't he?" "I suppose so, Miss Guile," he admitted uncomfortably. "And therefore owes him something more than a card in the newspapers, don't you think?" "Really, Miss Guile, I--I--" "I beg your pardon. The Prince's affairs are of no importance to you, so why should I expect you to stand up for him?" "I confess that I am a great deal more interested in Miss Blithers than I am in the Prince. By the way, what would you have done had you been placed in her position?" "I think I should have acted quite as independently as she." "If your father were to pick out a husband for you, whether or no, you would refuse to obey the paternal command?" "Most assuredly. As a matter of fact, Mr. Schmidt, my father has expressed a wish that I should marry a man who doesn't appeal to me at all." "And you refuse?" "Absolutely." "More or less as Miss Blithers has done," he said pointedly. "Miss Blithers, I understand, has the advantage of me in one respect. I am told that she wants to marry another man and is very much in love with him." "A chap named Scoville," said Robin, unguardedly. "You know him, Mr. Schmidt?" "No. I've merely heard of him. I take it from your remark that you don't want to marry anybody--at present." "Quite right. Not at present. Now let us talk of something else. _A bas_ Blithers! Down with the plutocrats! Stamp out the vulgarians! Is there anything else you can suggest?" she cried gaily. "Long live the Princess Maud!" said he, and doffed his hat. The satirical note in his voice was not lost on her. She started perceptibly, and caught her breath. Then she sank back into the corner with a nervous, strained little laugh. "You think she will marry him?" "I think as you do about it, Miss Guile," said he, and she was silenced. CHAPTER XV THE MICE IN A TRAP They had a table in a cool, shady corner of the broad porch overlooking the Place d'Armes and the Seine and its vociferous ferries. To the right runs the gleaming roadway that leads to the hills and glades through which pomp and pride once strode with such fatal arrogance. Blue coated servitors attended them on their arrival, and watched over them during their stay. It was as if Miss Guile were the fairy princess who had but to wish and her slightest desire was gratified. Her guest, a real prince, marvelled not a little at the complete sway she exercised over this somewhat autocratic army of menials. They bowed and scraped, and fetched, and carried, and were not Swiss but slaves in Bagdad during the reign of its most illustrious Caliph, Al-haroun Raschid the great. The magic of Araby could have been no more potent than the spell this beautiful girl cast over the house of Mammon. She laid her finger upon a purse of gold and wished, and lo! the wonders of the magic carpet were repeated. Robin remembered that Maud Applegate Blithers had spent the greater part of her life in Paris, and it was therefore not unreasonable to suppose that she had spent something else as well. At any rate, the Pavilion Bleu was a place where it _had_ to be spent if one wanted the attention accorded the few. She had removed her veil, but he was not slow to perceive that she sat with her back to the long stretch of porch. "Do you prefer this place to Armenonville or the Paillard at Pre Catelan, Miss Guile?" he inquired, quite casually, but with a secret purpose. "No, it is stupid here, as a rule, and common. Still every one goes to the other places in the afternoon and I particularly wanted to be as naughty as possible, so I came here to-day." "It doesn't strike me as especially naughty," he remarked. "But it was very, very naughty before you and I were born, Mr. Schmidt. The atmosphere still remains, if one possesses a comprehensive imagination." "I daresay," said he, "but the imagination doesn't thrive on tea. Those were the days of burgundy and a lot of other red things." "One doesn't need to be in shackles, to expatiate on the terrors of the Bridge of Sighs," she said. "Are you going to take me up to the park?" "Yes. Into the Shadows." "Oh, that's good! I'm sure my imagination will work beautifully when it isn't subdued by all these blue devils. I--_Que voulez vous?_" The question was directed rather sharply to a particularly deferential "blue devil" who stood at his elbow. "Monsieur Schmidt?" "Yes. What's this? A letter! 'Pon my soul, how the deuce could any one--" He got no farther, for Miss Guile's action in pulling down her veil and the subsequent spasmodic glance over her shoulder betrayed such an agitated state of mind on her part that his own sensations were checked at the outset. "There must be some one here who knows you, Mr. Schmidt," she said nervously. "See what it says, please,--at once. I--perhaps we should be starting home immediately." Robin tore open the envelope. A glance showed him that the brief note was from Gourou. A characteristic G served as a signature. As he read, a hard line appeared between his eyes and his expression grew serious. "It is really nothing, Miss Guile," he said and prepared to tear the sheet into many pieces. "A stupid, alleged joke of a fellow who happens to know me, that's all." "Don't tear it up!" she cried sharply. "What does it say? I have a right to know, Mr. Schmidt, even though it is only a joke. What has this friend of yours to say about me? What coarse, uncalled-for comment has he to make about--" "Let me think for a moment, Miss Guile," he interrupted, suddenly realising that it was time for reflection. After a moment he said soberly: "I think it would be wise if we were to leave instantly. There is nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you, but--well, we'd better go." "Will you allow me to see that letter?" she asked, extending her hand. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind." "But I insist, sir! I'll not go a step from this place until I know what all this is about." "As it happens to concern you even more than it does me, I suppose you'd better see what it says." He passed the letter over to her and watched her narrowly as she read. Again the veil served as a competent mask. "Who wrote this letter, Mr. Schmidt?" she demanded. Even through the veil he could see that her eyes were wide with--was it alarm or anger? "A man named Gourou. He is a detective engaged on a piece of work for Mr. Totten." "Is it a part of his duty to watch your movements?" she asked, leaning forward. "No. He is my friend, however," said Robin steadily. "According to this epistle, it would appear that it is a part of his duty to keep track of you, not me. May I ask why you should be shadowed by two of his kind?" She did not answer at once. When she spoke, it was with a determined effort to maintain her composure. "I am sorry to have subjected you to all this, Mr. Schmidt. We will depart at once. I find that the cat is never away, so we can't be mice. What a fool I've been." There was something suspiciously suggestive of tears in her soft voice. He laid a hand upon the small fingers that clutched the crumpled sheet of paper. To have saved his life, he could not keep the choked, husky tremor out of his voice. "The day is spoiled for you. That is my only regret. As for me, Miss Guile, I am not without sin, so I may cast no stones. Pray regard me as a fellow culprit, and rest assured that I have no bone to pick with you. I too am watched and yet I am no more of a criminal than you. Will you allow me to say that I am a friend whose devotion cannot be shaken by all the tempests in the world?" "Thank you," she said, and turned her hand under his to give it a quick, convulsive clasp. Her spirits seemed to revive under the responsive grip. "You might have said all the tempests in a tea pot, for that is really what it amounts to. My father is a very foolish man. Will you send for the car?" He called an attendant and ordered him to find Miss Guile's footman at once. When he returned to the table, she was reading the note once more. "It is really quite thrilling, isn't it?" she said, and there was still a quaver of indignation in her voice. "Are you not mystified?" "Not in the least," said he promptly, and drew a chair up close beside hers. "It's as plain as day. Your father has found you out, that's all. Let's read it again," and they read it together. "A word to the wise," it began. "Two men from a private detective concern have been employed since yesterday in watching the movements of your companion, for the purpose of safe-guarding her against good-looking young men, I suspect. I have it from the most reliable of sources that her father engaged the services of these men almost simultaneously with the date of our sailing from New York. It may interest you to know that they followed you to St. Cloud in a high-power car and no doubt are watching you as you read this message from your faithful friend, who likewise is not far away." "I should have anticipated this, Mr. Schmidt," she said ruefully. "It is just the sort of thing my father would do." "You seem to take it calmly enough." "I am quite used to it. I would be worth a great deal to any enterprising person who made it his business to steal me. There is no limit to the ransom he could demand." "You alarm me," he declared. "No doubt these worthy guardians look upon me as a kidnapper. I am inclined to shiver." "'All's well that ends well,'" quoth she, pulling on her gloves, "I shall restore you safely to the bosom of the Ritz and that will be the end of it." "I almost wish that some one would kidnap you, Miss Guile. It would afford me the greatest pleasure in the world to snatch you from their clutches. Your father would be saved paying the ransom but I should have to be adequately rewarded. I fancy, however, that he wouldn't mind paying the reward I should hold out for." "I am quite sure he would give you anything you were to ask for, Mr. Schmidt," said she gaily. "You would be reasonable, of course." "I might ask for the most precious of his possessions," said he, leaning forward to look directly into eyes that wavered and refused to meet his. "Curiosity almost makes me wish that I might be kidnapped. I should then find out what you consider to be his most precious possession," she said, and her voice was perilously low. "I think I could tell you in advance," said he, his eyes shining. "I--I prefer to find out in my own way, Mr. Schmidt," she stammered hurriedly. Her confusion was immensely gratifying to him. There is no telling what might have happened to the Prince of Graustark at that moment if an obsequious attendant had not intervened with the earthly information that the car was waiting. "Good Lord," Robin was saying to himself as he followed her to the steps, "was I about to go directly against the sage advice of old Gourou? Was I so near to it as that? In another minute--Gee, but it was a close shave. She is adorable, she is the most adorable creature in the world, even though she is the daughter of old man Blithers, and I--'gad I wonder what will come of it in the end? Keep a tight grip on yourself, Bobby, or you're a goner, sure as fate." They were painfully aware of the fact that their progress down the long verandah was made under the surveillance of two, perhaps three pairs of unwavering eyes, and because of it they looked neither to right nor left but as those who walk tight-ropes over dangerous places. There was something positively uncanny in the feeling that their every movement was being watched by secret observers. Once inside the car, Miss Guile sank back with a long sigh of relief. "Did you feel it, too?" she asked, with a nervous little catch in her voice. "I did," said he, passing his hand over his brow. "It was like being alone in the dark with eyes staring at one from all sides of the room." The car shot across the bridge and was speeding on its way toward the Bois when Robin ventured a glance behind. Through the little window in the back of the car he saw a big, swift-moving automobile not more than a quarter of a mile in their rear. "Would you like to verify the report of my friend Gourou?" he asked, his voice quick with exhilaration. She knelt with one knee upon the seat and peered back along the road. "There they are!" she cried. She threw the veil back over her hat as she resumed her seat in the corner. Her eyes were fairly dancing with excitement. The warm red lips were parted and she was breathing quickly. Suddenly she laid her hand over her heart as if to check its lively thumping. "Isn't it splendid? We are being pursued--actually chased by the man-hunters of Paris! Oh, I was never so happy in my life. Isn't it great?" "It is glorious!" he cried exultantly. "Shall I tell the chauffeur to hit it up a bit? Let's make it a real chase." "Yes, do! We'll see if we can foil them, as they say in the books. Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if we were to--to--what do you call it? Give them the slip, isn't that it?" "I'm game," said he, with enthusiasm. For a second or two they looked straight into each other's eyes and a message was exchanged that never could have been put into words. No doubt it was the flush of eager excitement that darkened their cheeks. In any case, it came swiftly and went as quickly, leaving them paler than before and vastly self-conscious. And after that brief, searching look they knew that they could never be as they were before the exchange. They were no longer strangers to each other, but shy comrades and filled with a delicious sense of wonder. Robin gave hurried directions through the speaking tube to the attentive footman, and so explicit were these directions that the greatest excitement prevailed upon the decorous front seat of the car--first the footman looked back along the road, then the chauffeur, after which a thrill of excitement seemed to fairly race up and down their liveried backs. The car itself took a notion to quiver with the promise of joy unrestrained. In less than a minute they were going more than a mile a minute over a short stretch of the Avenue de Longchamp. At the Porte de Hippodrome they slowed down and ran into the Bois, taking the first road to the left. In a few minutes they were scudding past Longchamp at a "fair clip" to quote R. Schmidt. Instead of diverging into the Allee de Longchamp, the car took a sharp turn into the Avenue de l'Hippodrome and, at the intersection, doubled back over the Allee de la Heine Marguerite, going almost to the Boulogne gate, where again it was sent Parisward over the Avenue de St. Cloud. Miss Guile was in command of the flight. She called out the instructions to the driver and her knowledge of the intricate routes through the park stood them well in hand. Purposely she evaded the Cascades, circling the little pools by narrow, unfrequented roads, coming out at last to the Porte de la Muette, where they left the park and took to the Avenue Henri Martin. It was her design to avoid the customary routes to the heart of the city, and all would have gone well with them had not fate in the shape of two burly _sergents de ville_ intervened at a time when success seemed most certain. It was quite clear to the pursued that the car containing their followers had been successfully eluded and was no doubt in the Champs Elysees by this time. For some time there had been a worried look in the Prince's eyes. Once he undertook to remonstrate with his fair companion. "My dear Miss Guile, we'll land in jail if we keep up this hair-raising speed. There wouldn't be any fun in that, you know." She gave him a scornful look. "Are you afraid, Mr. Schmidt?" "Not on my own account," said he, "but yours. I've heard that the new regulations are extremely rigid." "Pooh! I'm not afraid of the police. They--why, what's the matter? Oh, goodness!" The car had come to a somewhat abrupt stop. Two policemen, dismounted from their bicycles, formed an insurmountable obstruction. They were almost in the shade of the Trocadero. "Do not be alarmed," whispered Robin to the fast paling girl, into whose eyes the most abject misery had leaped at the sight of the two officers. "Leave it to me. I can fix them all right. There's nothing to be worried about--well, _sergent_, what is it?" The polite officers came up to the window with their little note-books. "I regret, m'sieur, that we shall be obliged to conduct yourself and mademoiselle to the office of a magistrate. Under the new regulations set forth in the order of last May, motorists may be given a hearing at once. I regret to add that m'sieur has been exceeding the speed limit. A complaint came in but a few minutes ago from the Porte de la Muette and we have been ordered to intercept the car. You may follow us to the office of the magistrate, m'sieur. It will soon be over, mademoiselle." "But we can explain--" she began nervously. The _sergent_ held up his hand. "It is not necessary to explain, mademoiselle. Too many motorists have explained in the past but that does not restore to life the people they have killed in the pursuit of pleasure. Paris is enforcing her laws." "But, _sergent_, I alone am to blame for any violation of the law," said Robin suavely. "Surely it is only necessary that I should accompany you to the magistrate. The young lady is in no way responsible--" "Alas, m'sieur," said the man firmly but as if he were quite broken-hearted, "it is not for me to disobey the law, even though you may do so. It is necessary for the lady to appear before the Judge, and it is our duty to convey her there. The new law explicitly says that all occupants of said car shall be subject to penalty under the law without reprieve or pardon!" "Where are your witnesses?" demanded Robin. The two men produced their watches and their notebooks, tapping them significantly. "M'sieur will not think of denying that he has been running more rapidly than the law allows," said the second officer. "It will go harder with him if he should do so." "I shall insist upon having an advocate to represent me before--" "As you like, m'sieur," said the first officer curtly. "Proceed!" he uttered as a command to the chauffeur, and forthwith mounted his wheel. A score of people had gathered round them by this time, and Miss Guile was crouching back in her corner. Her veil was down. In single file, so to speak, they started off for the office of the nearest magistrate appointed under the new law governing automobiles. A policeman pedaled ahead of the car and another followed. "Isn't it dreadful?" whispered Miss Guile. "What do you think they will do to us? Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Schmidt, to have dragged you into this horrid--" "I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world," said he so earnestly that she sat up a little straighter and caught her breath. "After all, they will do no more than assess a fine against us. A hundred francs, perhaps. That is nothing." "I am not so sure of that," said she gloomily. "My friends were saying only yesterday that the new law provides for imprisonment as well. Paris has constructed special prisons for motorists, and people are compelled to remain in them for days and weeks at a time. Oh, I hope--" "I'll inquire of the footman," said Robin. "He will know." The footman, whose face was very long and serious, replied through the tube that very few violators escaped confinement in the "little prisons." He also said "Mon dieu" a half dozen times, and there was a movement of the driver's pallid lips that seemed to indicate a fervent echo. "I shall telephone at once--to my friends," said Miss Guile, a note of anger in her voice. "They are very powerful in Paris. We shall put those miserable wretches in their proper places. They--" "We must not forget. Miss Guile, that we _were_ breaking the law," said Robin, who was beginning to enjoy the discomfiture of this spoiled beauty, this girl whose word was a sort of law unto itself. "It is perfect nonsense," she declared. "We did no harm. Goodness! What is this?" Four or five policemen on wheels passed by the car, each with a forbidding glance through the windows. "They are the boys we left behind us," paraphrased Robin soberly. "The park policemen. They've just caught us up, and, believe me, they look serious, too. I dare say we are in for it." In a very few minutes the procession arrived at a low, formidable looking building on a narrow side street. The cavalcade of policemen dismounted and stood at attention while Mademoiselle and Monsieur got down from the car and followed a polite person in uniform through the doors. Whereupon the group of _sergents de ville_ trooped in behind, bringing with them the neatly liveried servants with the golden letter L on their cuffs. "I believe there is a jail back there," whispered the slim culprit, a quaver in her voice. She pointed down the long, narrow corridor at the end of which loomed a rather sinister looking door with thick bolt-heads studding its surface. An instant later they were ushered into a fair-sized room on the left of the hall, where they were commanded to sit down. A lot of chairs stood about the room, filling it to the farthest corners, while at the extreme end was the Judge's bench. "I insist on being permitted to telephone to friends--to my legal advisors,--" began Miss Guile, with praiseworthy firmness, only to be silenced by the attendant, who whispered shrilly that a trial was in progress, couldn't she see? Two dejected young men were standing before the Judge, flanked by three _sergents de ville_. Robin and Miss Guile stared wide-eyed at their fellow criminals and tried to catch the low words spoken by the fat Magistrate. Once more they were ordered to sit down, this time not quite so politely, and they took seats in the darkest corner of the room, as far removed from justice as possible under the circumstances. Presently a young man approached them. He was very nice looking and astonishingly cheerful. The hopes of the twain went up with a bound. His expression was so benign, so bland that they at once jumped to the conclusion that he was coming to tell them that they were free to go, that it had all been a stupid mistake. But they were wrong. He smilingly introduced himself as an advocate connected with the court by appointment and that he would be eternally grateful to them if they would tell him what he could do for them. "I'd like to have a word in private with the Magistrate," said the Prince of Graustark eagerly. "Impossible!" said the advocate, lifting his eyebrows and his smart little mustachios in an expression of extreme amazement. "It is imposs--" A sharp rapping on the Judge's desk reduced the remainder of the sentence to a delicate whisper--"ible. M'sieur." "Will you conduct me to a telephone booth?" whispered Miss Guile, tearfully. "Pray do not weep, Mademoiselle," implored the advocate, profoundly moved, but at the same time casting a calculating eye over the luckless pair. "Well, what's to be done?" demanded Robin. "We insist on having our own legal advisors here." "The court will not delay the hearing, M'sieur," explained the young man. "Besides, the best legal advisor in Paris could do no more than to advise you to plead guilty. I at least can do that quite as ably as the best of them. No one ever pretends to defend a case in the automobile courts, M'sieur. It is a waste of time, and the court does not approve of wasting time. Perhaps you will feel more content if I introduce the assistant public prosecutor, who will explain the law. That is his only duty. He does not prosecute. There is no need. The _sergents_ testify and that is all there is to the case." "May I inquire what service you can be to us if the whole business is cut and dried like that?" asked Robin. "Not so loud, M'sieur. As I said before, I can advise you in respect to your plea, and I can tell you how to present your statement to the court. I can caution you in many ways. Sometimes a prisoner, who is well-rehearsed, succeeds in affecting the honourable Magistrate nicely, and the punishment is not so severe." "So you advise us to plead guilty as delicately as possible?" "I shall not advise you, M'sieur, unless it pleases you to retain me as your counsellor. The fee is small. Ten francs. Inasmuch as the amount is charged against you in the supplemental costs, it seems foolish not to take advantage of what you are obliged to pay for in any event. You will have to pay my fee, so you may as well permit me to be of service to you." "My only concern is over Mademoiselle," said the Prince. "You may send me to jail if you like, if you'll only--" "Mon dieu! I am not the one who enjoys the distinguished honour of being permitted to send people to jail, but the Judge, M'sieur." "It is ridiculous to submit this innocent young lady to the humiliation of--" "It is not only ridiculous but criminal," said the advocate, with a magnificent bow. "But what is one to do when it is the law? Of late, the law is peculiarly sexless. And now here is where I come in. It is I who shall instruct you--both of you, Mademoiselle--how to conduct yourselves before the Magistrate. Above all things, do not attempt to contradict a single statement of the police. Admit that all they say is true, even though they say that you have run over a child or an old woman with mortal results. It will go much easier with you. Exercise the gravest politeness and deference toward the honourable Magistrate and to every officer of the court. You are Americans, no doubt. The courts are prone to be severe with the Americans because they sometimes undertake to tell them how easy it is to get the right kind of justice in your wonderfully progressive United States. Be humble, contrite, submissive, for that is only justice to the court. If you have killed some one in your diversions, pray do not try to tell the magistrate that the idiot ought to have kept his eyes open. Another thing: do not inform the court that you require a lawyer. That is evidence of extreme culpability and he will consider you to be inexcusably guilty. Are you attending? Pray do not feel sorry for the two young men who are now being led away. See! They are weeping. It is as I thought. They are going to prison for--But that is their affair, not ours. I advised them as I am advising you, but they insisted on making a statement of their case. That was fatal, for it failed in many respects to corroborate the information supplied by the police. It-" "What was the charge against them?" whispered Miss Guile, quaking. She had watched the exit of the tearful young men, one of whom was sobbing bitterly, and a great fear possessed her. "Of that, Mademoiselle, I am entirely ignorant, but they were unmistakably guilty of denying it, whatever it was." "Are they going to prison?" she gasped. "It is not that which causes them to weep so bitterly, but the knowledge that their names are to be posted on the bulletin boards in the Place de l'Opera, the Place de l'Concorde, the--" "Good Lord!" gasped Robin. "Is _that_ being done?" "It is M'sieur, and the effect is marvellous. Three months ago the boards were filled with illustrious names; to-day there are but few to be found upon them. The people have discovered that the courts are in earnest. The law is obeyed as it never was before. The prisons were crowded to suffocation at one time; now they are almost empty. It is a good law. To-day a mother can wheel her baby carriage in the thickest of the traffic and run no risk of--Ah, but here is the assistant prosecutor coming. Permit me to further warn you that you will be placed under oath to tell the absolute truth. The prosecutor will ask but three questions of you: your age, your name and your place of residence. All of them you must answer truthfully, especially as to your names. If it is discovered that you have falsely given a name not your own, the lowest penalty is sixty days in prison, imposed afterwards in addition to the sentence you will receive for violating the traffic laws. I have performed my duty as required by the commissioner. My fee is a fixed one, so you need not put your hand into your pocket, M'sieur. Good day. Mademoiselle--good day, M'sieur." He bowed profoundly and gave way to the impatient prosecutor, who had considerately held himself aloof while the final words were being uttered, albeit he glanced at his watch a couple of times. "Come," he said, and he did not whisper; "let us be as expeditious as possible. Approach the court. It is--" "See here," said Robin savagely, "this is too damned high-handed. Are we to have no chance to defend ourselves? We--" "Just as you please, M'sieur," interrupted the prosecutor patiently. "It is nothing to me. I receive my fee in any event. If you care to defy the law in addition to what you have already done, it is not for me to object." "Well, I insist on having--" A thunderous pounding on the bench interrupted his hot-headed speech. "Attend!" came in a sharp, uncompromising voice from the bench. "What is the delay? This is no time to think. All that should have been done before. Step forward! _Sergent_, see that the prisoners step forward." Robin slipped his arm through Miss Guile's, expecting her to droop heavily upon it for support. To his surprise she drew herself up, dis-engaged herself, and walked straight up to the bench, without fear or hesitation. It was Robin who needed an example of courage and fortitude, not she. The chauffeur and footman, shivering in their elegance, already stood before the bench. "Will you be so kind as to raise your veil, Madam?" spake the court. She promptly obeyed. He leaned forward with sudden interest. The prosecutor blinked and abruptly overcame the habitual inclination to appear bored. Such ravishing beauty had never before found its way into that little court-room. Adjacent moustaches were fingered somewhat convulsively by several _sergents de ville._ "Ahem!" said the court, managing with some difficulty to regain his judicial form. "I am compelled by law, Mademoiselle, to warn you before you are placed under oath that the lowest penalty for giving a false name in answer to the charge to be brought against you is imprisonment for not less than sixty days. I repeat this warning to you, young man. Be sworn, if you please." Robin experienced a queer sense of exultation, not at all lessened by the knowledge that he would be forced to reveal his own identity. "Would she call herself Bedelia Guile or would she--" "State your name, Mademoiselle," said the prosecutor. CHAPTER XVI THREE MESSAGES Miss Guile lowered her head for an instant. Robin could see that her lip was quivering. A vast pity for her took possession of him and he was ashamed of what he now regarded as unexampled meanness of spirit on his own part. She lifted her shamed, pleading eyes to search his, as if expecting to find succour in their fearless depths. She found them gleaming with indignation, suddenly aroused, and was instantly apprehensive. There was a look in those eyes of his that seemed prophetic of dire results unless she checked the words that were rising to his lips. She shook her head quickly and, laying a hand upon his arm, turned to the waiting magistrate. "My name is--Oh, is there no way to avoid the publicity--" she sighed miserably--"the publicity that--" "I regret, Mademoiselle, that there is no alternative--" began the Judge, to be interrupted by the banging of the court-room door. He looked up, glaring at the offender with ominous eyes. The polite attendant from the outer corridor was advancing in great haste. He was not only in haste but vastly perturbed. Despite the profound whack of the magistrate's paper weight on the hollow top of the desk and the withering scowl that went with it, the attendant rushed forward, forgetting his manners, his habits and his power of speech in one complete surrender to nature. He thrust into the hand of the Judge a slip of paper, at the same time gasping something that might have been mistaken for an appeal for pardon but which more than likely was nothing of the sort. "What is this?" demanded the Judge ferociously. "Mon dieu!" replied the attendant, rolling his eyes heavenward. The magistrate was impressed. He took up the slip of paper and read what was written thereon. Then he was guilty of a start. The next instant he had the prosecutor up beside him and then the advocate. Together they read the message from the outside and together they lifted three pairs of incredulous eyes to stare at the culprits below. There was a hurried consultation in excited whisperings, intermittent stares and far from magisterial blinkings. Robin bent close to Bedelia's ear and whispered: "We must have killed some one, the way they are acting." Her face was glowing with triumph. "No. Luck is with us, Mr. Schmidt. You'll see!" The magistrate cleared his throat and beamed upon them in a most friendly fashion. Robin grasped the situation in a flash. His own identity had been revealed to the Judge. It was not likely that the daughter of William Blithers could create such lively interest in a French court of justice, so it _must_ be that Gourou or Quinnox had come to the rescue. The court would not think of fining a prince of the royal blood, law or no law! "M'sieur, Mademoiselle, will you be so good as to resume your seats? An extraordinary condition has arisen. I shall be obliged to investigate. The trial must be interrupted for a few minutes. Pardon the delay. I shall return as quickly as possible. _Sergent!_ See that Mademoiselle and M'sieur are made comfortable." He descended from the bench and hurried into the corridor, followed closely by the prosecutor and the advocate, both of whom almost trod on his heels. This may have been due to the fact that they were slighter men and more sprightly, but more than likely it was because they were unable to see where they were going for the excellent reason that they were not looking in that direction at all. Policemen and attendants, mystified but impressed, set about to make the culprits comfortable. They hustled at least a half dozen roomy chairs out of an adjoining chamber; they procured palm-leaf fans and even proffered the improbable--ice-water!--after which they betook themselves to a remote corner and whispered excitedly at each other, all the while regarding the two prisoners with intense interest. Even the despairing footman and chauffeur exhibited unmistakable signs of life. "I fancy my friends have heard of our plight, Mr. Schmidt," she said, quite composedly. "We will be released in a very few minutes." He smiled complacently. He could afford to let her believe that her friends and not his were performing a miracle. "Your friends must be very powerful," he said. "They are," said she, with considerable directness. "Still, we are not out of the scrape yet, Miss Guile," he remarked, shaking his head. "It may be a flash in the pan." "Oh, please don't say that," she cried in quick alarm. "I--I should die if--if we were to be sent to--" "Listen to me," he broke in eagerly, for an inspiration had come to him. "There's no reason why you should suffer, in any event. Apparently I am a suspected person. I may just as well be a kidnapper as not. You must allow me to inform the Judge that I was abducting you, so that he--" "How absurd!" "I don't in the least mind. Besides, I too have powerful friends who will see that I am released in a day or two. You--" "You cannot hope to convince the Judge that you were abducting me in my own automobile--or at least in one belonging to my friends, who are irreproachable. I am very much obliged to you for thinking of it, Mr. Schmidt, but it is out of the question. I couldn't allow you to do it in the first place, and in the second I'm sure the court wouldn't believe you." "It was I who suggested running away from those detectives," he protested. "But I jumped at the chance, didn't I?" she whispered triumphantly. "I am even guiltier than thou. Can you ever forgive me for--" "Hush!" he said, in a very low voice. His hand fell upon hers as it rested on the arm of the chair. They were in the shadows. She looked up quickly and their eyes met. After a moment hers fell, and she gently withdrew her hand from its place of bondage. "We are pals, Bedelia," he went on softly. "Pals never go back on each other. They sink or swim together, and they never stop to inquire the reason why. When it comes to a pinch, one or the other will sacrifice himself that his pal may be saved. I--" "Please do not say anything more," she said, her eyes strangely serious and her voice vibrant with emotion. "Please!" "I have a confession to make to you," he began, leaning still closer. "You have taken me on faith. You do not know who or what I am. I--" She held up her hand, an engaging frown in her eyes. "Stop! This is no place for confessions. I will not listen to you. Save your confessions for the magistrate. Tell him the truth, Mr. Schmidt. I am content to wait." He stared for an instant, perplexed. "See here, Miss Guile,--Bedelia,--I've just got to tell you something that--" "You may tell me at Interlaken," she interrupted, and she was now quite visibly agitated. "At Interlaken? Then you mean to carry out your plan to spend--" "Sh! Here they come. Now we shall see." The magistrate and his companions re-entered the room at that instant, more noticeably excited than when they left it. The former, rubbing his hands together and smiling as he had never smiled before, approached the pair. It did not occur to him to resent the fact that they remained seated in his august presence. "A lamentable mistake has been made," he said. "I regret that M'sieur and Mademoiselle have been subjected to so grave an indignity. Permit me to apologise for the misguided energy of our excellent _sergents_. They--" "But we were exceeding the speed limit," said Robin comfortably, now that the danger was past. "The officers were acting within their rights." "I know, I know," exclaimed the magistrate. "They are splendid fellows, all of them, and I beg of you to overlook their unfortunate--er--zealousness. Permit me to add that you are not guilty--I should say, that you are honourably discharged by this humble court. But wait! The _sergents_ shall also apologise. Here! Attend. It devolves upon you--" "Oh, I beg of you--" began Robin, but already the policemen, who had been listening open-mouthed to the agitated prosecutor, were bowing and scraping and muttering their apologies for enforcing a cruel and unjust law. "And we are not obliged to give our names, _M'sieur le judge?_" cried Miss Guile gladly. "Mademoiselle," said he, with a profound bow, "it is not necessary to acquaint me with something I already know. Permit me to again express the most unbounded regret that--" "Oh, thank you," she cried. "We have had a really delightful experience. You owe us no apology, M'sieur. And now, may we depart?" "Instantly! LaChance, conduct M'sieur and Mademoiselle into the fresh, sweet, open air and discover their car for them without delay. _Sergents_, remain behind. Let there be nothing to indicate that there has been detention. Mademoiselle, you have been merely making a philanthropic visit to our prison. There has been no arrest." Robin and Miss Guile emerged from the low, forbidding door and stood side by side on the pavement looking up and down the street in search of the car. It was nowhere in sight. The chauffeur gasped with amazement--and alarm. He had left it standing directly in front of the door, and now it was gone. "It is suggested, M'sieur," said the polite LaChance, "that you walk to the corner beyond, turn to the left and there you will find the car in plain view. It was removed by two gentlemen soon after you condescended to honour us with a visit of inspection, and thereby you have escaped much unnecessary attention from the curious who always infest the vicinity of police offices." He saluted them gravely and returned at once to the corridor. Following leisurely in the wake of the hurrying servants, Robin and Bedelia proceeded down the narrow street to the corner indicated. They were silent and preoccupied. After all, _who_ was to be thanked for the timely escape, his god or hers? And here it may be said that neither of them was ever to know who sent that brief effective message to the magistrate, nor were they ever to know the nature of its contents. The men were examining the car when they came up. No one was near. There was no one to tell how it came to be there nor whither its unknown driver had gone. It stood close to the curb and the engine was throbbing, proof in itself that some one had but recently deserted his post as guardian. "The obliging man-hunters," suggested Robin in reply to a low-voiced question. "Or your guardian angel, the great Gourou!" she said, frowning slightly. "By the way, Mr. Schmidt, do you expect to be under surveillance during your stay at Interlaken?" There was irony in her voice. "Not if I can help it," he said. "And you, Miss Guile? Is it possible that two of the best detectives in Paris are to continue treading on your heels all the time you are in Europe? Must we go about with the uncomfortable feeling that some one is staring at us from behind, no matter where we are? Are we to be perpetually attended by the invisible? If so, I am afraid we will find it very embarrassing." They were in the car now and proceeding at a snail's pace toward the Arc de Triomphe. Her eyes narrowed. He was sure that she clutched her slim fingers tightly although, for an excellent reason, he was not by way of knowing. He was rapturously watching those expressive eyes. "I shall put a stop to this ridiculous espionage at once, Mr. Schmidt. These men shall be sent kiting--I mean, about their business before this day is over. I do not intend to be spied upon an instant longer." "Still they may have been instruments of providence to-day," he reminded her. "Without them, we might now be languishing in jail and our spotless names posted in the Place de l'Opera. Bedelia Guile and Rex Schmidt, malefactors. What would your father say to that?" She smiled--a ravishing smile, it was. His heart gave a stupendous jump. "He would say that it served me right," said she, and then: "But what difference can it possibly make to you, Mr. Schmidt, if the detectives continue to watch over me?" "None," said he promptly. "I suppose they are used to almost anything in the way of human nature, so if they don't mind, I'm sure I sha'n't. I haven't the slightest objection to being watched by detectives, if we can only keep other people from seeing us." "Don't be silly," she cried. "And let me remind you while I think of it: You are not to call me Bedelia." "Bedelia," he said deliberately. She sighed. "I am afraid I have been mistaken in you," she said. He recalled Gourou's advice. Had he failed in the test? "But don't do it again." "Now that I think of it," he said soberly, "you are not to call me Mr. Schmidt. Please bear that in mind, Bedelia." "Thank you. I don't like the name. I'll call you--" Just then the footman turned on the seat and excitedly pointed to a car that had swung into the boulevard from a side street. "The man-hunters!" exclaimed Robin. "By jove, we didn't lose them after all." "To the Ritz, Pierre," she cried out sharply. Once more she seemed perturbed and anxious. "What are you going to call me?" he demanded, insistently. "I haven't quite decided," she replied, and lapsed into moody silence. Her nervousness increased as they sped down the Champs Elysees and across the Place de la Concorde. He thought that he understood the cause and presently sought to relieve her anxiety by suggesting that she set him down somewhere along the Rue de Rivoli. She flushed painfully. "Thank you, Mr. Schmidt, I--are you sure you will not mind?" "May I ask what it is that you are afraid of, Miss Guile?" he inquired seriously. She was lowering her veil. "I am not afraid, Mr. Schmidt," she said. "I am a very, very guilty person, that's all. I've done something I ought not to have done, and I'm--I'm ashamed. You don't consider me a bold, silly--" "Good Lord, no!" he cried fervently. "Then why do you call me Bedelia?" she asked, shaking her head. "If you feel that way about it, I--I humbly implore you to overlook my freshness," he cried in despair. "Will you get out here, Mr. Schmidt?" She pressed a button and the car swung alongside the curb. "When am I to see you again?" he asked, holding out his hand. She gave it a firm, friendly grip and said: "I am going to Switzerland the day after tomorrow. Good-bye." In a sort of daze, he walked up the Rue Castiliogne to the Place Vendome. His heart was light and his eyes were shining with a flame that could have but one origin. He was no longer in doubt. He was in love. He had found the Golden Girl almost at the end of his journey, and what cared he if she did turn out to be the daughter of old man Blithers? What cared he for _anything_ but Bedelia? There would be a pretty howdy-do when he announced to his people that their Princess had been selected for them, whether or no, and there might be such a thing as banishment for himself. Even at that, he would be content, for Bedelia was proof against titles. If she loved him, it would be for himself. She would scorn the crown and mock the throne, and they would go away together and live happily ever afterward, as provided by the most exacting form of romance. And Blithers? What a joke it would be on Blithers if he gave up the throne! As he approached the Ritz, a tall young man emerged from the entrance, stared at him for an instant, and then swung off at a rapid pace in the direction of the Rue de la Paix. The look he gave Robin was one of combined amazement and concern, and the tail end of it betrayed unmistakable annoyance,--or it might have been hatred. He looked over his shoulder once and found Robin staring after him. This time there could be no mistake. He was furious, but whether with Robin or himself there was no means of deciding from the standpoint of an observer. At any rate, he quickened his pace and soon disappeared. He was the good-looking young fellow who had met her at the steamship landing, and it was quite obvious that he had been making investigations on his own account. Robin permitted himself a sly grin as he sauntered into the hotel. He had given _that_ fellow something to worry about, if he had accomplished nothing else. Then he found himself wondering if, by any chance, it could be the Scoville fellow. That would be a facer! He found Quinnox and Dank awaiting him in the lobby. They were visibly excited. "Did you observe the fellow who just went out?" inquired Robin, assuming a most casual manner. "Yes," said both men in unison. "I think we've got some interesting news concerning that very chap," added the Count, glancing around uneasily. "Perhaps I may be able to anticipate it, Count," ventured Robin. "I've an idea he is young Scoville, the chap who is supposed to be in love with Miss Blithers--and _vice versa_," he concluded, with a chuckle. "What have you heard?" demanded the Count in astonishment. "Let's sit down," said Robin, at once convinced that he had stumbled upon an unwelcome truth. They repaired to the garden and were lucky enough to find a table somewhat removed from the crowd of tea-drinkers. Robin began fanning himself with his broad straw-hat. He felt uncomfortably warm. Quinnox gravely extracted two or three bits of paper from his pocket, and spread them out in order before his sovereign. "Read this one first," said he grimly. It was a cablegram from their financial agents in New York City, and it said: "Mr. B. making a hurried trip to Paris. Just learned Scoville preceded Miss B. to Europe by fast steamer and has been seen with her in Paris. B. fears an elopement. Make sure papers are signed at once as such contingency might cause B. to change mind and withdraw if possible." Robin looked up. "I think this may account for the two man-hunters," said he. His companions stared. "You will hear all about them from Gourou. We were followed this afternoon." "Followed?" gasped Quinnox. "Beautifully," said the Prince, with his brightest smile. "Detectives, you know. It was ripping." "My God!" groaned the Count. "I fancy you'll now agree with me that she is Miss Blithers," said Dank forlornly. "Cheer up, Boske," cried Robin, slapping him on the shoulder. "You'll meet another fate before you're a month older. The world is absolutely crowded with girls." "You can't crowd the world with one girl," said Dank, and it was quite evident from his expression that he believed the world contained no more than one. "I had the feeling that evil would be the result of this foolish trip to-day," groaned Quinnox. "I should not have permitted you to--" "The result is still in doubt," said Robin enigmatically. "And now, what comes next?" "Read this one. It is from Mr. Blithers. I'll guarantee that you do not take this one so complacently." He was right in his surmise. Robin ran his eye swiftly over the cablegram and then started up from his chair with a muttered imprecation. "Sh!" cautioned the Count,--and just in time, for the young man was on the point of enlarging upon his original effort. "Calm yourself, Bobby, my lad. Try taking six or seven full, deep inhalations, and you'll find that it helps wonderfully as a preventive. It saves many a harsh word. I've--" "You needn't caution me," murmured the Prince. "If I had the tongue of a pirate I couldn't begin to do justice to _this_," and he slapped his hand resoundingly upon the crumpled message from William W. Blithers. The message had been sent by Mr. Blithers that morning, evidently just before the sailing of the fast French steamer on which he and his wife were crossing to Havre. It was directed to August Totten and read as follows: "Tell our young friend to qualify statement to press at once. Announce reconsideration of hasty denial and admit engagement. This is imperative. I am not in mood for trifling. Have wired Paris papers that engagement is settled. Have also wired daughter. The sooner we get together on this the better. Wait for my arrival in Paris." It was signed "W. B." "There's Blitherskite methods for you," said Dank. "Speaking of pirates, he's the king of them all. Did you ever hear of such confounded insolence? The damned--" "Wait a second, Dank," interrupted the Count. "There is still another delectable communication for you, Robin. It was directed to R. Schmidt and I took the liberty of opening it, as authorised. Read it." This was one of the ordinary "_petits bleu_," dropped into the pneumatic tube letter-box at half-past two that afternoon, shortly before Robin ventured forth on his interesting expedition in quest of tea, and its contents were very crisp and to the point: "Pay no attention to any word you may have received from my father. He cables a ridiculous command to me which I shall ignore. If you have received a similar message I implore you to disregard it altogether. Let's give each other a fighting chance." It was signed "Maud Blithers." CHAPTER XVII THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER Mr. Blithers received a marconigram from the _Jupiter_ when the ship was three days out from New York. It was terse but sufficient. "Have just had a glimpse of Prince Charming. He is very good-looking. Love to mother. Maud." He had barely settled into a state of complete satisfaction with himself over the successful inauguration of a shrewd campaign to get the better of the recalcitrant Maud and the incomprehensible Robin, when he was thrown into a panic by the discovery that young Chandler Scoville had sailed for Europe two days ahead of Maud and her elderly companion. The gratification of knowing that the two young people had sailed away on the same vessel was not in the least minimised by Maud's declaration that she intended to remain in her cabin all the way across in order to avoid recognition, for he knew her too well to believe it possible that she could stay out of sight for any length of time, fair weather or foul. He even made a definite wager with his wife that the two would become acquainted before they were half-way across the Atlantic, and he made a bet with himself that nature would do the rest. And now here came the staggering suspicion that Scoville's hasty departure was the result of a pre-arranged plan between him and Maud, and that, after all, the silly girl might spoil everything by marrying the confounded rascal before he could do anything to prevent the catastrophe. He even tried to engineer a scheme whereby young Scoville might be arrested on landing and detained on one pretext or another until he could reach Europe and put an end to the fellow's vain-glorious conniving. But after consulting with his lawyers he abandoned the plan because they succeeded in proving to him that Maud certainly would marry the fellow if she had the least ground for believing that he was being oppressed on her account. The cables were kept very busy, however, for the next twenty-four hours, and it is certain that Scoville was a marked man from the moment he landed. Newspaper reporters camped on the trail of Mr. Blithers. He very obligingly admitted that there was something in the report that his daughter was to marry the Prince of Graustark, although he couldn't say anything definite at the time. It wouldn't be fair to the parties concerned, he explained. He gave away a great many boxes of cigars, and not a few of the more sagacious reporters succeeded in getting at least three boxes by interviewing him on as many separate occasions without being detected in the act of repeating. Then came the disgusting denials in Paris by his daughter and the ungrateful Prince. This was too much. He couldn't understand such unfilial behaviour on the part of one, and he certainly couldn't forgive the ingratitude of the other. Instead of waiting until Saturday to sail, he changed ships and left New York on Friday, thereby gaining nothing by the move except relief from the newspapers, for it appears that he gave up a five day boat for one that could not do it under six. Still he was in active pursuit, which was a great deal better than sitting in New York twiddling his thumbs or looking at his watch and berating the pernicious hours that stood between him and Saturday noon. "There will be something doing in Europe the day I land there, Lou," he said to his wife as they stood on deck and watched the Statue of Liberty glide swiftly back toward Manhattan Island. "I've got all the strings working smoothly. We've got Groostock where it can't peep any louder than a freshly hatched chicken, and we'll soon bring Maud to her senses. I tell you, Lou, there is nothing that makes a girl forget her lofty ideals so quickly as the chance to go shopping for princess gowns. She's seen the prince and I'll bet she won't be so stubborn as she was before. And if he has had a good, square look at her,--if he's had a chance to gaze into those eyes of hers,--why, I--well, I leave it to you. He can't help getting off his high horse, can he?" Mrs. Blithers favoured him with a smile. It was acknowledged that Maud was the living image of what her mother had been at the age of twenty. "I hope the child hasn't made any silly promise to Channie Scoville," she sighed. "I've been thinking of that, Lou," said he, wiping his brow, "and I've come to one conclusion: Scoville can be bought off. He's as poor as Job and half a million will look like the Bank of England to him. I'll--" "You are not to attempt anything of the kind, Will," she cried emphatically. "He would laugh in your face, poor as he is. He comes from one of the best families in New York and--" "And I don't know where the best families need money any more than they do in New York," he interrupted irritably. "'Gad, if the worst families need it as badly as they do, what must be the needs of the best? You leave it to me. It may be possible to insult him with a half million, so if he feels that way about it I'll apologise to him again with another half million. You'll see that he won't be capable of resenting two insults in succession. He'll--" "He isn't a fool," said she significantly. "He'd be a fool if he refused to take--" "Are you losing your senses, Will?" she cried impatiently. "Why should he accept a million to give up Maud, when he can be sure of fifty times that much if he marries her?" "But I'll cut Maud off with a dollar if she marries him, so help me Moses!" exclaimed Mr. Blithers, but he went a little pale just the same. "That will fix him!" "You are talking nonsense," said she sharply. He put his fingers to his ears somewhat earlier than usual, and she turned away with a tantalising laugh. "I'm going inside," and inside she went. When he followed a few minutes later he was uncommonly meek. "At any rate," he said, seating himself on the edge of a chair in her parlour, "I guess those cablegrams this morning will make 'em think twice before they go on denying things in the newspapers." "Maud will pay no attention to your cablegram, and, if I am any judge of human nature, the Prince will laugh himself sick over the one you sent to Count Quinnox. I told you not to send them. You are not dealing with Wall Street. You are dealing with a girl and a boy who appear to have minds of their own." He ventured a superior sniff. "I guess you don't know as much about Wall Street as you think you do." "I only know that it puts its tail between its legs and howls every time some one points a finger at it," she observed scornfully. "Now let's be sensible, Lou," he said, sitting back a little further in the chair, relieved to find that she was at least willing to tolerate his presence,--a matter on which he was in some doubt when he entered the room. There were times when he was not quite certain whether he or she was the brains of the family. "We'll probably have a wireless from Maud before long. Then we'll have something tangible to discuss. By the way, did I tell you that I've ordered some Dutch architects from Berlin to go--" "The Dutch are from Holland," she said wearily. "--to go over to Growstock and give me a complete estimate on repairing and remodelling the royal castle? I dare say we'll have to do a good deal to the place. It's several hundred years old and must require a lot of conveniences. Such as bath-rooms, electric lights, steam heating appar--" "Better make haste slowly, Will," she said, and he ought to have been warned by the light in her eye. "You are taking a great deal for granted, aren't you?" "It's got to be fixed up some time, so we might just as well do it in the beginning," said he, failing utterly to grasp her meaning. "Probably needs refurnishing from top to bottom, too, and a new roof. I never saw a ruin yet that didn't leak. Remember those castles on the Rhine? Will you ever forget how wet we got the day we went through the one at--" "They were abandoned, tumble-down castles," she reminded him. "There isn't a castle in Europe that's any good in a rain-storm," he proclaimed. "A mortgage can't keep out the rain and that's what every one of 'em is covered with. Why old man Quiddox himself told me that their castle had been shot to pieces in one of the revolutions and--" "It is time you informed yourself about the country you are trying to annex to the Blithers estate," she said sarcastically. "I can assist you to some extent if you will be good enough to listen. In the first place, the royal castle at Edelweiss is one of the most substantial in the world. It has not been allowed to fall into decay. In fact, it is inhabitated from top to bottom by members of the royal household and the court, and I fancy they are not the sort of people who take kindly to a wetting. It is not a ruin, Will, such as you have been permitted to visit, but a magnificent building with all of the modern improvements. The only wettings that the inmates sustain are of a daily character and due entirely to voluntary association with porcelain bath-tubs and nickle-plated showers, and they never get anything wet but their skins. As for the furnishings, I can assure you that the entire Blithers fortune could not replace them if they were to be destroyed by fire or pillage. They are priceless and they are unique. I have read that the hangings in the bed-chamber of the late Princess Yetive are the most wonderful in the whole world. The throne chair in the great audience chamber is of solid gold and weighs nearly three thousand pounds. It is studded with diamonds, rubies--" "Great Scott, Lou, where did you learn all this?" he gasped, his eyes bulging. "--emeralds and other precious stones. There is one huge carpet in the royal drawing-room that the Czar of Russia is said to have offered one hundred thousand pounds for and the offer was scorned. The park surrounding the castle is said to be beautiful beyond the power of description. The--" "I asked you where you got all this information. Can't you answer me?" "I obtained all this and a great deal more from a lady who spent a year or two inside the castle walls. I refer to Mrs. Truxton King, who might have told you as much if you had possessed the intelligence to inquire." "Gee whiz!" exclaimed Mr. Blithers, going back to his buoyant boyhood days for an adequate expression. "What a wonder you are, Lou. But that's the woman of it, always getting at the inside of a thing while a man is standing around looking at the outside. Say, but won't it make a wonderful home for you and me to spend a peaceful old age in when we get ready to lay aside the--" He stopped short, for she had arisen and was standing over him with a quivering forefinger levelled at his nose,--and not more than six inches away from it,--her handsome eyes flashing with fury. "You may walk in where angels fear to tread, but you will walk alone, Will Blithers. I shall not be with you, and you may as well understand it now. I've told you a hundred times that money isn't everything, and it is as cheap as dirt when you put it alongside of tradition, honour, pride and loyalty. Those Graustarkians would take you by the nape of the neck and march you out of their castle so quick that your head would swim. You may be able to buy their prince for Maudie to exhibit around the country, but you can't buy the intelligence of the people. They won't have you at any price and they won't have me, so there is the situation in a nutshell. They will hate Maudie, of course, but they will endure her for obvious reasons. They may even come to love and respect her in the end, for she is worthy. But as for you and me, William,--with all our money,--we will find every hand against us--even the hand of our daughter, I prophesy. I am not saying that I would regret seeing Maud the Princess of Graustark--far from it. But I do say that you and I will be expected to know our places. If you attempt to spend your declining years in the castle at Edelweiss you will find them reduced to days, and short ones at that. The people of Graustark will see to it that you die before your time." "Bosh!" said Mr. Blithers. "Mind if I smoke?" He took out a cigar and began searching for matches. "No," she said, "I don't mind. It is a sign that you need something to steady your nerves. I know you, Will Blithers. You don't want to smoke. You want to gain a few minutes of time, that's all." He lit a cigar. "Right you are," was his unexpected admission. "I wonder if you really have the right idea about this business. What objection could any one have to a poor, tired old man sitting in front of his daughter's fireside and--and playing with her kiddies? It seems to me that--" "You will never be a tired old man, that's the trouble," she said, instantly touched. "Oh, yes, I will," said he slowly. "I'm rather looking forward to it, too." "It will be much nicer to have the kiddies come to your own fireside, Will. I used to enjoy nothing better than going to spend a few days with my grandfather." "But what's the use of going to all this trouble and expense if we are not to enjoy some of the fruits?" he protested, making a determined stand. "If these people can't be grateful to the man who helps 'em out in their time of trouble,--and who goes out of his way to present 'em with a bright, capable posterity,--I'd like to know what in thunder gratitude really means." "Oh, there isn't such a thing as gratitude," she said. "Obligation, yes,--and ingratitude most certainly, but gratitude,--no. You are in a position to know that gratitude doesn't exist. Are you forgetting the private advices we already have had from Graustark? Does it indicate that the people are grateful? There are moments when I fear that we are actually placing Maud's life in peril, and I have had some wretched dreams. They do not want her. They speak of exile for the Prince if he marries her. And now I repeat what I have said before:--the people of Graustark must have an opportunity to see and become acquainted with Maud before the marriage is definitely arranged. I will not have my daughter cast into a den of lions. Will,--for that is what it may amount to. The people will adore her, they will welcome her with open arms if they are given the chance. But they will have none of her if she is forced upon them in the way you propose." "I'll--I'll think it over," said Mr. Blithers, and then discovered that his cigar had gone out. "I think I'll go on deck and smoke, Lou. Makes it stuffy in here. We'll lunch in the restaurant at half-past one, eh?" "Think hard, Will," she recommended, with a smile. "I'll do that," he said, "but there's nothing on earth that can alter my determination to make Maud the Princess of Groostork. _That's_ settled." "Graustark, Will." "Well, whatever it is," said he, and departed. He did think hard, but not so much about a regal home for aged people as about Channie Scoville who had now become a positive menace to all of his well-ordered and costly plans. The principal subject for thought just now was not Graustark but this conniving young gentleman who stood ready to make a terrible mess of posterity. Mr. Blithers was sufficiently fair-minded to concede that the fellow was good-looking, well-bred and clever, just the sort of chap that any girl might fall in love with like a shot. As a matter of fact, he once had admired Scoville, but that was before he came to look upon him as a menace. He would make a capital husband for any girl in the world, except Maud. He could say that much for him, without reserve. He thought hard until half-past one and then went to the wireless office, where he wrote out a message in cipher and directed the operator to waste no time in relaying it to his offices in Paris. His wife was right. It would be the height of folly to offer Scoville money and it would be even worse to inspire the temporary imprisonment of the young man. But there was a splendid alternative. He could manage to have his own daughter abducted,--chaperon included,--and held for ransom! The more he thought of it the better it seemed to him, and so he sent a cipher message that was destined to throw his Paris managers into a state of agitation that cannot possibly be measured by words. In brief, he instructed them to engage a few peaceable, trustworthy and positively respectable gentlemen,--he was particularly exacting on the score of gentility,--with orders to abduct the young lady and hold her in restraint until he arrived and arranged for her liberation! They were to do the deed without making any fuss about it, but at the same time they were to do it effectually. He had the foresight to suggest that the job should be undertaken by the very detective agency he had employed to shadow young Scoville and also to keep an eye on Maud. Naturally, she was never to know the truth about the matter. She was to believe that her father came up with a huge sum in the shape of ransom, no questions asked. He also remembered in time and added the imperative command that she was to be confined in clean, comfortable quarters and given the best of nourishment. But, above all else, it was to be managed in a decidedly realistic way, for Maud was a keen-witted creature who would see through the smallest crack in the conspiracy if there was a single false movement on the part of the plotters. It is also worthy of mention that Mrs. Blithers was never--_decidedly never_--to know the truth about the matter. He went in to luncheon in a very amiable, even docile frame of mind. "I've thought the matter over, Lou," he said, "and I guess you are right, after all. We will make all the repairs necessary, but we won't consider living in it ourselves. We'll return good for evil and live in a hotel when we go to visit the royal family. As for--" "I meant that you were to think hard before attempting to force Maud upon Prince Robin's subjects without preparing them for the--" "I thought of that, too," he interrupted cheerfully. "I'm not going to cast my only child into the den of lions, so that's the end of it. Have you given the order, my dear?" "No," she said; "for I knew you would change it when you came in." Late that evening he had a reply from his Paris managers. They inquired if he was responsible for the message they had received. It was a ticklish job and they wanted to be sure that the message was genuine. He wired back that he was the sender and to go ahead. The next morning they notified him that his instructions would be carried out as expeditiously as possible. He displayed such a beaming countenance all that day that his wife finally demanded an explanation. It wasn't like him to beam when he was worried about anything, and she wanted to know what had come over him. "It's the sea-air, Lou," he exclaimed glibly. "It always makes me feel like a fighting-cock. I--" "Rubbish! You detest the sea-air. It makes you feel like fighting, I grant, but not like a fighting-cock." "There you go, trying to tell me how I feel. I've never known any one like you, Lou. I can't say a word that--" "Have you had any news from Maud?" she broke in suspiciously. "Not a word," said he. "What have you done to Channie Scoville?" she questioned, fixing him with an accusing eye. "Not a thing," said he. "Then, what is it?" "You won't believe me if I tell you," said he warily. "Yes, I will." "No, you won't." "Tell me this instant why you've been grinning like a Cheshire cat all day." "It's the sea-air," said he, and then: "I said you wouldn't believe me, didn't I?" "Do you think I'm a fool, Will Blithers?" she flashed, and did not wait for an answer. He chuckled to himself as she swept imperiously out of sight around a corner of the deck-building. He was up bright and early the next morning, tingling with anticipation. There ought to be word from Paris before noon, and it might come earlier. He kept pretty close to the wireless operator's office, and was particularly attentive to the spitting crackle of the instrument. About eleven o'clock an incomprehensibly long message began to rattle out of the air. He contained himself in patience for the matter of half an hour or longer, and then, as the clatter continued without cessation, he got up and made his way to the door of the operator's office. "What is it? The history of England?" he demanded sarcastically. "Message for you, Mr. Blithers. It's a long one and I'm having a hard time picking it up. Everybody seems to be talking at once. Do you want the baseball scores, Mr. Blithers?" "Not unless they come in cipher," said Mr. Blithers acidly. "Some of 'em do. Six to nothing in favor of the Giants, two to nothing--Here we are at last. I've picked up the _Mauretania_ again. She's relaying." Mr. Blithers sat down on the steps and looked at his watch. It would be five o'clock in Paris. He wondered if they were giving Maud her afternoon tea, and then choked up with a sudden pity for the terrified captive. It was all he could do to keep from jumping up and ordering the operator to drop everything and take a message countermanding his inhuman instructions to those asses in Paris. Tears gushed from his eyes. He brushed them away angrily and tried to convince himself that it served Maud right for being so obstinate. Still the tears came. The corners of his mouth drooped and his chin began to quiver. It was too much! The poor child was-- But just then the operator sat back with a sigh of relief, mopped his brow, and said: "Good thing you're a rich man, Mr. Blithers. It came collect and--" "Never mind," blurted Mr. Blithers. "Hand it over." There were four sheets of writing at some outlandish price per word, but what cared he? He wanted to get back to his stateroom and his cipher code as quickly--but his eyes almost started from his head as he took in the name at the bottom of the message. It was "Maud." He did not require the cipher book. A fourth reader child could have read the message without a halt. Maud had taken his request literally. He had asked her to send him a nice long message, but he did not expect her to make a four-page letter of it. She was paying him out with a vengeance! He took the precaution to read it before handing it over to his wife, to whom it was addressed in conjunction with himself: "Dear father and mother," it began--(and he looked at the date line again to make sure it was from Paris)--"in reply to your esteemed favour of the nineteenth, or possibly the twentieth, I beg to inform you that I arrived safely in Paris as per schedule. Regarding the voyage, it was delightful. We had one or two rough days. The rest of the time it was perfectly heavenly. I met two or three interesting and amusing people on board and they made the time pass most agreeably. I think I wired you that I had a glimpse of a certain person. On my arrival in Paris I was met at the station by friends and taken at once to the small, exclusive hotel where they are stopping for the summer. It is so small and exclusive that I'm sure you have never heard of it. I may as well tell you that I have seen Channie,--you know who I mean,--Chandler Scoville, and he has been very nice to me. Concerning your suggestion that I reconsider the statement issued to the press, I beg to state that I don't see any sense in taking the world into my confidence any farther than it has been taken already, if that is grammatically correct. I have also sent word to a certain person that he is not to pay any attention to the report that we are likely to change our minds in order to help out the greedy newspapers who don't appear to know when they have had enough. I hope that the voyage will benefit both of you as much as it did me. If I felt any better than I do now I'd call for the police as a precaution. Let me suggest that you try the chicken a la Bombardier in the Ritz restaurant. I found it delicious. I daresay they serve it as nicely on your ship as they do on the _Jupiter_. as the management is the same. Of course one never can tell about chefs. My plans are a trifle indefinite. I may leave here at any moment. It is very hot and muggy and nearly every one is skipping off to the mountains or seashore. If I should happen to be away from Paris when you arrive don't worry about me. I shall be all right and in safe hands. I will let you know where I am just as soon as I get settled somewhere. I must go where it is quiet and peaceful. I am so distressed over what has occurred that I don't feel as though I could ever be seen in public again without a thick veil and a pair of goggles. I have plenty of money for immediate use, but you might deposit something to my credit at the Credit Lyonnais as I haven't the least idea how long I shall stay over here. Miranda is well and is taking good care of me. She seldom lets me out of her sight if that is any comfort to you. I hope you will forgive the brevity of this communication and believe me when I say that it is not lack of love for you both that curtails its length but the abominably hot weather. With endless love from your devoted daughter--Maud." The tears had dried in Mr. Blithers' eyes but he wiped them time and again as he read this amazing letter,--this staggering exhibition of prodigality. He swore a little at first, but toward the end even that prerogative failed him. He set out in quest of his wife. Not that he expected her to say any more than he had said, but that he wanted her to see at a glance what kind of a child she had brought into the world and to forever hold her peace in future when he undertook to speak his mind. He could not understand why his wife laughed softly to herself as she read, and he looked on in simple amazement when she deliberately undertook to count the words. She counted them in a whisper and he couldn't stand it. He went down where the children were shrieking over a game of quoits and felt singularly peaceful and undisturbed. It was nearly bed-time before word came from his managers in Paris. Bed-time had no meaning for him after he had worked out the message by the code. It is true that he observed a life-long custom and went to bed, but he did not do it for the purpose of going to sleep. "Your daughter has disappeared from Paris. All efforts to locate her have failed. Friends say she left ostensibly for the Pyrenees but inquiries at stations and along line fail to reveal trace of her. Scoville still here and apparently in the dark. He is being watched. Her companion and maid left with her last night. Prince of Graustark and party left for Edelweiss to-day." So read the message from Paris. CHAPTER XVIII A WORD OF ENCOURAGEMENT One usually has breakfast on the porch of the Hotel Schweizerhof at Interlaken. It is not the most fashionable hostelry in the quaint little town at the head of the Lake of Thun, but it is of an excellent character, and the rolls and honey to be had with one's breakfast can not be surpassed in the Bernese Oberland. Straight ahead lies one of the most magnificent prospects in all the world: an unobstructed view of the snow-thatched Jungfrau, miles away, gleaming white and jagged against an azure sky, suggesting warmth instead of chill, grandeur instead of terror. Looking up the valley one might be led to say that an hour's ramble would take him to the crest of that shining peak, and yet some men have made a life's journey of it. Others have turned back in time. One has a whiff of fragrant woodlands and serene hay-cocks, a breath of cool air from the Jungfrau's snows, a sniff of delectable bacon and toast--and a zest for breakfast. And one sets about it with interest, with the breakfast of the next day as a thing to look forward to. R. Schmidt sat facing the dejected Boske Dank. His eyes were dancing with the joy of living, and nothing better can be said of a man's character than that he is gay and happy at breakfast-time. He who wakes up, refreshed and buoyant, and eager for the day's adventure, is indeed a child of nature. He will never grow old and crabbed; he will grip the hand of death when the time comes with the unconquered zeal that makes the grim reaper despise himself for the advantage he takes of youth. "Well, here we are and in spite of that, where are we?" said Dank, who saw nothing beautiful in the smile of any early morn. "I mean to say, what have we to show for our pains? We sneak into this Godforsaken hamlet, surrounded on all sides by abominations in the shape of tourists, and at the end of twenty-four hours we discover that the fair Miss Guile has played us a shabby trick. I daresay she is laughing herself sick over the whole business." "Which is more than you can say for yourself, Boske," said Robin blithely. "Brace up! All is not lost. We'll wait here a day or two longer and then--well, I don't know what we'll do then." "She never intended to come here at all," said Dank, filled with resentment. "It was a trick to get rid of us. She--" "Be honest, old chap and say that it was a trick to get rid of _me_. Us is entirely too plural. But I haven't lost heart. She'll turn up yet." "Count Quinnox is in despair over this extraordinary whim of yours, highness. He is really ill in bed this morning. I--" "I'll run up and see him after breakfast," cried the Prince, genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry he is taking it so seriously." "He feels that we should be at home instead of dawdling about the--" "That reminds me. Dank," broke in the Prince, fresh happiness in his smile; "I've decided that home is the place for you and the Count--and Gourou too. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself,--with some assistance from Hobbs,--and I don't see any necessity for you three to remain with me any longer. I'll tell the Count that you all may start for Vienna tonight. You connect with the Orient express at--" "Are you mad, highness?" cried Dank, startled out of his dejection. "What you speak of is impossible--utterly impossible. We cannot leave you. We were delegated to escort you--" "I understand all of that perfectly, Dank," interrupted Robin, suddenly embarrassed, "but don't you see how infernally awkward it will be for me if Miss Guile does appear, according to plan? She will find me body-guarded, so to speak, by three surly, scowling individuals whose presence I cannot explain to save my soul, unless I tell the truth, and I'm not yet ready to do that. Can't you see what I mean? How am I to explain the three of you? A hawk-eyed triumvirate that camps on my trail from morn till night and refuses to budge! She'll suspect something, old fellow, and--well, I certainly will feel more comfortable if I'm not watched for the next few days." "That's the point, highness. You've just got to be watched for the next few days. We would never dare to show our faces in Graustark again if we allowed anything to happen to you while you are under our care. You are a sacred charge. We must return you to Graustark as--er--inviolate as when you departed. We--we couldn't think of subjecting you to the peril of a--that is to say, it might prove fatal. Graustark, in that event, would be justified in hanging two of her foremost citizens and yours truly from gibbets designed especially for the blackest of traitors." "I see, Dank. If I find happiness, you are almost sure to find disgrace and death, eh? It doesn't seem a fair division, does it? I suppose you all feel that the worst thing that can possibly happen is for me to find happiness." "If I were the Prince of Graustark I should first think of the happiness of my subjects. I would not offend." "Well put, Boske, but fortunately you are not the Prince. I sometimes wish that you were. It would relieve me of a tremendous responsibility. I am not mean enough, however, to wish a crown upon you, old fellow. You are lucky to be who and what you are. No one cares what you do, so long as you are honourable about it. With me it is different. I have to be watched day and night in order to be kept from doing what all the rest of the world looks upon as honourable." "I implore you, highness, to give up this mad enterprise and return to your people as--" "There is only one person in the world who can stop me now, Dank." "And she isn't likely to do so, worse luck," was the other's complaint. "When she tells me to go about my business, I'll go, but not until then. Don't you like honey, Dank?" "No," said Dank savagely. "I hate it." He leaned back in his chair and glowered upon the innocent, placid Jungfrau. The Prince ate in silence. "May I be permitted a question, highness?" "All you like, Boske. You are my best friend. Go ahead." "Did you see Miss Guile after that visit to St. Cloud--and to the police station?" "No. Evidently she was frightened out of her boots by the Hawkshaws. I don't blame her, do you?" "And you've had no word from her?" "None. Now you are going to ask what reason I have for believing that she will come to Interlaken. Well, I can't answer that question. I think she'll come, that's all." "Do you think she is in love with you?" "Ah, my dear fellow, you are asking me to answer my own prayer," said Robin, without a sign of resentment in his manner. "I'm praying that she isn't altogether indifferent. By the way, it is my turn to ask questions. Are you still in love with her?" "I am proud to say that you are more in my prayers that she," said Dank, with a profound sigh. "Nothing could please me more than to be the one to save my prince from disaster, even if it meant the sacrifice of self. My only prayer is that you may be spared, sir, and I taken in your place." "That was a neat answer, 'pon my soul," cried the Prince admiringly. "You--Hello, who is this approaching? It is no other than the great Gourou himself, the king of sleuths, as they say in the books I used to read. Good morning, Baron." The sharp-visaged little Minister of Police came up to the table and fixed an accusing eye upon his sovereign,--the literal truth, for he had the other eye closed in a protracted wink. "I regret to inform your majesty that the enemy is upon us," he said. "I fear that our retreat is cut off. Nothing remains save--" "She has arrived?" cried the Prince eagerly. "She has," said the Baron. "Bag and baggage, and armed to the eyes. Each eye is a gatling-gun, each lip a lunette behind which lies an unconquerable legion of smiles and rows of ivory bayonets, each ear a hardy spy, and every nut-brown strand a covetous dastard on the warpath not for a scalp but for a crown. Napoleon was never so well prepared for battle as she, nor Troy so firmly fortified. Yes, highness, the foe is at our gates. We must to arms!" "Where is she?" demanded Robin, unimpressed by this glowing panegyric. "At this instant, sir, I fancy she is rallying her forces in the very face of a helpless mirror. In other words, she is preparing for the fray. She is dressing." "The devil! How dare you pry into the secret--" "Abhorrent thought! I deduce, nothing more. Her maid loses herself in the halls while attempting to respond to the call for re-inforcements. She accosts a gentleman of whom she inquires the way. The gentleman informs her she is on the third, not the second _etage_, and she scurries away simpering, but not before confiding to me--the aforesaid gentleman--that her mistress will give her fits for being late with her hair, whatever that may signify. So, you see, I do not stoop to keyholes but put my wits to work instead." "When did she arrive?" "She came last night via Milan." "From Milan?" cried Robin, astonished. "A roundabout way, I'll admit," said the Baron, drily, "and tortuous in these hot days, but admirably suited to a purpose. I should say that she was bent on throwing some one off the track." "And yet she came!" cried the Prince, in exultation. "She wanted to come, after all, now didn't she, Dank?" He gave the lieutenant a look of triumph. "She is more dangerous than I thought," said the guardsman mournfully. "Sit down, Baron," commanded the Prince. "I want to lay down the law to all of you. You three will have to move on to Graustark and leave me to look out for myself. I will not have Miss Guile--" "No!" exclaimed the Baron, with unusual vehemence. "I expected you to propose something of the kind, and I am obliged to confess to you that we have discussed the contingency in advance. We will not leave you. That is final. You may depose us, exile us, curse us or anything you like, but still we shall remain true to the duty we owe to our country. We stay here, Prince Robin, just so long as you are content to remain." Robin's face was very red. "You shame me, Baron," he said simply. "I am sorry that I spoke as I did. You are my friends, my loyal friends, and I would have humbled you in the eyes of my people. I beg your pardon, and yours, Boske. After all, I am only a prince and a prince is dependent on the loyalty of such as you. I take back all that I said." The Baron laid a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder. "I was rough, highness, in my speech just now, but you will understand that I was moved to--" "I know, Baron. It was the only way to fetch me up sharp. No apology is required. God bless you." "Now I have a suggestion of my own to offer," said the Baron, taking a seat at the end of the table. "I confess that Miss Guile may not be favourably impressed by the constant attendance of three able-bodied nurses, and, as she happens to be no fool, it is reasonably certain that she will grasp the significance of our assiduity. Now I propose that the Count, Dank and myself efface ourselves as completely as possible during the rest of our enforced stay in Interlaken. I propose that we take quarters in another hotel and leave you and Hobbs to the tender mercies of the enemy. It seems to me that--" "Good!" cried Robin. "That's the ticket! I quite agree to that, Baron." Dank was prepared to object but a dark look from Gourou silenced him. "I've talked it over with the Count and he acquiesces," went on the Baron. "We recognise the futility of trying to induce you to leave at once for Graustark, and we are now content to trust Providence to watch over and protect you against a foe whose motives may in time become transparent, even to the blind." The irony in the remark was not lost on Robin. He flushed angrily but held his tongue. Ten o'clock found the three gentlemen,--so classified by Hobbs,--out of the Schweizerhof and arranging for accommodations at the Regina Hotel Jungfraublick, perched on an eminence overlooking the valley and some distance removed from the temporary abode of the Prince. Their departure from the hotel in the Hoheweg was accomplished without detection by Miss Guile or her friends, and, to all intents and purposes, Robin was alone and unattended when he sat down on the porch near the telescope to await the first appearance of the enchanting foe. He was somewhat puzzled by the strange submissiveness of his companions. Deep down in his mind lurked the disquieting suspicion that they were conniving to get the better of the lovely temptress by some sly and secret bit of strategy. What was back of the wily Baron's motive? Why were they now content to let him take the bit in his teeth and run wherever he would? What had become of their anxiety, their eagerness to drag him off to Graustark by the first train? There was food for reflection in the tranquil capitulation of the defenders. Were they acting under fresh instructions from Edelweiss? Had the Prime Minister directed them to put no further obstacle in front of the great Blithers invasion? Or--and he scowled darkly at the thought--was there a plan afoot to overcome the dangerous Miss Guile by means more sinister than subtle? Enlightenment came unexpectedly and with a shock to his composure. He had observed the three spirited saddlehorses near the entrance of the hotel, in charge of two stable-boys, but had regarded them only as splendid specimens of equine aristocracy. It had not entered his mind to look upon them as agents of despair. Two people emerged from the door and, passing by without so much as a glance in his direction, made their way to the mounting block. Robin's heart went down to his boots. Bedelia, a graceful figure in a smart riding habit, was laughing blithely over a soft-spoken remark that her companion had made as they were crossing the porch. And that companion was no other than the tall, good-looking fellow who had met her at Cherbourg! The Prince, stunned and incredulous, watched them mount their horses and canter away, followed by a groom who seemed to have sprung up from nowhere. "Good morning, Mr. Schmidt," spoke a voice, and, still bewildered, he whirled, hat in hand, to confront Mrs. Gaston. "Did I startle you?" He bowed stiffly over the hand she held out for him to clasp, and murmured something about being proof against any surprise. The colour was slowly returning to his face, and his smile was as engaging as ever despite the bitterness that filled his soul. Here was a pretty trick to play on a fellow! Here was a slap in the face! "Isn't it a glorious morning? And how wonderful she is in this gorgeous sunlight," went on Mrs. Gaston, in what may be described as a hurried, nervous manner. "I had the briefest glimpse of her," mumbled Robin. "When did she come?" "Centuries and centuries ago, Mr. Schmidt," said she, with a smile. "I was speaking of the Jungfrau." "Oh!" he exclaimed, flushing. "I thought you--er--yes, of course! Really quite wonderful. I have heard it said that she never removes her night-cap, but always greets the dawn in spotless--ahem! Of course you understand that I am speaking of the Jungfrau," he floundered. "Naturally, Mr. Schmidt. And so you came, after all. We were afraid you might have concluded to alter your plans. Miss Guile will be delighted." He appeared grateful for the promise. "I have been here for three days, Mrs. Gaston. You were delayed in leaving Paris?" "Yes," she said, and changed the subject. "The riding is quite good, I understand. They are off for Lauterbrunnen." "I see," said he. "There is a splendid inn there, I am told." "They will return here for luncheon, of course," she said, raising her eyebrows slightly. His heart became a trifle lighter at this. "Mr. White is a lifelong friend and acquaintance of the family," she volunteered, apropos of nothing. "Oh, his name is White?" with a quiet laugh. "If you have nothing better to do, Mr. Schmidt, why not come with me to the Kursaal? The morning concert will begin shortly, and I--" "I think you will find that the band plays in the square across the way, Mrs. Gaston, and not in the Casino. At least, that has been the programme for the last two mornings." "Nevertheless, there is a concert at the Casino today," she informed him. "Will you come?" "Gladly," he replied, and they set off for the Kursaal. He found seats in the half-empty pavillion and prepared to listen to the music, although his real interest was following the narrow highway to Lauterbrunnen--and the Staubbach. "This is to be a special concert given at the request of the Grand Duke who, I hear, is leaving this afternoon for Berne." "The Grand Duke? I was not aware of the presence of royalty," said he in surprise. "No? He has been here for three days, but at another hotel. The Grand Duke Paulus and his family, you know." Robin shot a swift, apprehensive glance about the big enclosure, sweeping the raised circle from end to end. On the opposite side of the pavillion he discovered the space reserved for the distinguished party. Although he was far removed from that section he sank deeper into his chair and found one pretext after another to screen his face from view. He did know the Grand Duke Paulus and the Grand Duke knew him, which was even more to the point. The Prince of Graustark had been a prime favourite of the great man since his knickerbocker days. Twice as a boy he had visited in the ducal palace, far distant from Graustark, and at the time of his own coronation the Grand Duke and his sons had come to the castle in Edelweiss for a full month's stay. They knew him well and they would recognise him at a glance. At this particular time the last thing on earth that he desired was to be hailed as a royal prince. Never, in all his life, had he known the sun to penetrate so brightly into shadows as it did to-day. He felt that he was sitting in a perfect glare of light and that every feature of his face was clear to the most distant observer. He was on the point of making an excuse to leave the place when the ducal party came sauntering down the aisle on their way to the reserved section. Every one stood up, the band played, the Grand Duke bowed to the right and to the left, and escape was cut off. Robin could only stand with averted face and direct mild execrations at the sunlight that had seemed so glorious at breakfast-time. "He is a splendid-looking man, isn't he?" Mrs. Gaston was saying. She was gazing in rapt admiration upon the royal group. "He is, indeed," said Robin, resolutely scanning a programme, which he continued to hold before his face. When he sat down again, it was with his back to the band. "I don't like to watch the conductors," he explained. "They do such foolish things, you know." Mrs. Gaston was eyeing him curiously. He was bitterly conscious of a crimson cheek. In silence they listened to the first number. While the applause was at its height, Mrs. Gaston leaned forward and said to him: "I am afraid you are not enjoying the music, Mr. Schmidt. What is on your mind?" He started. "I--I--really, Mrs. Gaston, I am enjoying it. I--" "Your mind has gone horse-back riding, I fear. At present it is between here and Lauterbrunnen, jogging beside that roaring little torrent that--" "I don't mind confessing that you are quite right," said he frankly. "And I may add that the music makes me so blue that I'd like to jump into that roaring torrent and--and swim out again, I suppose," he concluded, with a sheepish grin. "You are in love." "I am," he confessed. She laid her hand upon his. Her eyes were wide with eagerness. "Would it drive away the blues if I were to tell you that you have a chance to win her?" He felt his head spinning. "If--if I could believe that--that-" he began, and choked up with the rush of emotion that swept through him. "She is a strange girl. She will marry for love alone. Her father is determined that she shall marry a royal prince. That much I may confess to you. She has defied her father, Mr. Schmidt. She will marry for love, and I believe it is in your power to awaken love in that adorable heart of hers. You--" "For God's sake, Mrs. Gaston, tell me--tell me, has she breathed a word to you that--" "Not a single word. But I know her well. I have known her since she was a baby, and I can read the soul that looks out through those lovely eyes. Knowing her so well, I may say to you--oh, it must be in the strictest confidence!--that you have a chance. And if you win her love, you will _have_ the greatest treasure in all the world. She--but, look! The Grand Duke is leaving. He--" "I don't care what becomes of the Grand Duke," he burst out. "Tell me more. Tell me how you look into her soul, and tell me what you see--" "Not now, sir. I have said enough. I have given you the sign of hope. It remains with you to make the most of it." "But you--you don't know anything about me. I may be the veriest adventurer, the most unworthy of all--" "I think, Mr. Schmidt, that I know you pretty well. I do not require the aid of Diogenes' lantern to see an honest man. I am responsible for her welfare. She has been placed under my protection. For twenty years I have adored her. I am not likely to encourage an adventurer." "I must be honest with you, Mrs. Gaston," he said suddenly. "I am not--" She held up her hand. "Mr. Totten has informed me that you are a life-long friend of Mrs. Truxton King. I cabled to her from Paris. There is no more to be said." His face fell. "Did she tell you--everything?" "She said no more than that R. Schmidt is the finest boy in all the world." Suddenly her face paled. "You are never--_never_ to breathe a word of this to--to Bedelia," she whispered. "But her father? What will he say to--" "Her father has said all that can be said," she broke in quietly. "He cannot force her to marry the man he has selected. She will marry the man she loves. Come now! Let us go. I am tired of the music." "Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Gaston," he cried, with shining eyes. "God bless you!" She gave him a queer look. "You must not think that your task is an easy one," she said meaningly. "There are other men in the world, you know." CHAPTER XIX "WHAT WILL MY PEOPLE DO!" The Grand Duke and his party left Interlaken by special train early in the afternoon, and great was Robin's relief when Hobbs returned with the word that they were safely on their way to the capital of Switzerland. He emerged from the seclusion of his room, where he had been in hiding since noon, and set out for a walk through the town. His head was high and his stride jaunty, for his heart was like a cork. People stared after him with smiles of admiration, and never a _cocher'_ passed him by without a genial, inviting tilt of the eyebrow and a tentative pull at the reins, only to meet with a pleasant shake of the head or the negative flourish of a bamboo cane. Night came and with it the silvery glow of moonlight across the hoary headed queen of the Oberland. When Robin came out from dinner he seated himself on the porch, expectant, eager--and vastly lonesome. An unaccountable shyness afflicted him, rendering him quite incapable of sending his card up to the one who could have dispelled the gathering gloom with a single glance of the eye. Would she come stealing out ostensibly to look at the night-capped peak, but with furtive glances into the shadows of the porch in quest of--But no! She would not do that! She would come attended by the exasperating Mr. White and the friendly duenna. Her starry eyes, directed elsewhere, would only serve to increase the depth of the shadows in which he lurked impatient. She came at last--and alone. Stopping at the rail not more than an arm's length from where he sat, she gazed pensively up at the solemn mistress of the valley, one slim hand at her bosom, the other hanging limp at her side. He could have touched that slender hand by merely stretching forth his own. Breathless, enthralled, he sat as one deprived of the power or even the wish to move. The spell was upon him; he was in thralldom. She wore a rose-coloured gown, soft, slinky, seductive. A light Egyptian scarf lay across her bare shoulders. The slim, white neck and the soft dark hair--but she sighed! He heard that faint, quick-drawn sigh and started to his feet. "Bedelia!" he whispered softly. She turned quickly, to find him standing beside her, his face aglow with rapture. A quick catch of the breath, a sudden movement of the hand that lay upon her breast, and then she smiled,--a wavering, uncertain smile that went straight to his heart and shamed him for startling her. "I beg your pardon," he began lamely. "I--I startled you." She held out her hand to him, still smiling. "I fear I shall never become accustomed to being pursued," she said, striving for command of her voice. "It is dreadful to feel that some one is forever watching you from behind. I am glad it is you, however. You at least are not 'the secret eye that never sleeps'!" She gently withdrew her hand from his ardent clasp. "Mrs. Gaston told me that she had seen you. I feared that you might have gone on your way rejoicing." "Rejoicing?" he cried. "Why do you say that?" "After our experience in Paris, I should think that you had had enough of me and my faithful watchdogs." "Rubbish!" he exclaimed. "I shall never have enough of you," he went on, with sudden boldness. "As for the watch-dogs, they are not likely to bite us, so what is there to be afraid of?" "Have you succeeded in evading the watchful eye of Mr. Totten's friend?" she enquired, sending an apprehensive glance along the porch. "Completely," he declared. "I am quite alone in this hotel and, I believe, unsuspected. And you? Are you still being--" "Sh! Who knows? I think we have thrown them off the track, but one cannot be sure. I raised a dreadful rumpus about it in Paris, and--well, they said they were sorry and advised me not to be worried, for the surveillance would cease at once. Still, I am quite sure that they lied to me." "Then you _are_ being followed." She smiled again, and there was mischief in her eyes. "If so, I have led them a merry chase. We have been travelling for two days and nights, Mr. Schmidt, by train and motor, getting off at stations unexpectedly, hopping into trains going in any direction but the right one, sleeping in strange beds and doing all manner of queer things. And here we are at last. I am sure you must look upon me as a very silly, flibberty-gibbet creature." "I see that your retinue has been substantially augmented," he remarked, a trace of jealousy in his voice. "The good-looking Mr. White has not been eluded." "Mr. White? Oh, yes, I see. But he is to be trusted, Mr. Schmidt," she said mysteriously--and tantalisingly. "He will not betray me to my cruel monster of a father. I have his solemn promise not to reveal my whereabouts to any one. My father is the last person in the world to whom he would go with reports of my misdoings." "I saw you this morning, riding with him," said he glumly. "Through the telescope?" she inquired softly, laying a hand upon the stationary instrument. He flushed hotly. "It was when you were starting out, Miss Guile. I am not one of the spies, you should remember." "You are my partner in guilt," she said lightly. "By the way, have you forgiven me for leading you into temptation?" "Certainly. I am still in the Garden of Eden, you see, and as I don't take any stock in the book of Genesis, I hope to prove to myself at least, that the conduct of an illustrious forebear of mine was not due to the frailties of Eve but to his own tremendous anxiety to get out of a place that was filled with snakes. I hope and pray that you will continue to put temptation in my path so that I may have the frequent pleasure of falling." She turned her face away and for a moment was silent. "Shall we take those chairs over there, Mr. Schmidt? They appear to be as abandoned as we." She indicated two chairs near the broad portals. He shook his head. "If we are looking for the most utterly abandoned, allow me to call your attention to the two in yonder corner." "It is quite dark over there," she said with a frown. "Quite," he agreed. "Which accounts, no doubt, for your failure to see them." "Mrs. Gaston will be looking for me before--" she began hesitatingly. "Or Mr. White, perhaps. Let me remind you that they have exceedingly sharp eyes." "Mr. White is no longer here," she announced. His heart leaped. "Then I, at least, have nothing to fear," he said quickly. She ignored the banality. "He left this afternoon. Very well, let us take the seats over there. I rather like the--shall I say shadows?" "I too object to the limelight,--Bedelia," he said, offering her his arm. "You are not to call me Bedelia," she said, holding back. "Then 'forgive us our transgressions' is to be applied in the usual order, I presume." "Are you sorry you called me Bedelia?" she insisted, frowning ominously. "No. I'm sorry you object, that's all." They made their way through a maze of chairs and seated themselves in the dim corner. Their view of the Jungfrau from this vine-screened corner was not as perfect as it might have been, but the Jungfrau had no present power of allurement for them. "I cannot stay very long," she said as she sank back in the comfortable chair. He turned his back not only upon the occupants of the porch but the lustrous Jungfrau, drawing his chair up quite close to hers. As he leaned forward, with his elbows on the arms of the chair, she seemed to slink farther back in the depths of hers, as if suddenly afraid of him. "Now, tell me everything," he said. "From beginning to end. What became of you after that day at St. Cloud, whither have you journeyed, and wherefore were you so bent on coming to this now blessed Interlaken?" "Easily answered. Nothing at all became of me. I journeyed thither, and I came because I had set my heart on seeing the Jungfrau." "But you had seen it many times." "And I hoped that I might find peace and quiet here," she added quite distinctly. "You expected to find me here, didn't you?" "Yes, but I did not regard you as a disturber of the peace." "You knew I would come, but you didn't know why, did you, Bedelia?" He leaned a little closer. "Yes, I knew why," she said calmly, emotionlessly. He drew back instantly, chilled by her directness. "You came because there was promise of an interesting adventure, which you now are on the point of making impossible by a rather rash exhibition of haste." He stared at her shadowy face in utter confusion. For a moment he was speechless. Then a rush of protesting sincerity surged up within him and he cried out in low, intense tones: "I cannot allow you to think that of me, Miss Guile. If I have done or said anything to lead you to believe that I am--" "Oh, I beg of you, Mr. Schmidt, do not enlarge upon the matter by trying to apologise," she cried. "I am not trying to apologise," he protested. "I am trying to justify what you are pleased to call an exhibition of haste. You see, it's just this way: I am obliged to make hay while the sun shines, for soon I may be cast into utter darkness. My days are numbered. In a fortnight I shall be where I cannot call my soul my own. I--" "You alarm me. Are you to be sent to prison?" "You wouldn't look upon it as a prison, but it seems like one to me. Do not laugh. I cannot explain to you now. Another day I shall tell you everything, so pray take me for what I am to-day, and ask no questions. I have asked no more of you, so do you be equally generous with me." "True," she said, "you have asked no questions of me. You take me for what I am to-day, and yet you know nothing of my yesterdays or my to-morrows. It is only fair that I should be equally confiding. Let there be no more questions. Are we, however, to take each other seriously?" "By all means," he cried. "There will come a day when you may appreciate the full extent of my seriousness." "You speak in riddles." "Is the time ripe for me to speak in sober earnest?" he questioned softly. She drew back again in swift alarm. "No, no! Not now--not yet. Do not say anything now, Mr. Schmidt, that may put an end to our--to our adventure." She was so serious, so plaintive, and yet so shyly prophetic of comfort yet to be attained, that his heart warmed with a mighty glow of exaltation. A sweet feeling of tenderness swept over him. "If God is good, there can be but one end to our adventure," he said, and then, for some mysterious reason, silence fell between them. Long afterward--it seemed hours to him!--she spoke, and her voice was low and troubled. "Can you guess why I am being watched so carefully, why I am being followed so doggedly by men who serve not me but another?" "Yes. It is because you are the greatest jewel in the possession of a great man, and he would preserve you against all varlets,--such as I." She did not reveal surprise at his shrewd conjecture. She nodded her head and sighed. "You are right. I am his greatest jewel, and yet he would give me into the keeping of an utter stranger. I am being protected against that conscienceless varlet--Love! If love lays hands upon me--ah, my friend, you cannot possibly guess what a calamity that would be!" "And love _will_ lay hands upon you, Bedelia,--" "I am sure of that," she said, once more serene mistress of herself after a peculiarly dangerous lapse. "That is why I shudder. What could be more dreadful than to fall into the clutches of that merciless foe to peace? He rends one's heart into shreds; he stabs in the dark; he thrusts, cuts and slashes and the wounds never heal; he blinds without pity; he is overbearing, domineering, ruthless and his victims are powerless to retaliate. Love is the greatest tyrant in all the world, Mr. Schmidt, and we poor wretches can never hope to conquer him. We are his prey, and he is rapacious. Do you not shudder also?" "Bless you, no! I'd rather enjoy meeting him in mortal combat. My notion of bliss would be a fight to the death with love, for then the conflict would not be one-sided. What could be more glorious than to stand face to face with love, hand to hand, breast to breast, lip to lip until the end of time? Let him cut and slash and stab if you will, there would still be recompense for the vanquished. Even those who have suffered most in the conflict with love must admit that they have had a share in the spoils. One can't ignore the sweet hours when counting up the bitter ones, after love has withdrawn from the tender encounter. The cuts and slashes are cherished and memory is a store-house for the spoils that must be shared with vanity." "It sounds like a book. Who is your favourite author?" she inquired lightly. "Baedeker," he replied, with promptness. "Without my Baedeker, I should never have chanced upon the route travelled by love, nor the hotel where I now lodge in close proximity to--" "Will you please be sensible?" "You invite something to the contrary, Bedelia," he ventured. "Haven't I requested you to--" "I think of you only as Bedelia," he made haste to explain. "Bedelia will stick to you forever, you see, while Miss Guile is almost ephemeral. It cannot live long, you know, with so many other names eager to take its place. But Bedelia--ah, Bedelia is everlasting." She laughed joyously, naturally. "You really are quite wonderful, Mr. Schmidt. Still I must change the subject. I trust the change will not affect your glibness, for it is quite exhilarating. How long do you purpose remaining in Interlaken?" "That isn't changing the subject," said he. "I shall be here for a week or ten days--or perhaps longer." He put it in the form of a question, after all. "Indeed? How I envy you. I am sorry to say I shall have to leave in a day or two." His face fell. "Why?" he demanded, almost indignantly. "Because I am enjoying myself," she replied. "I don't quite get your meaning." "I am having such a good time disobeying my father, Mr. Schmidt, and eluding pursuers. It is only a matter of a day or two before I am discovered here, so I mean to keep on dodging. It is splendid fun." "Do you think it is quite fair to me?" "Did I induce you to come here, good sir?" "You did," said he, with conviction. "Heaven is my witness. I would not have come but for you. I am due at home by this time." "Are you under any obligations to remain in Interlaken for a week or ten days?" "Not now," he replied. "Do you mind telling me where you are going to, Miss Guile?" "First to Vienna, then--well, you cannot guess where. I have decided to go to Edelweiss." "Edelweiss!" he exclaimed in astonishment. He could hardly believe his ears. "It is the very last place in the world that my father would think of looking for me. Besides I am curious to see the place. I understand that the great Mr. Blithers is to be there soon, and the stupid Prince who will not be tempted by millions, and it is even possible that the extraordinary Miss Blithers may take it into her head to look the place over before definitely refusing to be its Princess. I may find some amusement--or entertainment as an on-looker when the riots begin." He was staring at her wide-eyed and incredulous. "Do you really mean to say you are going to Graustark?" "I have thought of doing so. Don't you think it will be amusing to be on the scene when the grand climax occurs? Of course, the Prince will come off his high horse, and the girl will see the folly of her ways, and old Mr. Blithers will run 'rough shod over everybody, and--but, goodness, I can't even speculate on the possibilities." He was silent. So this was the way the wind blew, eh? There was but one construction to be put upon her decision to visit the Capital of Graustark. She _had_ taken it into her head "to look the place over before definitely refusing to be its Princess!" His first thrill of exultation gave way to a sickening sense of disappointment. All this time she was regarding him through amused, half-closed eyes. She had a distinct advantage over him. She knew that he was the Prince of Graustark; she had known it for many days. Perhaps if she had known all the things that were in his cunning brain, she would not have ventured so far into the comedy she was constructing. She would have hesitated--aye, she might have changed her methods completely. But she was in the mood to do and say daring things. She considered her position absolutely secure, and so she could afford to enjoy herself for the time being. There would be an hour of reckoning, no doubt, but she was not troubled by its promise of castigation. "Poor Prince!" she sighed pityingly. He started. The remark was so unexpected that he almost betrayed himself. It seemed profoundly personal. "He will be in very hot water, I fear." He regarded her coldly. "And you want to be on hand to see him squirm, I suppose." She took instant alarm. Was she going too far? His query was somewhat disconcerting. "To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Schmidt, I am going to Graustark because no one will ever think of looking for me in such an out-of-the-way place. I am serious now, so you must not laugh at me. Circumstances are such that I prefer to seek happiness after a fashion of my own. My parents love me, but they will not understand me. They wish me to marry a man they have picked out for me. I intend to pick out my own man, Mr. Schmidt. You may suspect, from all that you have seen, that I am running away from home, from those who are dearest in all the world to me. You knew that I was carefully watched in Paris. You know that my father fears that I may marry a man distasteful to him, and I suppose to my mother, although she is not so--" "Are his fears well-founded?" he asked, rudely interrupting her. "Is there a man that he has cause to fear? Are--are you in love with some one, Bedelia?" "Do not interrupt me. I want you to know that I am not running away from home, that I shall return to it when I see fit, and that I am not in love with the man they suspect. I want you to be just with me. You are not to blame my father for anything, no matter how absurd his actions may appear to you in the light of the past few days. It is right that he should try to safeguard me. I am wayward but I am not foolish. I shall commit no silly blunder, you may be sure of that. Now do you understand me better?" She was very serious, very intense. He laid his hand on hers, and she did not withdraw it. Emboldened, his hand closed upon the dainty fingers and an instant later they were borne to his hot lips. "You have said that I came here in search of a light adventure," he whispered, holding her hand close to his cheek as he bent nearer to her. "You imply that I am a trifler, a light-o'-love. I want you to understand me better. I came here because I--" "Stop!" she pleaded. "You must not say it. I am serious--yes, I know that you are serious too. But you must wait. If you were to say it to me now I should have to send you away and--oh, believe me, I do not want to do that. I--I--" "You love no one else?" he cried, rapturously. She swayed slightly, as if incapable of resisting the appeal that called her to his heart. Her lips were parted, her eyes glowed luminously even in the shadows, and she scarcely breathed the words: "I love no one else." A less noble nature than his would have seized upon the advantage offered by her sudden weakness. Instead, he drew a long, deep breath, straightened his figure and as he gently released the imprisoned hand, the prince in him spoke. "You have asked me to wait. I am sure that you know what is in my heart. It will always be there. It will not cut and slash and stab, for it is the most tender thing that has ever come into my life--or yours. It must never be accused of giving pain to you, so I shall obey you--and wait. You are right to avoid the risk of entrusting a single word of hope to me. I am a passer-by. My sincerity, my honesty of purpose remain to be proved. Time will serve my cause. I can only ask you to believe in me--to trust me a little more each day--and to let your heart be my judge." She spoke softly. "I believe in you, I trust you even now, or I would not be here. You are kind to me. Few would have been so generous. We both are passers-by. It is too soon for us to judge each other in the full. I must be sure--oh, I must be sure of myself. Can you understand? I must be sure of myself, and I am not sure now. You do not know how much there is at stake, you can not possibly know what it would mean to me if I were to discover that our adventure had no real significance in the end. I know it sounds strange and mysterious, or you would not look so puzzled. But unless I can be sure of one thing--one vital thing--our adventure has failed in every respect. Now, I must go in. No; do not ask me to stay--and let me go alone. I prefer it so. Good night, my comrade." He stood up and let her pass. "Good night, my princess," he said, clearly and distinctly. She shot a swift glance into his eyes, smiled faintly, and moved away. His rapt gaze followed her. She entered the door without so much as a glance over her shoulder. "My princess," he repeated wonderingly, to himself. "Have I kissed the hand of my princess? God in heaven, is there on earth a princess more perfect than she? Can there be in all this world another so deserving of worship as she?" Late at night she sat in her window looking up at the peaceful Jungfrau. A dreamy, ineffably sweet smile lay in her dark eyes. The hand he kissed had lain long against her lips. To herself she had repeated, over and over again, the inward whisper: "What will my dear, simple old dad say if I marry this man after all?" In a window not ten feet away, he was staring out into the night, with lowering eyes and troubled heart, and in his mind he was saying: "What will my people do if I marry this woman after all?" CHAPTER XX LOVE IN ABEYANCE Two days went by. They were fraught with an ever-increasing joy for the two who were learning to understand each other through the mute, though irresistible teachings of a common tutor. Each succeeding hour had its exquisite compensation; each presented the cup of knowledge to lips that were parched with the fever of impotence, and each time it was returned empty by the seekers after wisdom. There were days in which Love went harvesting and prospered amazingly in the fields, for each moment that he stored away against the future was ripe with promise. He was laying by the store on which he was to subsist to the end of his days; he allowed no moment to go to waste, for he is a miser and full of greed. Not one word of love passed between these two who waited for the fruit to ripen. They were never alone together. Always they were attended by the calm, keen-eyed Mrs. Gaston, who, though she may have been in sympathy with their secret enterprise, was nevertheless a dependable barrier to its hasty consummation. She had received her instructions from the one now most likely to be in need of a deterring influence; the girl herself. After that evening on the porch, Bedelia had gone straight to her duenna with the truth. Then she made it clear to the good lady that she was not to be left alone for an instant to confront the welcome besieger. And so it was that when Robin and Bedelia walked or rode together, they were attended by prevention. In the Casino, at the gaming tables, at the concert, or even in the street he was never free to express a thought or emotion that, under less guarded conditions, might have exposed her to the risk she was so carefully avoiding. He understood the situation perfectly and was not resentful. He appreciated the caution with which she was carrying on her own campaign, and he was not unmindful of the benefits that might also accrue to him through this proscribed period of reflection. While he was sure of himself by this time, and fully determined to risk even his crown for the girl who so calmly held him at bay, he was also sensible of the wisdom of her course. She was not willing to subject herself or him to the dangers of temptation. As she had said, there was a great deal at stake; the rest of their lives, in truth. There was one little excursion to Grindelwald and its glacier, and later an ascent of the Schynige Platte. Even a desperate horror of the rack and pinion railway up and down the steep mountain did not daunt the incomparable chaperone. (True, she closed her eyes and shrank as far away from the edge of eternity as possible, but she stuck manfully to her post.) He dined with them on the two evenings, and with them heard the concerts. There were times when he was perplexed, and uncertain of her. At no time did she relax into what might have been considered a receptive or even an encouraging mood. He watched eagerly for the love-light that he hoped to surprise in her eyes, but it never appeared. She was serene, self-contained, natural. That momentary dissolving on her part when she sat with him in the shadows was the only circumstance he had to base his hopes upon. She had betrayed herself then by word and manner, but now she had her emotions well in hand. Her lovely eyes met his frankly and without the faintest sign of diffidence or self-consciousness. Her soft laugh was free and unconstrained, her smile gay and remotely suggestive of mischief. At times he thought she was playing the game too well for one who professed to be concerned about the future. On the third day he was convicted of duplicity. She went off for a walk alone, leaving him safely anchored in what he afterwards came to look upon as a pre-arranged game of auction-bridge. When she came in after an absence of at least two hours, the game was just breaking up. He noted the questioning look that Mrs. Gaston bestowed upon her fair charge, and also remarked that it contained no sign of reproof. The girl went up to her room without so much as a word with him. Her face was flushed and she carried her head disdainfully. He was greatly puzzled. The puzzle was soon explained. He waited for her on the stairway as she came down alone to dinner. "You told me that your friends were not in Interlaken, Mr. Schmidt," she said coldly. "Why did you feel called upon to deceive me?" He bit his lip. For an instant he reflected, and then gave an evasive answer. "I think I told you that I was alone in this hotel. Miss Guile. My friends are at another hotel. I am not aware that--" "I have seen and talked with that charming old man, Mr. Totten," she interrupted. "He has been here for days, and Mr. Dank as well. Do you think that you have been quite fair with me?" He lowered his eyes. "I think I have been most fair to both of us," he replied. "Will you believe me when I say that in a way I personally requested them to leave this hotel and seek another? And will it decrease your respect for me if I add that I wanted to have you all to myself, so to speak, and not to feel that these good friends of mine were--" "Why don't you look me in the face, Mr. Schmidt?" she broke in. He looked up at once prepared to meet a look of disdain. To his surprise, she was smiling. "I have talked it all over with Mrs. Gaston, and she advised me to forgive you if you were in the least penitent and--honest. Well, you have made an honest confession, I am satisfied. Now, I have a confession to make. I have suspected all along that Mr. Totten and Mr. Dank and the shadowy Mr. Gourou were in the town." "You suspected?" he cried in amazement and chagrin. "I was morally certain that they were here. Today my suspicions were justified. I encountered Mr. Totten in the park beyond the Jungfraublick. He was very much upset, I can assure you, but he recovered with amazing swiftness. We sat on one of the benches in a nice little nook and had a long, long talk. He is a charming man. I have asked him to come to luncheon with us to-morrow, and to bring Mr. Dank." "Good Lord, will wonders never--" "But I did not include the still invisible Mr. Gourou. I was afraid that you would be too uncomfortable under the hawk-like eye of the gentleman who so kindly warned us at the Pavilion Bleu." There was gentle raillery in her manner. "I shall expect you to join us, Mr. Schmidt. You have no other engagement?" "I--I shall be delighted," he stammered. She laid her hand gently upon his arm and a serious sweetness came into her eyes. "Come," she said; "let us go in ahead of Mrs. Gaston. Let us have just one little minute to ourselves, Mr. Schmidt." It was true that she came upon the Count in one of the paths of the Kleine Rugen. He was walking slowly toward her, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. When she accosted him, he was plainly confused, as she had said. After the first few passages in polite though stilted conversation, his keen, grey eyes resumed their thoughtful--it was even a calculating look. "Will you sit here with me for a while, Miss Guile?" he asked gently. "I have something of the gravest importance to say to you." She sat beside him on the sequestered bench, and when she arose to leave him an hour later, her cheek was warm with colour and her eyes were filled with tenderness toward this grim, staunch old man who was the friend of _her_ friend. She laid her hand in his and suffered him to raise it to his lips. "I hope, my dear young lady," said he with simple directness, "that you will not regard me as a stupid, interfering old meddler. God is my witness, I have your best interests at heart. You are too good and beautiful to--" "I shall always look upon you as the kindest of men!" she cried impulsively, and left him. He stood watching her slender, graceful figure as she moved down the sloping path and turned into the broad avenue. A smallish man with a lean face came up from the opposite direction and stopped beside him. "Could you resist her, Quinnox, if you were twenty-two?" asked this man in his quiet voice. Quinnox did not look around, but shook his head slowly. "I cannot resist her at sixty-two, my friend. She is adorable." "I do not blame him. It is fate. _She_ is fate. Our work is done, my friend. We have served our country well, but fate has taken the matter out of our hands. There is nothing left for us to do but to fold our arms and wait." Gourou revealed his inscrutable smile as he pulled at his thin, scraggly moustache. He was shaking his head, as one who resigns himself to the inevitable. After a long silence Quinnox spoke. "Our people will come to love their princess, Gourou." "Even as you and I, my friend," said the Baron. And then they held their heads erect and walked confidently down the road their future sovereign had traversed before them. When Mrs. Gaston joined Robin and Bedelia at the table which had been set for them in the _salle a manger_, she laid several letters before the girl who picked them up instantly and glanced at the superscription on each. "I think that all of them are important," said Mrs. Gaston significantly. The smile on the girl's face had given way to a clouded brow. She was visibly perturbed. "You will forgive me, Mr. Schmidt," she said nervously. "I must look at them at once." He tried not to watch her face as she read what appeared to be a brief and yet evidently important letter, but his rapt gaze was not to be so easily managed. An exclamation of annoyance fell from her lips. "This is from a friend in Paris, Mr. Schmidt," she said, hesitatingly. Then, as if coming to a quick decision: "My father has heard that I am carrying on atrociously with a strange young man. It seems that it is a _new_ young man. He is beside himself with rage. My friends have already come in for severe criticism. He blames them for permitting his daughter to run at large and to pick up with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Dear me, I shudder when I think of what he will do to you, Mrs. Gaston. He will take off your head completely. But never fear, you old dear, I will see that it is put on again as neatly as ever. So, you see, Mr. Schmidt, you now belong to that frightful order of nobodies, the Toms and the Dicks and the Harrys." "I see that there is a newspaper clipping attached," he remarked. "Perhaps your father has been saying something to the newspapers." It was a mean speech and he regretted it instantly. She was not offended, however. Indeed, she may not have heard what he said, for she was reading the little slip of printed matter. Suddenly she tore it into tiny bits and scattered them under the table. Her cheeks were red and her eyes glistened unmistakably with mortification. He was never to know what was in that newspaper cutting, but he was conscious of a sharp sensation of anger and pity combined. Whatever it was, it was offensive to her, and his blood boiled. He noted the expression of alarm and apprehension deepen in Mrs. Gaston's face. Bedelia slashed open another envelope and glanced at its contents. Her eyes flew open with surprise. For an instant she stared, a frown of perplexity on her brow. "We are discovered!" she cried a moment later, clapping her hands together in an ecstasy of delight. "The pursuers are upon our heels. Even now they may be watching me from behind some convenient post or through some handy window pane. Isn't it fine? Don't look so horrified, you old dear. They can't eat us, you know, even though we are in a dining-room. I love it all! Followed by man-hunters! What could be more thrilling? The chase is on again. Quick! We must prepare for flight!" "Flight?" gasped Robin. Her eyes were dancing. His were filled with dismay. "It is as I feared," she cried. "They have found me out. Hurry! Let us finish this wretched dinner. I must leave here to-night." "Impossible!" cried Mrs. Gaston. "Don't be silly. To-morrow will be time enough. Calm yourself, my dear." "To-morrow at sunrise," cried Bedelia enthusiastically. "It is already planned, Mr. Schmidt. I have engaged an automobile in anticipation of this very emergency. The trains are not safe. To-morrow I fly again. This letter is from the little stenographer in Paris. I bribed her--yes, I bribed her with many francs. She is in the offices of the great detective agency-'the Eye that never Sleeps!' I shall give her a great many more of those excellent francs, my friends. She is an honest girl. She did not fail me." "I don't see how you can say she is honest if she accepted a bribe," said Mrs. Gaston severely. "Pooh!" was Miss Guile's sufficient answer to this. "We cross the Brunig Pass by motor. That really is like flying, isn't it?" "To Lucerne?" demanded Robin, still hazily. "No, no! That would be madness. We shall avoid Lucerne. Miles and miles to the north we will find a safe retreat for a day or two. Then there will be a journey by rail to--to your own city of Vienna, Mr. Schmidt. You--" "See here," said Robin flatly, "I don't understand the necessity for all this rushing about by motor and--" "Of course you don't," she cried. "You are not being sought by a cruel, inhuman monster of a father who would consign you to a most shudderable fate! You don't have to marry a man whose very name you have hated. You can pick and choose for yourself. And so shall I, for that matter. You--" "You _adore_ your father," cut in Mrs. Gaston sharply. "I don't think you should speak of him in that--" "Of course I adore him! He is a dear old bear. But he is a monster, an ogre, a tyrant, a--oh, well, he is everything that's dreadful! You look dreadfully serious, Mr. Schmidt. Do you think that I should submit to my father's demands and marry the man he has chosen for me?" "I do," said Robin, abruptly and so emphatically that both of his hearers jumped in their seats. He made haste to dissemble. "Of course, I'd much rather have you do that than to break your neck rolling over a precipice or something of the sort in a crazy automobile dash." Miss Guile recovered her poise with admirable promptness. Her smile was a trifle uncertain, but she had a dependable wit. "If that is all that you are afraid of, I'll promise to save my neck at all costs," she said. "I could have many husbands but only one poor little neck." "You can have only one husband," said he, almost savagely. "By the way, why don't you read the other letter?" He was regarding it with jealous eyes, for she had slipped it, face downward, under the edge of her plate. "It isn't important," she said, with a quick look into his eyes. She convicted herself in that glance, and knew it on the instant. Angry with herself, she snatched up the letter and tore it open. Her cheeks were flushed. She read however without betraying any additional evidence of uneasiness or embarrassment. When she had finished, she deliberately folded the sheets and stuck them back into the envelope without comment. One looking over her shoulder as she read, however, might have caught snatches of sentences here and there on the heavily scrawled page. They were such as these: "You had led me to hope," ... "for years I have been your faithful admirer," ... "Nor have I wavered for an instant despite your whimsical attitude," ... "therefore I felt justified in believing that you were sincere in your determination to defy your father." And others of an even more caustic nature: "You are going to marry this prince after all," ... "not that you have ever by word or deed bound yourself to me, yet I had every reason to hope," ... "Your father will be pleased to find that you are obedient," ... "I am not mean enough to wish you anything but happiness, although I know you will never achieve it through this sickening surrender to vanity," ... "if I were a prince with a crown and a debt that I couldn't pay," ... "admit that I have had no real chance to win out against such odds," etc. She faced Robin coolly. "It will be necessary to abandon our little luncheon for to-morrow. I am sorry. Still Mr. Totten informs me that he will be in Vienna shortly. The pleasure is merely postponed." "Are you in earnest about this trip by motor to-morrow morning?" demanded Robin darkly. "You surely cannot be--" "I am very much in earnest," she said decisively. He looked to Mrs. Gaston for help. That lady placidly shook her head. In fact, she appeared to be rather in favour of the preposterous plan, if one were to judge by the rapt expression on her countenance. "I had the supposedly honest word of these crafty gentlemen that I was not to be interfered with again. They gave me their promise. I shall now give them all the trouble possible." "But it will be a simple matter for them to find out how and when you left this hotel and to trace you perfectly." "Don't be too sure of that," she said, exultantly. "I have a trick or two up my sleeve that will baffle them properly, Mr. Schmidt." "My dear," interposed Mrs. Gaston severely, "do not forget yourself. It isn't necessary to resort to slang in order--" "Slang is always necessary," avowed Bedelia, undisturbed. "Goodness, I know I shall not sleep a wink to-night." "Nor I," said Robin gloomily. Suddenly his face lightened. A wild, reckless gleam shot into his eyes and, to their amazement, he banged the table with his fist. "By Jove, I know what I shall do. I'll go with you!" "No!" cried Bedelia, aghast. "I--I cannot permit it, Mr. Schmidt. Can't you understand? You--_you_ are the man with whom I am supposed to be carrying on atrociously. What could be more convicting than to be discovered racing over a mountain-pass--Oh, it is not to be considered--not for an instant." "Well, I can tell you flatly just what I intend to do," said he, setting his jaws. "I shall hire another car and keep you in sight every foot of the way. You may be able to elude the greatest detective agency in Europe, but you can't get away from me. I intend to keep you now that I've got you, Bedelia. You can't shake me off. Where you go, I go." "Do you mean it?" she cried, a new thrill in her voice. He looked deep into her eyes and read there a message that invited him to perform vast though fool-hardy deeds. Her eyes were suddenly sweet with the love she had never expected to know; her lips trembled with the longing for kisses. "I shall travel far," she murmured. "You may find the task an arduous one--keeping up with me, I mean." "I am young and strong," he said, "and, if God is good to me, I shall live for fifty years to come, or even longer. I tingle with joy, Bedelia, when I think of being near you for fifty years or more. Have--have you thought of it in that light? Have you looked ahead and said to yourself: fifty years have I to live and all of them with--" "Hush! I was speaking of a week's journey, not of a life's voyage, Mr. Schmidt," she said, her face suffused. "I was speaking of a honeymoon," said he, and then remembered Mrs. Gaston. She was leaning back in her chair, smiling benignly. He had an uncomfortable thought: was he walking into a trap set for him by this clever woman? Had she an ulterior motive in advancing his cause? "But it would be perfectly silly of you to follow me in a car," said Bedelia, trying to regain her lost composure. "Perfectly silly, wouldn't it, Mrs. Gas-ton?" "Perfectly," said Mrs. Gaston. "I will promise to see you in Vienna--" "I intend to see you every day," he declared, "from now till the end of time." "Really, Mr. Schmidt, you--" "If there is one thing I despise beyond all reason, Bedelia, it is the name of 'Schmidt'! I wish you wouldn't call me by that name." "I can't just call you 'Mister,'" she demurred. "Call me Rex for the present," said he. "I will supply you with a better one later on." "May I call him Rex?" she inquired of her companion. "In moderation," said Mrs. Gaston. "Very well, then, Rex, I have changed my mind. I shall not cross the Brunig by motor since you insist upon risking your neck in pursuit of me. I shall go by train in the morning,--calmly, complacently, stupidly by train. Instead of a thrilling dash for liberty over rocky heights and through perilous gorges, I shall travel like any bourgeoise in a second--or third class carriage, and the only thrill I shall have will be when we stop for Baker's chocolate at the top of the Pass. By that time I expect to be sufficiently hungry to be thrilled even by the sight of a cake of chocolate. Will you travel in the carriage behind me? I fancy it will be safe and convenient and you can't possibly be far from my heels." "That's a sensible idea," he cried. "And we may be able to accommodate your other pursuers on the same train. What's the sense of leaving them behind? They'd only catch us up in the end, so we might just as well take them along with us." "No. We will keep well ahead of them. I insist on that. They can't get here before to-morrow afternoon, so we will be far in the lead. We will be in Vienna in two days. There I shall say good-bye to you, for I am going on beyond. I am going to Graustark, the new Blithers estate. Surely you will not follow me there." "You are very much mistaken. I shall be there as soon as you and I shall stay just as long, provided Mr. Blithers has no objections," said Robin, with more calmness than he had hoped to display in the face of her sudden thrust. "We are forgetting our dinner," said Mrs. Gaston quietly. "I think the waiter is annoyed." CHAPTER XXI MR. BLITHERS ARRIVES IN GRAUSTARK Mr. William W. Blithers arrived in Edelweiss, the Capital of Graustark, on the same day that the Prince returned from his tour of the world. As a matter of fact, he travelled by special train and beat the Prince home by the matter of three hours. The procession of troops, headed by the Royal Castle Guard, it was announced would pass the historic Hotel Regengetz at five in the afternoon, so Mr. Blithers had front seats on the extension porch facing the Platz. He did not know it, but if he had waited for the regular train in Vienna, he would have had the honour of travelling in the same railway carriage with the royal young man. ("Would" is used advisedly in the place of "might," for he _would_ have travelled in it, you may be sure.) Moreover, he erred in another particular, for arriving at the same instant and virtually arm-in-arm with the country's sovereign, he could hardly have been kept out of the procession itself. When you stop to think that next to the Prince he was the most important personage in the realm on this day of celebration, it ought not to be considered at all unreasonable for him to have expected some notable attention, such as being placed in the first carriage immediately behind the country's sovereign, or possibly on the seat facing him. Missing an opportunity like this, wasn't at all Mr. Blithers' idea of success. He was very sorry about the special train. If it hadn't been for that train he might now be preparing to ride castlewards behind a royal band instead of sitting with his wife in the front row of seats on a hotel porch, just like a regular guest, waiting for the parade to come along. It certainly was a wasted opportunity. He had lost no time in his dash across the continent. In the first place, his agents in Paris made it quite clear to him that there was likely to be "ructions" in Graustark over the loan and the prospect of a plebeian princess being seated on the throne whether the people liked it or not; and in the second place, Maud Applegate had left a note on his desk in the Paris offices, coolly informing him that she was likely to turn up in Edelweiss almost as soon as he. She added an annoying postscript. She said she was curious to see what sort of a place it was that he had been wasting his money on! To say that he was put out by Maud's aggravating behaviour would be stating the case with excessive gentleness. He was furious. He sent for the head of the detective agency and gave him a blowing up that he was never to forget. It appears that the detectives had followed a false lead and had been fooled by the wary Maud in a most humiliating manner. They hadn't the remotest notion where she was, and evinced great surprise when informed in a voice loud enough to be heard a half-block away that she was on her way to Graustark. They said it couldn't be possible, and he said they didn't know what they were talking about. He was done with them. They could step out and ask the cashier to give them a check for their services, and so on and so forth. He did not forget to notify them that they were a gang of loafers. Then he dragged Mrs. Blithers off to the Gare de l'Este and took the Express to Vienna. He would see to the loan first and to Maud afterward. He had no means of knowing that a certain Miss Guile was doing more to shape the destiny of the principality of Graustark than all the millions he had poured into its treasury. Nor had he the faintest suspicion that she was even then on Graustark soil and waiting as eagerly as he for the procession to pass a given point. Going back a day or two, it becomes necessary to report that while in Vienna the perverse Bedelia played a shabby trick on the infatuated Robin. She stole away from the Bristol in the middle of the night and was half-way to the Graustark frontier before he was aware of her flight. She left a note for him, the contents of which sufficed to ease his mind in the presence of what otherwise might have been looked upon as a calamity. Instead of relapsing into despondency over her defection, he became astonishingly exuberant. It was relief and not despair that followed the receipt of the brief letter. She had played directly into his hand, after all. In other words, she had removed a difficulty that had been troubling him for days: the impossibility of entering his own domain without betraying his identity to her. Naturally his entrance to the Capital would be attended by the most incriminating manifestation on the part of the populace. The character of R. Schmidt would be effaced in an instant, and, according to his own notion, quite a bit too soon to suit his plans. He preferred to remain Schmidt until she placed her hand in his and signified a readiness to become plain Mrs. R. Schmidt of Vienna. That would be his hour of triumph. In her note she said: "Forgive me for running away like this. It is for the best. I must have a few days to myself, dear friend,--days for sober reflection uninfluenced by the presence of a natural enemy to composure. And so I am leaving you in this cowardly, graceless fashion. Do not think ill of me. I give you my solemn promise that in a few days I shall let you know where I may be found if you choose to come to me. Even then I may not be fully convinced in my own mind that our adventure has reached its climax. You have said that you would accompany me to Graustark. I am leaving to-night for that country, where I shall remain in seclusion for a few days before acquainting you with my future plans. It is not my intention to stop in Edelweiss at present. The newspapers proclaim a state of unrest there over the coming visit of Mr. Blithers and the return of the Prince, both of whom are very much in the public eye just now. I prefer the quiet of the country to the excitement of the city, so I shall seek some remote village and give myself up to--shall I say prayerful meditation? Believe me, dear Rex, to be your most devoted, though whimsical, Bedelia." He was content with this. Deep down in his heart he thanked her for running away at such an opportune time! The situation was immeasurably simplified. He had laid awake nights wondering how he could steal into his own domain with her as a companion and still put off the revelation that he was not yet ready to make. Now the way was comparatively easy. Once the demonstration was safely over, he could carry on his adventure with something of the same security that made the prowlings of the Bagdad Caliphs such happy enterprises, for he could with impunity traverse the night in the mantle of R. Schmidt. Immediately upon receiving her letter, he sent for Quinnox and Gourou, who were stopping at a hotel nearby. "I am ready to proceed to Edelweiss, my friends," said he. "Miss Guile has departed. Will you book accommodations on the earliest train leaving for home?" "I have already seen to that, highness," said Gourou calmly. "We leave at six this evening. Count Quinnox has wired the Prime Minister that you will arrive in Edelweiss at three to-morrow afternoon, God willing." "You knew that she had gone?" "I happened to be in the Nordbahnhof when she boarded the train at midnight," replied the Baron, unmoved. "Do you never sleep?" demanded Robin hotly. "Not while I am on duty," said Gourou. The Prince was thoughtful, his brow clouding with a troubled frown. "I suppose I shall now have to face my people with the confession that will confirm their worst fears. I may as well say to you, my friends, that I mean to make her my wife even though it costs me my kingdom. Am I asking too much of you, gentlemen, when I solicit your support in my fight against the prejudice that is certain to--" Quinnox stopped him with a profound gesture of resignation and a single word: "Kismet!" and Gourou, with his most ironic smile, added: "You may count on us to support the crown, highness, even though we lose our heads." "Thank you," said Robin, flushing. "Just because I appear to have lost my head is no reason for your doing the same, Baron Gourou." The Baron's smile was unfaltering. "True," he said. "But we may be able to avoid all that by inducing the people of Graustark to lose their hearts." "Do you think they will accept her as--as their princess?" cried Robin, hopefully. "I submit that it will first be necessary for you to induce Miss Guile to accept you as her prince," said Gourou mildly. "That doesn't appear to be settled at present." He took alarm. "What do you mean? Your remark has a sinister sound. Has anything transpired to--" "She has disappeared, highness, quite effectually. That is all that I can say," said Gourou, and Robin was conscious of a sudden chill and the rush of cold moisture to his brow. "But let us prepare to confront an even more substantial condition. A prospective father-in-law is descending upon our land. He is groping in the dark and he is angry. He has lost a daughter somewhere in the wilds of Europe, and he realises that he cannot hope to become the grandfather of princes unless he can produce a mother for them. At present he seems to be desperate. He doesn't know where to find her, as Little Bo-peep might have said. We may expect to catch him in a very ugly and obstreperous mood. Have I told you that he was in this city last night? He arrived at the Bristol a few hours prior to the significant departure of Miss Guile. Moreover, he has chartered a special train and is leaving to-day for Edelweiss. Count Quinnox has taken the precaution to advise the Prime Minister of his approach and has impressed upon him the importance of decrying any sort of popular demonstration against him on his arrival. Romano reports that the people are in an angry mood. I would suggest that you prepare, in a way, to placate them, now that Miss Guile has more or less dropped out of sight. It behooves you to--" "See here," broke in Robin harshly, "have you had the effrontery to make a personal appeal to Miss Guile in your confounded efforts to prevent the--" "Just a moment, Robin," exclaimed Count Quinnox, his face hardening. "I am sorry to hear words of anger on your lips, and directed toward your most loyal friends. You ask us to support you and in the next breath imply that we are unworthy. It is beneath the dignity of either Baron Gourou or myself to reply to your ungenerous charge." "I beg your pardon," said Robin, but without lowering his head. He was not convinced. The barb of suspicion had entered his brain. Were they, after all, responsible for Bedelia's flight? Had they revealed his identity to the girl and afterward created such alarm in her breast that she preferred to slink away in the night rather than to court the humiliation that might follow if she presumed to wed Graustark's prince in opposition to his country's wish? "You must admit that the circumstance of her secret flight last night is calculated to--But, no matter. We will drop the subject. I warn you, however, that my mind is fixed. I shall not rest until I have found her." "I fancy that the state of unrest will be general," said Gourou, with perfect good-nature. "It will go very hard with Graustark if we fail to find her. And now, to return to our original sin: What are we to do about the ambitious Mr. Blithers? He is on my conscience and I tremble." It must not be supposed for an instant that the City of Edelweiss and the court of Graustark was unimpressed by the swift approach and abrupt arrival of Mr. Blithers. His coming had been heralded for days in advance. The city was rudely expectant, the court uneasy. The man who had announced his determination to manage the public and private affairs of the principality was coming to town. He was coming in state, there could be no doubt about that. More than that, he was coming to propitiate the people whether they chose to be mollified or not. He was bringing with him a vast store of business acumen, an unexampled confidence and the self-assurance of one who has never encountered failure. Shylock's mantle rested on his hated shoulders, and Judas Iscariot was spoken of with less abhorrence than William W. Blithers by the Christian country of Graustark. He was coming to get better acquainted with his daughter's future subjects. Earlier in the week certain polite and competent gentlemen from Berlin had appeared at the Castle gates, carrying authority from the dauntless millionaire. They calmly announced that they had come to see what repairs were needed in and about the Castle and to put the place in shape. A most regrettable incident followed. They were chased out of town by an angry mob and serious complications with the German Empire were likely to be the result of the outrage. Moreover, the citizens of Graustark were openly reluctant to deposit their state bonds as security for the unpopular loan, and there was a lively sentiment in favour of renouncing the agreement entered into by the cabinet. The Prime Minister, in the absence of the Prince, called mass meetings in all the towns and villages and emissaries of the crown addressed the sullen crowds. They sought to clarify the atmosphere. So eloquent were their pleadings and so sincere their promises that no evil would befall the state, that the more enlightened of the people began to deposit their bonds in the crown treasury. Others, impressed by the confidence of their more prosperous neighbours, showed signs of weakening. The situation was made clear to them. There could be no possible chance of loss from a financial point of view. Their bonds were safe, for the loan itself was a perfectly legitimate transaction, a conclusion which could not be gainsaid by the most pessimistic of the objectors. Mr. Blithers would be paid in full when the time came for settlement, the bonds would be restored to their owners, and all would be well with Graustark. As for the huge transactions Mr. Blithers had made in London, Paris and Berlin, there could be but one conclusion: he had the right to invest his money as he pleased. That was his look-out. The bonds of Graustark were open to purchase in any market. Any investor in the world was entitled to buy all that he could obtain if he felt inclined to put his money to that use. The earnest agents of the government succeeded in convincing the people that Mr. Blithers had made a good investment because he was a good business man. What did it matter to Graustark who owned the outstanding bonds? It might as well be Blithers as Bernstein or any one else. As for Miss Blithers becoming the Princess of Graustark, that was simple poppy-cock, declared the speakers. The crown could take oath that Prince Robin would not allow _that_ to happen. Had he not declared in so many words that he would never wed the daughter of William Blithers, and, for that matter, hadn't the young woman also announced that she would have none of him? There was one thing that Mr. Blithers couldn't do, and that was to marry his daughter to the Prince of Graustark. And so, by the time that Mr. Blithers arrived in Edelweiss, the people were in a less antagonistic frame of mind,--though sullenly suspicious,--and were even prepared to grin in their sleeves, for, after all, it was quite clear that the joke was not on them but on Mr. Blithers. When the special train pulled into the station Mr. Blithers turned to his wife and said: "Cheer up, Lou. This isn't a funeral." "But there is quite a mob out there," she said, peering through the car window. "How can we be sure that they are friendly?" "Don't you worry," said Mr. Blithers confidently. "They are not likely to throw rocks at the goose that lays the golden egg." If he had paused to think, he would not have uttered such a careless indictment. The time would come when she was to remind him of his thoughtless admission, omitting, however, any reference to the golden egg. The crowd was big, immobile, surly. It lined the sidewalks in the vicinity of the station and stared with curious, half-closed eyes at the portly capitalist and his party, which, by the way, was rendered somewhat imposing in size by augmentation in the shape of lawyers from Paris and London, clerks and stenographers from the Paris office, and four plain clothes men who were to see to it that Midas wasn't blown to smithereens by envious anarchists; to say nothing of a lady's maid, a valet, a private secretary and a doctor. (Mr. Blithers always went prepared for the worst.) He was somewhat amazed and disgruntled by the absence of silk-hat ambassadors from the Castle, with words of welcome for him on his arrival. There was a plentiful supply of policemen but no cabinet ministers. He was on the point of censuring his secretary for not making it clear to the government that he was due to arrive at such and such an hour and minute, when a dapper young man in uniform--he couldn't tell whether he was a patrolman or a captain--came up and saluted. "I am William W. Blithers," said he sharply. "I am an official guide and interpreter, sir," announced the young man suavely. "May I have the honour--" "Not necessary--not necessary at all," exploded Mr. Blithers. "I can get about without a guide." "You will require an interpreter, sir," began the other, only to be waved aside. "Any one desiring to speak to me will have to do it in English," said Mr. Blithers, and marched out to the carriages. He was in some doubt at first, but as his carriage passed swiftly between the staring ranks on the sidewalks, he began to doff his hat and bow to the right and the left. His smiles were returned by the multitude, and so his progress was more or less of a triumph after all. At the Regengetz he found additional cause for irritation. The lords and nobles who should have met him at the railway station were as conspicuously absent in the rotunda of the hotel. No one was there to receive him except the ingratiating manager of the establishment, who hoped that he had had a pleasant trip and who assured him that it would not be more than a couple of hours before his rooms would be vacated by the people who now had them but were going away as soon as the procession had passed. "Get 'em out at once," stormed Mr. Blithers. "Do you think I want to hang around this infernal lobby until--" "Pardon me," said the manager blandly, "but your rooms will not be ready for you before four or five o'clock. They are occupied. We can put you temporarily in rooms at the rear if your lady desires to rest and refresh herself after the journey." "Well, I'll be--" began Mr. Blithers, purple in the face, and then leaned suddenly against the counter, incapable of finishing the sentence. The manager rubbed his hands and smiled. "This is one of our gala days, Mr. Blithers. You could not have arrived at a time more opportune. I have taken the precaution to reserve chairs for you on the verandah. The procession will pass directly in front of the hotel on its way to Castle avenue." "What procession?" demanded Mr. Blithers. He was beginning to recall the presence of uniformed bands and mounted troops in the side streets near the station. "The Prince is returning to-day from his trip around the world," said the manager. "He ought to have been back long ago," said Mr. Blithers wrathfully, and mopped his brow with a hand rendered unsteady by a mental convulsion. He was thinking of his hat-lifting experience. True to schedule, the procession passed the hotel at five. Bands were playing, people were shouting, banners were waving, and legions of mounted and foot soldiers in brilliant array clogged the thoroughfare. The royal equipage rolled slowly by, followed by less gorgeous carriages in which were seated the men who failed to make the advent of Mr. Blithers a conspicuous success. Prince Robin sat in the royal coach, faced by two unbending officers of the Royal Guard. He was alone on the rear seat, and his brown, handsome face was aglow with smiles. Instead of a hat of silk, he lifted a gay and far from immaculate conception in straw; instead of a glittering uniform, he wore a suit of blue serge and a peculiarly American tie of crimson hue. He looked more like a popular athlete returning from conquests abroad than a prince of ancient lineage. But the crowd cheered itself hoarse over this bright-faced youngster who rode by in a coach of gold and brandished a singularly unregal chapeau. His alert eyes were searching the crowd along the street, in the balconies and windows with an eager intensity. He was looking for the sweet familiar face of the loveliest girl on earth, and knew that he looked in vain, for even though she were one among the many her features would be obscured by an impenetrable veil. If she were there, he wondered what her thoughts might be on beholding the humble R. Schmidt in the role of a royal prince receiving the laudations of the loving multitude! Passing the Regengetz, his eyes swept the rows of cheering people banked upon its wide terrace and verandahs. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Blithers well down in front, and for a second his heart seemed to stand still. Would she be with them? It was with a distinct sensation of relief that he realised that she was not with the smiling Americans. Mr. Blithers waved his hat and, instead of shouting the incomprehensible greeting of the native spectators, called out in vociferous tones: "Welcome home! Welcome! Hurrah!" As the coach swerved into the circle and entered the great, tree-lined avenue, followed by the clattering chorus of four thousand horse-shoes, Mrs. Blithers after a final glimpse of the disappearing coach, sighed profoundly, shook out her handkerchief from the crumpled ball she had made of it with her nervously clenched fingers, touched her lips with it and said: "Oh, what a remarkably handsome, manly boy he is, Will." Mr. Blithers nodded his head proudly. "He certainly is. I'll bet my head that Maud is crazy about him already. She can't help it, Lou. That trip on the _Jupiter_ was a God-send." "I wish we could hear something from her," said Mrs. Blithers, anxiously. "Don't you worry," said he. "She'll turn up safe and sound and enthusiastic before she's a week older. We'll have plain sailing from now on, Lou." CHAPTER XXII A VISIT TO THE CASTLE Mr. Blithers indeed experienced plain sailing for the ensuing twenty hours. It was not until just before he set forth at two the next afternoon to attend, by special appointment, a meeting of the cabinet in the council chamber at the Castle that he encountered the first symptom of squalls ahead. He had sent his secretary to the Castle with a brief note suggesting an early conference. It naturally would be of an informal character, as there was no present business before them. The contracts had already been signed by the government and by his authorised agents. So far as the loan was concerned there was nothing more to be said. Everything was settled. True, it was still necessary to conform to a certain custom by having the Prince affix his signature to the contract over the Great Seal of State, but as he previously had signed an agreement in New York this brief act was of a more or less perfunctory nature. The deposit of bonds by the state and its people would follow in course of time, as prescribed by contract, and Mr. Blithers was required to place in the Bank of Graustark, on such and such a date, the sum of three million pounds sterling. Everybody was satisfied with the terms of the contract. Mr. Blithers was to get what really amounted to nearly nine percent on a gilt-edged investment, and Graustark was to preserve its integrity and retain its possessions. There was a distant cloud on the financial horizon, however, a vague shadow at present,--but prophetic of storm. It was perfectly clear to the nobles that when these bonds matured, Mr. Blithers would be in a position to exact payment, and as they matured in twelve years from date he was likely to be pretty much alive and kicking when the hour of reckoning arrived. Mr. Blithers was in the mood to be amiable. He anticipated considerable pleasure in visiting the ancient halls of his prospective grandchildren. During the forenoon he had taken a motor ride about the city with Mrs. Blithers, accompanied by a guide who created history for them with commendable glibness and some veracity, and pointed out the homes of great personages as well as the churches, monuments and museums. He also told them in a confidential undertone that the Prince was expected to marry a beautiful American girl and that the people were enchanted with the prospect! That sly bit of information realised ten dollars for him at the end of the trip, aside from his customary fee. The first shock to the placidity of Mr. Blithers came with the brief note in reply to his request for an informal conference. The Lord Chamberlain curtly informed him that the Cabinet would be in session at two and would be pleased to grant him an audience of half an hour, depending on his promptness in appearing. Mr. Blithers was not accustomed to being granted audiences. He had got into the habit of having them thrust upon him. It irritated him tremendously to have any one measure time for him. Why, even the President of the United States, the Senate, or the District Attorney in New York couldn't do _that_ for him. And here was a whipper-snapper Lord Chamberlain telling him that the Cabinet would grant him half-an-hour! He managed to console himself, however, with the thought that matters would not always be as they were at present. There would be a decided change of tune later on. It would be folly to undertake the depiction of Mr. Blithers' first impressions of the Castle and its glories, both inside out. To begin with, he lost no small amount of his assurance when he discovered that the great gates in the wall surrounding the park were guarded by resplendent dragoons who politely demanded his "pass." After the officer in charge had inspected the Lord Chamberlain's card as if he had never seen one before, he ceremoniously indicated to a warden that the gates were to be opened. There was a great clanking of chains, the drawing of iron bolts, the whirl of a windlass, and the ponderous gates swung slowly ajar. Mr. Blithers caught his breath--and from that instant until he found himself crossing the great hall in the wake of an attendant delegated to conduct him to the council chamber his sensations are not to be described. It is only necessary to say that he was in a reverential condition, and that is saying a great deal for Mr. Blithers. A certain bombastic confidence in himself gave way to mellow timidity. He was in a new world. He was cognisant of a distinct sensation of awe. His ruthless Wall Street tread became a mincing, uncertain shuffle; he could not conquer the absurd notion that he ought to tip-toe his way about these ancient halls with their thick, velvety rugs and whispering shadows. Everywhere about him was pomp, visible and invisible. It was in the great stairway, the vaulted ceilings, the haughty pillars, over all of which was the sheen of an age that surpassed his comprehension. Rigid servitors watched his progress through the vast spaces--men with grim, unsmiling faces. He knew, without seeing, that this huge pile was alive with noble lords and ladies: The court! Gallantry and beauty to mock him with their serene indifference! Somewhere in this great house beautiful women were idling, or feasting, or dreaming. He was conscious of their presence all about him, and shrank slightly as he wondered if they were scrutinising his ungainly person. He was suddenly ashamed of his tight-fitting cut-a-way coat and striped trousers. Really he ought to get a new suit! These garments were much too small for him. Were ironic eyes taking in the fresh creases in those New York trousers? Were they regarding his shimmering patent leather shoes with an intelligence that told them that he was in pain? Were they wondering how much he weighed and why he didn't unbutton his coat when he must have known that it would look better if it didn't pinch him so tightly across the chest? Above all things, were they smiling at the corpulent part of him that preceded the rest of his body, clad in an immaculate waistcoat? He never had felt so conspicuous in his life, nor so certain that he was out of place. Coming in due time--and with a grateful heart--to a small ante-chamber, he was told to sit down and wait. He sat down very promptly. In any other house he would have sauntered around, looking at the emblems, crests and shields that hung upon the walls. But now he sat and wondered. He wondered whether this could be William W. Blithers. Was this one of the richest men in the world--this fellow sitting here with his hands folded tightly across his waistcoat? He was forced to admit that it was and at the same time it wasn't. The attendant returned and he was ushered into a second chamber, at the opposite end of which was a large, imposing door--closed. Beside this door stood a slim, erect figure in the red, blue and gold uniform of an officer of the Castle guard. As Mr. Blithers approached this rigid figure, he recognised a friend and a warm glow pervaded his heart. There could be no mistaking the smart moustache and supercilious eye-brows. It was Lieutenant Dank. "How do you do?" said Mr. Blithers. "Glad to see you again." His voice sounded unnatural. He extended his hand. Dank gave him a ceremonious salute, bowed slightly but without a smile, and then threw open the door. "Mr. Blithers, my lords," he announced, and stood aside to let the stranger in a strange land pass within. A number of men were seated about a long table in the centre of this imposing chamber. No one arose as Mr. Blithers entered the room and stopped just inside the door. He heard it close gently behind him. He was at a loss for the first time in his life. He didn't know whether he was to stop just inside the door fingering his hat like a messenger boy, or go forward and join the group. His gaze fell upon a huge oaken chair at the far end of the table. It was the only unoccupied seat that came within the scope of his rather limited vision. He could not see anything beyond the table and the impassive group that surrounded it. Was it possible that the big chair was intended for him? If so, how small and insignificant he would look upon it. He had a ghastly notion that his feet would not touch the floor, and he went so far as to venture the hope that there would be a substantial round somewhere about midway from the bottom. He had appeared before the inquisitorial committees in the United States Senate, and had not been oppressed by the ponderous gravity of the investigation. He had faced the Senators without a tremor of awe. He had even regarded them with a confidence, equal if not superior to their own. But now he faced a calm, impassive group of men who seemed to strip him down to the flesh with a cool, piercing interest, and who were in no sense impressed by what they saw. Despite his nervousness he responded to the life long habit of calculation. He counted the units in the group in a single, rapid glance, and found that there were eleven. Eleven lords of the realm! Eleven stern, dignified, unsmiling strangers to the arrogance of William W. Blithers! Something told him at once that he could not spend an informal half-hour with them. Grim, striking, serious visages, all of them! The last hope for his well-fed American humour flickered and died. He knew that it would never do to regale them in an informal off-hand way--as he had planned--with examples of native wit. Reverting to the precise moment of his entrance to the Castle, we find Mr. Blithers saying to himself that there wasn't the slightest use in even hoping that he might be invited to transfer his lodgings from the Regengetz to the Royal bed-chambers. The chance of being invited to dine there seemed to dwindle as well. While he sat and waited in the first antechamber he even experienced strange misgivings in respect to parental privileges later on. After what appeared to him to be an interminable length of time, but in reality no more than a few seconds, a tall man arose from his seat and advanced with outstretched hand. Mr. Blithers recognised Count Quinnox, the Minister of War. He shook that friendly hand with a fervour that must have surprised the Count. Never in all his life had he been so glad to see any one. "How are you, my lord," said the king of finance, fairly meek with gratefulness. "Excellently well, Mr. Blithers," returned the Count. "And you?" "Never better, never better," said Mr. Blithers, again pumping the Count's hand up and down--with even greater heartiness than before. "Glad to see you. Isn't it a pleasant day? I was telling Mrs. Blithers this morning that I'd never seen a pleasanter day. We--" "Let me introduce you to my colleagues, Mr. Blithers," interrupted the Count. "Happy, I'm sure," mumbled Mr. Blithers. To save his life, he couldn't tell what had got into him. He had never acted like this before. The Count was mentioning the names of dukes, counts and barons, and Mr. Blithers was bowing profoundly to each in turn. No one offered to shake hands with him, although each rose politely, even graciously. They even smiled. He remembered that very well afterwards. They smiled kindly, almost benignly. He suddenly realised what had got into him. It was respect. "A chair, Franz," said the white haired, gaunt man who was called Baron Romano. "Will you sit here, Mr. Blithers? Pray forgive our delay in admitting you. We were engaged in a rather serious discussion over--" "Oh, that's all right," said Mr. Blithers, magnanimously. "Am I interfering with any important business, gent--my lords? If so, just--" "Not at all, Mr. Blithers. Pray be seated." "Sure I'm not taking any one's seat?" "A secretary's, sir. He can readily find another." Mr. Blithers sat down. He was rather pleased to find that the big chair was not meant for him. A swift intuition told him that it was reserved for the country's ruler. "The Prince signed the contracts just before you arrived, Mr. Blithers," said Baron Romano. "The seal has been affixed to each of the documents, and your copy is ready for delivery at any time." Mr. Blithers recovered himself slightly. "You may send it to the hotel, Baron, at any time to-morrow. My lawyers will have a look at it." Then he made haste to explain: "Not that it is really necessary, but just as a matter of form. Besides, it gives the lawyers something to do." He sent an investigating glance around the room. "The Prince has retired," said the Baron, divining the thought. "He does not remain for the discussions." Glancing at the huge old clock above the door, the Prime Minister assumed a most business-like air. "It will doubtless gratify you to know that three-fourths of the bonds have been deposited, Mr. Blithers, and the remainder will be gathered in during the week. Holders living in remote corners of our country have not as yet been able to reach us with their securities. A week will give them sufficient time, will it not, Count Lazzar?" "I may safely say that all the bonds will be in our hands by next Tuesday at the latest," said the Minister of the Treasury. He was a thin, ascetic man; his keen eyes were fixed rather steadily upon Mr. Blithers. After a moment's pause, he went on: "We are naturally interested in your extensive purchases of our outstanding bonds, Mr. Blithers. I refer to the big blocks you have acquired in London, Paris and Berlin." "Want to know what I bought them for?" inquired Mr. Blithers amiably. "We have wondered not a little at your readiness to invest such a fortune in our securities." "Well, there you have it. Investment, that's all. Your credit is sound, and your resources unquestioned, your bonds gilt-edge. I am glad of the opportunity to take a few dollars out of Wall Street uncertainties and put 'em into something absolutely certain. Groo--Gras--er--Groostock bonds are pretty safe things to have lying in a safety vault in these times of financial unrest. They create a pretty solid fortune for my family,--that is to say, for my daughter and her children. A sensible business man,--and I claim to be one,--looks ahead, my lords. Railroads are all right as long as you are alive and can run them yourself. It's after you are dead that they fail to do what is expected of them. New fingers get into the pie, and you never can tell what they'll pull out in their greediness. I cannot imagine anything safer in the shape of an investment than the bonds of a nation that has a debt of less than fifty million dollars. As a citizen of a republic whose national debt is nearly a billion, I confess that I can't see how you've managed so well." "We are so infinitesimal, Mr. Blithers, that I daresay we could be lost in the smallest of your states," said Baron Romano, with a smile. "Rhode Island is pretty small," Mr. Blithers informed him, without a smile. "It is most gratifying to Graustark to know that you value our securities so highly as a legacy," said Count Lazzar, suavely. "May I venture the hope, however, that your life may be prolonged beyond the term of their existence? They expire in a very few years--a dozen, in fact." "Oh, I think I can hang on that long," said Mr. Blithers, a little more at ease. He was saying to himself that these fellows were not so bad, after all. "Still one never knows. I may be dead in a year. My daughter--but, of course, you will pardon me if I don't go into my private affairs. I fear I have already said too much." "On the contrary, sir, we are all only too willing to be edified. The workings of an intelligence such as jours cannot fail to be of interest to us who are so lacking in the power to cope with great undertakings. I confess to a selfish motive in asking you about your methods of--er--investment," said the Minister of Finance. Mr. Blithers failed to see that he was shrewdly being led up to a matter that was of more importance to Graustark just then than anything along financial lines. "I am only too willing, my lords, to give you the benefit of my experience. Any questions that you may care to ask, I'll be glad to answer to the best of my ability. It is only natural that I should take a great personal interest in Graustock from now on. I want to see the country on the boom. I want to see it taking advantage of all the opportunities that--er--come its way. There may be a few pointers that William W. Blithers can give you in respect to your railways and mines--and your general policy, perhaps. I hope you won't hesitate about asking." The Prime Minister tapped reflectively upon the table-top with his fingers for a moment or two. "Thank you," he said. "We are at this very moment in something of a quandary in respect to the renewal of a treaty with one of our neighbours. For the past twenty years we have been in alliance with our next door neighbours, Axphain on the north and Dawsbergen on the south and east. The triple alliance will end this year unless renewed. Up to the present our relations have been most amiable. Axphain stands ready to extend our mutual protective agreement for another term of years, but Dawsbergen is lukewarm and inclined to withdraw. When you become better acquainted with the politics of our country you will understand how regrettable such an action on the part of a hitherto friendly government will be." "What's the grievance?" inquired Mr. Blithers, bluntly. He was edging into familiar waters now. "What's the matter with Dawsbergen? Money controversy?" "Not at all," said Lazzar hastily. "Why not let 'em withdraw?" said Mr. Blithers. "We can get along without them." There was a general uplifting of heads at the use of the pronoun, and a more fixed concentration of gaze. "I daresay you are already acquainted with the desire on the part of Dawsbergen to form an alliance in which Axphain can have no part," said Baron Romano. "In other words, it has been the desire of both Dawsbergen and Graustark to perfect a matrimonial alliance that may cement the fortunes of the two countries--" "Count Quinnox mentioned something of the sort," interrupted Mr. Blithers. "But suppose this matrimonial alliance doesn't come off, who would be the sufferer, you or Dawsbergen? Who will it benefit the most?" There was a moment's silence. Doubtless it had never occurred to the Ministry to speculate on the point. "Dawsbergen is a rich, powerful country," said Romano. "We will be the gainers by such an alliance. Mr. Blithers." "I don't go much on alliances," said the capitalist. "I believe in keeping out of them if possible." "I see," said the Baron reflectively. There was another silence. Then: "It has come to our notice in a most direct manner that the Prince of Dawsbergen feels that his friendly consideration of a proposal made by our government some years ago is being disregarded in a manner that can hardly be anything but humiliating to him, not only as a sovereign but as a father." "He's the one who has the marriageable daughter, eh? I had really forgotten the name." The Baron leaned forward, still tapping the table-top with his long, slim fingers. "The report that Prince Robin is to marry your daughter, Mr. Blithers, has reached his ears. It is only natural that he should feel resentful. For fifteen years there has been an understanding that the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen and the Prince of Graustark were one day to be wedded to each other. You will admit that the present reports are somewhat distressing to him and unquestionably so to the Crown Princess." Mr. Blithers settled back in his chair. "It seems to me that he is making a mountain out of a molehill." Baron Romano shrank perceptibly. "It devolves upon me, sir, as spokesman for the Ministry, the court and the people of Graustark, to inform you that marriage between our Prince and any other than the Crown Princess of Dawsbergen is not to be considered as possible." Mr. Blithers stared. "Hasn't the Prince any voice in the matter?" he demanded. "Yes. He has already denied, somewhat publicly, that he is not contemplating marriage with your daughter. He has had a voice in that matter at least." A fine moisture started out on the purplish brow of Mr. Blithers. Twenty-two eyes were upon him. He realised that he was not attending an informal conference. He had been brought here for a deliberate purpose. "I may be permitted the privilege of reminding you, my lords, that his denial was no more emphatic than that expressed by my daughter," he said, with real dignity. "We have accepted her statement as final, but it is our earnest desire that the minds of the people be set at rest," said the Baron gravely. "I sincerely trust that you will appreciate our position, Mr. Blithers. It is not our desire or intention to offend in this matter, but we believe it to be only fair and just that we should understand each other at the outset. The impression is afoot that--" "My lords," said Mr. Blithers, rising, his face suddenly pale, "I beg leave to assure you that my daughter's happiness is of far more importance to me than all the damned principalities in the world. Just a moment, please. I apologise for the oath--but I mean it, just the same. I do not resent your attitude, nor do I resent your haste in conveying to me your views on the subject. It may be diplomacy to go straight to a question and get it over with, but it isn't always diplomatic to go off half-cocked. I will say, with perfect candour, that I should like to see my daughter the Princess of Graustark, but--by God! I want you to understand that her own wishes in the matter are to govern mine in the end. I have had this marriage in mind, there's no use denying it. I have schemed to bring these two young people together with a single object in view. I knew that if they saw enough of each other they would fall in love, and they would want the happiness that love brings to all people. Just a moment, Baron! I want to say to you now, all of you, that if my girl should love your prince and he should love her in return, there isn't a power below heaven that can keep them apart. If she doesn't love him, and he should be unlucky enough to love her, I'd see him hanged before he could have her. I'll admit that I have counted on seeing all of this come to pass, and that I have bungled the thing pretty badly because I'm a loving, selfish father,--but, my lords, since you have brought me here to tell me that it is impossible for my girl to marry your prince, I will say to you, here and now, that if they ever love each other and want to get married, I'll see to it that it isn't impossible. You issue an ultimatum to me, in plain words, so I'll submit one to you, in equally plain words. I intend to leave this matter entirely to my daughter and Prince Robin. They are to do the deciding, so far as I am concerned. And if they decide that they love each other and want to get married, _they will get married_. Do I make myself perfectly plain, my lords?" The dignified Ministry of Graustark sat agape. With his concluding words, Mr. Blithers deposited his clenched fist upon the table with a heavy thud, and, as if fascinated, every eye shifted from his face to the white knuckles of that resolute hand. Baron Romano also arose. "You place us in the extremely distressing position of being obliged to oppose the hand of a benefactor, Mr. Blithers. You have come to our assistance in a time of need. You have--" "If it is the loan you are talking about, Baron, that is quite beside the question," interrupted Mr. Blithers. "I do not speculate. I may have had a personal motive in lending you this money, but I don't believe you will find that it enters into the contract we have signed. I don't lend money for charity's sake. I sometimes give it to charity, but when it comes to business, I am not charitable. I have made a satisfactory loan and I am not complaining. You may leave out the word benefactor, Baron. It doesn't belong in the game." "As you please, sir," said Romano coldly. "We were only intent upon conveying to you our desire to maintain friendly relations with you, Mr. Blithers, despite the unpleasant conditions that have arisen. I may at least question your right to assume that we are powerless to prevent a marriage that is manifestly unpopular with the subjects of Prince Robin." "I had it on excellent authority to-day that the people are not opposed to the union of my daughter and the prince," said Mr. Blithers. "I am compelled to say that you have been misinformed," said the Baron, flatly. "I think I have not been misinformed, however, concerning the personal views of Prince Robin. If I am not mistaken, he openly declares that he will marry to suit himself and not the people of Graustark. Isn't it barely possible, my lords, that he may have something to say about who he is to marry?" "I confess that his attitude is all that you describe," said the Baron. "He has announced his views quite plainly. We admit that he may have something to say about it." "Then I submit that it isn't altogether an improbability that he may decide to marry according to the dictates of his heart and not for the sake of appearances," said Mr. Blithers scathingly. "I have an idea that he will marry the girl he loves, no matter who she may be." [Illustration: The dignified Ministry of Graustark sat agape] Count Quinnox and Baron Gourou exchanged glances. These two men were guilty of having kept from their colleagues all information concerning a certain Miss Guile. They, as well as Dank, were bound by a promise exacted by their sovereign prince. They alone knew that Mr. Blithers was supported by an incontrovertible truth. For the present, their lips were sealed, and yet they faced that anxious group with a complete understanding of the situation. They knew that Mr. Blithers was right. Prince Robin would marry the girl that he loved, and no other. They knew that their prince expected to marry the daughter of the man who now faced these proud noblemen and virtually defied them! "Am I not right, Count Quinnox?" demanded Mr. Blithers, turning suddenly upon the Minister of War. "You are in a position to know something about him. Am I not right?" Every eye was on the Count. "Prince Robin will marry for love, my lords," he said quietly, "I am forced to agree with Mr. Blithers." Baron Romano sank into his chair. There was silence in the room for many seconds. "May I enquire, Count Quinnox, if you know anything of the present state of Prince Robin's--er--heart?" inquired the Prime Minister finally. A tinge of red appeared in each of Count Quinnox's swarthy cheeks. "I can only surmise," said he briefly. "Has--has he met some one in whom he feels a--er--an interest?" "Yes." "May we have the benefit of your conclusions?" said Baron Romano, icily. "I am not at liberty to supply information at present," said the Count, visibly distressed. Mr. Blithers leaned forward, his hands upon the table. "Some one he met after leaving New York?" he inquired eagerly. "Time will reveal everything, Mr. Blithers," said the Count, and closed his jaws resolutely. His colleagues looked at him in consternation. The worst, then, had happened! A gleam of triumph shot into the eyes of Mr. Blithers. His heart swelled. He felt himself stepping out upon safe, solid ground after a period of floundering. The very best, then, had happened! "My lords, I find that my half-hour is almost up," he said, pulling out his gold watch and comparing its time with that of the clock on the wall. "Permit me to take my departure. I am content to let matters shape themselves as they may. Shakespeare says 'there is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them'--er--and so forth. Allow me, however, before leaving, to assure you of my most kindly interest in the welfare of your State. You may be pleased to know that it is not from me that Graustark--did I get it right that time?--will redeem her bonds when they mature, but from my only daughter. She is nearly twenty-one years of age. On her twenty-fifth birthday I shall present to her--as a gift--all of my holdings in Graustark. She may do as she sees fit with them. Permit me to wish you all good day, my lords. You may send the contract to my hotel, Baron. I expect to remain in the city for some time." As he traversed the vast halls on his way to the outer world, he was again overcome by the uneasy conviction that ironic eyes were looking out upon him from luxurious retreats. Again he felt that his coat fitted him too tightly and that his waistcoat was painfully in evidence. He hurried a bit. If he could have had his way about it, he would have run. Once outside the castle doors, he lighted a big cigar, and threw the burnt-out match upon the polished flagstones of the terrace. He regretted the act on the instant. He wished he had not thrown it there. If the solemn grooms had not been watching, he would have picked it up and stuck it into his pocket for disposal on the less hallowed stones of a city thoroughfare. Outside the gates he felt more at ease, more at home, in fact. He smoked in great contentment. In the broad, shady avenue he took out his watch and pried open the case. A great pride filled his eyes as he looked upon the dainty miniature portrait of his daughter Maud. She _was_ lovely--she was even lovelier than he had ever thought before. At the Regengetz a telegram awaited him. It was from Maud. "I shall be in Edelweiss this week without fail. I have something very important to tell you." So it read. CHAPTER XXIII PINGARI'S Nine o'clock of a rainy night, on the steep, winding road that climbed the mountain-side from the walled-in city to the crest on which stood the famed monastery of St. Valentine,--nine o'clock of a night fraught with pleasurable anticipation on the part of one R. Schmidt, whose eager progress up the slope was all too slow notwithstanding the encouragement offered by the conscienceless Jehu who frequently beat his poor steeds into a gallop over level stretches and never allowed them to pause on the cruel grades. Late in the afternoon there had come to the general post-office a letter for Mr. R. Schmidt. He had told her that any message intended for him would reach his hands if directed to the post-office. Since his arrival in the city, three days before, he had purposely avoided the main streets and avenues of Edelweiss, venturing forth but seldom from the Castle grounds, and all because he knew that he could not go abroad during the day-time without forfeiting the privileges to be enjoyed in emulation of the good Caliphs of Baghdad. His people would betray their prince because they loved him: his passage through the streets could only be attended by respectful homage on the part of every man, woman and child in the place. If Bedelia were there, she could not help knowing who and what he was, with every one stupidly lifting his hat and bowing to him as he passed, and he did not want Bedelia to know the truth about him until she had answered an all-important question, as has been mentioned before on more than one occasion in the course of this simple tale. Her letter was brief. She merely acquainted him with the fact that she had arrived in Edelweiss that day from Ganlook, twenty miles away, and was stopping at the Inn of the Stars outside the city gates and half way up the mountain-side, preferring the quiet, ancient tavern to the stately Regengetz for reasons of her own. In closing she said that she would be delighted to see him when it was convenient for him to come to her. On receipt of this singularly matter-of-fact letter, he promptly despatched a message to Miss Guile, Inn of the Stars, saying that she might expect him at nine that night. Fortunately for him, the night was wet and blustering. He donned a rain-coat, whose cape and collar served to cover the lower part of his face fairly well, and completed his disguise by pulling far down over his eyes the villainous broad-brimmed hat affected by the shepherds in the hills. He had a pair of dark eye-glasses in reserve for the crucial test that would come with his entrance to the Inn. Stealing away from the Castle at night, he entered the ram-shackle cab that Hobbs had engaged for the expedition, and which awaited him not far from the private entrance to the Park. Warders at the gate looked askance as he passed them by, but not one presumed to question him. They winked slyly at each other, however, after he had disappeared in the shadows beyond the rays of the feeble lanterns that they carried. It was good to be young! The driver of that rattling old vehicle was no other than the versatile Hobbs, who, it appears, had rented the outfit for a fixed sum, guaranteeing the owner against loss by theft, fire or dissolution. It is not even remotely probable that the owner would have covered the ground so quickly as Hobbs, and it is certain that the horses never suspected that they had it in them. The mud-covered vehicle was nearing the Inn of the Stars when Robin stuck his head out of the window and directed Hobbs to drive slower. "Very good, sir," said Hobbs. "I thought as how we might be late after losing time at the city gates, sir, wot with that silly guard and the--" "We are in good time, Hobbs. Take it easy." The lights of the Inn were gleaming through the drizzle not more than a block away. Robin's heart was thumping furiously. Little chills ran over him, delicious chills of excitement. His blood was hot and cold, his nerves were tingling. The adventure! "Whoa!" said Hobbs suddenly. "'Ello, wot the 'ell is--" A dark figure had sprung into the road-way near the horses' heads, and was holding up a warning hand. "Is this Mr. Schmidt's carriage?" demanded a hoarse, suppressed voice. "It is," said Hobbs, "for the time being. Wot of it?" Robin's head came through the window. "What do you want?" "Some one is coming out here to meet you, sir. Do not drive up to the doors. Those are the orders. You are to wait here, if you please." Then the man shot away into the darkness, leaving the wayfarers mystified by his words and action. "Wot am I to do, sir?" inquired Hobbs. "Most hextraordinary orders, and who the deuce is behind them, that's wot I'd like to know." "We'll wait here, Hobbs," said Robin, and then put his hand suddenly to his heart. It was acting very queerly. For a moment he thought it was in danger of pounding its way out of his body! Below him lay the lighted city, a great yellow cloud almost at his feet. Nearer, on the mountain-side were the misty lights in the windows of dwellers on the slope, and at points far apart the street lamps, dim splashes of light in the gloom. Far above were the almost obscured lights of St. Valentine, hanging in the sky. He thought of the monks up there. What a life! He would not be a monk, not he. "My word!" exclaimed Hobbs, but instantly resumed his character as cabby. A woman came swiftly out of the blackness and stopped beside the cab. She was swathed in a long gossamer, and hooded. The carriage lamps gleamed strong against the dripping coat. "Is it you?" cried Robin, throwing open the door and leaping to the ground. "It is I, M'sieur," said the voice of Marie, Miss Guile's French maid. Bleak disappointment filled his soul. He had hoped for--but no! He might have known. She would not meet him in this manner. "What has happened?" he cried, grasping the girl's arm. "Has she--" "Sh! May we not speak in French?" said Marie, lowering her voice after a significant look at the motionless cabman. "He may understand English, M'sieur. My mistress has sent me to say to M'sieur that she has changed her mind." "Changed her mind," gasped Robin. "Yes, M'sieur. She will not receive you at the Inn of the Stars. She bids you drive to the end of this street, where there is a garden with a Magyar band, and the most delicious of refreshments to be had under vine-covered--" "A public garden?" exclaimed Robin in utter dismay. "Pingari's, sir," said Hobbs, without thinking. "I know the place well. It is a very quiet, orderly place--I beg pardon!" "So he understands French, eh?" cried Marie sharply. "It doesn't matter," cried Robin impatiently. "Why, in heaven's name, did she select a public eating-house in which to receive me?" "If M'sieur chooses to disregard the wishes of--" began the maid, but he interrupted her. "I am not accustomed to meeting people in public gardens. I--" "Nor is my mistress, M'sieur. I assure you it is the first time she has committed an indiscretion of this kind. May I put a flea in M'sieur's ear? The place is quite empty to-night, and besides there is the drive back to the Inn with Mademoiselle. Is not that something, M'sieur?' "By jove!" exclaimed Robin. "Drive on,--you! But wait! Let me take you to the Inn, Marie. It--" "No! I may not accept M'sieur's thoughtful invitation. Bon soir, M'sieur." She was off like a flash. Robin leaped nimbly into the cab. "Pingari's, driver!" he said, his heart thumping once more. "Very good, sir," and they were off at a lively rate, rattling quite gaily over the cobble-stones. Pingari's is the jumping-off place. It stands at the sharp corner of an elbow in the mountain, with an almost sheer drop of a thousand feet into the quarries below. A low-roofed, rambling building, once used as a troop-house for nomadic fighting-men who came from all parts of the principality on draft by feudal barons in the days before real law obtained, it was something of a historic place. Parts of the structure are said to be no less than five hundred years old, but time and avarice have relegated history to a rather uncertain background, and unless one is pretty well up in the traditions of the town, he may be taken in nicely by shameless attendants who make no distinction between the old and the new so long as it pays them to procrastinate. As a matter of fact, the walls of the ancient troop-house surround what is now considered the kitchen, and one never steps inside of them unless he happens to be connected in a somewhat menial way with the green grocer, the fish-monger, the butcher or the poultry-man. The wonderful vine-covered porches, reeking with signs of decay and tottering with age, are in truth very substantial affairs constructed by an ancestor of the present Signor Pingari no longer ago than the Napoleonic era--which is quite recent as things go in Graustark. Hobbs drove bravely into the court yard, shouted orders to a couple of hostlers and descended from the box. The Magyar band was playing blithely to the scattered occupants of the porches overlooking the precipice. "'Ere we are, sir," said he to the Prince, as he jerked open the door of the cab. "Shall I wait, sir?" "Certainly," said Robin, climbing out. "I am a long way from home, my good man." He hurried up the steps and cast an eye about the place. There were no ladies unattached. As he was about to start on a tour of investigation, a polite person in brass buttons came up to him. "Alone, sir?" he inquired pityingly. "Quite," said Robin, still peering into the recesses. "Then come with me, if you please. I am directed to escort you to one who is also alone. This way, sir." Robin followed him through a door, down a narrow hallway, up a flight of stairs and out another door upon a small portico, sheltered by a heavy canvas awning. Two men were standing at the railing, looking down upon the impressionistic lights of the sunken city. The Prince drew back, his face hardening. "What does this mean, sirrah? You said--" At the sound of his voice the two men turned, stared at him intently for an instant and then deliberately strode past him, entered the door and disappeared. The person in brass buttons followed them. A soft, gurgling laugh fell upon his ears--a laugh of pure delight. He whirled about and faced--one who was no longer alone. She was seated at the solitary little table in the corner; until now it had escaped his notice for the excellent reason that it was outside the path of light from the open doorway, and the faint glow from the adjacent porches did not penetrate the quiet retreat. He sprang toward her with a glad cry, expecting her to rise. She remained seated, her hand extended. This indifference on her part may have been the result of cool premeditation. In any event, it served to check the impulsive ardour of the Prince, who, it is to be feared, had lost something in the way of self-restraint. It is certain--absolutely certain--that had she come forward to meet him, she would have found herself imprisoned in a pair of strong, eager arms,--and a crisis precipitated. He had to be content with a warm hand-clasp and a smile of welcome that even the gloom could not hide from his devouring eyes. "My dear, dear Bedelia," he murmured. "I had almost given you up. Three long days have I waited for you. You--" "I have never broken a promise, Rex," she said coolly. "It is you who are to be commended, not I, for you see I was coming to Graustark anyway. I should not have been surprised if you had failed me, sir. It is a long way from Vienna to this out-of-the-way--" "The most distant spot in the world would not have been too far away to cause an instant's hesitation on my part," said he, dropping into the chair opposite her. "I would go to the end of the world, Bedelia." "But your personal affairs--your business," she protested. "Can you neglect it so--" "My business is to find happiness," said he. "I should be neglecting it indeed if I failed to pursue the only means of attaining it. You are happiness, Bedelia." "What would you sacrifice for happiness?" she asked softly. "All else in the world," he replied steadily. "If I were a king, my realm should go if it stood between me and--you, Bedelia." She drew back with a queer little gasp, as if suddenly breathless. "Wait--wait just for a moment," she said, with difficulty steadying her voice. "This night may see the end of our adventure, Rex. Let us think well before we say that it is over. I know, if you do not, that a great deal depends upon what we are to say to each other to-night. You will ask me to be your wife. Are you sure that you appreciate all that it means to you and to your future if I should say yes to that dear question?" He looked at her intently. "What do you know, Bedelia?" "I know that you are the Prince of Graustark and that it is ordained that you shall wed one whose station is the equal of your own. You must think well, dear Rex, before you ask Bedelia Guile to be your wife." "You know that I am--" he began, dully, and then burst into a mirthless laugh. "And knowing who I am, why do you not leap at the chance to become the Princess of Graustark? Why not realise an ambition that--" "Hush! You see how well I considered when I advised you to think before speaking? You are now saying things that are unworthy of you. You are forgetting that it is my privilege to say no to the am in search of happiness. I too--" He stood up, leaning far over the table, a penetrating look in his eyes. "How long have you known, Bedelia?" "Since the second day out on the _Jupiter_," she replied serenely. He slowly resumed his seat, overwhelmed by the sickening realisation that his bubble had burst. She had known from the beginning. She had played with him. She had defied him! "I know what you are thinking, Rex," she said, almost pleadingly. "You are thinking ill of me, and you are unjust. It was as fair for me as it was for you. We played a cautious game. You set about to win my love as you saw fit, my friend, and am I to be condemned if I exercised the same privilege? I was no more deliberate, no more reprehensible than you. Am I more guilty of deceit than you?" He gave a great sigh of relief. "You are right," he said. "It is my turn to confess. I have known for many days that you are not Bedelia Guile. We are quits." She laughed softly. "I rather like Bedelia. I think I shall keep it as a good-luck name. We have now arrived at the time for a profound contemplation of the results of our experiments. In the meantime, I have had no dinner. I trust that the Prince of Graustark has dined so lightly that he will not decline to share my repast with me. It has already been ordered--for two." "By jove, you--you amaze me!" he exclaimed. "Please remove that dreadful mackintosh and touch the bell for me. You see, I am a very prosaic person, after all. Even in the face of disaster I can have a craving for food and drink. That's better." In a sort of daze, he tapped the little table bell. A waiter appeared on the instant. "Give us more light, waiter," was her command, "and serve dinner at once." The lights went up, and Robin looked into her soft, smiling eyes. "It doesn't matter," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't care what happens to me, Bedelia, I--I shall never give you up. You are worth all the kingdoms in the world. You are the loveliest, most adorable--" "Hush! The eyes of your people are upon you. See! Even the waiter recognises his prince. He is overcome. Ah! He falters with the consomme. It is a perilous moment. There! I knew something would happen, poor fellow. He has spilled--but, all is well; he has his wits again. See! He replenishes from the steaming tureen. We are saved." Her mood was so gaily satiric, so inconsequential, that he allowed a wondering, uncertain smile to banish the trouble from his eyes as he leaned back in the chair and studied the vivid, excited face of the girl who had created havoc with his senses. She was dressed as he had seen her on board the _Jupiter_ during those delightful days on deck: the same trim figure in a blue serge suit and a limp white hat, drawn well down over her soft brown hair, with the smart red tie and the never-to-be-forgotten scent of a perfume that would linger in his nostrils forever and forever. "Do you think it strange that I should have asked you to meet me here in this unconventional way instead of at the Inn?" she inquired, suddenly serious. Again the shy, pleading expression stole into her eyes. "I did think so, but no longer. I am glad that we are here." "Mrs. Gaston is inside," she informed him quickly. "I do not come alone. An hour ago the Inn became quite impossible as a trysting place. A small party from the Regengetz arrived for dinner. Can you guess who is giving the dinner? The great and only William W. Blithers, sir, who comes to put an obstinate daughter upon the throne of Graustark, whether she will or no." "Did he see you?" cried Robin. "No," she answered, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "I stole out through the back door, and sent Marie out with one of the porters to head you off. Then I came on here. I didn't even stop to change my gown." "Hide and seek is a bully game," said he. "It can't last much longer, Bedelia. I think it is only right that we should go to your father and tell him that--everything is all right. It is his due. You've solved your own problem and are satisfied, so why not reveal yourself. There is nothing to be gained by further secrecy." She was watching him closely. "Are you, after all is said and done, sure that you want to marry the daughter of William Blithers, in the face of all the bitter consequences that may follow such an act? Think hard, my dear. She is being forced upon you, in a way. Mr. Blithers' money is behind her. Your people are opposed to the bargain, for that is the way in which they will look upon it. They may act very harshly toward you. The name of Blithers is detested in your land. His daughter is reviled. Are you sure that you want to marry her, Re--Robin?" "Are you through?" he asked, transfixing her with a determined look. "Well, then, I'll answer you. I do want to marry you, and, more than that, I mean to marry you. I love--" "You may tell me, Robin, as we are driving back to the Inn together--not here, not now," she said softly, the lovelight in her eyes. Happiness blurred his vision. He was thrilled by an enchantment so stupefying that the power of speech, almost of thought, was denied him for the time being. He could only sit and stare at her with prophetic love in his eyes, love that bided its time and trembled with anticipation. Long afterward, as they were preparing to leave Pingari's she said to him: "My father is at the Inn, Robin. I ran away from him to-night because I wanted to be sure that our adventure was closed before I revealed myself to him. I wanted to be able to say to him that love will find its way, no matter how blind it is, nor how vast the world it has to traverse in search of its own. My father is at the Inn. Take me to him now, Robin, and make the miracle complete." His fingers caressed her warm cheek as he adjusted the collar of the long seacoat about her throat and chin. Her eyes were starry bright, her red lips were parted. "My Princess!" he whispered tenderly. "My Princess!" "My Prince," she said so softly that the words barely reached his ears. "We have proved that Love is the king. He rules us all. He laughs at locksmiths--and fathers--but he does not laugh at sweethearts. Come, I am ready." He handed her into the cab a moment later, and drew the long deep breath of one who goes down into deep water. Then he followed after her. The attendant closed the door. "Where to, sir?" called Hobbs from the driver's seat. He received no answer, yet cracked his whip gaily over the horses' backs and drove out into the slanting rain. Hobbs was a dependable fellow. He drove the full length of the street twice, passing the Inn of the Stars both times at a lively clip, and might have gone on forever in his shuttlecock enterprise, had not the excited voice of a woman hailed him from the sidewalk. "Stop! _Attendez_! You! Man!" He pulled up with a jerk. The dripping figure of Marie ran up from behind. "My mistress? Where is she?" panted the girl. "In heaven," said Hobbs promptly, whereupon Marie pounded on the glass window of the cab. Robin quickly opened the door. "Wha--what is it?" "Yes, Marie," came in muffled tones from the depths of the cab. "Madame Gaston returns long ago. She is beside herself. She is like a maniac. She has lost you; she cannot explain to--to Mademoiselle's father. Mon dieu, when he met her unexpectedly in the hall, he shouts, 'where is my daughter?' And poor Madame she has but to shiver and stammer and--run away! _Oui_! She dash out into the rain! It is terrible. She--" Bedelia broke in upon this jumbled recitation. "Where have we been, Robin? Where are we now?" "Where are we, Hobbs?" "We are just getting back to the Inn of the Stars, sir,--descending, you might say, sir," said Hobbs. "Drive on, confound you." "To the Inn, sir?" "Certainly!" The door slammed and the final block was covered in so short a time that Robin's final kiss was still warm on Bedelia's lips when the gallant cab rolled up to the portals of the Inn of the Stars. "Did you ever know such a night, sir?" inquired Hobbs, as the Prince handed his lady out. He was referring to the weather. CHAPTER XXIV JUST WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED Even the most flamboyant of natures may suffer depression at times, and by the same token arrogance may give way to humility,--or, at the very least, conviction. Mr. Blithers had had a trying day of it. To begin with, his wife raked him over the coals for what she was pleased to call his senseless persistence in the face of what she regarded as unalterable opposition on the part of the Cabinet and House of Nobles. It appears that he had experienced a second encounter with the Ministry only the day before. After sleeping over the results of his first visit to the Council Chamber, he awoke to the fact that matters were in such a condition that it behooved him to strike while the iron was hot. So he obtained a second hearing, principally because he had not slept as well over it as he would have liked, and secondarily because he wanted to convince himself that he could parade their ancient halls without feeling as self-conscious as a whipped spaniel. He came off even worse in his second assault upon the ministry, for this time the members openly sneered at his declarations. As for his progress through the enchanted halls he was no end worse off than before. It so happened that he arrived at the castle at the very hour when the ladies and gentlemen of the royal household were preparing to fare forth to the tennis courts. He came upon them, first on the terrace, then in the entrance, and later on was stared at with evident curiosity by white flanneled and duck-skirted persons in the lofty halls. He wished that he was back at Blitherwood where simplicity was not so infernally common. He made the mistake of his life when he gave to his wife the details of this second conference with the Cabinet. He did it in the hope that a sympathetic response would be forthcoming. To his surprise, she merely pitied him, but in such a disgustingly personal way that he wondered if he could ever forgive her. "Can't you appreciate what I am doing for Maud?" he argued, almost tearfully. "I can appreciate what you are doing _to_ her," said she, and swept out of the room. "It's bad enough to have one stubborn woman in the family," said he to himself, glaring at the closed door--which had been slammed, by the way,--"but two of 'em--Good Lord!" And so it was that Mr. Blithers, feeling in need of cheer, arranged a little dinner for that evening, at the Inn of the Stars. He first invited his principal London lawyer and his wife--who happened to be _his_ principal--and then sent a more or less peremptory invitation to the President of the Bank of Graustark, urging him to join the party at the Regengetz and motor to the Inn. He was to bring his wife and any friends that might be stopping with them at the time. The banker declined. His wife had been dead for twenty years; the only friends he possessed were directors in the bank, and they happened to be having a meeting that night. So Mr. Blithers invited his secondary London lawyer, his French lawyer and two attractive young women who it appears were related to the latter, although at quite a distance, and then concluded that it was best to speak to his own wife about the little affair. She said she couldn't even think of going. Maud might arrive that very night and she certainly was not going out of the hotel with such an event as that in prospect. "But Simpson's wife is coming," protested Mr. Blithers, "and Pericault's cousins. Certainly you must come. Jolly little affair to liven us up a bit. Now Lou,--" "I am quite positive that Lady Simpson will change her mind when she hears that Pericault's cousins are going," said Mrs. Blithers acidly. "Anything the matter with Pericault's cousins?" he demanded, inclined to the bellicose. "Ask Pericault," she replied briefly. He thought for a moment. "If that's the case, Lou, you'll have to come, if only to save my reputation," he said. "I didn't think it of Pericault. He seems less like a Frenchman than any man I've ever known." Mrs. Blithers relented. She went to the dinner and so did Lady Simpson, despite Pericault's cousins, and the only ones in the party who appeared to be uneasy were the cousins themselves. It is safe to say that it was not the rain that put a dampener on what otherwise might have been an excessively jovial party. Stupendous was the commotion at the Inn of the Stars when it became known that one of the richest men in the world--and a possible father-in-law apparent to the crown,--was to honour the place with his presence that night. Every one, from the manager down to the boy who pared potatoes, laid himself out to make the occasion a memorable one. The millionaire's table was placed in the very centre of the dining-room, and plates were laid for eight. At the last minute, Mr. Blithers ordered the number increased to nine. "My daughter may put in an appearance," he explained to Lady Simpson. "I have left word at the hotel for her to come up if by any chance she happens to arrive on the evening train." "Haven't you heard from her, Mr. Blithers?" inquired the austere lady, regarding the top of his head with an illy-directed lorgnon. They were entering the long, low dining-room. Mr. Blithers resented the scrutiny: It was lofty and yet stooping. She seemed to be looking down upon him at right angles, due no doubt to her superior height and to the fact that she had taken his arm. "We have," said he, "but not definitely. She is likely to pop in on us at any moment, and then again she's likely not to. My daughter is a very uncertain person, Lady Simpson. I never seem to be able to put my finger upon her." "Have you ever tried putting the whole hand upon her?" inquired her ladyship, and Mr. Blithers stared straight ahead, incapable of replying. He waited until they were seated at the table and then remarked: "I am sorry you got splashed, Lady Simpson. You'd think they might keep the approach to a place like this free of mud and water." "Oh, I daresay the gown can be cleaned, Mr. Blithers," she said. "I am quite ready to discard it, in any event, so it really doesn't matter." "My dear," said he to his wife, raising his voice so that diners at nearby tables could not help hearing what he said, "I forgot to tell you that we are expected to dine with the Prince at the Castle." Then he wondered if any one in the room understood English. "When?" she inquired. "Very shortly," said he, and she was puzzled for a moment by the stony glare he gave her. Lord Simpson took this opportunity to mention that he had taken reservations for the return of himself and wife to Vienna on the next day but one. "We shall catch the Orient Express on Friday and be in London by Monday," he said. "Our work here is completed. Everything is in ship-shape. Jenkins will remain, of course, to attend to the minor details, such as going over the securities and--" "Don't you like that caviare?" asked Mr. Blithers with some asperity. "It has a peculiar taste," said Lord Simpson. "Best I've ever tasted," said Mr. Blithers, spreading a bun thickly. Pericault's cousins were fingering the champagne glasses. "We've got sherry coming first," said he. "Everything satisfactory, M'sieur Blithers?" inquired the _maitre d'hotel_ softly, ingratiatingly, into his left ear. "Absolutely," said Mr. Blithers with precision. "You needn't hurry things. We've got the whole evening ahead of us." Lady Simpson shivered slightly. The Pericault cousins brightened up. There was still a chance that the "dowagers" would retire early from the scene of festivity. "By the way," said Simpson, "how long do you purpose remaining in Edelweiss, Blithers?" For the first time, the capitalist faltered. He was almost ready to admit that his enterprise had failed in one vital respect. The morning's experience in the Council Chamber had shaken his confidence considerably. "I don't know, Simpson," said he. "It is possible that we may leave soon." "Before the Prince's dinner?" inquired Lady Simpson, again regarding his bald spot through the lorg-non. "Depends on what my daughter has to say when she gets here," said he almost gruffly. "If she wants to stay for a while, we will remain. I don't mind saying that I have a curious longing for Wall Street. I am at home there and--well, by George, I'm like a fish out of water here." His wife looked up quickly, but did not speak. "I am a business man, Lady Simpson, not a philanderer. I'd like to take this town by the neck and shake some real enterprise into it, but what can you do when everybody is willing to sit down and let tradition look after 'em? I've put a lot of money into Grosstock and I'd like to see the country prosper. Still I'm not worried over my investment. It is as good as gold." "Perfectly safe," said Lord Simpson. "Absolutely," said the secondary London lawyer. Pericault's comment was in French and not intended to be brief, but as Mr. Blithers was no longer interested, the privilege of completing his remarks was not accorded him. He did say _Mon dieu_ under his breath, however, in the middle of his employer's next sentence. "As I said before, everything depends on whether my daughter wants to remain. If she says she wants to stay, that settles the point so far as I am concerned. If she says she doesn't want to stay, we'll--well, that will settle it also. I say, waiter, can't you hurry the fish along?" "Certainly, sir. I understood M'sieur to say that there was no hurry--" "Well, pour the champagne anyway. I think we need it." Two hours later, Mr. Blithers looked at his watch again. The party was quite gay: at least fifty percent disorderly. "That train has been in for an hour," said the host. "I guess Maud didn't come. I left word for the hotel to call me up if she arrived--I say, waiter, has there been a telephone message for me?" "No, M'sieur. We have kept a boy near the telephone all evening, M'sieur. No message." "I also told 'em to send up any telegram that might come," he informed his wife, who merely lifted her eyebrows. They had been lowered perceptibly in consequence of the ebullience of Pericault's cousins. The vivacious young women were attracting a great deal of attention to their table. Smart diners in the immediate neighbourhood appeared to be a trifle shocked. Three dignified looking gentlemen, seated near the door, got up and left the room. "We really must be going," said Mrs. Blithers nervously, who had been watching the three men for some time with something akin to dismay in her soul. She had the sickening notion that they were members of the Cabinet--lords of the realm. "All right," said Mr. Blithers, "Call the cars up, waiter. Still raining?" "Yes, M'sieur. At this season of the year--" "Call the cars. Let's have your bill." Pericault's cousins were reluctant to go. In fact, they protested shrilly that it was silly to break up such a successful party at such an unseemly hour. "Never mind," whispered Pericault softly, and winked. "I'll leave 'em in your care, Pericault," said Mr. Blithers grimly. "They are _your_ cousins, you know." "Trust me implicitly. Monsieur," said Pericault, bowing very deeply. Then he said good-night to Mrs. Blithers and Lady Simpson. The secondary London lawyer did the same. Out in the wide, brilliantly lighted foyer, a few late-stayers were waiting for their conveyances to be announced. As the four departing members of the Blithers party grouped themselves near the big doors, impatient to be off, a brass-buttoned boy came up and delivered a telegram to the host. He was on the point of tearing open the envelope when his eyes fell upon two people who had just entered the hall from without, a man and woman clad in raincoats. At the same instant the former saw Mr. Blithers. Clutching his companion's arm he directed her attention to the millionaire. "Now for it, Bedelia," he whispered excitedly. Bedelia gazed calmly at Mr. Blithers and Mr. Blithers gazed blankly at the Prince of Graustark. Then the great financier bowed very deeply and called out: "Good evening, Prince!" He received no response to his polite greeting, for the Prince was staring at Bedelia as if stupefied. The millionaire's face was very red with mortification as he turned it away. "He--he doesn't recognise you," gasped Robin in amazement. "Who?" she asked, her eyes searching the room with an eager, inquiring look. "Your father," he said. She gave him a ravishing, delighted smile. "Oh, it is so wonderful, Robin. I have fooled you completely. That man isn't my father." "That's Mr. Blithers or I am as blind as a bat," he exclaimed. "Is it, indeed? The one reading the telegram, with his eyes sticking out of his head?" Robin's head was swimming. "Good heaven, Bedelia, what are you--" "Ah!" she cried, with a little shriek of joy. "See! There he is!" One of the three distinguished men who had been remarked by Mrs. Blithers now separated himself from his companions and approached the couple. He was a tall, handsome man of fifty. Although his approach was swift and eager, there was in his face the signs of wrath that still struggled against joy. She turned quickly, laid her hand upon the Prince's rigid arm, and said softly: "My father is the Prince of Dawsbergen, dear." * * * * * A crumpled telegram dropped from Mr. Blithers' palsied hand to the floor as he turned a white, despairing face upon his wife. The brass-buttoned boy picked it up and handed it to Mrs. Blithers. It was from Maud. "We were married in Vienna today. After all I think I shall not care to see Graustark. Channie is a dear. I have promised him that you will take him into the business as a partner. We are at the Bristol. "Maud." THE END 
518	----	The Enchanted Island of Yew Whereon Prince Marvel Encountered the High Ki of Twi and Other Surprising People By L. Frank Baum Author of "The Wizard of Oz," "The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus," "The Magical Monarch of Mo," Etc. Contents 1. Once On a Time 2. The Enchanted Isle 3. The Fairy Bower 4. Prince Marvel 5. The King of Thieves 6. The Troubles of Nerle 7. The Gray Men 8. The Fool-Killer 9. The Royal Dragon of Spor 10. Prince Marvel Wins His Fight 11. The Cunning of King Terribus 12. The Gift of Beauty 13. The Hidden Kingdom of Twi 14. The Ki and The Ki-Ki 15. The High Ki of Twi 16. The Rebellion of The High Ki 17. The Separation of The High Ki 18. The Rescue of The High Ki 19. The Reunion of The High Ki 20. Kwytoffle, the Tyrant 21. The Wonderful Book of Magic 22. The Queen of Plenta 23. The Red Rogue of Dawna 24. The Enchanted Mirrors 25. The Adventurers Separate 26. The End of the Year 27. A Hundred Years Afterward 1. "Once on a Time" I am going to tell a story, one of those tales of astonishing adventures that happened years and years and years ago. Perhaps you wonder why it is that so many stories are told of "once on a time", and so few of these days in which we live; but that is easily explained. In the old days, when the world was young, there were no automobiles nor flying-machines to make one wonder; nor were there railway trains, nor telephones, nor mechanical inventions of any sort to keep people keyed up to a high pitch of excitement. Men and women lived simply and quietly. They were Nature's children, and breathed fresh air into their lungs instead of smoke and coal gas; and tramped through green meadows and deep forests instead of riding in street cars; and went to bed when it grew dark and rose with the sun--which is vastly different from the present custom. Having no books to read they told their adventures to one another and to their little ones; and the stories were handed down from generation to generation and reverently believed. Those who peopled the world in the old days, having nothing but their hands to depend on, were to a certain extent helpless, and so the fairies were sorry for them and ministered to their wants patiently and frankly, often showing themselves to those they befriended. So people knew fairies in those days, my dear, and loved them, together with all the ryls and knooks and pixies and nymphs and other beings that belong to the hordes of immortals. And a fairy tale was a thing to be wondered at and spoken of in awed whispers; for no one thought of doubting its truth. To-day the fairies are shy; for so many curious inventions of men have come into use that the wonders of Fairyland are somewhat tame beside them, and even the boys and girls can not be so easily interested or surprised as in the old days. So the sweet and gentle little immortals perform their tasks unseen and unknown, and live mostly in their own beautiful realms, where they are almost unthought of by our busy, bustling world. Yet when we come to story-telling the marvels of our own age shrink into insignificance beside the brave deeds and absorbing experiences of the days when fairies were better known; and so we go back to "once on a time" for the tales that we most love--and that children have ever loved since mankind knew that fairies exist. 2. The Enchanted Isle Once there was an enchanted island in the middle of the sea. It was called the Isle of Yew. And in it were five important kingdoms ruled by men, and many woodland dells and forest glades and pleasant meadows and grim mountains inhabited by fairies. From the fairies some of the men had learned wonderful secrets, and had become magicians and sorcerers, with powers so great that the entire island was reputed to be one of enchantments. Who these men were the common people did not always know; for while some were kings and rulers, others lived quietly hidden away in forests or mountains, and seldom or never showed themselves. Indeed, there were not so many of these magicians as people thought, only it was so hard to tell them from common folk that every stranger was regarded with a certain amount of curiosity and fear. The island was round--like a mince pie. And it was divided into four quarters--also like a pie--except that there was a big place in the center where the fifth kingdom, called Spor, lay in the midst of the mountains. Spor was ruled by King Terribus, whom no one but his own subjects had ever seen--and not many of them. For no one was allowed to enter the Kingdom of Spor, and its king never left his palace. But the people of Spor had a bad habit of rushing down from their mountains and stealing the goods of the inhabitants of the other four kingdoms, and carrying them home with them, without offering any apologies whatever for such horrid conduct. Sometimes those they robbed tried to fight them; but they were a terrible people, consisting of giants with huge clubs, and dwarfs who threw flaming darts, and the stern Gray Men of Spor, who were most frightful of all. So, as a rule, every one fled before them, and the people were thankful that the fierce warriors of Spor seldom came to rob them oftener than once a year. It was on this account that all who could afford the expense built castles to live in, with stone walls so thick that even the giants of Spor could not batter them down. And the children were not allowed to stray far from home for fear some roving band of robbers might steal them and make their parents pay large sums for their safe return. Yet for all this the people of the Enchanted Isle of Yew were happy and prosperous. No grass was greener, no forests more cool and delightful, no skies more sunny, no sea more blue and rippling than theirs. And the nations of the world envied them, but dared not attempt to conquer an island abounding in enchantments. 3. The Fairy Bower That part of the Enchanted Isle which was kissed by the rising sun was called Dawna; the kingdom that was tinted rose and purple by the setting sun was known as Auriel, and the southland, where fruits and flowers abounded, was the kingdom of Plenta. Up at the north lay Heg, the home of the great barons who feared not even the men of Spor; and in the Kingdom of Heg our story opens. Upon a beautiful plain stood the castle of the great Baron Merd--renowned alike in war and peace, and second in importance only to the King of Heg. It was a castle of vast extent, built with thick walls and protected by strong gates. In front of it sloped a pretty stretch of land with the sea glistening far beyond; and back of it, but a short distance away, was the edge of the Forest of Lurla. One fair summer day the custodian of the castle gates opened a wicket and let down a draw-bridge, when out trooped three pretty girls with baskets dangling on their arms. One of the maids walked in front of her companions, as became the only daughter of the mighty Baron Merd. She was named Seseley, and had yellow hair and red cheeks and big, blue eyes. Behind her, merry and laughing, yet with a distinct deference to the high station of their young lady, walked Berna and Helda--dark brunettes with mischievous eyes and slender, lithe limbs. Berna was the daughter of the chief archer, and Helda the niece of the captain of the guard, and they were appointed play-fellows and comrades of the fair Seseley. Up the hill to the forest's edge ran the three, and then without hesitation plunged into the shade of the ancient trees. There was no sunlight now, but the air was cool and fragrant of nuts and mosses, and the children skipped along the paths joyously and without fear. To be sure, the Forest of Lurla was well known as the home of fairies, but Seseley and her comrades feared nothing from such gentle creatures and only longed for an interview with the powerful immortals whom they had been taught to love as the tender guardians of mankind. Nymphs there were in Lurla, as well, and crooked knooks, it was said; yet for many years past no person could boast the favor of meeting any one of the fairy creatures face to face. So, gathering a few nuts here and a sweet forest flower there, the three maidens walked farther and farther into the forest until they came upon a clearing--formed like a circle--with mosses and ferns for its carpet and great overhanging branches for its roof. "How pretty!" cried Seseley, gaily. "Let us eat our luncheon in this lovely banquet-hall!" So Berna and Helda spread a cloth and brought from their baskets some golden platters and a store of food. Yet there was little ceremony over the meal, you may be sure, and within a short space all the children had satisfied their appetites and were laughing and chatting as merrily as if they were at home in the great castle. Indeed, it is certain they were happier in their forest glade than when facing grim walls of stone, and the three were in such gay spirits that whatever one chanced to say the others promptly joined in laughing over. Soon, however, they were startled to hear a silvery peal of laughter answering their own, and turning to see whence the sound proceeded, they found seated near them a creature so beautiful that at once the three pairs of eyes opened to their widest extent, and three hearts beat much faster than before. "Well, I must say you DO stare!" exclaimed the newcomer, who was clothed in soft floating robes of rose and pearl color, and whose eyes shone upon them like two stars. "Forgive our impertinence," answered the little Lady Seseley, trying to appear dignified and unmoved; "but you must acknowledge that you came among us uninvited, and--and you are certainly rather odd in appearance." Again the silvery laughter rang through the glade. "Uninvited!" echoed the creature, clapping her hands together delightedly; "uninvited to my own forest home! Why, my dear girls, you are the uninvited ones--indeed you are--to thus come romping into our fairy bower." The children did not open their eyes any wider on hearing this speech, for they could not; but their faces expressed their amazement fully, while Helda gasped the words: "A fairy bower! We are in a fairy bower!" "Most certainly," was the reply. "And as for being odd in appearance, let me ask how you could reasonably expect a fairy to appear as mortal maidens do?" "A fairy!" exclaimed Seseley. "Are you, then, a real fairy?" "I regret to say I am," returned the other, more soberly, as she patted a moss-bank with a silver-tipped wand. Then for a moment there was silence, while the three girls sat very still and stared at their immortal companion with evident curiosity. Finally Seseley asked: "Why do you regret being a fairy? I have always thought them the happiest creatures in the world." "Perhaps we ought to be happy," answered the fairy, gravely, "for we have wonderful powers and do much to assist you helpless mortals. And I suppose some of us really are happy. But, for my part, I am so utterly tired of a fairy life that I would do anything to change it." "That is strange," declared Berna. "You seem very young to be already discontented with your lot." Now at this the fairy burst into laughter again, and presently asked: "How old do you think me?" "About our own age," said Berna, after a glance at her and a moment's reflection. "Nonsense!" retorted the fairy, sharply. "These trees are hundreds of years old, yet I remember when they were mere twigs. And I remember when mortals first came to live upon this island, yes--and when this island was first created and rose from the sea after a great earthquake. I remember for many, many centuries, my dears. I have grown tired of remembering--and of being a fairy continually, without any change to brighten my life." "To be sure!" said Seseley, with sympathy. "I never thought of fairy life in that way before. It must get to be quite tiresome." "And think of the centuries I must yet live!" exclaimed the fairy in a dismal voice. "Isn't it an awful thing to look forward to?" "It is, indeed," agreed Seseley. "I'd be glad to exchange lives with you," said Helda, looking at the fairy with intense admiration. "But you can't do that," answered the little creature quickly. "Mortals can't become fairies, you know--although I believe there was once a mortal who was made immortal." "But fairies can become anything they desire!" cried Berna. "Oh, no, they can't. You are mistaken if you believe that," was the reply. "I could change YOU into a fly, or a crocodile, or a bobolink, if I wanted to; but fairies can't change themselves into anything else." "How strange!" murmured Seseley, much impressed. "But YOU can," cried the fairy, jumping up and coming toward them. "You are mortals, and, by the laws that govern us, a mortal can change a fairy into anything she pleases." "Oh!" said Seseley, filled with amazement at the idea. The fairy fell on her knees before the baron's daughter. "Please--please, dear Seseley," she pleaded, "change me into a mortal!" 4. Prince Marvel It is easy to imagine the astonishment of the three girls at hearing this strange request. They gazed in a bewildered fashion upon the kneeling fairy, and were at first unable to answer one word. Then Seseley said--sadly, for she grieved to disappoint the pretty creature: "We are but mortal children, and have no powers of enchantment at all." "Ah, that is true, so far as concerns yourselves," replied the fairy, eagerly; "yet mortals may easily transform fairies into anything they wish." "If that is so, why have we never heard of this power before?" asked Seseley. "Because fairies, as a rule, are content with their lot, and do not wish to appear in any form but their own. And, knowing that evil or mischievous mortals can transform them at will, the fairies take great care to remain invisible, so they can not be interfered with. Have you ever," she asked, suddenly, "seen a fairy before?" "Never," replied Seseley. "Nor would you have seen me to-day, had I not known you were kind and pure-hearted, or had I not resolved to ask you to exercise your powers upon me." "I must say," remarked Helda, boldly, "that you are foolish to wish to become anything different from what you are." "For you are very beautiful NOW," added Berna, admiringly. "Beautiful!" retorted the fairy, with a little frown; "what does beauty amount to, if one is to remain invisible?" "Not much, that is true," agreed Berna, smoothing her own dark locks. "And as for being foolish," continued the fairy, "I ought to be allowed to act foolishly if I want to. For centuries past I have not had a chance to do a single foolish thing." "Poor dear!" said Helda, softly. Seseley had listened silently to this conversation. Now she inquired: "What do you wish to become?" "A mortal!" answered the fairy, promptly. "A girl, like ourselves?" questioned the baron's daughter. "Perhaps," said the fairy, as if undecided. "Then you would be likely to endure many privations," said Seseley, gently. "For you would have neither father nor mother to befriend you, nor any house to live in." "And if you hired your services to some baron, you would be obliged to wash dishes all day, or mend clothing, or herd cattle," said Berna. "But I should travel all over the island," said the fairy, brightly, "and that is what I long to do. I do not care to work." "I fear a girl would not be allowed to travel alone," Seseley remarked, after some further thought. "At least," she added, "I have never heard of such a thing." "No," said the fairy, rather bitterly, "your men are the ones that roam abroad and have adventures of all kinds. Your women are poor, weak creatures, I remember." There was no denying this, so the three girls sat silent until Seseley asked: "Why do you wish to become a mortal?" "To gain exciting experiences," answered the fairy. "I'm tired of being a humdrum fairy year in and year out. Of course, I do not wish to become a mortal for all time, for that would get monotonous, too; but to live a short while as the earth people do would amuse me very much." "If you want variety, you should become a boy," said Helda, with a laugh, "The life of a boy is one round of excitement." "Then make me a boy!" exclaimed the fairy eagerly. "A boy!" they all cried in consternation. And Seseley added: "Why--you're a GIRL fairy, aren't you?" "Well--yes; I suppose I am," answered the beautiful creature, smiling; "but as you are going to change me anyway, I may as well become a boy as a girl." "Better!" declared Helda, clapping her hands; "for then you can do as you please." "But would it be right?" asked Seseley, with hesitation. "Why not?" retorted the fairy. "I can see nothing wrong in being a boy. Make me a tall, slender youth, with waving brown hair and dark eyes. Then I shall be as unlike my own self as possible, and the adventure will be all the more interesting. Yes; I like the idea of being a boy very much indeed." "But I don't know how to transform you; some one will have to show me the way to do it," protested Seseley, who was getting worried over the task set her. "Oh, that will be easy enough," returned the little immortal. "Have you a wand?" "No." "Then I'll loan you mine, for I shall not need it. And you must wave it over my head three times and say: 'By my mortal powers I transform you into a boy for the space of one year'." "One year! Isn't that too long?" "It's a very short time to one who has lived thousands of years as a fairy." "That is true," answered the baron's daughter. "Now, I'll begin by doing a little transforming myself," said the fairy, getting upon her feet again, "and you can watch and see how I do it." She brushed a bit of moss from her gauzy skirts and continued: "If I'm to become a boy I shall need a horse, you know. A handsome, prancing steed, very fleet of foot." A moment she stood motionless, as if listening. Then she uttered a low but shrill whistle. The three girls, filled with eager interest, watched her intently. Presently a trampling of footsteps was heard through the brushwood, and a beautiful deer burst from the forest and fearlessly ran to the fairy. Without hesitation she waved her wand above the deer's head and exclaimed: "By all my fairy powers I command you to become a war-horse for the period of one year." Instantly the deer disappeared, and in its place was a handsome charger, milk-white in color, with flowing mane and tail. Upon its back was a saddle sparkling with brilliant gems sewn upon fine dressed leather. The girls uttered cries of astonishment and delight, and the fairy said: "You see, these transformations are not at all difficult. I must now have a sword." She plucked a twig from a near-by tree and cast it upon the ground at her feet. Again she waved her wand--and the twig turned to a gleaming sword, richly engraved, that seemed to the silent watchers to tremble slightly in its sheath, as if its heart of steel throbbed with hopes of battles to come. "And now I must have shield and armor," said the fairy, gaily. "This will make a shield,"--and she stripped a sheet of loose bark from a tree-trunk,--"but for armor I must have something better. Will you give me your cloak?" This appeal was made to Seseley, and the baron's daughter drew her white velvet cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the fairy. A moment later it was transformed into a suit of glittering armor that seemed fashioned of pure silver inlaid with gold, while the sheet of bark at the same time became a handsome shield, with the figures of three girls graven upon it. Seseley recognized the features as those of herself and her comrades, and noted also that they appeared sitting at the edge of a forest, the great trees showing plainly in the background. "I shall be your champion, you see," laughed the fairy, gleefully, "and maybe I shall be able to repay you for the loss of your cloak." "I do not mind the cloak," returned the child, who had been greatly interested in these strange transformations. "But it seems impossible that a dainty little girl like you can ride this horse and carry these heavy arms." "I'll not be a girl much longer," said the little creature. "Here, take my wand, and transform me into a noble youth!" Again the pretty fairy kneeled before Seseley, her dainty, rounded limbs of white and rose showing plainly through her gauzy attire. And the baron's daughter was suddenly inspired to be brave, not wishing to disappoint the venturous immortal. So she rose and took the magic wand in her hand, waving it three times above the head of the fairy. "By my powers as a mortal," she said, marveling even then at the strange speech, "I command you to become a brave and gallant youth--handsome, strong, fearless! And such shall you remain for the space of one year." As she ceased speaking the fairy was gone, and a slender youth, dark-eyed and laughing, was holding her hand in his and kissing it gratefully. "I thank you, most lovely maiden," he said, in a pleasant voice, "for giving me a place in the world of mortals. I shall ride at once in search of adventure, but my good sword is ever at your service." With this he gracefully arose and began to buckle on his magnificent armor and to fasten the sword to his belt. Seseley drew a long, sighing breath of amazement at her own powers, and turning to Berna and Helda she asked: "Do I see aright? Is the little fairy really transformed to this youth?" "It certainly seems so," returned Helda, who, being unabashed by the marvels she had beheld, turned to gaze boldly upon the young knight. "Do you still remember that a moment ago you were a fairy?" she inquired. "Yes, indeed," said he, smiling; "and I am really a fairy now, being but changed in outward form. But no one must know this save yourselves, until the year has expired and I resume my true station. Will you promise to guard my secret?" "Oh, yes!" they exclaimed, in chorus. For they were delighted, as any children might well be, at having so remarkable a secret to keep and talk over among themselves. "I must ask one more favor," continued the youth: "that you give me a name; for in this island I believe all men bear names of some sort, to distinguish them one from another." "True," said Seseley, thoughtfully. "What were you called as a fairy?" "That does not matter in the least," he answered, hastily. "I must have an entirely new name." "Suppose we call him the Silver Knight," suggested Berna, as she eyed his glistening armor. "Oh, no!--that is no name at all!" declared Helda. "We might better call him Baron Strongarm." "I do not like that, either," said the Lady Seseley, "for we do not know whether his arm is strong or not. But he has been transformed in a most astonishing and bewildering manner before our very eyes, and I think the name of Prince Marvel would suit him very well." "Excellent!" cried the youth, picking up his richly graven shield. "The name seems fitting in every way. And for a year I shall be known to all this island as Prince Marvel!" 5. The King of Thieves Old Marshelm, the captain of the guard, was much surprised when he saw the baron's daughter and her playmates approach her father's castle escorted by a knight in glittering armor. To be sure it was a rather small knight, but the horse he led by the bridle was so stately and magnificent in appearance that old Marshelm, who was an excellent judge of horses, at once decided the stranger must be a personage of unusual importance. As they came nearer the captain of the guard also observed the beauty of the little knight's armor, and caught the glint of jewels set in the handle of his sword; so he called his men about him and prepared to receive the knight with the honors doubtless due his high rank. But to the captain's disappointment the stranger showed no intention of entering the castle. On the contrary, he kissed the little Lady Seseley's hand respectfully, waved an adieu to the others, and then mounted his charger and galloped away over the plains. The drawbridge was let down to permit the three children to enter, and the great Baron Merd came himself to question his daughter. "Who was the little knight?" he asked. "His name is Prince Marvel," answered Seseley, demurely. "Prince Marvel?" exclaimed the Baron. "I have never heard of him. Does he come from the Kingdom of Dawna, or that of Auriel, or Plenta?" "That I do not know," said Seseley, with truth. "Where did you meet him?" continued the baron. "In the forest, my father, and he kindly escorted us home." "Hm!" muttered the baron, thoughtfully. "Did he say what adventure brought him to our Kingdom of Heg?" "No, father. But he mentioned being in search of adventure." "Oh, he'll find enough to busy him in this wild island, where every man he meets would rather draw his sword than eat," returned the old warrior, smiling. "How old may this Prince Marvel be?" "He looks not over fifteen years of age," said Seseley, uneasy at so much questioning, for she did not wish to be forced to tell an untruth. "But it is possible he is much older," she added, beginning to get confused. "Well, well; I am sorry he did not pay my castle a visit," declared the baron. "He is very small and slight to be traveling this dangerous country alone, and I might have advised him as to his welfare." Seseley thought that Prince Marvel would need no advice from any one as to his conduct; but she wisely refrained from speaking this thought, and the old baron walked away to glance through a slit in the stone wall at the figure of the now distant knight. Prince Marvel was riding swiftly toward the brow of the hill, and shortly his great war-horse mounted the ascent and disappeared on its farther slope. The youth's heart was merry and light, and he reflected joyously, as he rode along, that a whole year of freedom and fascinating adventure lay before him. The valley in which he now found himself was very beautiful, the soft grass beneath his horse's feet being sprinkled with bright flowers, while clumps of trees stood here and there to break the monotony of the landscape. For an hour the prince rode along, rejoicing in the free motion of his horse and breathing in the perfume-laden air. Then he found he had crossed the valley and was approaching a series of hills. These were broken by huge rocks, the ground being cluttered with boulders of rough stone. His horse speedily found a pathway leading through these rocks, but was obliged to proceed at a walk, turning first one way and then another as the path zigzagged up the hill. Presently, being engaged in deep thought and little noting the way, Prince Marvel rode between two high walls of rock standing so close together that horse and rider could scarcely pass between the sides. Having traversed this narrow space some distance the wall opened suddenly upon a level plat of ground, where grass and trees grew. It was not a very big place, but was surely the end of the path, as all around it stood bare walls so high and steep that neither horse nor man could climb them. In the side of the rocky wall facing the entrance the traveler noticed a hollow, like the mouth of a cave, across which was placed an iron gate. And above the gateway was painted in red letters on the gray stone the following words: WUL-TAKIM KING OF THIEVES ------ HIS TREASURE HOUSE KEEP OUT Prince Marvel laughed on reading this, and after getting down from his saddle he advanced to the iron gate and peered through its heavy bars. "I have no idea who this Wul-Takim is," he said, "for I know nothing at all of the ways of men outside the forest in which I have always dwelt. But thieves are bad people, I am quite sure, and since Wul-Takim is the king of thieves he must be by far the worst man on this island." Then he saw, through the bars of the gate, that a great cavern lay beyond, in which were stacked treasures of all sorts: rich cloths, golden dishes and ornaments, gemmed coronets and bracelets, cleverly forged armor, shields and battle-axes. Also there were casks and bales of merchandise of every sort. The gate appeared to have no lock, so Prince Marvel opened it and walked in. Then he perceived, perched on the very top of a pyramid of casks, the form of a boy, who sat very still and watched him with a look of astonishment upon his face. "What are you doing up there?" asked the prince. "Nothing," said the boy. "If I moved the least little bit this pile of casks would topple over, and I should be thrown to the ground." "Well," returned the prince, "what of it?" But just then he glanced at the ground and saw why the boy did not care to tumble down. For in the earth were planted many swords, with their sharp blades pointing upward, and to fall upon these meant serious wounds and perhaps death. "Oh, ho!" cried Marvel; "I begin to understand. You are a prisoner." "Yes; as you will also be shortly," answered the boy. "And then you will understand another thing--that you were very reckless ever to enter this cave." "Why?" inquired the prince, who really knew little of the world, and was interested in everything he saw and heard. "Because it is the stronghold of the robber king, and when you opened that gate you caused a bell to ring far down on the hillside. So the robbers are now warned that an enemy is in their cave, and they will soon arrive to make you a prisoner, even as I am." "Ah, I see!" said the prince, with a laugh, "It is a rather clever contrivance; but having been warned in time I should indeed be foolish to be caught in such a trap." With this he half drew his sword, but thinking that robbers were not worthy to be slain with its untarnished steel, he pushed it back into the jeweled scabbard and looked around for another weapon. A stout oaken staff lay upon the ground, and this he caught up and ran with it from the cave, placing himself just beside the narrow opening that led into this rock-encompassed plain. For he quickly saw that this was the only way any one could enter or leave the place, and therefore knew the robbers were coming up the narrow gorge even as he had himself done. Soon they were heard stumbling along at a rapid pace, crying to one another to make haste and catch the intruder. The first that came through the opening received so sharp a blow upon the head from Prince Marvel's oak staff that he fell to the ground and lay still, while the next was treated in a like manner and fell beside his comrade. Perhaps the thieves had not expected so sturdy an enemy, for they continued to rush through the opening in the rocks and to fall beneath the steady blows of the prince's staff until every one of them lay senseless before the victor. At first they had piled themselves upon one another very neatly; but the pile got so high at last that the prince was obliged to assist the last thieves to leap to the top of the heap before they completely lost their senses. I have no doubt our prince, feeling himself yet strange in the new form he had acquired, and freshly transported from the forest glades in which he had always lived, was fully as much astonished at his deed of valor as were the robbers themselves; and if he shuddered a little when looking upon the heap of senseless thieves you must forgive him this weakness. For he straightway resolved to steel his heart to such sights and to be every bit as stern and severe as a mortal knight would have been. Throwing down his staff he ran to the cave again, and stepping between the sword points he approached the pile of casks and held out his arms to the boy who was perched upon the top. "The thieves are conquered," he cried. "Jump down!" "I won't," said the boy. "Why not?" inquired the prince. "Can't you see I'm very miserable?" asked the boy, in return; "don't you understand that every minute I expect to fall upon those sword points?" "But I will catch you," cried the prince. "I don't want you to catch me," said the boy. "I want to be miserable. It's the first chance I've ever had, and I'm enjoying my misery very much." This speech so astonished Prince Marvel that for a moment he stood motionless. Then he retorted, angrily: "You're a fool!" "If I wasn't so miserable up here, I'd come down and thrash you for that," said the boy, with a sigh. This answer so greatly annoyed Prince Marvel that he gave the central cask of the pyramid a sudden push, and the next moment the casks were tumbling in every direction, while the boy fell headlong in their midst. But Marvel caught him deftly in his arms, and so saved him from the sword points. "There!" he said, standing the boy upon his feet; "now you are released from your misery." "And I should be glad to punish you for your interference," declared the boy, gloomily eying his preserver, "had you not saved my life by catching me. According to the code of honor of knighthood I can not harm one who has saved my life until I have returned the obligation. Therefore, for the present I shall pardon your insulting speeches and actions." "But you have also saved my life," answered Prince Marvel; "for had you not warned me of the robbers' return they would surely have caught me." "True," said the boy, brightening up; "therefore our score is now even. But take care not to affront me again, for hereafter I will show you no mercy!" Prince Marvel looked at the boy with wonder. He was about his own size, yet strong and well formed, and he would have been handsome except for the expression of discontent upon his face. Yet his manner and words were so absurd and unnatural that the prince was more amused than angered by his new acquaintance, and presently laughed in his face. "If all the people in this island are like you," he said, "I shall have lots of fun with them. And you are only a boy, after all." "I'm bigger than you!" declared the other, glaring fiercely at the prince. "How much bigger?" asked Marvel, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, ever so much!" "Then fetch along that coil of rope, and follow me," said Prince Marvel. "Fetch the rope yourself!" retorted the boy, bluntly. "I'm not your servant." Then he put his hands in his pockets and coolly walked out of the cave to look at the pile of senseless robbers. Prince Marvel made no reply, but taking the coil of rope on his shoulder he carried it to where the thieves lay and threw it down beside them. Then he cut lengths from the coil with his sword and bound the limbs of each robber securely. Within a half-hour he had laid out a row of thieves extending half way across the grassy plain, and on counting their number he found he had captured fifty-nine of them. This task being accomplished and the robbers rendered helpless, Prince Marvel turned to the boy who stood watching him. "Get a suit of armor from the cave, and a strong sword, and then return here," he said, in a stern voice. "Why should I do that?" asked the boy, rather impudently. "Because I am going to fight you for disobeying my orders; and if you do not protect yourself I shall probably kill you." "That sounds pleasant," said the boy. "But if you should prove my superior in skill I beg you will not kill me at once, but let me die a lingering death." "Why?" asked the prince. "Because I shall suffer more, and that will be delightful." "I am not anxious to kill you, nor to make you suffer," said Marvel, "all that I ask is that you acknowledge me your master." "I won't!" answered the boy. "I acknowledge no master in all the world!" "Then you must fight," declared the prince, gravely. "If you win, I will promise to serve you faithfully; and if I conquer you, then you must acknowledge me your master, and obey my commands." "Agreed!" cried the boy, with sudden energy, and he rushed into the cave and soon returned clad in armor and bearing a sword and shield. On the shield was pictured a bolt of lightning. "Lightning will soon strike those three girls whose champion you seem to be," he said tauntingly. "The three girls defy your lightning!" returned the prince with a smile. "I see you are brave enough." "Brave! Why should I not be?" answered the boy proudly. "I am the Lord Nerle, the son of Neggar, the chief baron of Heg!" The other bowed low. "I am pleased to know your station," he said. "I am called Prince Marvel, and this is my first adventure." "And likely to be your last," exclaimed the boy, sneeringly. "For I am stronger than you, and I have fought many times with full grown men." "Are you ready?" asked Prince Marvel, for answer. "Yes." Then the swords clashed and sparks flew from the blades. But it was not for long. Suddenly Nerle's sword went flying through the air and shattered its blade against a wall of rock. He scowled at Prince Marvel a moment, who smiled back at him. Then the boy rushed into the cave and returned with another sword. Scarcely had the weapons crossed again when with a sudden blow Prince Marvel snapped Nerle's blade in two, and followed this up with a sharp slap upon his ear with the flat of his own sword that fairly bewildered the boy, and made him sit down on the grass to think what had happened to him. Then Prince Marvel's merry laugh rang far across the hills, and so delighted was he at the astonished expression upon Nerle's face that it was many minutes before he could control his merriment and ask his foeman if he had had enough fight. "I suppose I have," replied the boy, rubbing his ear tenderly. "That blow stings most deliciously. But it is a hard thought that the son of Baron Neggar should serve Prince Marvel!" "Do not worry about that," said the prince; "for I assure you my rank is so far above your own that it is no degradation for the son of Neggar to serve me. But come, we must dispose of these thieves. What is the proper fate for such men?" "They are always hanged," answered Nerle, getting upon his feet. "Well, there are trees handy," remarked the prince, although his girlish heart insisted on making him shiver in spite of his resolve to be manly and stern. "Let us get to work and hang them as soon as possible. And then we can proceed upon our journey." Nerle now willingly lent his assistance to his new master, and soon they had placed a rope around the neck of each thief and were ready to dangle them all from the limbs of the trees. But at this juncture the thieves began to regain consciousness, and now Wul-Takim, the big, red-bearded king of the thieves, sat up and asked: "Who is our conqueror?" "Prince Marvel," answered Nerle. "And what army assisted him?" inquired Wul-Takim, curiously gazing upon the prince. "He conquered you alone and single-handed," said Nerle. Hearing this, the big king began to weep bitterly, and the tear-drops ran down his face in such a stream that Prince Marvel ordered Nerle to wipe them away with his handkerchief, as the thief's hands were tied behind his back. "To think!" sobbed Wul-Takim, miserably; "only to think, that after all my terrible deeds and untold wickedness, I have been captured by a mere boy! Oh, boo-hoo! boo-hoo! boo-hoo! It is a terrible disgrace!" "You will not have to bear it long," said the prince, soothingly. "I am going to hang you in a few minutes." "Thanks! Thank you very much!" answered the king, ceasing to weep. "I have always expected to be hanged some day, and I am glad no one but you two boys will witness me when my feet begin kicking about." "I shall not kick," declared another of the thieves, who had also regained his senses. "I shall sing while I am being hanged." "But you can not, my good Gunder," protested the king; "for the rope will cut off your breath, and no man can sing without breath." "Then I shall whistle," said Gunder, composedly. The king cast at him a look of reproach, and turning to Prince Marvel he said: "It will be a great task to string up so many thieves. You look tired. Permit me to assist you to hang the others, and then I will climb into a tree and hang myself from a strong branch, with as little bother as possible." "Oh, I won't think of troubling you," exclaimed Marvel, with a laugh. "Having conquered you alone, I feel it my duty to hang you without assistance--save that of my esquire." "It's no trouble, I assure you; but suit your own convenience," said the thief, carelessly. Then he cast his eye toward the cave and asked: "What will you do with all our treasure?" "Give it to the poor," said Prince Marvel, promptly. "What poor?" "Oh, the poorest people I can find." "Will you permit me to advise you in this matter?" asked the king of thieves, politely. "Yes, indeed; for I am a stranger in this land," returned the prince. "Well, I know a lot of people who are so poor that they have no possessions whatever, neither food to eat, houses to live in, nor any clothing but that which covers their bodies. They can call no man friend, nor will any lift a hand to help them. Indeed, good sir, I verily believe they will soon perish miserably unless you come to their assistance!" "Poor creatures!" exclaimed Prince Marvel, with ready sympathy; "tell me who they are, and I will divide amongst them all your ill-gotten gains." "They are ourselves," replied the king of thieves, with a sigh. Marvel looked at him in amazement, and then burst into joyous laughter. "Yourselves!" he cried, greatly amused. "Indeed, yes!" said Wul-Takim, sadly. "There are no poorer people in all the world, for we have ropes about our necks and are soon to be hanged. To-morrow we shall not have even our flesh left, for the crows will pick our bones." "That is true," remarked Marvel, thoughtfully. "But, if I restore to you the treasure, how will it benefit you, since you are about to die?" "Must you really hang us?" asked the thief. "Yes; I have decreed it, and you deserve your fate." "Why?" "Because you have wickedly taken from helpless people their property, and committed many other crimes besides." "But I have reformed! We have all reformed--have we not, brothers?" "We have!" answered the other thieves, who, having regained their senses, were listening to this conversation with much interest. "And, if you will return to us our treasure, we will promise never to steal again, but to remain honest men and enjoy our wealth in peace," promised the king. "Honest men could not enjoy treasures they have stolen," said Prince Marvel. "True; but this treasure is now yours, having been won by you in fair battle. And if you present it to us it will no longer be stolen treasure, but a generous gift from a mighty prince, which we may enjoy with clear consciences." "Yet there remains the fact that I have promised to hang you," suggested Prince Marvel, with a smile, for the king amused him greatly. "Not at all! Not at all!" cried Wul-Takim. "You promised to hang fifty-nine thieves, and there is no doubt the fifty-nine thieves deserved to be hung. But, consider! We have all reformed our ways and become honest men; so it would be a sad and unkindly act to hang fifty-nine honest men!" "What think you, Nerle?" asked the Prince, turning to his esquire. "Why, the rogue seems to speak truth," said Nerle, scratching his head with a puzzled air, "yet, if he speaks truth, there is little difference between a rogue and an honest man. Ask him, my master, what caused them all to reform so suddenly." "Because we were about to die, and we thought it a good way to save our lives," replied the robber king. "That's an honest answer, anyway," said Nerle. "Perhaps, sir, they have really reformed." "And if so, I will not have the death of fifty-nine honest men on my conscience," declared the prince. Then he turned to Wul-Takim and added: "I will release you and give you the treasure, as you request. But you owe me allegiance from this time forth, and if I ever hear of your becoming thieves again, I promise to return and hang every one of you." "Never fear!" answered Wul-Takim, joyfully. "It is hard work to steal, and while we have so much treasure it is wholly unnecessary. Moreover, having accepted from you our lives and our fortunes, we shall hereafter be your devoted servants, and whenever you need our services you have but to call upon us, and we will support you loyally and gladly." "I accept your service," answered the prince, graciously. And then he unbound the fifty-nine honest men and took the ropes from their necks. As nightfall was fast approaching the new servants set to work to prepare a great feast in honor of their master. It was laid in the middle of the grassy clearing, that all might sit around and celebrate the joyous occasion. "Do you think you can trust these men?" asked Nerle, suspiciously. "Why not?" replied the prince. "They have been exceedingly wicked, it is true; but they are now intent upon being exceedingly good. Let us encourage them in this. If we mistrusted all who have ever done an evil act there would be fewer honest people in the world. And if it were as interesting to do a good act as an evil one there is no doubt every one would choose the good." 6. The Troubles of Nerle That night Prince Marvel slept within the cave, surrounded by the fifty-nine reformed thieves, and suffered no harm at their hands. In the morning, accompanied by his esquire, Nerle, who was mounted upon a spirited horse brought him by Wul-Takim, he charged the honest men to remember their promises, bade them good by, and set out in search of further adventure. As they left the clearing by the narrow passage that led between the overhanging rocks, the prince looked back and saw that the sign above the gate of the cave, which had told of the thieves' treasure house, had been changed. It now read as follows: WUL-TAKIM KING OF HONEST MEN ------ HIS PLEASURE HOUSE WALK IN "That is much better," laughed the prince. "I accomplished some good by my adventure, anyway!" Nerle did not reply. He seemed especially quiet and thoughtful as he rode by his master's side, and after they had traveled some distance in silence Prince Marvel said: "Tell me how you came to be in the cave of thieves, and perched upon the casks where I found you." "It is a sad story," returned Nerle, with a sigh; "but since you request me to tell it, the tale may serve to relieve the tedium of your journey. "My father is a mighty baron, very wealthy and with a heart so kind that he has ever taken pleasure in thrusting on me whatever gift he could think of. I had not a single desire unsatisfied, for before I could wish for anything it was given me. "My mother was much like my father. She and her women were always making jams, jellies, candies, cakes and the like for me to eat; so I never knew the pleasure of hunger. My clothes were the gayest satins and velvets, richly made and sewn with gold and silver braid; so it was impossible to wish for more in the way of apparel. They let me study my lessons whenever I felt like it and go fishing or hunting as I pleased; so I could not complain that I was unable to do just as I wanted to. All the servants obeyed my slightest wish: if I wanted to sit up late at night no one objected; if I wished to lie in bed till noon they kept the house quiet so as not to disturb me. "This condition of affairs, as you may imagine, grew more and more tedious and exasperating the older I became. Try as I might, I could find nothing to complain of. I once saw the son of one of our servants receive a flogging; and my heart grew light. I immediately begged my father to flog me, by way of variety; and he, who could refuse me nothing, at once consented. For this reason there was less satisfaction in the operation than I had expected, although for the time being it was a distinct novelty. "Now, no one could expect a high-spirited boy to put up with such a life as mine. With nothing to desire and no chance of doing anything that would annoy my parents, my days were dreary indeed." He paused to wipe the tears from his eyes, and the prince murmured, sympathetically: "Poor boy! Poor boy!" "Ah, you may well say that!" continued Nerle. "But one day a stranger came to my father's castle with tales of many troubles he had met with. He had been lost in a forest and nearly starved to death. He had been robbed and beaten and left wounded and sore by the wayside. He had begged from door to door and been refused food or assistance. In short, his story was so delightful that it made me envy him, and I yearned to suffer as he had done. When I could speak with him alone I said: 'Pray tell me how I can manage to acquire the misfortunes you have undergone. Here I have everything that I desire, and it makes me very unhappy.' "The stranger laughed at me, at first; and I found some pleasure in the humiliation I then felt. But it did not last long, for presently he grew sober and advised me to run away from home and seek adventure. "'Once away from your father's castle,' said he, 'troubles will fall upon you thick enough to satisfy even your longings.' "'That is what I am afraid of!' I answered. 'I don't want to be satisfied, even with troubles. What I seek is unsatisfied longings.' "'Nevertheless,' said he, 'I advise you to travel. Everything will probably go wrong with you, and then you will be happy.' "I acted upon the stranger's advice and ran away from home the next day. After journeying a long time I commenced to feel the pangs of hunger, and was just beginning to enjoy myself when a knight rode by and gave me a supply of food. At this rebuff I could not restrain my tears, but while I wept my horse stumbled and threw me over his head. I hoped at first I had broken my neck, and was just congratulating myself upon the misfortune, when a witch-woman came along and rubbed some ointment upon my bruises, in spite of my protests. To my great grief the pain left me, and I was soon well again. But, as a slight compensation for my disappointment, my horse had run away; so I began my journey anew and on foot. "That afternoon I stepped into a nest of wasps, but the thoughtless creatures flew away without stinging me. Then I met a fierce tiger, and my heart grew light and gay. 'Surely this will cause me suffering!' I cried, and advanced swiftly upon the brute. But the cowardly tiger turned tail and ran to hide in the bushes, leaving me unhurt! "Of course, my many disappointments were some consolation; but not much. That night I slept on the bare ground, and hoped I should catch a severe cold; but no such joy was to be mine. "Yet the next afternoon I experienced my first pleasure. The thieves caught me, stripped off all my fine clothes and jewels and beat me well. Then they carried me to their cave, dressed me in rags, and perched me on the top of the casks, where the slightest movement on my part would send me tumbling among the sword points. This was really delightful, and I was quite happy until you came and released me. "I thought then that I might gain some pleasure by provoking you to anger; and our fight was the result. That blow on the ear was exquisite, and by forcing me to become your servant you have made me, for the first time in my life, almost contented. For I hope in your company to experience a great many griefs and disappointments." As Nerle concluded his story Prince Marvel turned to him and grasped his hand. "Accept my sympathy!" said he. "I know exactly how you feel, for my own life during the past few centuries has not been much different." "The past few centuries!" gasped Nerle. "What do you mean?" At this the prince blushed, seeing he had nearly disclosed his secret. But he said, quickly: "Does it not seem centuries when one is unhappy?" "It does, indeed!" responded Nerle, earnestly. "But please tell me your story." "Not now," said Prince Marvel, with a smile. "It will please you to desire in vain to hear a tale I will not tell. Yet I promise that on the day we part company I shall inform you who I am." 7. The Gray Men The adventurers gave no heed to the path they followed after leaving the cave of the reformed thieves, but their horses accidentally took the direction of the foot-hills that led into the wild interior Kingdom of Spor. Therefore the travelers, when they had finished their conversation and begun to look about them, found themselves in a rugged, mountainous country that was wholly unlike the green plains of Heg they had left behind. Now, as I have before said, the most curious and fearful of the island people dwelt in this Kingdom of Spor. They held no friendly communication with their neighbors, and only left their own mountains to plunder and rob; and so sullen and fierce were they on these occasions that every one took good care to keep out of their way until they had gone back home again. There was much gossip about the unknown king of Spor, who had never yet been seen by any one except his subjects; and some thought he must be one of the huge giants of Spor; and others claimed he was a dwarf, like his tiny but ferocious dart-slingers; and still others imagined him one of the barbarian tribe, or a fellow to the terrible Gray Men. But, of course, no one knew positively, and all these guesses were very wide of the mark. The only certainty about this king was that his giants, dwarfs, barbarians and Gray Men meekly acknowledged his rule and obeyed his slightest wish; for though they might be terrible to others, their king was still more terrible to them. Into this Kingdom of Spor Prince Marvel and Nerle had now penetrated and, neither knowing nor caring where they were, continued along the faintly defined paths the horses had found. Presently, however, they were startled by a peal of shrill, elfish laughter, and raising their eyes they beheld a horrid-looking old man seated upon a high rock near by. "Why do you laugh?" asked Prince Marvel, stopping his horse. "Have you been invited? Tell me--have you been invited?" demanded the old man, chuckling to himself as if much amused. "Invited where?" inquired the prince. "To Spor, stupid! To the Kingdom of Spor! To the land of King Terribus!" shrieked the old man, going into violent peals of laughter. "We go and come as we please," answered Prince Marvel, calmly. "Go--yes! Go if you will. But you'll never come back--never! never! never!" The little old man seemed to consider this such a good joke that he bent nearly double with laughing, and so lost his balance and toppled off the rock, disappearing from their view; but they could hear him laugh long after they had passed on and left him far behind them. "A strange creature!" exclaimed the prince thoughtfully. "But perhaps he speaks truth," answered Nerle, "if, in fact, we have been rash enough to enter the Kingdom of Spor. Even my father, the bravest baron in Heg, has never dared venture within the borders of Spor. For all men fear its mysterious king." "In that case," replied Prince Marvel, "it is time some one investigated this strange kingdom. People have left King Terribus and his wild subjects too much to themselves; instead of stirring them up and making them behave themselves." Nerle smiled at this speech. "They are the fiercest people on the Enchanted Island," said he, "and there are thousands upon thousands who obey this unknown king. But if you think we dare defy them I am willing to go on. Perhaps our boldness will lead them into torturing me, or starving me to death; and at the very least I ought to find much trouble and privation in the Kingdom of Spor." "Time will determine that," said the prince, cheerfully. They had now ridden into a narrow defile of the mountains, the pathway being lined with great fragments of rock. Happening to look over his shoulder Prince Marvel saw that as they passed these rocks a man stepped from behind each fragment and followed after them, their numbers thus constantly increasing until hundreds were silently treading in the wake of the travelers. These men were very peculiar in appearance, their skins being as gray as the rocks themselves, while their only clothing consisted of gray cloth tunics belted around the waists with bands of gray fox-hide. They bore no weapons except that each was armed with a fork, having three sharp tines six inches in length, which the Gray Men carried stuck through their fox-hide belts. Nerle also looked back and saw the silent throng following them, and the sight sent such a cold shiver creeping up his spine that he smiled with pleasure. There was no way to avoid the Gray Men, for the path was so narrow that the horsemen could not turn aside; but Prince Marvel was not disturbed, and seemed not to mind being followed, so long as no one hindered his advance. He rode steadily on, Nerle following, and after climbing upward for a long way the path began to descend, presently leading them into a valley of wide extent, in the center of which stood an immense castle with tall domes that glittered as if covered with pure gold. A broad roadway paved with white marble reached from the mountain pass to the entrance of this castle, and on each side of this roadway stood lines of monstrous giants, armed with huge axes thrust into their belts and thick oak clubs, studded with silver spikes, which were carried over their left shoulders. The assembled giants were as silent as the Gray Men, and stood motionless while Prince Marvel and Nerle rode slowly up the marble roadway. But all their brows were scowling terribly and their eyes were red and glaring--as if they were balls of fire. "I begin to feel very pleasant," said Nerle, "for surely we shall not get away from these folks without a vast deal of trouble. They do not seem to oppose our advance, but it is plain they will not allow us any chance of retreat." "We do not wish to retreat," declared the prince. Nerle cast another glance behind, and saw that the Gray Men had halted at the edge of the valley, while the giants were closing up as soon as the horses passed them and now marched in close file in their rear. "It strikes me," he muttered, softly, "that this is like to prove our last adventure." But although Prince Marvel might have heard the words he made no reply, being evidently engaged in deep thought. As they drew nearer the castle it towered above them like a veritable mountain, so big and high was it; and the walls cast deep shadows far around, as if twilight had fallen. They heard the loud blare of a trumpet sounding far up on the battlements; the portals of the castle suddenly opened wide, and they entered a vast courtyard paved with plates of gold. Tiny dwarfs, so crooked that they resembled crabs, rushed forward and seized the bridles of the horses, while the strangers slowly dismounted and looked around them. While the steeds were being led to the stables an old man, clothed in a flowing robe as white in color as his beard, bowed before Prince Marvel and said in a soft voice: "Follow me!" The prince stretched his arms, yawned as if tired with his ride, and then glared upon the old man with an expression of haughty surprise. "I follow no one!" said he, proudly. "I am Prince Marvel, sirrah, and if the owner of this castle wishes to see me I shall receive him here, as befits my rank and station." The man looked surprised, but only bowed lower than before. "It is the king's command," he answered. "The king?" "Yes; you are in the castle of King Terribus, the lord and ruler of Spor." "That is different," remarked the prince, lightly. "Still, I will follow no man. Point out the way and I will go to meet his Majesty." The old man extended a lean and trembling finger toward an archway. Prince Marvel strode forward, followed by Nerle, and passing under the arch he threw open a door at the far end and boldly entered the throne-room of King Terribus. 8. The Fool-Killer The room was round, with a dome at the top. The bare walls were of gray stone, with square, open windows set full twenty feet from the floor. Rough gray stone also composed the floor, and in the center of the room stood one great rock with a seat hollowed in its middle. This was the throne, and round about it stood a swarm of men and women dressed in rich satins, velvets and brocades, brilliantly ornamented with gold and precious stones. The men were of many shapes and sizes--giants and dwarfs being among them. The women all seemed young and beautiful. Prince Marvel cast but a passing glance at this assemblage, for his eye quickly sought the rude throne on which was seated King Terribus. The personal appearance of this monster was doubtless the most hideous known in that age of the world. His head was large and shaped like an egg; it was bright scarlet in color and no hair whatever grew upon it. It had three eyes--one in the center of his face, one on the top of his head and one in the back. Thus he was always able to see in every direction at the same time. His nose was shaped like an elephant's trunk, and swayed constantly from side to side. His mouth was very wide and had no lips at all, two rows of sharp and white teeth being always plainly visible beneath the swaying nose. King Terribus, although surrounded by so splendid a court, wore a simple robe of gray cloth, with no ornament or other finery, and his strange and fearful appearance was strongly contrasted with the glittering raiment of his courtiers and the beauty of his ladies in waiting. When Prince Marvel, with Nerle marching close behind, entered the great room, Terribus looked at him sharply a moment, and then bowed. And when he bowed the eye upon the top of his head also looked sharply at the intruders. Then the king spoke, his voice sounding so sweet and agreeable that it almost shocked Nerle, who had expected to hear a roar like that from a wild beast. "Why are you here?" asked Terribus. "Partly by chance and partly from curiosity," answered Prince Marvel. "No one in this island, except your own people, had ever seen the king of Spor; so, finding myself in your country, I decided to come here and have a look at you." The faces of the people who stood about the throne wore frightened looks at the unheard of boldness of this speech to their terrible monarch. But the king merely nodded and inquired: "Since you have seen me, what do you think of me?" "I am sorry you asked that question," returned the prince; "for I must confess you are a very frightful-looking creature, and not at all agreeable to gaze upon." "Ha! you are honest, as well as frank," exclaimed the king. "But that is the reason I do not leave my kingdom, as you will readily understand. And that is the reason I never permit strangers to come here, under penalty of death. So long as no one knows the King of Spor is a monster people will not gossip about my looks, and I am very sensitive regarding my personal appearance. You will perhaps understand that if I could have chosen I should have been born beautiful instead of ugly." "I certainly understand that. And permit me to say I wish you were beautiful. I shall probably dream of you for many nights," added the prince. "Not for many," said King Terribus, quietly. "By coming here you have chosen death, and the dead do not dream." "Why should I die?" inquired Prince Marvel, curiously. "Because you have seen me. Should I allow you to go away you would tell the world about my ugly face. I do not like to kill you, believe me; but you must pay the penalty of your rashness--you and the man behind you." Nerle smiled at this; but whether from pride at being called a man or in pleasurable anticipation of the sufferings to come I leave you to guess. "Will you allow me to object to being killed?" asked the prince. "Certainly," answered the king, courteously. "I expect you to object. It is natural. But it will do you no good." Then Terribus turned to an attendant and commanded: "Send hither the Fool-Killer." At this Prince Marvel laughed outright. "The Fool-Killer!" he cried; "surely your Majesty does me little credit. Am I, then, a fool?" "You entered my kingdom uninvited," retorted the king, "and you tell me to my face I am ugly. Moreover, you laugh when I condemn you to death. From this I conclude the Fool-Killer is the proper one to execute you. Behold!" Marvel turned quickly, to find a tall, stalwart man standing behind him. His features were strong but very grave, and the prince caught a look of compassion in his eye as their gaze met. His skin was fair and without blemish, a robe of silver cloth fell from his shoulders, and in his right hand he bore a gleaming sword. "Well met!" cried Marvel, heartily, as he bowed to the Fool-Killer. "I have often heard your name mentioned, but 'tis said in the world that you are a laggard in your duty." "Had I my way," answered the Fool-Killer, "my blade would always drip. It is my master, yonder, who thwarts my duty." And he nodded toward King Terribus. "Then you should exercise your right on him, and cleave the ugly head from his shoulders," declared the prince. "Nay, unless I interfered with the Fool-Killer," said the king, "I should soon have no subjects left to rule; for at one time or another they all deserve the blade." "Why, that may be true enough," replied Prince Marvel. "But I think, under such circumstances, your Fool-Killer is a needless servant. So I will rid you of him in a few moments." With that he whipped out his sword and stood calmly confronting the Fool-Killer, whose grave face never changed in expression as he advanced menacingly upon his intended victim. The blades clashed together, and that of the Fool-Killer broke short off at the hilt. He took a step backward, stumbled and fell prone upon the rocky floor, while Prince Marvel sprang forward and pressed the point of his sword against his opponent's breast. "Hold!" cried the king, starting to his feet. "Would you slay my Fool-Killer? Think of the harm you would do the world!" "But he is laggard and unfaithful to his calling!" answered the prince, sternly. "Nevertheless, if he remove but one fool a year he is a benefit to mankind," declared the king. "Release him, I pray you!" Then the victor withdrew his sword and stood aside, while the Fool-Killer slowly got upon his feet and bowed humbly before the king. "Go!" shouted Terribus, his eye flashing angrily. "You have humiliated me before my enemy. As an atonement see that you kill me a fool a day for sixty days." Hearing this command, many of the people about the throne began to tremble; but the king paid no attention to their fears, and the Fool-Killer bowed again before his master and withdrew from the chamber. 9. The Royal Dragon of Spor "Now," said Terribus, regarding the prince gloomily, "I must dispose of you in another way." For a moment he dropped his scarlet head in thought. Then he turned fiercely upon his attendants. "Let the Wrestler come forward!" he shouted, as loudly as his mild voice would carry. Instantly a tall blackamoor advanced from the throng and cast off his flowing robe, showing a strong figure clad only in a silver loincloth. "Crack me this fellow's bones!" commanded Terribus. "I beg your Majesty will not compel me to touch him," said Prince Marvel, with a slight shudder; "for his skin is greasy, and will soil my hands. Here, Nerle!" he continued, turning to his esquire, "dispose of this black man, and save me the trouble." Nerle laughed pleasantly. The black was a powerfully built man, and compared with Nerle and the prince, who had but the stature of boys, he towered like a very giant in size. Nevertheless, Nerle did not hesitate to spring upon the Wrestler, who with a quick movement sent the boy crashing against the stone pavement. Nerle was much bruised by the fall, and as he painfully raised himself to his feet a great lump was swelling behind his left ear, where his head had struck the floor, and he was so dizzy that the room seemed swimming around him in a circle. But he gave a happy little laugh, and said to the prince, gratefully: "Thank you very much, my master! The fall is hurting me delightfully. I almost feel as if I could cry, and that would be joy indeed!" "Well," answered the prince, with a sigh, "I see I must get my hands greased after all"--for the black's body had really been greased to enable him to elude the grasp of his opponents. But Marvel made a quick leap and seized the Wrestler firmly around the waist. The next moment, to the astonishment of all, the black man flew swiftly into the air, plunged through one of the open windows high up in the wall, and disappeared from view. When the king and his people again turned their wondering eyes upon the prince he was wiping his hands carefully upon a silk handkerchief. At this sight a pretty young girl, who stood near the throne, laughed aloud, and the sound of her laughter made King Terribus very angry. "Come here!" he commanded, sternly. The girl stepped forward, her face now pale and frightened, while tear-drops trembled upon the lashes that fringed her downcast eyes. "You have dared to laugh at the humiliation of your king," said Terribus, his horrid face more crimson than ever, "and as atonement I command that you drink of the poisoned cup." Instantly a dwarf came near, bearing a beautiful golden goblet in his crooked hands. "Drink!" he said, an evil leer upon his face. The girl well knew this goblet contained a vile poison, one drop of which on her tongue would cause death; so she hesitated, trembling and shrinking from the ordeal. Prince Marvel looked into her sweet face with pitying eyes, and stepping quickly to her side, took her hand in his. "Now drink!" he said, smiling upon her; "the poison will not hurt you." She drank obediently, while the dwarf chuckled with awful glee and the king looked on eagerly, expecting her to fall dead at his feet. But instead the girl stood upright and pressed Marvel's hand, looking gratefully into his face. "You are a fairy!" she whispered, so low that no one else heard her voice. "I knew that you would save me." "Keep my secret," whispered the prince in return, and still holding her hand he led her back to her former place. King Terribus was almost wild with rage and disappointment, and his elephant nose twisted and squirmed horribly. "So you dare to thwart my commands, do you!" he cried, excitedly. "Well, we shall soon see which of us is the more powerful. I have decreed your death--and die you shall!" For a moment his eye roved around the chamber uncertainly. Then he shouted, suddenly: "Ho, there! Keepers of the royal menagerie--appear!" Three men entered the room and bowed before the king. They were of the Gray Men of the mountains, who had followed Prince Marvel and Nerle through the rocky passes. "Bring hither the Royal Dragon," cried the king, "and let him consume these strangers before my very eyes!" The men withdrew, and presently was heard a distant shouting, followed by a low rumbling sound, with groans, snorts, roars and a hissing like steam from the spout of a teakettle. The noise and shouting drew nearer, while the people huddled together like frightened sheep; and then suddenly the doors flew open and the Royal Dragon advanced to the center of the room. This creature was at once the pride and terror of the Kingdom of Spor. It was more than thirty feet in length and covered everywhere with large green scales set with diamonds, making the dragon, when it moved, a very glittering spectacle. Its eyes were as big as pie-plates, and its mouth--when wide opened--fully as large as a bath-tub. Its tail was very long and ended in a golden ball, such as you see on the top of flagstaffs. Its legs, which were as thick as those of an elephant, had scales which were set with rubies and emeralds. It had two monstrous, big ears and two horns of carved ivory, and its teeth were also carved into various fantastic shapes--such as castles, horses' heads, chinamen and griffins--so that if any of them broke it would make an excellent umbrella handle. The Royal Dragon of Spor came crawling into the throne-room rather clumsily, groaning and moaning with every step and waving its ears like two blankets flying from a clothesline. The king looked on it and frowned. "Why are you not breathing fire and brimstone?" he demanded, angrily. "Why, I was caught out in a gale the other night," returned the Dragon, rubbing the back of its ear with its left front paw, as it paused and looked at the king, "and the wind put out my fire." "Then why didn't you light it again?" asked Terribus, turning on the keepers. "We--we were out of matches, your Majesty!" stammered the trembling Gray Men. "So--ho!" yelled the king, and was about to order the keepers beheaded; but just then Nerle pulled out his match-box, lit one of the matches, and held it in front of the Dragon's mouth. Instantly the creature's breath caught fire; and it began to breathe flames a yard in length. "That's better," sighed the Dragon, contentedly. "I hope your Majesty is now satisfied." "No,--I am not satisfied!" declared King Terribus. "Why do you not lash your tail?" "Ah, I can't do that!" replied the Dragon. "It's all stiffened up with rheumatism from the dampness of my cave. It hurts too much to lash it." "Well, then, gnash your teeth!" commanded the king. "Tut--tut!" answered the Dragon, mildly; "I can't do that, either; for since you had them so beautifully carved it makes my teeth ache to gnash them." "Well, then, what are you good for?" cried the king, in a fury. "Don't I look awful? Am I not terrible to gaze on?" inquired the Dragon, proudly, as it breathed out red and yellow flames and made them curl in circles around its horns. "I guess there's no need for me to suggest terror to any one that happens to see me," it added, winking one of the pie-plate eyes at King Terribus. The king looked at the monster critically, and it really seemed to him that it was a frightful thing to behold. So he curbed his anger and said, in his ordinary sweet voice: "I have called you here to destroy these two strangers." "How?" asked the Dragon, looking upon Prince Marvel and Nerle with interest. "I am not particular," answered the king. "You may consume them with your fiery breath, or smash them with your tail, or grind them to atoms between your teeth, or tear them to pieces with your claws. Only, do hurry up and get it over with!" "Hm-m-m!" said the Dragon, thoughtfully, as if it didn't relish the job; "this one isn't Saint George, is it?" "No, no!" exclaimed the king, irritably; "it's Prince Marvel. Do get to work as soon as possible." "Prince Marvel--Prince Marvel," repeated the Dragon. "Why, there isn't a prince in the whole world named Marvel! I'm pretty well posted on the history of royal families, you know. I'm afraid he's Saint George in disguise." "Isn't your name Prince Marvel?" inquired the king, turning to the boyish-looking stranger. "It is," answered Marvel. "Well, it's mighty strange I've never heard of you," persisted the Dragon. "But tell me, please, how would you prefer to be killed?" "Oh, I'm not going to be killed at all," replied the prince, laughing. "Do you hear that, Terribus?" asked the Dragon, turning to the king; "he says he isn't going to be killed." "But I say he is!" cried Terribus. "I have decreed his death." "But do you suppose I'm going to kill a man against his will?" inquired the Dragon, in a reproachful voice; "and such a small man, too! Do you take me for a common assassin--or a murderer?" "Do you intend to obey my orders?" roared the king. "No, I don't; and that's flat!" returned the Dragon, sharply. "It's time for me to take my cough medicine; so if you've nothing more to say I'll go back to my cave." "Go, go, go!" shrieked the king, stamping his foot in passion. "You've outlived your usefulness! You're a coward! You're a traitor! You're a--a--a--" "I'm a dragon and a gentleman!" answered the monster, proudly, as the king paused for lack of a word; "and I believe I know what's proper for dragons to do and what isn't. I've learned wisdom from my father, who got into trouble with Saint George, and if I fought with this person who calls himself Prince Marvel, I'd deserve to be a victim of your Fool-Killer. Oh, I know my business, King Terribus; and if you knew yours, you'd get rid of this pretended prince as soon as possible!" With this speech he winked at Prince Marvel, turned soberly around and crawled from the room. One of the keepers got too near and the Dragon's breath set fire to his robe, the flames being with difficulty extinguished; and the gold ball on the end of the Dragon's tail struck a giant upon his shins and made him dance and howl in pain. But, aside from these slight accidents, the monster managed to leave the throne-room without undue confusion, and every one, including the king, seemed glad to be rid of him. 10. Prince Marvel Wins His Fight When the door had closed on the Royal Dragon, King Terribus turned again to Prince Marvel, while his crimson face glowed with embarrassment, and his front eye rolled with baffled rage as he thought how vain had been all his efforts to kill this impudent invader of his domains. But his powers were by no means exhausted. He was a mighty king--the mightiest of all in the Enchanted Island, he believed--and ways to destroy his enemies were numerous. "Send for a hundred of my Gray Men!" he suddenly cried; and a courtier ran at once to summon them. The Gray Men would obey his orders without question, he well knew. They were silent, stubborn, quick, and faithful to their king. Terribus had but to command and his will would be obeyed. They entered the room so quietly that Nerle never knew they were there until he turned and found the hundred gray ones standing close together in the center of the hall. Then Prince Marvel came to Nerle's side and whispered something in his ear. "Will you obey my orders?" they heard the king ask. And the Gray Men, with their eyes fixed upon their master, nodded all their hundred heads and put their hands upon the dangerous three-tined forks that were stuck in every one of the hundred belts. Prince Marvel handed one end of a coiled rope to Nerle, and then they both sprang forward and ran around the spot where the hundred Gray Men stood huddled together. Then they were pulled closer together than before--closer, and still closer--for the prince and Nerle had surrounded them with the rope and were tying the two ends together in a tight knot. The rope cut into the waists of those on the outside, and they pressed inward against their fellows until there was scarcely space to stick a knife-blade between any two of them. When the prince had tied the rope firmly King Terribus, who had been looking on amazed, saw that his hundred Gray Men were fastened together like a bundle of kindling-wood, and were unable to stir hand or foot. And, while he still gazed open-mouthed at the strange sight, Prince Marvel tilted the bundle of men up on its edge and rolled it out of the door. It went rolling swiftly through the courtyard and bounded down the castle steps, where the rope broke and the men fell sprawling in all directions on the marble walk. King Terribus sighed, for such treatment of his Gray Men, whom he dearly loved, made him very unhappy. But more than ever was he resolved to kill these impudent strangers, who, in the very heart of his kingdom where thousands bowed to his will, dared openly defy his power. So, after a moment's thought, Terribus beckoned to a dwarf who, robed in gay and glittering apparel, stood near his throne. "Summon the royal Dart Slingers!" he said, with a scowl. The little man bowed and hastened away, to return presently with twenty curiously crooked dwarfs, each armed with a sling and a quiver full of slender, sharp-pointed darts. "Slay me these strangers!" exclaimed the king, in his gruffest voice. Now Nerle, when he beheld these terrible Dart Slingers, of whom he had heard many tales in his boyhood, began to shiver and shake with fright, so that his teeth rattled one upon another. And he reflected: "Soon shall I be content, for these darts will doubtless pierce every part of my body." The dwarfs formed a line at one side of the gloomy throne-room, and Prince Marvel, who had been earnestly regarding them, caught Nerle by the arm and led him to the opposite wall. "Stand close behind me and you will be safe," he whispered to his esquire. Then each dwarf fixed a dart in his sling, and at a word from their chief they all drew back their arms and launched a shower of the sharp missiles at the strangers. Swift and true they sped, each dart intended to pierce the body of the youthful knight who stood so calm before them. Prince Marvel had raised his right arm, and in his hand was a small leather sack, with a wide mouth. As the darts flew near him a strange thing happened: they each and all swerved from their true course and fell rattling into the leathern sack, to the wonder of the royal slingers and the dismay of King Terribus himself. "Again!" screamed the king, his usually mild voice hoarse with anger. So again the dwarfs cast their darts, and again the leathern sack caught them every one. Another flight followed, and yet another, till the magic sack was packed full of the darts and not a dwarf had one remaining in his quiver. Amid the awed silence of the beholders of this feat the merry laughter of Prince Marvel rang loud and clear; for the sight of the puzzled and terrified faces about him was very comical. Plucking a dart from the sack he raised his arm and cried: "Now it is my turn. You shall have back your darts!" "Hold!" shouted the king, in great fear. "Do not, I beg you, slay my faithful servants." And with a wave of his hand he dismissed the dwarfs, who were glad to rush from the room and escape. Nerle wiped the tears from his eyes, for he was sorely disappointed at having again escaped all pain and discomfort; but Prince Marvel seated himself quietly upon a stool and looked at the scowling face of King Terribus with real amusement. The monarch of Spor had never before been so foiled and scorned by any living creature. Defeated and humbled before his own people, he bowed his crimson head on his hands and sullenly regarded his foe with his top eye. Then it was that the idea came to him that no ordinary mortal could have thwarted him so easily, and he began to fear he was dealing--perhaps unawares--with some great magician or sorcerer. That a fairy should have assumed a mortal form he never once considered, for such a thing was until then unheard of in the Enchanted Island of Yew. But with the knowledge that he had met his master, whoever he might prove to be, and that further attempts upon the stranger's life might lead to his own undoing, King Terribus decided to adopt a new line of conduct, hoping to accomplish by stratagem what he could not do by force. To be sure, there remained his regiment of Giants, the pride of his kingdom; but Terribus dreaded to meet with another defeat; and he was not at all sure, after what had happened, that the giants would succeed in conquering or destroying the strangers. "After all," he thought, "my only object in killing them was to prevent their carrying news of my monstrous appearance to the outside world; so if I can but manage to keep them forever in my kingdom it will answer my purpose equally well." As the result of this thought he presently raised his head and spoke to Prince Marvel in a quiet and even cheerful voice. "Enough of these rude and boisterous games," said he, with a smile that showed his white teeth in a repulsive manner. "They may have seemed to my people an ill welcome to my good friend, Prince Marvel; yet they were only designed to show the powers of the mighty magician who has become my guest. Nay, do not deny it, Prince; from the first I guessed your secret, and to prove myself right I called my servants to oppose you, being sure they could not do you an injury. But no more of such fooling,--and pray forgive my merry game at your expense. Henceforth we shall be friends, and you are heartily welcome to the best my kingdom affords." With this speech Terribus stepped down from his throne and approached Prince Marvel with outstretched hand. The prince was not at all deceived, but he was pleased to see how cunningly the king excused his attempts to kill him. So he laughed and touched the hand Terribus extended, for this fairy prince seemed to have no anger against any mortal who ventured to oppose him. The strangers were now conducted, with every mark of respect, to a beautiful suite of apartments in the castle, wherein were soft beds with velvet spreads, marble baths with perfumed waters, and a variety of silken and brocaded costumes from which they might select a change of raiment. No sooner had they bathed and adorned themselves fittingly than they were summoned to the king's banquet hall, being escorted thither by twelve young maidens bearing torches with lavender-colored flames. The night had fallen upon the mountains outside, but the great banquet hall was brilliant with the glow of a thousand candles, and seated at the head of the long table was King Terribus. Yet here, as in the throne-room, the ruler of Spor was dressed in simplest garments, and his seat was a rough block of stone. All about him were lords and ladies in gorgeous array; the walls were hung with rare embroideries; the table was weighted with gold platters and richly carved goblets filled with sweet nectars. But the king himself, with his horrid, ugly head, was like a great blot on a fair parchment, and even Prince Marvel could not repress a shudder as he gazed upon him. Terribus placed his guest upon his right hand and loaded him with honors. Nerle stood behind the prince's chair and served him faithfully, as an esquire should. But the other servants treated Nerle with much deference, noting in him an air of breeding that marked him the unusual servant of an unusual master. Indeed, most curious were the looks cast on these marvelous men who had calmly walked into the castle of mighty Terribus and successfully defied his anger; for in spite of his youthful appearance and smiling face every attendant at the banquet feared Prince Marvel even more than they feared their own fierce king. 11. The Cunning of King Terribus The days that followed were pleasant ones for Prince Marvel and Nerle, who were treated as honored guests by both the king and his courtiers. But the prince seemed to be the favorite, for at all games of skill and trials at arms he was invariably the victor, while in the evenings, when the grand ball-room was lighted up and the musicians played sweet music, none was so graceful in the dance as the fairy prince. Nerle soon tired of the games and dancing, for he had been accustomed to them at his father's castle; and moreover he was shy in the society of ladies; so before many weeks had passed he began to mope and show a discontented face. One day the prince noticed his esquire's dismal expression of countenance, and asked the cause of it. "Why," said Nerle, "here I have left my home to seek worries and troubles, and have found but the same humdrum life that existed at my father's castle. Here our days are made smooth and pleasant, and there is no excitement or grief, whatever. You have become a carpet-knight, Prince Marvel, and think more of bright eyes than of daring deeds. So, if you will release me from your service I will seek further adventures." "Nay," returned the prince, "we will go together; for I, too, am tired of this life of pleasure." So next morning Marvel sought the presence of King Terribus and said: "I have come to bid your Majesty adieu, for my esquire and I are about to leave your dominions." At first the king laughed, and his long nose began to sway from side to side. Then, seeing the prince was in earnest, his Majesty frowned and grew disturbed. Finally he said: "I must implore you to remain my guests a short time longer. No one has ever before visited me in my mountain home, and I do not wish to lose the pleasure of your society so soon." "Nevertheless, we must go," answered the prince, briefly. "Are you not contented?" asked Terribus. "Ask whatever you may desire, and it shall be granted you." "We desire adventures amid new scenes," said Marvel, "and these you can not give us except by permission to depart." Seeing his guest was obstinate the king ceased further argument and said: "Very well; go if you wish. But I shall hope to see you return to us this evening." The prince paid no heed to this peculiar speech, but left the hall and hurried to the courtyard of the castle, where Nerle was holding the horses in readiness for their journey. Standing around were many rows and files of the Gray Men, and when they reached the marble roadway they found it lined with motionless forms of the huge giants. But no one interfered with them in any way, although both Prince Marvel and Nerle knew that every eye followed them as they rode forward. Curiously enough, they had both forgotten from what direction they had approached the castle; for, whereas they had at that time noticed but one marble roadway leading to the entrance, they now saw that there were several of these, each one connecting with a path through the mountains. "It really doesn't matter which way we go, so long as we get away from the Kingdom of Spor," said Prince Marvel; so he selected a path by chance, and soon they were riding through a mountain pass. The pleased, expectant look on Nerle's face had gradually turned to one of gloom. "I hoped we should have a fight to get away," he said, sadly; "and in that case I might have suffered considerable injury and pain. But no one has injured us in any way, and perhaps King Terribus is really glad to be rid of us." "With good reason, too, if such is the case," laughed Marvel; "for, mark you, Nerle, the king has discovered we are more powerful than he is, and had he continued to oppose us, we might have destroyed his entire army." On they rode through the rough hill paths, winding this way and that, until they lost all sense of the direction in which they were going. "Never mind," said the prince; "so long as we get farther and farther away from the ugly Terribus I shall be satisfied." "Perhaps we are getting into more serious danger than ever," answered Nerle, brightening; "one of the giants told me the other day that near the foot of these mountains is the Kingdom of the High Ki of Twi." "Who is the High Ki of Twi?" asked Prince Marvel. "No one knows," answered Nerle. "And what is the Kingdom of Twi like?" "No one knows that," answered Nerle. "Then," returned the prince, with a smile, "if by chance we visit the place we shall know more than any one else." At noon they ate luncheon by the wayside, Nerle having filled his pouch by stealth at the breakfast table. There were great fragments of rock lying all about them, and the sun beat down so fiercely that the heat reflected from the rocks was hard to bear. So the travelers did not linger over their meal, but remounted and rode away as soon as possible. When the sun began to get lower in the sky the rocks beside the path threw the riders into shadow, so that their journey became more pleasant. They rode along, paying little attention to the way, but talking and laughing merrily together, until it began to grow dark. "Does this path never end?" asked Prince Marvel, suddenly. "We ought to reach some place where men dwell before long, else we shall be obliged to spend the night among these rocks." "And then perhaps the wolves will attack us," said Nerle, cheerfully, "and tear us into pieces with their sharp teeth and claws." But even as he spoke they rode around a turn in the path and saw a sight that made them pause in astonishment. For just before them rose the castle of King Terribus, and along both sides of the marble walk leading up to it were ranged the lines of giants, exactly as they had stood in the morning. Nerle turned around in his saddle. Sure enough, there were the Gray Men in the rear--stepping from behind every boulder and completely filling the rocky pathway. "Well, what shall we do?" asked the esquire; "fight?" "No, indeed!" returned Prince Marvel, laughing at his friend's eager face. "It appears the path we chose winds around in a circle, and so has brought us back to our starting-point. So we must make the best of a bad blunder and spend another night with our ugly friend King Terribus." They rode forward through the rows of giants to the castle, where the ever-courteous servants took their horses and escorted them to their former handsome apartments with every mark of respect. No one seemed in the least surprised at their speedy return, and this fact at first puzzled Nerle, and then made him suspicious. After bathing and dusting their clothing they descended to the banquet hall, where King Terribus sat upon his gray stone throne and welcomed them with quiet courtesy. The sight of the king's crimson skin and deformed face sent a thrill of repugnance through Prince Marvel, and under the impulse of a sudden thought he extended his hand toward Terribus and whispered a magic word which was unheard by any around him. Nerle did not notice the prince's swift gesture nor the whispered word; but he was staring straight at Terribus at the time, and he saw with surprise the eye on the top of the king's head move down toward his forehead, and the eye in the center of his forehead slide slightly toward the left, and the elephant-like nose shrink and shorten at the same time. Also it seemed to him that the king's skin was not so crimson in color as before, and that a thin growth of hair had covered his head. However, no one else appeared to notice any change--least of all Terribus--so Nerle seated himself at the table and began to eat. "It was very kind of you to return so soon to my poor castle," said the king to Prince Marvel, in his sweet voice. "We could not help it," laughed the prince, in reply; "for the road wound right and left until we knew not which way we traveled; and then it finally circled around again to your castle. But to-morrow we shall seek a new path and bid you farewell forever." "Still," remarked the king, gravely, "should you again miss your way, I shall be glad to welcome your return." The prince bowed politely by way of reply, and turned to address the little maiden he had once saved from death by poison. And so in feasting, dancing and laughter the evening passed pleasantly enough to the prince, and it was late when he called Nerle to attend him to their apartment. 12. The Gift of Beauty The following morning Marvel and Nerle once more set out to leave the Kingdom of Spor and its ugly king. They selected another pathway leading from the castle and traveled all day, coming at nightfall into view of the place whence they had started, with its solemn rows of giants and Gray Men standing ready to receive them. This repetition of their former experience somewhat annoyed the prince, while Nerle's usually despondent face wore a smile. "I see trouble ahead," murmured the esquire, almost cheerfully. "Since the king can not conquer us by force he intends to do it by sorcery." Marvel did not reply, but greeted the king quietly, while Terribus welcomed their return as calmly as if he well knew they could not escape him. That evening the prince made another pass toward the king with his hand and muttered again the magic word. Nerle was watching, and saw the upper eye of Terribus glide still farther down his forehead and the other eye move again toward the left. The swaying nose shrank to a few inches in length, and the skin that had once been so brilliantly crimson turned to a dull red color. This time the courtiers and ladies in waiting also noticed the change in the king's features, but were afraid to speak of it, as any reference to their monarch's personal appearance was by law punishable by death. Terribus saw the startled looks directed upon him, and raised his hand to feel of his nose and eyes; but thinking that if any change in his appearance had taken place, he must be uglier than before, he only frowned and turned away his head. The next day the king's guests made a third attempt to leave his dominions, but met with no better success than before, for a long and tedious ride only brought them back to their starting-place in the evening. This time Prince Marvel was really angry, and striding into the king's presence he reproached him bitterly, saying: "Why do you prevent us from leaving your kingdom? We have not injured you in any way." "You have seen ME," returned Terribus, calmly, "and I do not intend you shall go back to the world and tell people how ugly I am." The prince looked at him, and could not repress a smile. The two eyes of the king, having been twice removed from their first position, were now both in his forehead, instead of below it, and one was much higher than the other. And the nose, although small when compared to what it had been, still resembled an elephant's trunk. Other changes had been made for the better, but Terribus was still exceedingly repulsive to look upon. Seeing the prince look at him and smile, the king flew into a fury of anger and declared that the strangers should never, while they lived, be permitted to leave his castle again. Prince Marvel became thoughtful at this, reflecting that the king's enmity all arose from his sensitiveness about his ugly appearance, and this filled the youthful knight with pity rather than resentment. When they had all assembled at the evening banquet the prince, for a third time, made a mystic pass at the king and whispered a magic word. And behold! this time the charm was complete. For the two front eyes of Terribus fell into their proper places, his nose became straight and well formed, and his skin took on a natural, healthy color. Moreover, he now had a fine head of soft brown hair, with eyebrows and eyelashes to match, and his head was shapely and in proportion to his body. As for the eye that had formerly been in the back of his head, it had disappeared completely. So amazed were the subjects of the transformed king--who was now quite handsome to look upon--that they began to murmur together excitedly, and something in the new sensations he experienced gave to the king's face likewise an expression of surprise. Knowing from their pleased looks that he must have improved in appearance, he found courage to raise his hand to his nose, and found it well formed. Then he touched his eyes, and realized they were looking straight out from his face, like those of other people. For some moments after making these discoveries the king remained motionless, a smile of joy gradually spreading over his features. Then he said, aloud: "What has happened? Why do you all look so startled?" "Your Majesty is no longer ugly," replied Marvel, laughingly; "so that when Nerle and I leave your kingdom we can proclaim nothing less than praise of your dignified and handsome appearance." "Is my face indeed pleasing?" demanded the king, eagerly. "It is!" cried the assembled courtiers and ladies, as with one voice. "Bring me a mirror!" said the king. "I shall look at my reflection for the first time in many years." The mirror being brought King Terribus regarded himself for a long time with pleased astonishment; and then, his sensitive nature being overcome by the shock of his good fortune, he burst into a flood of tears and rushed from the room. The courtiers and ladies now bestowed many grateful thanks upon Prince Marvel for his kind deed; for they realized that thereafter their lives would be safer from the king's anger and much pleasanter in every way. "Terribus is not bad by nature," said one; "but he brooded upon his ugliness so much that the least thing served to throw him into a violent passion, and our lives were never safe from one day to another." By and by two giants entered the hall and carried away the throne of gray stone where Terribus had been accustomed to sit; and other slaves brought a gorgeous throne of gold, studded with precious jewels, which they put in its place. And after a time the king himself returned to the room, his simple gray gown replaced by flowing robes of purple, with rich embroideries, such as he had not worn for many years. "My people," said he, addressing those present with kindness and dignity, "it seems to me fitting that a handsome king should be handsomely attired, and an ugly one clothed simply. For years I have been so terrible in feature that I dared not even look at my own image in a mirror. But now, thanks to the gracious magic of my guest, I have become like other men, and hereafter you will find my rule as kind as it was formerly cruel. To-night, in honor of this joyous occasion, we shall feast and make merry, and it is my royal command that you all do honor and reverence to the illustrious Prince Marvel!" A loud shout of approval greeted this speech, and the evening was merry indeed. Terribus joined freely in the revelry, laughing as gaily as the lightest-hearted damsel present. It was nearly morning before they all retired, and as they sought their beds Nerle asked the prince in a voice that sounded like an ill-natured growl: "Why did you give the king beauty, after his treatment of us?" Marvel looked at the reproachful face of his esquire and smiled. "When you are older," said he, "you will find that often there are many ways to accomplish a single purpose. The king's ugliness was the bar to our leaving his country, for he feared our gossip. So the easiest way for us to compass our escape was to take away his reason for detaining us. Thus I conquered the king in my own way, and at the same time gained his gratitude and friendship." "Will he allow us to depart in the morning?" inquired Nerle. "I think so," said Marvel. It was late when they rose from their slumbers; but, having breakfasted, the prince's first act was to seek the king. "We wish to leave your kingdom," said he. "Will you let us go?" Terribus grasped the hand of his guest and pressed it with fervor, while tears of gratitude stood in his eyes. "I should prefer that you remain with me always, and be my friend," he answered. "But if you choose to leave me I shall not interfere in any way with your wishes." Prince Marvel looked at him thoughtfully, and then said: "My time on this island is short. In a few months Prince Marvel will have passed out of the knowledge of men, and his name will be forgotten. Before then I hope to visit the Kingdoms of Dawna and Auriel and Plenta; so I must not delay, but beg you will permit me to depart at once." "Very well," answered Terribus. "Come with me, and I shall show you the way." He led the prince and Nerle to a high wall of rock, and placing his hand upon its rough surface, touched a hidden spring. Instantly an immense block of stone began to swing backward, disclosing a passage large enough for a man on horseback to ride through. "This is the one road that leads out of my kingdom," said Terribus. "The others all begin and end at the castle. So that unless you know the secret of this passage you could never escape from Spor." "But where does this road lead?" asked Marvel. "To the Kingdom of Auriel, which you desire to visit. It is not a straight road, for it winds around the Land of Twi, so it will carry you a little out of your way." "What is the Land of Twi?" inquired the prince. "A small country hidden from the view of all travelers," said Terribus. "No one has ever yet found a way to enter the land of Twi; yet there is a rumor that it is ruled by a mighty personage called the High Ki." "And does the rumor state what the High Ki of Twi is like?" "No, indeed," returned the king, smiling, "so it will do you no good to be curious. And now farewell, and may good luck attend you. Yet bear in mind the fact that King Terribus of Spor owes you a mighty debt of gratitude; and if you ever need my services, you have but to call on me, and I shall gladly come to your assistance." "I thank you," said Marvel, "but there is small chance of my needing help. Farewell, and may your future life be pleasant and happy!" With this he sprang to the saddle of his prancing charger and, followed by Nerle, rode slowly through the stone arch. The courtiers and ladies had flocked from the palace to witness their departure, and the giants and dwarfs and Gray Men were drawn up in long lines to speed the king's guests. So it was a brilliant sight that Marvel and Nerle looked back on; but once they were clear of the arch, the great stone rolled back into its place, shutting them out completely from the Kingdom of Spor, with its turreted castle and transformed king. 13. The Hidden Kingdom of Twi Knowing that at last they were free to roam according to their desire, the travelers rode gaily along the paths, taking but scant heed of their way. "Our faces are set toward new adventures," remarked the prince. "Let us hope they will prove more pleasant than the last." "To be sure!" responded Nerle. "Let us hope, at any rate, that we shall suffer more privations and encounter more trouble than we did in that mountainous Kingdom of Spor." Then he added: "For one reason, I regret you are my master." "What is that reason?" asked the prince, turning to smile upon his esquire. "You have a way of overcoming all difficulties without any trouble whatsoever, and that deprives me of any chance of coming to harm while in your company." "Cheer up, my boy!" cried Marvel. "Did I not say there are new adventures before us? We may not come through them so easily as we came through the others." "That is true," replied Nerle; "it is always best to hope." And then he inquired: "Why do you stop here, in the middle of the path?" "Because the path has ended rather suddenly," answered Marvel. "Here is a thick hedge of prickly briers barring our way." Nerle looked over his master's shoulder and saw that a great hedge, high and exceedingly thick, cut off all prospect of their advancing. "This is pleasant," said he; "but I might try to force our way through the hedge. The briers would probably prick me severely, and that would be delightful." "Try it!" the prince returned, with twinkling eyes. Nerle sprang from his horse to obey, but at the first contact with the briers he uttered a howl of pain and held up his hands, which were bleeding in a dozen places from the wounds of the thorns. "Ah, that will content you for a time, I trust," said Marvel. "Now follow me, and we will ride along beside the hedge until we find an opening. For either it will come to an end or there will prove to be a way through it to the other side." So they rode alongside the hedge for hour after hour; yet it did not end, nor could they espy any way to get through the thickly matted briers. By and by night fell, and they tethered their horses to some shrubs, where there were a few scanty blades of grass for them to crop, and then laid themselves down upon the ground, with bare rocks for pillows, where they managed to sleep soundly until morning. They had brought a supply of food in their pouches, and on this they breakfasted, afterward continuing their journey beside the hedge. At noon Prince Marvel uttered an exclamation of surprise and stopped his horse. "What is it?" asked Nerle. "I have found the handkerchief with which you wiped the blood from your hands yesterday morning, and then carelessly dropped," replied the prince. "This proves that we have made a complete circle around this hedge without finding a way to pass through it." "In that case," said Nerle, "we had better leave the hedge and go in another direction." "Not so," declared Marvel. "The hedge incloses some unknown country, and I am curious to find out what it is." "But there is no opening," remonstrated Nerle. "Then we must make one. Wouldn't you like to enjoy a little more pain?" "Thank you," answered Nerle, "my hands are still smarting very comfortably from the pricks of yesterday." "Therefore I must make the attempt myself," said the prince, and drawing his sword he whispered a queer word to it, and straightway began slashing at the hedge. The brambles fell fast before his blade, and when he had cut a big heap of branches from the hedge Nerle dragged them to one side, and the prince began again. It was marvelous how thick the hedge proved. Only a magic sword could have done this work and remained sharp, and only a fairy arm could have proved strong enough to hew through the tough wood. But the magic sword and fairy arm were at work, and naught could resist them. After a time the last branches were severed and dragged from the path, and then the travelers rode their horses through the gap into the unknown country beyond. They saw at first glance that it was a land of great beauty; but after that one look both Prince Marvel and Nerle paused and rubbed their eyes, to assure themselves that their vision was not blurred. Before them were two trees, exactly alike. And underneath the trees two cows were grazing--each a perfect likeness of the other. At their left were two cottages, with every door and window and chimney the exact counterpart of another. Before these houses two little boys were playing, evidently twins, for they not only looked alike and dressed alike, but every motion one made was also made by the other at the same time and in precisely the same way. When one laughed the other laughed, and when one stubbed his toe and fell down, the other did likewise, and then they both sat up and cried lustily at the same time. At this two women--it was impossible to tell one from the other--rushed out of the two houses, caught up the two boys, shook and dusted them in precisely the same way, and led them by their ears back into the houses. Again the astonished travelers rubbed their eyes, and then Prince Marvel looked at Nerle and said: "I thought at first that I saw everything double, but there seems to be only one of YOU." "And of you," answered the boy. "But see! there are two hills ahead of us, and two paths lead from the houses over the hills! How strange it all is!" Just then two birds flew by, close together and perfect mates; and the cows raised their heads and "mooed" at the same time; and two men--also twins--came over the two hills along the two paths with two dinner-pails in their hands and entered the two houses. They were met at the doors by the two women, who kissed them exactly at the same time and helped them off with their coats with the same motions, and closed the two doors with two slams at the same instant. Nerle laughed. "What sort of country have we got into?" he asked. "Let us find out," replied the prince, and riding up to one of the houses he knocked on the door with the hilt of his sword. Instantly the doors of both houses flew open, and both men appeared in the doorways. Both started back in amazement at sight of the strangers, and both women shrieked and both little boys began to cry. Both mothers boxed the children's ears, and both men gasped out: "Who--who are you?" Their voices were exactly alike, and their words were spoken in unison. Prince Marvel replied, courteously: "We are two strangers who have strayed into your country. But I do not understand why our appearance should so terrify you." "Why--you are singular! There is only half of each of you!" exclaimed the two men, together. "Not so," said the prince, trying hard not to laugh in their faces. "We may be single, while you appear to be double; but each of us is perfect, nevertheless." "Perfect! And only half of you!" cried the men. And again the two women, who were looking over their husbands' shoulders, screamed at sight of the strangers; and again the two boys, who were clinging to their mothers' dresses in the same positions, began to cry. "We did not know such strange people existed!" said the two men, both staring at the strangers and then wiping the beads of perspiration from their two brows with two faded yellow handkerchiefs. "Nor did we!" retorted the prince. "I assure you we are as much surprised as you are." Nerle laughed again at this, and to hear only one of the strangers speak and the other only laugh seemed to terrify the double people anew. So Prince Marvel quickly asked: "Please tell us what country this is?" "The Land of Twi," answered both men, together. "Oh! the Land of Twi. And why is the light here so dim?" continued the prince. "Dim?" repeated the men, as if surprised; "why, this is twilight, of course." "Of course," said Nerle. "I hadn't thought of that. We are in the long hidden Land of Twi, which all men have heard of, but no man has found before." "And who may you be?" questioned the prince, looking from one man to the other, curiously. "We are Twis," they answered. "Twice?" "Twis--inhabitants of Twi." "It's the same thing," laughed Nerle. "You see everything twice in this land." "Are none of your people single?" asked Prince Marvel. "Single," returned the men, as if perplexed. "We don't understand." "Are you all double?--or are some of you just one?" said the prince, who found it difficult to put his question plainly. "What does 'one' mean?" asked the men. "There is no such word as 'one' in our language." "They have no need of such a word," declared Nerle. "We are only poor laborers," explained the men. "But over the hills lie the cities of Twi, where the Ki and the Ki-Ki dwell, and also the High Ki." "Ah!" said Marvel, "I've heard of your High Ki. Who is he?" The men shook their heads, together and with the same motion. "We have never seen the glorious High Ki," they answered. "The sight of their faces is forbidden. None but the Ki and the Ki-Ki has seen the Supreme Rulers and High Ki." "I'm getting mixed," said Nerle. "All this about the Ki and the Ki-Ki and the High Ki makes me dizzy. Let's go on to the city and explore it." "That is a good suggestion," replied the prince. "Good by, my friends," he added, addressing the men. They both bowed, and although they still seemed somewhat frightened they answered him civilly and in the same words, and closed their doors at the same time. So Prince Marvel and Nerle rode up the double path to the hills, and the two cows became frightened and ran away with the same swinging step, keeping an exact space apart. And when they were a safe distance they both stopped, looked over their right shoulders, and "mooed" at the same instant. 14. The Ki and the Ki-Ki From the tops of the hills the travelers caught their first glimpse of the wonderful cities of Twi. Two walls surrounded the cities, and in the walls were two gates just alike. Within the inclosures stood many houses, but all were built in pairs, from the poorest huts to the most splendid palaces. Every street was double, the pavements running side by side. There were two lamp-posts on every corner, and in the dim twilight that existed these lamp-posts were quite necessary. If there were trees or bushes anywhere, they invariably grew in pairs, and if a branch was broken on one it was sure to be broken on the other, and dead leaves fell from both trees at identically the same moment. Much of this Marvel and Nerle learned after they had entered the cities, but the view from the hills showed plainly enough that the "double" plan existed everywhere and in every way in this strange land. They followed the paths down to the gates of the walls, where two pairs of soldiers rushed out and seized their horses by the bridles. These soldiers all seemed to be twins, or at least mates, and each one of each pair was as like the other as are two peas growing in the same pod. If one had a red nose the other's was red in the same degree, and the soldiers that held the bridles of Nerle's horse both had their left eyes bruised and blackened, as from a blow of the same force. These soldiers, as they looked upon Nerle and the prince, seemed fully as much astonished and certainly more frightened than their prisoners. They were dressed in bright yellow uniforms with green buttons, and the soldiers who had arrested the prince had both torn their left coat-sleeves and had patches of the same shape upon the seats of their trousers. "How dare you stop us, fellows?" asked the prince, sternly. The soldiers holding his horse both turned and looked inquiringly at the soldiers holding Nerle's horse; and these turned to look at a double captain who came out of two doors in the wall and walked up to them. "Such things were never before heard of!" said the two captains, their startled eyes fixed upon the prisoners. "We must take them to the Ki and the Ki-Ki." "Why so?" asked Prince Marvel. "Because," replied the officers, "they are our rulers, under grace of the High Ki, and all unusual happenings must be brought to their notice. It is our law, you know--the law of the Kingdom of Twi." "Very well," said Marvel, quietly; "take us where you will; but if any harm is intended us you will be made to regret it." "The Ki and the Ki-Ki will decide," returned the captains gravely, their words sounding at the same instant. And then the two pairs of soldiers led the horses through the double streets, the captains marching ahead with drawn swords, and crowds of twin men and twin women coming from the double doors of the double houses to gaze upon the strange sight of men and horses who were not double. Presently they came upon a twin palace with twin turrets rising high into the air; and before the twin doors the prisoners dismounted. Marvel was escorted through one door and Nerle through another, and then they saw each other going down a double hallway to a room with a double entrance. Passing through this they found themselves in a large hall with two domes set side by side in the roof. The domes were formed of stained glass, and the walls of the hall were ornamented by pictures in pairs, each pair showing identically the same scenes. This, was, of course, reasonable enough in such a land, where two people would always look at two pictures at the same time and admire them in the same way with the same thoughts. Beneath one of the domes stood a double throne, on which sat the Ki of Twi--a pair of gray-bearded and bald-headed men who were lean and lank and stoop-shouldered. They had small eyes, black and flashing, long hooked noses, great pointed ears, and they were smoking two pipes from which the smoke curled in exactly the same circles and clouds. Beneath the other dome sat the Ki-Ki of Twi, also on double thrones, similar to those of the Ki. The Ki-Ki were two young men, and had golden hair combed over their brows and "banged" straight across; and their eyes were blue and mild in expression, and their cheeks pink and soft. The Ki-Ki were playing softly upon a pair of musical instruments that resembled mandolins, and they were evidently trying to learn a new piece of music, for when one Ki-Ki struck a false note the other Ki-Ki struck the same false note at the same time, and the same expression of annoyance came over the two faces at the same moment. When the prisoners entered, the pairs of captains and soldiers bowed low to the two pairs of rulers, and the Ki exclaimed--both in the same voice of surprise: "Great Kika-koo! what have we here?" "Most wonderful prisoners, your Highnesses," answered the captains. "We found them at your cities' gates and brought them to you at once. They are, as your Highnesses will see, each singular, and but half of what he should be." "'Tis so!" cried the double Ki, in loud voices, and slapping their right thighs with their right palms at the same time. "Most remarkable! Most remarkable!" "I don't see anything remarkable about it," returned Prince Marvel, calmly. "It is you, who are not singular, but double, that seem strange and outlandish." "Perhaps--perhaps!" said the two old men, thoughtfully. "It is what we are not accustomed to that seems to us remarkable. Eh, Ki-Ki?" they added, turning to the other rulers. The Ki-Ki, who had not spoken a word but continued to play softly, simply nodded their blond heads carelessly; so the Ki looked again at the prisoners and asked: "How did you get here?" "We cut a hole through the prickly hedge," replied Prince Marvel. "A hole through the hedge! Great Kika-koo!" cried the gray-bearded Ki; "is there, then, anything or any place on the other side of the hedge?" "Why, of course! The world is there," returned the prince, laughing. The old men looked puzzled, and glanced sharply from their little black eyes at their prisoners. "We thought nothing existed outside the hedge of Twi," they answered, simply. "But your presence here proves we were wrong. Eh! Ki-Ki?" This last was again directed toward the pair of musicians, who continued to play and only nodded quietly, as before. "Now that you are here," said the twin Ki, stroking their two gray beards with their two left hands in a nervous way, "it must be evident to you that you do not belong here. Therefore you must go back through the hedge again and stay on the other side. Eh, Ki-Ki?" The Ki-Ki still continued playing, but now spoke the first words the prisoners had heard from them. "They must die," said the Ki-Ki, in soft and agreeable voices. "Die!" echoed the twin Ki, "die? Great Kika-koo! And why so?" "Because, if there is a world on the other side of the hedge, they would tell on their return all about the Land of Twi, and others of their kind would come through the hedge from curiosity and annoy us. We can not be annoyed. We are busy." Having delivered this speech both the Ki-Ki went on playing the new tune, as if the matter was settled. "Nonsense!" retorted the old Ki, angrily. "You are getting more and more bloodthirsty every day, our sweet and gentle Ki-Ki! But we are the Ki--and we say the prisoners shall not die!" "We say they shall!" answered the youthful Ki-Ki, nodding their two heads at the same time, with a positive motion. "You may be the Ki, but we are the Ki-Ki, and your superior." "Not in this case," declared the old men. "Where life and death are concerned we have equal powers with you." "And if we disagree?" asked the players, gently. "Great Kika-koo! If we disagree the High Ki must judge between us!" roared the twin Ki, excitedly. "Quite so," answered the Ki-Ki. "The strangers shall die." "They shall not die!" stormed the old men, with fierce gestures toward the others, while both pairs of black eyes flashed angrily. "Then we disagree, and they must be taken to the High Ki," returned the blond musicians, beginning to play another tune. The two Ki rose from their thrones, paced two steps to the right and three steps to the left, and then sat down again. "Very well!" they said to the captains, who had listened unmoved to the quarrel of the rulers; "keep these half-men safe prisoners until to-morrow morning, and then the Ki-Ki and we ourselves will conduct them to the mighty High Ki." At this command the twin captains bowed again to both pairs of rulers and led Prince Marvel and Nerle from the room. Then they were escorted along the streets to the twin houses of the captains, and here the officers paused and scratched their left ears with uncertain gestures. "There being only half of each of you," they said, "we do not know how to lock each of you in double rooms." "Oh, let us both occupy the same room," said Prince Marvel. "We prefer it." "Very well," answered the captains; "we must transgress our usual customs in any event, so you may as well be lodged as you wish." So Nerle and the prince were thrust into a large and pleasant room of one of the twin houses, the double doors were locked upon them by twin soldiers, and they were left to their own thoughts. 15. The High Ki of Twi "Tell me, Prince, are we awake or asleep?" asked Nerle, as soon as they were alone. "There is no question of our being awake," replied the prince, with a laugh. "But what a curious country it is--and what a funny people!" "We can't call them odd or singular," said the esquire, "for everything is even in numbers and double in appearance. It makes me giddy to look at them, and I keep feeling of myself to make sure there is still only one of me." "You are but half a boy!" laughed the prince--"at least so long as you remain in the Land of Twi." "I'd like to get out of it in double-quick time," answered Nerle; "and we should even now be on the other side of the hedge were it not for that wicked pair of Ki-Ki, who are determined to kill us." "It is strange," said the prince, thoughtfully, "that the fierce-looking old Ki should be our friends and the gentle Ki-Ki our enemies. How little one can tell from appearances what sort of heart beats in a person's body!" Before Nerle could answer the two doors opened and two pairs of soldiers entered. They drew two small tables before the prince and two before Nerle, and then other pairs of twin soldiers came and spread cloths on the tables and set twin platters of meat and bread and fruit on each of the tables. When the meal had been arranged the prisoners saw that there was enough for four people instead of two; and the soldiers realized this also, for they turned puzzled looks first on the tables and then on the prisoners. Then they shook all their twin heads gravely and went away, locking the twin doors behind them. "We have one advantage in being singular," said Nerle, cheerfully; "and that is we are not likely to starve to death. For we can eat the portions of our missing twins as well as our own." "I should think you would enjoy starving," remarked the prince. "No; I believe I have more exquisite suffering in store for me, since I have met that gentle pair of Ki-Ki," said Nerle. While they were eating the two captains came in and sat down in two chairs. These captains seemed friendly fellows, and after watching the strangers for a while they remarked: "We are glad to see you able to eat so heartily; for to-morrow you will probably die." "That is by no means certain," replied Marvel, cutting a piece from one of the twin birds on a platter before him--to the extreme surprise of the captains, who had always before seen both birds carved alike at the same time. "Your gray-bearded old Ki say we shall not die." "True," answered the captains. "But the Ki-Ki have declared you shall." "Their powers seem to be equal," said Nerle, "and we are to be taken before the High Ki for judgment." "Therein lies your danger," returned the captains, speaking in the same tones and with the same accents on their words. "For it is well known the Ki-Ki has more influence with the High Ki than the Ki has." "Hold on!" cried Nerle; "you are making me dizzy again. I can't keep track of all these Kis." "What is the High Ki like?" asked Prince Marvel, who was much interested in the conversation of the captains. But this question the officers seemed unable to answer. They shook their heads slowly and said: "The High Ki are not visible to the people of Twi. Only in cases of the greatest importance are the High Ki ever bothered or even approached by the Ki and the Ki-Ki, who are supposed to rule the land according to their own judgment. But if they chance to disagree, then the matter is carried before the High Ki, who live in a palace surrounded by high walls, in which there are no gates. Only these rulers have ever seen the other side of the walls, or know what the High Ki are like." "That is strange," said the prince. "But we, ourselves, it seems, are to see the High Ki to-morrow, and whoever they may chance to be, we hope to remain alive after the interview." "That is a vain hope," answered the captains, "for it is well known that the High Ki usually decide in favor of the Ki-Ki, and against the wishes of the old Ki." "That is certainly encouraging," said Nerle. When the captains had gone and left them to themselves, the esquire confided to his master his expectations in the following speech: "This High Ki sounds something terrible and fierce in my ears, and as they are doubtless a pair, they will be twice terrible and fierce. Perhaps his royal doublets will torture me most exquisitely before putting me to death, and then I shall feel that I have not lived in vain." They slept in comfortable beds that night, although an empty twin bed stood beside each one they occupied. And in the morning they were served another excellent meal, after which the captains escorted them again to the twin palaces of the Ki and the Ki-Ki. There the two pairs of rulers met them and headed the long procession of soldiers toward the palace of the High Ki. First came a band of music, in which many queer sorts of instruments were played in pairs by twin musicians; and it was amusing to Nerle to see the twin drummers roll their twin drums exactly at the same time and the twin trumpets peal out twin notes. After the band marched the double Ki-Ki and the double Ki, their four bodies side by side in a straight line. The Ki-Ki had left their musical instruments in the palace, and now wore yellow gloves with green stitching down the backs and swung gold-headed canes jauntily as they walked. The Ki stooped their aged shoulders and shuffled along with their hands in their pockets, and only once did they speak, and that was to roar "Great Kika-koo!" when the Ki-Ki jabbed their canes down on the Ki's toes. Following the Ki-Ki and the Ki came the prince and Nerle, escorted by the twin captains, and then there were files of twin soldiers bringing up the rear. Crowds of twin people, with many twin children amongst them, turned out to watch the unusual display, and many pairs of twin dogs barked together in unison and snapped at the heels of the marching twin soldiers. By and by they reached the great wall surrounding the High Ki's palace, and, sure enough, there was never a gate in the wall by which any might enter. But when the Ki and the Ki-Ki had blown a shrill signal upon two pairs of whistles, they all beheld two flights of silver steps begin to descend from the top of the wall, and these came nearer and nearer the ground until at last they rested at the feet of the Ki. Then the old men began ascending the steps carefully and slowly, and the captains motioned to the prisoners to follow. So Prince Marvel followed one of the Ki up the steps and Nerle the other Ki, while the two Ki-Ki came behind them so they could not escape. So to the top of the wall they climbed, where a pair of twin servants in yellow and green--which seemed to be the royal colors--welcomed them and drew up the pair of silver steps, afterward letting them down on the other side of the wall, side by side. They descended in the same order as they had mounted to the top of the wall, and now Prince Marvel and Nerle found themselves in a most beautiful garden, filled with twin beds of twin flowers, with many pairs of rare shrubs. Also, there were several double statuettes on pedestals, and double fountains sending exactly the same sprays of water the same distance into the air. Double walks ran in every direction through the garden, and in the center of the inclosure stood a magnificent twin palace, built of blocks of white marble exquisitely carved. The Ki and the Ki-Ki at once led their prisoners toward the palace and entered at its large arched double doors, where several pairs of servants met them. These servants, they found, were all dumb, so that should they escape from the palace walls they could tell no tales of the High Ki. The prisoners now proceeded through several pairs of halls, winding this way and that, and at last came to a pair of golden double doors leading into the throne-room of the mighty High Ki. Here they all paused, and the Ki-Ki both turned to the prince and Nerle and said: "You are the only persons, excepting ourselves and the palace servants, who have ever been permitted to see the High Ki of Twi. As you are about to die, that does not matter; but should you by any chance be permitted to live, you must never breathe a word of what you are about to see, under penalty of a sure and horrible death." The prisoners made no reply to this speech, and, after the two Ki-Ki had given them another mild look from their gentle blue eyes, these officials clapped their twin hands together and the doors of gold flew open. A perfect silence greeted them, during which the double Ki and the double Ki-Ki bent their four bodies low and advanced into the throne-room, followed by Prince Marvel and Nerle. In the center of the room stood two thrones of dainty filigree work in solid gold, and over them were canopies of yellow velvet, the folds of which were caught up and draped with bands of green ribbon. And on the thrones were seated two of the sweetest and fairest little maidens that mortal man had ever beheld. Their lovely hair was fine as a spider's web; their eyes were kind and smiling, their cheeks soft and dimpled, their mouths shapely as a cupid's bow and tinted like the petals of a rose. Upon their heads were set two crowns of fine spun gold, worked into fantastic shapes and set with glittering gems. Their robes were soft silks of pale yellow, with strings of sparkling emeralds for ornament. Anything so lovely and fascinating as these little maids, who were precisely alike in every particular, neither Prince Marvel nor Nerle had ever dreamed could exist. They stood for a time spellbound and filled with admiration, while the two pairs of rulers bowed again and again before the dainty and lovable persons of their High Ki. But it was hard for Nerle to keep quiet for long, and presently he exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all present: "By the Great Kika-koo of our friends the Ki, these darling High Ki of Twi are sweet enough to be kissed!" 16. The Rebellion of the High Ki The bold speech of Nerle's made the two damsels laugh at the same time, and their sweet laughter sounded like rippling strains of harmonious music. But the two Ki-Ki frowned angrily, and the two Ki looked at the boy in surprise, as if wondering at his temerity. "Who are these strangers?" asked the pretty High Ki, speaking together as all the twins of Twi did; "and why are they not mates, but only half of each other?" "These questions, your Supreme Highnesses," said the blond-haired pair of Ki-Ki, "we are unable to answer." "Perhaps, then, the strangers can answer themselves," said the little maids, smiling first upon the Ki-Ki and then upon the prisoners. Prince Marvel bowed. "I am from the great outside world," said he, "and my name is Prince Marvel. Until now I have never seen people that live in pairs, and speak in unison, and act in the same way and think the same thoughts. My world is much bigger than your world, and in it every person is proud to think and act for himself. You say I am only a 'half,' but that is not so. I am perfect, without a counterpart; my friend Nerle is perfect without a counterpart, and it is yourselves who are halved. For in the Land of Twi no person is complete or perfect without its other half, and it seems to take two of you to make one man--or one maid." The sweet faces of the twin High Ki grew thoughtful at this speech, and they said: "Indeed, it may be you are right. But it is our custom in Twi to do everything double and to live double." Then, turning to the Ki, they asked: "Why have you brought these strangers here?" "To ask your Supreme Highnesses to permit them to return again to the world from whence they came," answered the Ki, both of them regarding their supreme rulers earnestly. But here the Ki-Ki spoke up quickly in their mild voices, saying: "That is not our idea, your Highnesses. We, the Ki-Ki of Twi, think it best the strangers should be put to death. And we pray your Supreme Highnesses to favor our wish." The two little maids looked from the Ki to the Ki-Ki, and frowned and pouted their rosy lips in evident perplexity. But Nerle whispered to Prince Marvel: "It's all up with us! I know very well why her royal doublets always favors the Ki-Ki. It's because they are young and handsome, while the Ki are old and ugly. Both of her will condemn us to death--you see if she don't!" This seemed somewhat mixed, but Nerle was in earnest, and Prince Marvel, who had not forgotten his fairy lore, began to weave a silent spell over the head of the nearest twin High Ki. But just as it was completed, and before he had time to work the spell on the other twin, the Ki-Ki grew impatient, and exclaimed: "We beg your Highnesses not to keep us waiting. Let us have your decision at once!" And the twin maidens raised their fair heads and replied. But the reply was of such a nature that both the old Ki and both the young Ki-Ki staggered backward in amazement. For one of the twin High Ki said: "They shall die!" And the other twin High Ki said at the same instant: "They shall NOT die!" Had twin thunderbolts fallen through the twin roofs of the twin palaces and struck the twin Ki and the twin Ki-Ki upon their twin heads it would have created no more stupendous a sensation than did this remark. Never before had any two halves of a twin of the Land of Twi thought differently or spoken differently. Indeed, it startled the two maidens themselves as much as it did their hearers, for each one turned her head toward the other and, for the first time in her life, looked into the other's face! This act was fully as strange as their speech, and a sudden horrible thought came into the startled heads of the twin Ki and the twin Ki-Ki: THE HIGH KI OF TWI WAS NO LONGER ONE, BUT TWO. AND THESE TWO WERE THINKING AND ACTING EACH INDEPENDENT OF THE OTHER! It is no wonder the shock rendered them speechless for a time, and they stood swaying their four bodies, with their eight eyes bulging out like those of fishes and their four mouths wide open, as if the two pairs had become one quartet. The faces of the two maids flushed as they gazed upon each other. "How DARE you contradict me?" asked one. "How dare you contradict ME?" demanded the other, and not only were these questions asked separately, but the accent on the words was different. And their twin minds seemed to get farther apart every moment. "I'm the High Ki of Twi!" said one. "You're not! I'M the High Ki!" retorted the other. "The strangers shall die!" snapped one. "They shall live!" cried the other. "My will is supreme." "It's not! MY will is supreme," returned the other twin. The bald heads of the ancient Ki were bobbing in amazement, first to one maid and then toward the other. The blond hairs of the two Ki-Ki were standing almost on end, and their eyes stared straight before them as if stupefied with astonishment. Nerle was bellowing with rude laughter and holding his sides to keep from getting a stitch in them, while Prince Marvel stood quietly attentive and smiling with genuine amusement. For he alone understood what had happened to separate the twin High Ki. The girls did not seem to know how to act under their altered conditions. After a time one of them said: "We will leave our dispute to be settled by the Ki and the Ki-Ki." "Very well," agreed the other. "Then I say your half is right," declared the Ki-Ki, both their right forefingers pointing to the maiden who had condemned the strangers to death. "And I decide that your half is right," exclaimed the Ki, both their trembling forefingers pointing to the maiden who had said the strangers should live. "Well?" said one girl. "Well?" said the other. "The powers of the Ki and the Ki-Ki are equal," said the first. "We are no nearer a settlement of our dispute than we were before." "My dear young ladies," said Prince Marvel, politely, "I beg you will take time to think the matter over, and see if you can not come to an agreement. We are in no hurry." "Very well," decided the twins, speaking both together this time. "We command you all to remain in the palace until we have settled our own strange dispute. The servants will care for you, and when we are ready to announce our decision we shall again send for you." Every one bowed at this command and retired from the room; but Nerle looked over his shoulder as he went through the doorway, and saw that the two High Ki had turned in their seats and were facing each other, and that both their faces wore angry and determined expressions. 17. The Separation of the High Ki For nearly a week Prince Marvel and Nerle remained confined to the palace and gardens of the High Ki. Together with the twin Ki, who seemed to be friendly to them, they occupied one of the twin palaces, while the Ki-Ki secluded themselves in the other. The pretty High Ki maidens they did not see at all, nor did they know what part of the palaces they occupied, not being permitted to wander away from the rooms allotted to them, except to walk in the garden. There was no way for them to escape, had they felt inclined to, for the silver steps had disappeared. From the garden walks they sometimes caught sight of the solemn heads of the handsome Ki-Ki looking at them through the twin windows of the other palace, and although the expression of their faces was always mild and gentle, Nerle and Marvel well knew the Ki-Ki were only waiting in the hope of having them killed. "Are you nervous about the decision of the pretty High Ki?" asked Nerle one day. "No, indeed," said the prince, laughing; "for I do not expect them to kill me, in any event." "If I felt as sure of my safety," returned the boy, "it would destroy all my pleasure. These are really happy days for me. Every moment I expect to see the executioner arrive with his ax." "The executioner is double," said the two old Ki, breaking into the conversation. "You should say you expect to see the executioners arrive with their axes." "Then how will they cut off my head with two axes? For I suppose they will both chop at the same time, and I have but one neck." "Wait and see," answered the two Ki, sighing deeply and rubbing their red noses thoughtfully. "Oh, I'll wait," answered the boy; "but as for seeing them cut off my head, I refuse; for I intend to shut my eyes." So they sat in their rooms or walked in the gardens, yawning and waiting, until one day, just as the two clocks on the wall were striking twenty-four o'clock, the door opened and to their surprise one of the High Ki twins walked in upon them. She was as sweet and fair to look upon as when she occupied one of the beautiful thrones, but at first no one could tell which of the High Ki she was--their friend or their enemy. Even the Ki were puzzled and anxious, until the girl said: "My other half and I have completely separated, for we have agreed to disagree for all time. And she has gone to ask the Ki-Ki to assist her, for war is declared between us. And hereafter her color is to be the green and mine the yellow, and we intend to fight until one of us conquers and overthrows the other." This announcement was interesting to Marvel and Nerle, but greatly shocked the aged Ki, who asked: "What is to become of our kingdom? Half of a High Ki can not rule it. It is against the law." "I will make my own laws when I have won the fight," returned the girl, with a lovely smile; "so do not let that bother you. And now tell me, will you help me to fight my battles?" "Willingly!" exclaimed Nerle and Prince Marvel, almost as if they had been twins of Twi. And the Ki rubbed their bald heads a moment, and then sneezed together and wiped their eyes on faded yellow handkerchiefs, and finally declared they would "stick to her Supreme Highness through thick and thin!" "Then go over the wall to the cities, at once, and get together all the soldiers to fight for me and my cause," commanded the girl. The twin Ki at once left the room, and the High Ki sat down and began to ask questions of Prince Marvel and Nerle about the big outside world from whence they came. Nerle was rather shy and bashful before the dainty little maiden, whose yellow robe contrasted delightfully with her pink cheeks and blue eyes and brown flowing locks; but Prince Marvel did not mind girls at all, so he talked with her freely, and she in return allowed him to examine the pretty gold crown she wore upon her brow. By and by the Ki came back with both faces sad and gloomy. "Your Highness," they announced, "we have bad news for you. The other High Ki, who is wearing a green gown, has been more prompt in action than yourself. She and the Ki-Ki have secured the silver steps and will allow no others to use them; and already they have sent for the soldiers of the royal armies to come and aid them. So we are unable to leave the garden, and presently the army will be here to destroy us." Then the girl showed her good courage; for she laughed and said: "Then we must remain here and fight to the last; and if I am unable to save you, who are my friends, it will be because I can not save myself." This speech pleased Prince Marvel greatly. He kissed the little maid's hand respectfully and said: "Fear nothing, your Highness. My friend and I are not so helpless as you think. We consider it our privilege to protect and save you, instead of your saving us; and we are really able to do this in spite of the other High Ki and her entire army." So they remained quietly in the palace the rest of that day, and no one molested them in the least. In the evening the girl played and sang for them, and the ancient pair of Ki danced a double-shuffle for their amusement that nearly convulsed them with laughter. For one danced exactly like the other, and the old men's legs were still very nimble, although their wrinkled faces remained anxiously grave throughout their antics. Nerle also sang a song about the King of Thieves whom Prince Marvel had conquered, and another about the Red Rogue of Dawna, so that altogether the evening passed pleasantly enough, and they managed to forget all their uneasy doubts of the morrow. When at last they separated for the night, Prince Marvel alone did not seek his bed; there was still some business he wished to transact. So he shut himself up in his room and summoned before him, by means of his fairy knowledge, the Prince of the Knooks, the King of the Ryls and the Governor of the Goblins. These were all three his especial friends, and he soon told them the story of the quarrel and separation of the twin High Ki, and claimed their assistance. Then he told them how they might aid him, and afterward dismissed them. Having thus accomplished his task, the fairy prince went to bed and slept peacefully the remainder of the night. The next morning the blond Ki-Ki and all the army of Twi, which had been won to their cause, came climbing up the silver steps and over the wall to the palace of the green High Ki; but what was their amazement to find the twin palaces separated by a wall so high that no ladders nor steps they possessed could reach to the top! It had been built in a single night, and only Prince Marvel and his fairy friends knew how the work had been done so quickly. The yellow High Ki, coming downstairs to breakfast with her friends, found herself securely shut in from her enemies, and the bald-headed old Ki were so pleased to escape that they danced another jig from pure joy. Over the wall could be heard the shouts and threats of the army of Twi, who were seeking a way to get at the fugitives; but for the present our friends knew themselves to be perfectly safe, and they could afford to laugh at the fury of the entire population of Twi. 18. The Rescue of the High Ki After several days of siege Prince Marvel began to feel less confident of the safety of his little party. The frantic Ki-Ki had built double battering-rams and were trying to batter down the high wall; and they had built several pairs of long ladders with which to climb over the wall; and their soldiers were digging two tunnels in the ground in order to crawl under the wall. Not at once could they succeed, for the wall was strong and it would take long to batter it down; and Nerle stood on top of the wall and kicked over the ladders as fast as the soldiers of Twi set them up; and the gray-bearded Ki stood in the garden holding two big flat boards with which to whack the heads of any who might come through the tunnels. But Prince Marvel realized that the perseverance of his foes might win in the end, unless he took measures to defeat them effectually. So he summoned swift messengers from among the Sound Elves, who are accustomed to travel quickly, and they carried messages from him to Wul-Takim, the King of the Reformed Thieves, and to King Terribus of Spor, who had both promised him their assistance in case he needed it. The prince did not tell his friends of this action, but after the messengers had been dispatched he felt easier in his mind. The little High Ki remained as sweet and brave and lovable as ever, striving constantly to cheer and encourage her little band of defenders. But none of them was very much worried, and Nerle confided to the maiden in yellow the fact that he expected to suffer quite agreeably when the Ki-Ki at last got him in their clutches. Finally a day came when two big holes were battered through the wall, and then the twin soldiers of Twi poured through the holes and began to pound on the doors of the palace itself, in which Prince Marvel and Nerle, the Ki and the yellow High Ki had locked themselves as securely as possible. The prince now decided it was high time for his friends to come to their rescue; but they did not appear, and before long the doors of the palace gave way and the soldiers rushed upon them in a vast throng. Nerle wanted to fight, and to slay as many of the Twi people as possible; but the prince would not let him. "These poor soldiers are but doing what they consider their duty," he said, "and it would be cruel to cut them down with our swords. Have patience, I pray you. Our triumph will come in good time." The Ki-Ki, who came into the palace accompanied by the green High Ki, ordered the twin soldiers to bind all the prisoners with cords. So one pair of soldiers bound the Ki and another pair Nerle and the prince, using exactly the same motions in the operation. But when it came to binding the yellow High Ki the scene was very funny. For twin soldiers tried to do the binding, and there was only one to bind; so that one soldier went through the same motions as his twin on empty air, and when his other half had firmly bound the girl, his own rope fell harmless to the ground. But it seemed impossible for one of the twins to do anything different from the other, so that was the only way the act could be accomplished. Then the green-robed High Ki walked up to the one in yellow and laughed in her face, saying: "You now see which of us is the most powerful, and therefore the most worthy to rule. Had you remained faithful to our handsome Ki-Ki, as I did, you would not now be defeated and disgraced." "There is no disgrace in losing one battle," returned the other girl, proudly. "You are mistaken if you think you have conquered me, and you are wrong to insult one who is, for the time being, your captive." The maiden in green looked for an instant confused and ashamed; then she tossed her pretty head and walked away. They led all the prisoners out into the garden and then through the broken wall, and up and down the silver steps, into the great square of the cities of Twi. And here all the population crowded around them, for this was the first time any of them had seen their High Ki, or even known that they were girls; and the news of their quarrel and separation had aroused a great deal of excitement. "Let the executioners come forward!" cried the Ki-Ki, gleefully, and in answer to the command the twin executioners stepped up to the prisoners. They were big men, these executioners, each having a squint in one eye and a scar on the left cheek. They polished their axes a moment on their coat-sleeves, and then said to Prince Marvel and Nerle, who were to be the first victims: "Don't dodge, please, or our axes may not strike the right place. And do not be afraid, for the blows will only hurt you an instant. In the Land of Twi it is usually considered a pleasure to be executed by us, we are so exceedingly skillful." "I can well believe that," replied Nerle, although his teeth were chattering. But at this instant a loud shout was heard, and the twin people of Twi all turned their heads to find themselves surrounded by throngs of fierce enemies. Prince Marvel smiled, for he saw among the new-comers the giants and dwarfs and the stern Gray Men of King Terribus, with their monarch calmly directing their movements; and on the other side of the circle were the jolly faces and bushy whiskers of the fifty-nine reformed thieves, with burly Wul-Takim at their head. 19. The Reunion of the High Ki The twins of Twi were too startled and amazed to offer to fight with the odd people surrounding them. Even the executioners allowed their axes to fall harmlessly to the ground, and the double people, soldiers and citizens alike, turned to stare at the strangers in wonder. "We're here, Prince!" yelled Wul-Takim, his bristly beard showing over the heads of those who stood between. "Thank you," answered Prince Marvel. "And the men of Spor are here!" added King Terribus, who was mounted on a fine milk-white charger, richly caparisoned. "I thank the men of Spor," returned Prince Marvel, graciously. "Shall we cut your foes into small pieces, or would you prefer to hang them?" questioned the King of the Reformed Thieves, loudly enough to set most of his hearers shivering. But now the little maid in yellow stepped up to Prince Marvel and, regarding the youthful knight with considerable awe, said sweetly: "I beg you will pardon my people and spare them. They are usually good and loyal subjects, and if they fought against me--their lawful High Ki--it was only because they were misled by my separation from my other half." "That is true," replied the prince; "and as you are still the lawful High Ki of Twi, I will leave you to deal with your own people as you see fit. For those who have conquered your people are but your own allies, and are still under your orders, as I am myself." Hearing this, the green High Ki walked up to her twin High Ki and said, boldly: "I am your prisoner. It is now your turn. Do with me as you will." "I forgive you," replied her sister, in kindly tones. Then the little maid who had met with defeat gave a sob and turned away weeping, for she had expected anything but forgiveness. And now the Ki-Ki came forward and, bowing their handsome blond heads before the High Ki, demanded: "Are we forgiven also?" "Yes," said the girl, "but you are no longer fit to be rulers of my people. Therefore, you are henceforth deprived of your honorable offices of Ki-Ki, which I shall now bestow upon these good captains here," and she indicated the good-natured officers who had first captured the prince and Nerle. The people of Twi eagerly applauded this act, for the captains were more popular with them than the former Ki-Ki; but the blond ones both flushed with humiliation and anger, and said: "The captains fought against you, even as we did." "Yet the captains only obeyed your orders," returned the High Ki. "So I hold them blameless." "And what is to become of us now?" asked the former Ki-Ki. "You will belong to the common people, and earn your living playing tunes for them to dance by," answered the High Ki. And at this retort every one laughed, so that the handsome youths turned away with twin scowls upon their faces and departed amidst the jeers of the crowd. "Better hang 'em to a tree, little one," shouted Wul-Takim, in his big voice; "they won't enjoy life much, anyhow." But the maid shook her pretty head and turned to the prince. "Will you stay here and help me to rule my kingdom?" she asked. "I can not do that," replied Prince Marvel, "for I am but a wandering adventurer and must soon continue my travels. But I believe you will be able to rule your people without my help." "It is not so easy a task," she answered, sighing. "For I am singular and my people are all double." "Well, let us hold a meeting in your palace," said the prince, "and then we can decide what is best to be done." So they dismissed the people, who cheered their High Ki enthusiastically, returning quietly to their daily tasks and the gossip that was sure to follow such important events as they had witnessed. The army of King Terribus and the fifty-nine reformed thieves went to the twin palaces of the Ki and the Ki-Ki and made merry with feasting and songs to celebrate their conquest. And the High Ki, followed by the prince, Nerle, King Terribus and Wul-Takim, as well as by the Ki and the newly-appointed Ki-Ki, mounted the silver steps and passed over the wall to the royal palaces. The green High Ki followed them, still weeping disconsolately. When they had all reached the throne-room, the High Ki seated herself on one of the beautiful thrones and said: "By some strange chance, which I am unable to explain, my twin and I have become separated; so that instead of thinking and acting alike, we are now individuals--as are all the strange men who have passed through the hole in the hedge. And, being individuals, we can no longer agree, nor can one of us lawfully rule over the Kingdom of Twi, where all the subjects are twins, thinking and acting in unison." Said Prince Marvel: "Your Highness, I alone can explain why you became separated from your twin. By means of a fairy enchantment, which I learned years ago, I worked upon you a spell, which compelled your brain to work independent of your sister's brain. It seems to me that it is better each person should think her own thoughts and live her own life, rather than be yoked to another person and obliged to think and act as a twin, or one-half of a complete whole. And since you are now the one High Ki, and the acknowledged ruler of this country, I will agree to work the same fairy spell on all your people, so that no longer will there be twin minds in all this Land of Twi." "But all the cows and dogs and horses and other animals are double, as well as the people," suggested the old Ki, blinking their little eyes in amazement at the thought of being forever separated from each other. "I can also work the spell upon all the twin animals," said the prince, after a moment's hesitation. "And all our houses are built double, with twin doors and windows and chimneys, to accommodate our twin people," continued the High Ki. "And the trees and flowers--and even the blades of grass--are all double. And our roads are double, and--and everything else is double. I alone, the ruler of this land, am singular!" Prince Marvel became thoughtful now, for he did not know how to separate trees and flowers, and it would be a tedious task to separate the twin houses. "Why not leave the country as it is?" asked King Terribus of Spor. "The High Ki is welcome to come to my castle to live, and then she need no longer bother about the Land of Twi, which seems to me a poor place, after all." "And your sister may come with me to my cave, and be the queen of the reformed thieves, which is a much more important office than being High Ki of Twi," added big Wul-Takim, who had placed the maiden in green upon a cushion at his feet, and was striving to comfort her by gently stroking her silken hair with his rough hand. "But I love my country, and do not wish to leave it," answered the yellow High Ki. "And I love my twin sister, and regret that our minds have become separated," she continued, sadly. "I have it!" exclaimed Nerle. "Let the prince reunite you, making you regular twins of Twi again, and then you can continue to rule the country as the double High Ki, and everything will be as it was before." The yellow High Ki clapped her pink hands with delight and looked eagerly at the prince. "Will you?" she asked. "Will you please reunite us? And then all our troubles will be ended!" This really seemed to Marvel the best thing to be done. So he led the maid in green to the other throne, where she had once sat, and after replacing the golden crown upon her brow he whispered a fairy spell of much mystical power. Then the prince stepped back and regarded the maidens earnestly, and after a moment both the High Ki smiled upon him in unison and said--speaking the same words in the same voices and with the same accents: "Thank you very much!" 20. Kwytoffle, the Tyrant Having restored the High Ki to their former condition, to the great joy of the ancient Ki, Prince Marvel led his friends back to the palaces where his men were waiting. They were just in time to prevent serious trouble, for the fifty-eight reformed thieves had been boasting of their prowess to the huge giants and tiny dwarfs of King Terribus, and this had resulted in a quarrel as to which were the best fighters. Had not their masters arrived at the right moment there would certainly have been a fierce battle and much bloodshed,--and all over something of no importance. Terribus and Wul-Takim soon restored order, and then they accompanied the Ki and the Ki-Ki to the public square, where the people were informed that their Supreme Highnesses, the High Ki, had been reunited and would thereafter rule them with twin minds as well as twin bodies. There was great rejoicing at this news, for every twin in Twi was glad to have his troubles ended so easily and satisfactorily. That night the ryls and knooks and other invisible friends of Prince Marvel came and removed the dividing wall between the twin palaces of the High Ki, repairing speedily all the damage that had been done. And when our friends called upon the High Ki the next morning they found the two maids again dressed exactly alike in yellow robes, with strings of sparkling emeralds for ornament. And not even Prince Marvel could now tell one of the High Ki from the other. As for the maids themselves, it seemed difficult to imagine they had ever existed apart for a single moment. They were very pleasant and agreeable to their new friends, and when they heard that Prince Marvel was about to leave them to seek new adventures they said: "Please take us with you! It seems to us that we ought to know something of the big outside world from whence you came. If we see other kingdoms and people we shall be better able to rule our own wisely." "That seems reasonable," answered Marvel, "and I shall be very glad to have you accompany me. But who will rule the Land of Twi in your absence?" "The Ki-Ki shall be the rulers," answered the High Ki, "and we will take the Ki with us." "Then I will delay my departure until to-morrow morning," said the prince, "in order that your Highnesses may have time to prepare for the journey." And then he went back to the palaces of the other rulers, where the Ki expressed themselves greatly pleased at the idea of traveling, and the new Ki-Ki were proud to learn they should rule for some time the Land of Twi. Wul-Takim also begged to join the party, and so also did King Terribus, who had never before been outside of his own Kingdom of Spor; so Prince Marvel willingly consented. The fifty-eight reformed thieves, led by Gunder, returned to their cave, where they were living comfortably on the treasure Prince Marvel had given them; and the Gray Men and giants and dwarfs of Spor departed for their own country. In the morning Prince Marvel led his own gay cavalcade through the hole in the hedge, and they rode merrily away in search of adventure. By his side were the High Ki, mounted upon twin chestnut ponies that had remarkably slender limbs and graceful, arched necks. The ponies moved with exactly the same steps, and shook their manes and swished their tails at exactly the same time. Behind the prince and the High Ki were King Terribus, riding his great white charger, and Wul-Takim on a stout horse of jet-black color. The two ancient Ki and Nerle, being of lesser rank than the others, brought up the rear. "When we return to our Land of Twi," said the High Ki, "we shall close up for all time the hole you made in the hedge; for, if we are different from the rest of the world, it is better that we remain in seclusion." "I think it is right you should do that," replied Prince Marvel. "Yet I do not regret that I cut a hole in your hedge." "It was the hedge that delayed us in coming more promptly to your assistance," said Terribus; "for we had hard work to find the hole you had made, and so lost much valuable time." "All is well that ends well!" laughed the prince. "You certainly came in good time to rescue us from our difficulties." They turned into a path that led to Auriel, which Nerle had heard spoken of as "the Kingdom of the Setting Sun." Soon the landscape grew very pleasant to look upon, the meadows being broad and green, with groups of handsome trees standing about. The twilight of the Land of Twi was now replaced by bright sunshine, and in the air was the freshness of the near-by sea. At evening they came to a large farmhouse, where the owner welcomed them hospitably and gave them the best his house afforded. In answer to their questions about the Kingdom of Auriel, he shook his head sadly and replied: "It is a rich and beautiful country, but has fallen under great misfortunes. For when the good king died, about two years ago, the kingdom was seized by a fierce and cruel sorcerer, named Kwytoffle, who rules the people with great severity, and makes them bring him all their money and valuable possessions. So every one is now very poor and unhappy, and that is a great pity in a country so fair and fertile." "But why do not the people rebel?" asked Nerle. "They dare not rebel," answered the farmer, "because they fear the sorcery of Kwytoffle. If they do not obey him he threatens to change them into grasshoppers and June-bugs." "Has he ever changed any one into a grasshopper or a June-bug?" asked Prince Marvel. "No; but the people are too frightened to oppose him, and so he does not get the opportunity. And he has an army of fierce soldiers, who are accustomed to beat the people terribly if they do not carry every bit of their wealth to the sorcerer. So there is no choice but to obey him." "We certainly ought to hang this wicked creature!" exclaimed Wul-Takim. "I wish I had brought my Fool-Killer with me," sighed King Terribus; "for I could have kept him quite busy in this kingdom." "Can not something be done to rescue these poor people from their sad fate?" asked the lovely High Ki, anxiously. "We will make a call upon this Kwytoffle to-morrow," answered Prince Marvel, "and see what the fellow is like." "Alas! Alas!" wailed the good farmer, "you will all become grasshoppers and June-bugs--every one of you!" But none of the party seemed to fear that, and having passed the night comfortably with the farmer they left his house and journeyed on into the Kingdom of Auriel. Before noon they came upon the edge of a forest, where a poor man was chopping logs into firewood. Seeing Prince Marvel's party approach, this man ran toward them waving his hands and shouting excitedly: "Take the other path! Take the other path!" "And why should we take the other path?" inquired the prince, reining in his steed. "Because this one leads to the castle of the great sorcerer, Kwytoffle," answered the man. "But there is where we wish to go," said Marvel. "What! You wish to go there?" cried the man. "Then you will be robbed and enslaved!" "Not as long as we are able to fight," laughed the big Wul-Takim. "If you resist the sorcerer, you will be turned into grasshoppers and June-bugs," declared the man, staring at them in wonder. "How do you know that?" asked Marvel. "Kwytoffle says so. He promises to enchant every one who dares defy his power." "Has any one ever yet dared defy him?" asked Nerle. "Certainly not!" said the man. "No one wishes to become a June-bug or a grasshopper. No one dares defy him.". "I am anxious to see this sorcerer," exclaimed King Terribus. "He ought to prove an interesting person, for he is able to accomplish his purposes by threats alone." "Then let us ride on," said Marvel. "Dear us! Dear us!" remonstrated the bald-headed Ki; "are we to become grasshoppers, then?" "We shall see," returned the prince, briefly. "With your long legs," added the pretty pair of High Ki, laughingly, "you ought to be able to jump farther than any other grasshopper in the kingdom." "Great Kika-koo!" cried the Ki, nervously, "what a fate! what a terrible fate! And your Highnesses, I suppose, will become June-bugs, and flutter your wings with noises like buzz-saws!" 21. The Wonderful Book of Magic Whatever their fears might be, none of Prince Marvel's party hesitated to follow him along the path through the forest in search of the sorcerer, and by and by they came upon a large clearing. In the middle of this open space was a big building in such bad repair that its walls were tumbling down in several places, and all around it the ground was uncared for and littered with rubbish. A man was walking up and down in front of this building, with his head bowed low; but when he heard the sound of approaching horses' hoofs he looked up and stared for a moment in amazement. Then, with a shout of rage, he rushed toward them and caught Prince Marvel's horse by the bridle. "How dare you!" he cried; "how dare you enter my forest?" Marvel jerked his bridle from the man's grasp and said in return: "Who are you?" "Me! Who am I? Why, I am the great and powerful Kwytoffle! So beware! Beware my sorcery!" They all looked at the man curiously. He was short and very fat, and had a face like a puff-ball, with little red eyes and scarcely any nose at all. He wore a black gown with scarlet grasshoppers and june-bugs embroidered upon the cloth; and his hat was high and peaked, with an imitation grasshopper of extraordinary size perched upon its point. In his right hand he carried a small black wand, and around his neck hung a silver whistle on a silver cord. Seeing that the strangers were gazing on him so earnestly, Kwytoffle thought they were frightened; so he said again, in a big voice: "Beware my vengeance!" "Beware yourself!" retorted the prince. "For if you do not treat us more respectfully, I shall have you flogged." "What! Flog me!" shouted Kwytoffle, furiously. "For this I will turn every one of you into grasshoppers--unless you at once give me all the wealth you possess!" "Poor man!" exclaimed Nerle; "I can see you are longing for that flogging. Will you have it now?" and he raised his riding-whip above his head. Kwytoffle stumbled backward a few paces and blew shrilly upon his silver whistle. Instantly a number of soldiers came running from the building, others following quickly after them until fully a hundred rough-looking warriors, armed with swords and axes, had formed in battle array, facing the little party of Prince Marvel. "Arrest these strangers!" commanded Kwytoffle, in a voice like a roar. "Capture them and bind them securely, and then I will change them all into grasshoppers!" "All right," answered the captain of the soldiers; and then he turned to his men and shouted: "Forward--double-quick--march!" They came on with drawn swords; at first running, and then gradually dropping into a walk, as they beheld Nerle, Wul-Takim, King Terribus and Marvel standing quietly waiting to receive them, weapons in hand and ready for battle. A few paces off the soldiers hesitated and stopped altogether, and Kwytoffle yelled at the captain: "Why don't you go on? Why don't you capture them? Why don't you fight them?" "Why, they have drawn their swords!" responded the captain, reproachfully. "Who cares?" roared the sorcerer. "We care," said the captain, giving a shudder, as he looked upon the strangers. "Their swords are sharp, and some of us would get hurt." "You're cowards!" shrieked the enraged Kwytoffle. "I'll turn you all into June-bugs!" At this threat the soldiers dropped their swords and axes, and all fell upon their knees, trembling visibly and imploring their cruel master not to change them into june-bugs. "Bah!" cried Nerle, scornfully; "why don't you fight? If we kill you, then you will escape being June-bugs." "The fact is," said the captain, woefully, "we simply can't fight. For our swords are only tin, and our axes are made of wood, with silver-paper pasted over them." "But why is that?" asked Wul-Takim, while all the party showed their surprise. "Why, until now we have never had any need to fight," said the captain, "for every one has quickly surrendered to us or run away the moment we came near. But you people do not appear to be properly frightened, and now, alas! since you have drawn upon us the great sorcerer's anger, we shall all be transformed into June-bugs." "Yes!" roared Kwytoffle, hopping up and down with anger, "you shall all be June-bugs, and these strangers I will transform into grasshoppers!" "Very well," said Prince Marvel, quietly; "you can do it now." "I will! I will!" cried the sorcerer. "Then why don't you begin?" inquired the prince. "Why don't I begin? Why, I haven't got the enchantments with me, that's why. Do you suppose we great magicians carry around enchantments in our pockets?" returned the other, in a milder tone. "Where do you keep your enchantments?" asked the prince. "They're in my dwelling," snapped Kwytoffle, taking off his hat and fanning his fat face with the brim. "Then go and get them," said Marvel. "Nonsense! If I went to get the enchantments you would all run away!" retorted the sorcerer. "Not so!" protested Nerle, who was beginning to be amused. "My greatest longing in life is to become a grasshopper." "Oh, yes! PLEASE let us be grasshoppers!" exclaimed the High Ki maids in the same breath. "We want to hop! We want to hop! Please--PLEASE let us hop!" implored the bald-headed Ki, winking their left eyes at Wul-Takim. "By all means let us become grasshoppers," said King Terribus, smiling; and Wul-Takim added: "I'm sure your soldiers would enjoy being June-bugs, for then they wouldn't have to work. Isn't that so, boys?" The bewildered soldiers looked at one another in perplexity, and the still more bewildered sorcerer gazed on the speakers with staring eyes and wide-open mouth. "I insist," said Prince Marvel, "upon your turning us into grasshoppers and your soldiers into June-bugs, as you promised. If you do not, then I will flog you--as I promised." "Very well," returned the sorcerer, with a desperate look upon his face; "I'll go and find the enchantment." "And we'll go with you," remarked the prince, pleasantly. So the entire party accompanied Kwytoffle into the house, where they entered a large room that was in a state of much disorder. "Let me see," said the sorcerer, rubbing his ears, as if trying to think; "I wonder if I put them in this cupboard. You see," he explained, "no one has ever before dared me to transform him into a June-bug or grasshopper, so I have almost forgotten where I keep my book of enchantments. No, it's not in the cupboard," he continued, looking there; "but it surely must be in this chest." It was not in the chest, either, and so the sorcerer continued to look in all sorts of queer places for his book of enchantments, without finding it. Whenever he paused in his search Prince Marvel would say, sternly: "Go on! Find the book! Hunt it up. We are all anxious to become grasshoppers." And then Kwytoffle would set to work again, although big drops of perspiration were now streaming down his face. Finally he pulled an old book from underneath the pillow of his bed, and crying, "Here it is!" carried it to the window. He turned a few leaves of the book and then said: "How unfortunate! The compound I require to change you into grasshoppers must be mixed on the first day of September; and as this is now the eighth day of September I must wait nearly a year before I can work the enchantment." "How about the June-bugs?" asked Nerle. "Oh! Ah! The June-bug mixture can only be made at the dark o' the moon," said the sorcerer, pretending to read, "and that is three weeks from now." "Let me read it," said Prince Marvel, suddenly snatching the book from Kwytoffle's hands. Then he turned to the title-page and read: "'Lives of Famous Thieves and Impostors.' Why, this is not a book of enchantments." "That is what I suspected," said Terribus. "No one but a sorcerer can read the enchantments in this book," declared Kwytoffle; but he hung his head with a sheepish look, for he knew his deception had been well understood. "Is your own history written in this volume?" inquired Marvel. "No," answered the sorcerer. "Then it ought to be," said the prince, "for you are no sorcerer at all, but merely a thief and an impostor!" 22. The Queen of Plenta The soldiers of Kwytoffle wanted to hang their old master at once, for he had won their enmity by abusing them in many ways; but Prince Marvel would not let them do this. However, they tied the false sorcerer to a post, and the captain gave him a good whipping--one lash for each letter in the words "grasshopper" and "June-bug." Kwytoffle howled loudly for mercy, but no one was at all sorry for him. Wul-Takim tied a rope around the impostor's neck, and when the party left the castle they journeyed all through the kingdom of Auriel, and at every town or city they came to the reformed thief would cry out to the populace: "Here is the terrible sorcerer Kwytoffle, who threatened to change you into grasshoppers and june-bugs. But you may see that he is a very common man, with no powers of sorcery whatever!" And then the people would laugh and pelt mud at their former tyrant, and thank Prince Marvel for haying exposed the false and wicked creature. And they called the son of their old king back to his lawful throne, where he ruled wisely and well; and the hoarded wealth of Kwytoffle was divided among the people again, and soon the country became prosperous once more. This adventure was very amusing to the pretty High Ki of Twi. It afforded them laughter for many days, and none of the party ever saw a grasshopper or a june-bug afterward without thinking of the terrible sorcerer Kwytoffle. They left that disgraced person grooming horses for his board in the stables of the new king, and proceeded upon their journey. Without further event they reached the splendid southern Kingdom of Plenta, which was the most delightfully situated of any dominion in the Enchanted Island of Yew. It was ruled by a good and generous queen, who welcomed the strangers to her palace and gave a series of gay entertainments in their honor. King Terribus was especially an object of interest, for every one had heard his name and feared him and his fierce people. But when they beheld his pleasant countenance and listened to his gentle voice they began to regard him with much love and respect; and really Terribus was worthy of their friendship since he had changed from a deformed monster into an ordinary man, and had forbidden his people ever again to rob and plunder their weaker neighbors. But the most popular personages visiting at the court of the Queen of Plenta were the lovely High Ki of Twi. Although beautiful girls abounded in this kingdom, none could compare with the royal twins, and their peculiar condition only served to render them the more interesting. Two youths would approach the High Ki at the same time and invite them to dance, and in united voices they would accept the invitation and go whirling around the room with exactly the same steps, laughing at the same instant and enjoying the dance equally. But if one youth asked his partner a question, both the twins would make answer, and that was sure to confuse and embarrass the youth. Still, the maids managed very well to adapt themselves to the ways of people who were singular, although they sometimes became a little homesick for Twi, where they were like all the other people. The bald-headed Ki kept watchful eyes on their youthful rulers, and served them very cheerfully. But with all their travels and experiences, the old men could never be convinced it was better to be singular than double. Prince Marvel was the real hero of the party, and Nerle received much attention on account of his master's popularity. He did not seem as unhappy as usual, and when the prince inquired the reason, his esquire answered that he believed the excitement of their adventures was fast curing him of his longing for something he could not have. As for the pleasure of suffering, he had had some experience of that, too, and it was not nearly so delightful as he had expected. Wul-Takim was not a society man, so he stayed around the royal stables and made friends with the grooms, and traded his big black horse for two bay ones and a gold neck-chain, and was fairly content with his lot. And so the party enjoyed several happy weeks at the court of the good Queen of Plenta, until one day the terrible news arrived that carried them once more into exciting adventures. 23. The Red Rogue of Dawna One morning, while they were all standing in the courtyard waiting for their horses, as they were about to go for a ride, a courier came galloping swiftly up to the palace and cried: "Does any one know where Prince Marvel can be found?" "I am Prince Marvel," replied the young knight, stepping out from among the others. "Then have I reached my journey's end!" said the courier, whose horse was nearly exhausted from long and hard riding. "The Lady Seseley is in great danger, and sends for you to come and rescue her. The great Baron Merd, her father, has been killed and his castle destroyed, and all his people are either captives or have been slain outright." "And who has done this evil thing?" asked Prince Marvel, looking very stern and grave. "The Red Rogue of Dawna," answered the messenger. "He quarreled with the Baron Merd and sent his savage hordes to tear down his castle and slay him. I myself barely escaped with my life, and the Lady Seseley had but time to say, before she was carried off, that if I could find Prince Marvel he would surely rescue her." "And so I will!" declared the prince, "if she be still alive." "Who is this Lady Seseley?" asked Nerle, who had come to his master's side. "She is my first friend, to whom I owe my very existence. It is her image, together with those of her two friends, which is graven on my shield," answered Prince Marvel, thoughtfully. "And what will you do?" inquired the esquire. "I must go to her at once." When they heard of his mission all the party insisted on accompanying him. Even the dainty High Ki could not be deterred by any thoughts of dangers they might encounter; and after some discussion Prince Marvel allowed them to join him. So Wul-Takim sharpened his big broadsword, and Nerle carefully prepared his master's horse, so that before an hour had passed they were galloping toward the province of the Red Rogue of Dawna. Prince Marvel knew little concerning this personage, but Nerle had much to tell of him. The Red Rogue had once been page to a wise scholar and magician, who lived in a fine old castle in Dawna and ruled over a large territory. The boy was very small and weak--smaller even than the average dwarf--and his master did not think it worth while to watch him. But one evening, while the magician was standing upon the top of the highest tower of his castle, the boy gave him a push from behind, and he met death on the sharp rocks below. Then the boy took his master's book of magic and found a recipe to make one grow. He made the mixture and swallowed it, and straightway began to grow big and tall. This greatly delighted him, until he found he was getting much bigger than the average man and rapidly becoming a giant. So he sought for a way to arrest the action of the magical draft; but before he could find it he had grown to enormous proportions, and was bigger than the biggest giant. There was nothing in the book of magic to make one grow smaller, so he was obliged to remain as he was--the largest man in the Enchanted Island. All this had happened in a single night. The morning after his master's murder the page announced himself lord of the castle; and, seeing his enormous size, none dared deny his right to rule. On account of his bushy hair, which was fiery red in color, and the bushy red beard that covered his face when he became older, people came to call him the Red One. And after his evil deeds and quarrelsome temper had made him infamous throughout the island, people began to call him the Red Rogue of Dawna. He had gathered around him a number of savage barbarians, as wicked and quarrelsome as himself, and so none dared to interfere with him, or even to meet him, if it were possible to avoid it. This same Red Rogue it was who had drawn the good Baron Merd into a quarrel and afterward slain the old knight and his followers, destroyed his castle, and carried his little daughter Seseley and her girl friends, Berna and Helda, into captivity, shutting them up in his own gloomy castle. The Red Rogue thought he had done a very clever thing, and had no fear of the consequences until one of his men came running up to the castle to announce that Prince Marvel and his companions were approaching to rescue the Lady Seseley. "How many of them are there?" demanded the Red Rogue. "There are eight, altogether," answered the man, "but two of them are girls." "And they expect to force me to give up my captives?" asked the Red One, laughing with a noise like the roar of a waterfall. "Why, I shall make prisoners of every one of them!" The man looked at his master fearfully, and replied: "This Prince Marvel is very famous, and all people speak of his bravery and power. It was he who conquered King Terribus of Spor, and that mighty ruler is now his friend, and is one of the eight who approach." The Red Rogue stopped laughing, for the fame of Spor's terrible king had long ago reached him. And he reflected that any one who could conquer the army of giants and dwarfs and Gray Men that served Terribus must surely be one to be regarded seriously. Moreover--and this was a secret--the Red Rogue had never been able to gain the strength to correspond with his gigantic size, but had ever remained as weak as when he was a puny boy. So he was accustomed to rely on his cunning and on the terror his very presence usually excited to triumph over his enemies. And he began to be afraid of this prince. "You say two of the party are girls?" he asked. "Yes," said the man, "but also among them are King Terribus himself, and the renowned Wul-Takim, formerly king of thieves, who was conquered by the prince, although accounted a hard fighter, and is now his devoted servant. And there are two old men who are just alike and have a very fierce look about them. They are said to come from the hidden Kingdom of Twi." By this time the Red Rogue was thoroughly frightened, but he did not yet despair of defeating his enemies. He knew better than to attempt to oppose Prince Marvel by force, but he still hoped to conquer him by trickery and deceit. Among the wonderful things that the Red Rogue's former master, the wise scholar and magician, had made were two large enchanted mirrors, which were set on each side of the great hallway of the castle. Heavy curtains were drawn over the surfaces of these mirrors, because they both possessed a dreadful magical power. For whenever any one looked into one of them his reflection was instantly caught and imprisoned in the mirror, and his body at the same time became invisible to all earthly eyes, only the mirror retaining his form. While considering a way to prevent the prince from freeing the Lady Seseley, the Red Rogue happened to think of these mirrors, which had never yet been used. So he went stealthily into the great hall and drew aside the covering from one of the mirrors. He did not dare look into the mirror himself, but hurried away to another room, and then sent a page up a back stairway to summon the Lady Seseley and her two maids into his presence. The girls at once obeyed, for they greatly feared the Red Rogue; and of course they descended the front stairway and walked through the great hall. At once the large mirror that had been exposed to view caught the eye of Seseley, and she paused to regard her reflection in the glass. Her two companions did likewise, and instantly all three girls became invisible, while the mirror held their reflections fast in its magic surface. The Red Rogue was watching them through a crack in the door, and seeing the girls disappear he gave a joyful laugh and exclaimed: "Now let Prince Marvel find them if he can!" The three girls began to wander aimlessly through the castle; for not only were they invisible to others, but also to themselves and to one another, and they knew not what to do nor which way to turn. 24. The Enchanted Mirrors Presently Prince Marvel and his party arrived and paused before the doors of the castle, where the Red Rogue stood bowing to them with mock politeness and with an evil grin showing on his red face. "I come to demand the release of the Lady Seseley and her companions!" Prince Marvel announced, in a bold voice. "And I also intend to call you to account for the murder of Baron Merd." "You must be at the wrong castle," answered the Red One, "for I have murdered no baron, nor have I any Lady Seseley as prisoner." "Are you not the Red Rogue of Dawna?" demanded the prince. "Men call me by that name," acknowledged the other. "Then you are deceiving me," said the prince. "No, indeed!" answered the Red Rogue, mockingly. "I wouldn't deceive any one for the world. But, if you don't believe me, you are welcome to search my castle." "That I shall do," returned the prince, sternly, "whether I have your permission or not," and he began to dismount. But Nerle restrained him, saying: "Master, I beg you will allow me to search the castle. For this Red Rogue is playing some trick upon us, I am sure, and if anything happened to you there would be no one to protect the little High Ki and our other friends." "But suppose something should happen to you?" inquired the prince, anxiously. "In that case," said Nerle, "you can avenge me." The advice was so reasonable, under the circumstances, that the prince decided to act upon it. "Very well," said he, "go and search the castle, and I will remain with our friends. But if anything happens to you, I shall call the Red Rogue to account." So Nerle entered the castle, passing by the huge form of its owner, who only nodded to the boy and grinned with delight. The esquire found himself in the great hall and began to look around him, but without seeing any one. Then he advanced a few steps and, to his surprise, discovered a large mirror, in which were reflected the faces and forms of three girls, as well as his own. "Why, here they are!" he attempted to say; but he could not hear his own voice. He glanced down at himself but could see nothing at all--for his body had become invisible. His reflection was still in the glass, and he knew that his body existed the same as before; but although he yet saw plainly the hall and all that it contained, he could see neither himself nor any other person of flesh. After waiting a considerable time for his esquire to reappear Prince Marvel became impatient. "What have you done with Nerle?" he asked of the Red Rogue. "Nothing," was the reply. "I have been here, plainly within your sight, every moment." "Let me go and find him!" exclaimed King Terribus, and rushed into the castle before the prince could reply. But Terribus also encountered the enchanted mirror, and the prince waited in vain for his return. Then Wul-Takim volunteered to go in search of the others, and drew his big, sharp sword before entering the hall. But an hour passed by and he did not return. The Red Rogue was overjoyed at the success of his stratagem, and could scarce refrain from laughing outright at the prince's anxiety. Marvel was really perplexed. He knew some treachery was afoot, but could not imagine what it was. And when the pretty High Ki declared their intention of entering the castle, he used every endeavor to dissuade them. But the twin girls would not be denied, so great was their curiosity. So the prince said: "Well, we will all go together, so that the Ki and I may be able to protect you." The Red Rogue gladly granted them admittance, and they passed him and entered the great hall. The place appeared to them to be completely empty, so they walked along and came opposite the mirror. Here all stopped at once, and the twin High Ki uttered exclamations of surprise, and the twin Ki shouted, "Great Kika-koo!" For there in the glass were the reflections of the three girls and Nerle and King Terribus and Wul-Takim. And there were also the reflections of the twin High Ki and the twin Ki. Only Prince Marvel's reflection was missing, and this was because of his fairy origin. For the glass could reflect and hold only the forms of mortals. But the prince saw the reflections of all the others, and then made the discovery that the forms of the Ki and the High Ki had become invisible. No one except himself appeared to be standing in the great hall of the Red Rogue's castle! Yet grouped within the glass were the likenesses of all his friends, as well as those of Lady Seseley and her companions; and all were staring back at him earnestly, as if imploring him to save them. The mystery was now explained, and Prince Marvel rushed from the hall to find the treacherous Red Rogue. But that clever trickster had hidden himself in an upper room, and for the present was safely concealed. For a time Prince Marvel could not think what to do. Such magic was all unknown to him, and how to free the imprisoned forms of his friends was a real problem. He walked around the castle, but no one was in sight, the Rogue having given orders to all his people to keep away. Only the tethered horses did he see, and these raised their heads and whinnied as if in sympathy with his perplexity. Then he went back into the hall and searched all the rooms of the castle without finding a single person. On his return he stopped in front of the mirror and sorrowfully regarded the faces of his friends, who again seemed to plead for relief. And while he looked a sudden fit of anger came over him at being outwitted by this Red Rogue of Dawna. Scarcely knowing what he did, he seized his sword by the blade and struck the mirror a powerful blow with the heavy hilt. It shattered into a thousand fragments, which fell clattering upon the stone floor in every direction. And at once the charm was broken; each of his friends now became visible. They appeared running toward him from all parts of the castle, where they had been wandering in their invisible forms. They called out joyful greetings to one another, and then all of them surrounded the prince and thanked him earnestly for releasing them. The little Lady Seseley and her friends, Berna and Helda, were a bit shy in the presence of so many strangers; but they alone knew the prince's secret, and that he was a fairy transformed for a year; so they regarded him as an old and intimate acquaintance, and after being introduced by him to the others of his party they became more at ease. The sweet little High Ki maids at once attracted Seseley, and she loved them almost at first sight. But it was Nerle who became the little lady's staunchest friend; for there was something rather mystical and unnatural to him about the High Ki, who seemed almost like fairies, while in Seseley he recognized a hearty, substantial girl of his own rank in life. While they stood talking and congratulating one another outside of the castle, the Red Rogue of Dawna appeared among them. He had heard the noise of the smashing of his great mirror, and had come running downstairs from his hiding-place to find his cunning had all been for naught and his captives were free. A furious anger then took possession of the Rogue, and forgetting his personal weakness he caught up a huge battle-ax and rushed out to hurl himself upon Prince Marvel, intending to do him serious injury. But the prince was not taken unawares. He saw the Red Rogue coming and met him with drawn sword, striking quickly at the arm that wielded the big ax. The stroke was as sure as it was quick, and piercing the arm of the giant caused him to drop the ax with a howl of pain. Then Prince Marvel seized the Red Rogue by the ear--which he was just tall enough to reach--and dragged him up the steps and into the castle, the big fellow crying for mercy at every step and trembling like a leaf through cowardice. But down the hall Marvel marched him, seeking some room where the Rogue might be safely locked in. The great curtain that covered the second enchanted mirror now caught Prince Marvel's eye, and, still holding his prisoner by the ear, he reached out his left hand and pulled aside the drapery. The Red Rogue looked to see what his captor was doing, and beheld his own reflection in the magic mirror. Instantly he gave a wild cry and disappeared, his body becoming absolutely invisible, while his coarse red countenance stared back from the mirror. And then Prince Marvel gave a sigh of relief and dropped the curtain over the surface of the mirror. For he realized that the Red Rogue of Dawna had at last met with just punishment and was safely imprisoned for all time. 25. The Adventurers Separate When Prince Marvel and his friends had ridden away from the castle the savage followers of the Red One came creeping up to listen for their master's voice. But silence reigned in every part of the castle, and after stealing fearfully through the rooms without seeing any one the fellows became filled with terror and fled from the place, never to return. And afterward the neighbors whispered that the castle was haunted by the spirit of the terrible Red Rogue, and travelers dared not stop in the neighborhood, but passed by quickly and with averted faces. The prince and his party rode gaily along toward the Kingdom of Heg, for Nerle had invited them all to visit his father's castle. They were very happy over their escape, and only the little Lady Seseley became sad at times, when she thought of her father's sad fate. The Baron Neggar, who was Nerle's father, was not only a wealthy nobleman, but exceedingly kind and courteous; so that every member of Prince Marvel's party was welcomed to the big castle in a very hospitable manner. Nerle was eagerly embraced by both his father and mother, who were overjoyed to see him return safe and sound after his wanderings and adventures. "And have you been cured of your longing for something that you can not have?" asked the baron, anxiously. "Not quite," said Nerle, laughing; "but I am more reconciled to my lot. For I find wherever I go people are longing for just the things they can not get, and probably would not want if they had them. So, as it seems to be the fate of most mortals to live unsatisfied, I shall try hereafter to be more contented." These words delighted the good baron, and he gave a rich and magnificent feast in honor of his son's return. The High Ki of Twi, after passing several pleasant days at Nerle's home, now decided that they had seen enough of the world and would be glad to return to their own kingdom, where all was peaceful and uneventful, and rule it to the end of their days. So the baron furnished them an escort of twenty men-at-arms, and these conducted the High Ki and the aged Ki safely back to the hole in the hedge. And after they had entered the Land of Twi, the first act of the High Ki was to order the hedge repaired and the hole blocked up; and I have never heard that any one, from that time forth, ever succeeded in gaining admittance to the hidden kingdom. So its subsequent history is unknown. King Terribus also bade the prince an affectionate farewell and rode back to his own kingdom; and burly Wul-Takim accompanied him as far as the cave, where the fifty-eight reformed thieves awaited him. Nerle's mother gladly adopted the Lady Seseley and her two companions, and thereafter they made their home at the baron's castle. And years afterward, when they had grown to be women, Seseley was married to Nerle and became the lady of the castle herself. Prince Marvel enjoyed the feasting and dancing at the castle very much, but after the party began to break up, and the High Ki and the Ki had left him, as well as King Terribus and honest Wul-Takim, the young knight grew thoughtful and sometimes uneasy, and his happy laugh was less frequently heard. Nerle often regarded his young master with a feeling of awe, for there occasionally came a look into Marvel's eyes that reminded him more of the immortals than of any human being. But the prince treated him with rare kindness and always pressed Nerle's hand affectionately when he bade him good night, for he had grown fond of his esquire. Also they had long conversations together, during which Nerle gleaned a great deal of knowledge and received some advice that was of much use to him in his later life. One day Prince Marvel sought out Lady Seseley and said: "Will you ride with me to the Forest of Lurla?" "Willingly," she answered; and calling Berna and Helda to attend them, they mounted their horses and rode swiftly away, for it was a long distance to Lurla. By noon the party entered the forest, and although the path they traversed was unknown to the girls, who had usually entered the forest from its other side, near to where the Baron Merd's castle had stood, the prince seemed to have no difficulty in finding his way. He guided them carefully along the paths, his handsome war-charger stepping with much grace and dignity, until at length they came to a clearing. Here the prince paused abruptly, and Seseley looked around her and at once recognized the place. "Why," she exclaimed, in surprise, "it is the Fairy Bower!" And then she turned to Prince Marvel and asked in a soft voice: "Is the year ended, Prince?" His smile was a bit sad as he answered, slowly: "The year will be ended in five minutes!" 26. The End of the Year The girls sat upon the green moss and waited. Prince Marvel stood silent beside his horse. The silver armor was as bright as the day he donned it, nor was there a dent in his untarnished shield. The sword that had done such good service he held lightly in his hand, and the horse now and then neighed softly and turned to look at him with affectionate eyes. Seseley began to tremble with excitement, and Berna and Helda stared at the prince with big round eyes. But, after all, they saw nothing so remarkable as they expected. For presently--and it all happened in a flash--Prince Marvel was gone from their midst, and a handsome, slender-limbed deer darted from the bower and was quickly lost in the thick forest. On the ground lay a sheet of bark and a twig from a tree, and beside them was Lady Seseley's white velvet cloak. Then the three girls each drew a long breath and looked into one another's eyes, and, while thus engaged, a peal of silvery laughter sounded in their ears and made them spring quickly to their feet. Before them stood a tiny and very beautiful fairy, clothed in floating gossamer robes of rose and pearl color, and with eyes sparkling like twin stars. "Prince Marvel!" exclaimed the three, together. "No, indeed!" cried the fairy, with a pretty little pout. "I am no one but myself; and, really, I believe I shall now be content to exist for a few hundred years in my natural form. I have quite enjoyed my year as a mortal; but after all there are, I find, some advantages in being a fairy. Good by, my dears!" And with another ripple of laughter the pretty creature vanished, and the girls were left alone. 27. A Hundred Years Afterward About a hundred years after Prince Marvel enjoyed his strange adventures in the Enchanted Island of Yew an odd thing happened. A hidden mirror in a crumbling old castle of Dawna broke loose from its fastenings and fell crashing on the stone pavement of the deserted hall. And from amid the ruins rose the gigantic form of a man. His hair and beard were a fiery red, and he gazed at the desolation around him in absolute amazement. It was the Red Rogue of Dawna, set free from his imprisonment. He wandered out and found strange scenes confronting him, for during the hundred years a great change had taken place in the Enchanted Island. Great cities had been built and great kingdoms established. Civilization had won the people, and they no longer robbed or fought or indulged in magical arts, but were busily employed and leading respectable lives. When the Red Rogue tried to tell folks who he was, they but laughed at him, thinking the fellow crazy. He tried to get together a band of thieves, as Wul-Takim had done in the old days, but none would join him. And so, forced to be honest against his will, the Rogue was driven to earn a living by digging in the garden of a wealthy noble, of whom he had never before heard. But often he would pause in his labors and lean on his spade, while thoughts of the old days of wild adventure passed through his mind in rapid succession; and then the big man would shake his red head with a puzzled air and mutter: "I wonder who that Prince Marvel could have been! And I wonder what ever became of him!" 
7160	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 7. Chapter XXII. A victim of treachery. Once more 'King Foo-foo the First' was roving with the tramps and outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries, and sometimes the victim of small spitefulness at the hands of Canty and Hugo when the Ruffler's back was turned. None but Canty and Hugo really disliked him. Some of the others liked him, and all admired his pluck and spirit. During two or three days, Hugo, in whose ward and charge the King was, did what he covertly could to make the boy uncomfortable; and at night, during the customary orgies, he amused the company by putting small indignities upon him--always as if by accident. Twice he stepped upon the King's toes--accidentally--and the King, as became his royalty, was contemptuously unconscious of it and indifferent to it; but the third time Hugo entertained himself in that way, the King felled him to the ground with a cudgel, to the prodigious delight of the tribe. Hugo, consumed with anger and shame, sprang up, seized a cudgel, and came at his small adversary in a fury. Instantly a ring was formed around the gladiators, and the betting and cheering began. But poor Hugo stood no chance whatever. His frantic and lubberly 'prentice-work found but a poor market for itself when pitted against an arm which had been trained by the first masters of Europe in single-stick, quarter-staff, and every art and trick of swordsmanship. The little King stood, alert but at graceful ease, and caught and turned aside the thick rain of blows with a facility and precision which set the motley on-lookers wild with admiration; and every now and then, when his practised eye detected an opening, and a lightning-swift rap upon Hugo's head followed as a result, the storm of cheers and laughter that swept the place was something wonderful to hear. At the end of fifteen minutes, Hugo, all battered, bruised, and the target for a pitiless bombardment of ridicule, slunk from the field; and the unscathed hero of the fight was seized and borne aloft upon the shoulders of the joyous rabble to the place of honour beside the Ruffler, where with vast ceremony he was crowned King of the Game-Cocks; his meaner title being at the same time solemnly cancelled and annulled, and a decree of banishment from the gang pronounced against any who should thenceforth utter it. All attempts to make the King serviceable to the troop had failed. He had stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying to escape. He had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the first day of his return; he not only came forth empty-handed, but tried to rouse the housemates. He was sent out with a tinker to help him at his work; he would not work; moreover, he threatened the tinker with his own soldering-iron; and finally both Hugo and the tinker found their hands full with the mere matter of keeping his from getting away. He delivered the thunders of his royalty upon the heads of all who hampered his liberties or tried to force him to service. He was sent out, in Hugo's charge, in company with a slatternly woman and a diseased baby, to beg; but the result was not encouraging--he declined to plead for the mendicants, or be a party to their cause in any way. Thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life, and the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it, became gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that he began at last to feel that his release from the hermit's knife must prove only a temporary respite from death, at best. But at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he was on his throne, and master again. This, of course, intensified the sufferings of the awakening--so the mortifications of each succeeding morning of the few that passed between his return to bondage and the combat with Hugo, grew bitterer and bitterer, and harder and harder to bear. The morning after that combat, Hugo got up with a heart filled with vengeful purposes against the King. He had two plans, in particular. One was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his proud spirit and 'imagined' royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and if he failed to accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime of some kind upon the King, and then betray him into the implacable clutches of the law. In pursuance of the first plan, he purposed to put a 'clime' upon the King's leg; rightly judging that that would mortify him to the last and perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should operate, he meant to get Canty's help, and FORCE the King to expose his leg in the highway and beg for alms. 'Clime' was the cant term for a sore, artificially created. To make a clime, the operator made a paste or poultice of unslaked lime, soap, and the rust of old iron, and spread it upon a piece of leather, which was then bound tightly upon the leg. This would presently fret off the skin, and make the flesh raw and angry-looking; blood was then rubbed upon the limb, which, being fully dried, took on a dark and repulsive colour. Then a bandage of soiled rags was put on in a cleverly careless way which would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen, and move the compassion of the passer-by. {8} Hugo got the help of the tinker whom the King had cowed with the soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as soon as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and the tinker held him while Hugo bound the poultice tight and fast upon his leg. The King raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the moment the sceptre was in his hand again; but they kept a firm grip upon him and enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at his threats. This continued until the poultice began to bite; and in no long time its work would have been perfected, if there had been no interruption. But there was; for about this time the 'slave' who had made the speech denouncing England's laws, appeared on the scene, and put an end to the enterprise, and stripped off the poultice and bandage. The King wanted to borrow his deliverer's cudgel and warm the jackets of the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it would bring trouble --leave the matter till night; the whole tribe being together, then, the outside world would not venture to interfere or interrupt. He marched the party back to camp and reported the affair to the Ruffler, who listened, pondered, and then decided that the King should not be again detailed to beg, since it was plain he was worthy of something higher and better--wherefore, on the spot he promoted him from the mendicant rank and appointed him to steal! Hugo was overjoyed. He had already tried to make the King steal, and failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort, now, for of course the King would not dream of defying a distinct command delivered directly from head-quarters. So he planned a raid for that very afternoon, purposing to get the King in the law's grip in the course of it; and to do it, too, with such ingenious strategy, that it should seem to be accidental and unintentional; for the King of the Game-Cocks was popular now, and the gang might not deal over-gently with an unpopular member who played so serious a treachery upon him as the delivering him over to the common enemy, the law. Very well. All in good time Hugo strolled off to a neighbouring village with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one street after another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance to achieve his evil purpose, and the other watching as sharply for a chance to dart away and get free of his infamous captivity for ever. Both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for both, in their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely sure work this time, and neither meant to allow his fevered desires to seduce him into any venture that had much uncertainty about it. Hugo's chance came first. For at last a woman approached who carried a fat package of some sort in a basket. Hugo's eyes sparkled with sinful pleasure as he said to himself, "Breath o' my life, an' I can but put THAT upon him, 'tis good-den and God keep thee, King of the Game-Cocks!" He waited and watched--outwardly patient, but inwardly consuming with excitement--till the woman had passed by, and the time was ripe; then said, in a low voice-- "Tarry here till I come again," and darted stealthily after the prey. The King's heart was filled with joy--he could make his escape, now, if Hugo's quest only carried him far enough away. But he was to have no such luck. Hugo crept behind the woman, snatched the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old piece of blanket which he carried on his arm. The hue and cry was raised in a moment, by the woman, who knew her loss by the lightening of her burden, although she had not seen the pilfering done. Hugo thrust the bundle into the King's hands without halting, saying-- "Now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry 'Stop thief!' but mind ye lead them astray!" The next moment Hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked alley--and in another moment or two he lounged into view again, looking innocent and indifferent, and took up a position behind a post to watch results. The insulted King threw the bundle on the ground; and the blanket fell away from it just as the woman arrived, with an augmenting crowd at her heels; she seized the King's wrist with one hand, snatched up her bundle with the other, and began to pour out a tirade of abuse upon the boy while he struggled, without success, to free himself from her grip. Hugo had seen enough--his enemy was captured and the law would get him, now--so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling, and wended campwards, framing a judicious version of the matter to give to the Ruffler's crew as he strode along. The King continued to struggle in the woman's strong grasp, and now and then cried out in vexation-- "Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee of thy paltry goods." The crowd closed around, threatening the King and calling him names; a brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his elbows, made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for a lesson; but just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell with convincing force upon the man's arm, flat side down, the fantastic owner of it remarking pleasantly, at the same time-- "Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and uncharitable words. This is matter for the law's consideration, not private and unofficial handling. Loose thy hold from the boy, goodwife." The blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then went muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy's wrist reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but prudently closed their mouths. The King sprang to his deliverer's side, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming-- "Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, Sir Miles; carve me this rabble to rags!" Chapter XXIII. The Prince a prisoner. Hendon forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the King's ear-- "Softly, softly, my prince, wag thy tongue warily--nay, suffer it not to wag at all. Trust in me--all shall go well in the end." Then he added to himself: "SIR Miles! Bless me, I had totally forgot I was a knight! Lord, how marvellous a thing it is, the grip his memory doth take upon his quaint and crazy fancies! . . . An empty and foolish title is mine, and yet it is something to have deserved it; for I think it is more honour to be held worthy to be a spectre-knight in his Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows, than to be held base enough to be an earl in some of the REAL kingdoms of this world." The crowd fell apart to admit a constable, who approached and was about to lay his hand upon the King's shoulder, when Hendon said-- "Gently, good friend, withhold your hand--he shall go peaceably; I am responsible for that. Lead on, we will follow." The officer led, with the woman and her bundle; Miles and the King followed after, with the crowd at their heels. The King was inclined to rebel; but Hendon said to him in a low voice-- "Reflect, Sire--your laws are the wholesome breath of your own royalty; shall their source resist them, yet require the branches to respect them? Apparently one of these laws has been broken; when the King is on his throne again, can it ever grieve him to remember that when he was seemingly a private person he loyally sank the king in the citizen and submitted to its authority?" "Thou art right; say no more; thou shalt see that whatsoever the King of England requires a subject to suffer, under the law, he will himself suffer while he holdeth the station of a subject." When the woman was called upon to testify before the justice of the peace, she swore that the small prisoner at the bar was the person who had committed the theft; there was none able to show the contrary, so the King stood convicted. The bundle was now unrolled, and when the contents proved to be a plump little dressed pig, the judge looked troubled, whilst Hendon turned pale, and his body was thrilled with an electric shiver of dismay; but the King remained unmoved, protected by his ignorance. The judge meditated, during an ominous pause, then turned to the woman, with the question-- "What dost thou hold this property to be worth?" The woman courtesied and replied-- "Three shillings and eightpence, your worship--I could not abate a penny and set forth the value honestly." The justice glanced around uncomfortably upon the crowd, then nodded to the constable, and said-- "Clear the court and close the doors." It was done. None remained but the two officials, the accused, the accuser, and Miles Hendon. This latter was rigid and colourless, and on his forehead big drops of cold sweat gathered, broke and blended together, and trickled down his face. The judge turned to the woman again, and said, in a compassionate voice-- "'Tis a poor ignorant lad, and mayhap was driven hard by hunger, for these be grievous times for the unfortunate; mark you, he hath not an evil face--but when hunger driveth--Good woman! dost know that when one steals a thing above the value of thirteenpence ha'penny the law saith he shall HANG for it?" The little King started, wide-eyed with consternation, but controlled himself and held his peace; but not so the woman. She sprang to her feet, shaking with fright, and cried out-- "Oh, good lack, what have I done! God-a-mercy, I would not hang the poor thing for the whole world! Ah, save me from this, your worship--what shall I do, what CAN I do?" The justice maintained his judicial composure, and simply said-- "Doubtless it is allowable to revise the value, since it is not yet writ upon the record." "Then in God's name call the pig eightpence, and heaven bless the day that freed my conscience of this awesome thing!" Miles Hendon forgot all decorum in his delight; and surprised the King and wounded his dignity, by throwing his arms around him and hugging him. The woman made her grateful adieux and started away with her pig; and when the constable opened the door for her, he followed her out into the narrow hall. The justice proceeded to write in his record book. Hendon, always alert, thought he would like to know why the officer followed the woman out; so he slipped softly into the dusky hall and listened. He heard a conversation to this effect-- "It is a fat pig, and promises good eating; I will buy it of thee; here is the eightpence." "Eightpence, indeed! Thou'lt do no such thing. It cost me three shillings and eightpence, good honest coin of the last reign, that old Harry that's just dead ne'er touched or tampered with. A fig for thy eightpence!" "Stands the wind in that quarter? Thou wast under oath, and so swore falsely when thou saidst the value was but eightpence. Come straightway back with me before his worship, and answer for the crime!--and then the lad will hang." "There, there, dear heart, say no more, I am content. Give me the eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter." The woman went off crying: Hendon slipped back into the court room, and the constable presently followed, after hiding his prize in some convenient place. The justice wrote a while longer, then read the King a wise and kindly lecture, and sentenced him to a short imprisonment in the common jail, to be followed by a public flogging. The astounded King opened his mouth, and was probably going to order the good judge to be beheaded on the spot; but he caught a warning sign from Hendon, and succeeded in closing his mouth again before he lost anything out of it. Hendon took him by the hand, now, made reverence to the justice, and the two departed in the wake of the constable toward the jail. The moment the street was reached, the inflamed monarch halted, snatched away his hand, and exclaimed-- "Idiot, dost imagine I will enter a common jail ALIVE?" Hendon bent down and said, somewhat sharply-- "WILL you trust in me? Peace! and forbear to worsen our chances with dangerous speech. What God wills, will happen; thou canst not hurry it, thou canst not alter it; therefore wait, and be patient--'twill be time enow to rail or rejoice when what is to happen has happened." {1} Chapter XXIV. The escape. The short winter day was nearly ended. The streets were deserted, save for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight along, with the intent look of people who were only anxious to accomplish their errands as quickly as possible, and then snugly house themselves from the rising wind and the gathering twilight. They looked neither to the right nor to the left; they paid no attention to our party, they did not even seem to see them. Edward the Sixth wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way to jail had ever encountered such marvellous indifference before. By-and-by the constable arrived at a deserted market-square, and proceeded to cross it. When he had reached the middle of it, Hendon laid his hand upon his arm, and said in a low voice-- "Bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and I would say a word to thee." "My duty forbids it, sir; prithee hinder me not, the night comes on." "Stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly. Turn thy back a moment and seem not to see: LET THIS POOR LAD ESCAPE." "This to me, sir! I arrest thee in--" "Nay, be not too hasty. See thou be careful and commit no foolish error"--then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said in the man's ear--"the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost thee thy neck, man!" The poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless, at first, then found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but Hendon was tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was spent; then said-- "I have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee come to harm. Observe, I heard it all--every word. I will prove it to thee." Then he repeated the conversation which the officer and the woman had had together in the hall, word for word, and ended with-- "There--have I set it forth correctly? Should not I be able to set it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?" The man was dumb with fear and distress, for a moment; then he rallied, and said with forced lightness-- "'Tis making a mighty matter, indeed, out of a jest; I but plagued the woman for mine amusement." "Kept you the woman's pig for amusement?" The man answered sharply-- "Nought else, good sir--I tell thee 'twas but a jest." "I do begin to believe thee," said Hendon, with a perplexing mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; "but tarry thou here a moment whilst I run and ask his worship--for nathless, he being a man experienced in law, in jests, in--" He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated, fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out-- "Hold, hold, good sir--prithee wait a little--the judge! Why, man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!--come, and we will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be in evil case--and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. I am a man of family; and my wife and little ones--List to reason, good your worship: what wouldst thou of me?" "Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may count a hundred thousand--counting slowly," said Hendon, with the expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a very little one. "It is my destruction!" said the constable despairingly. "Ah, be reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides, and see how mere a jest it is--how manifestly and how plainly it is so. And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small that e'en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a rebuke and warning from the judge's lips." Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him-- "This jest of thine hath a name, in law,--wot you what it is?" "I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed it had a name--ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original." "Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi." "Ah, my God!" "And the penalty is death!" "God be merciful to me a sinner!" "By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha'penny, paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law, is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo--and the penalty is death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy." "Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou merciful--spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see nought that shall happen." "Good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable. And thou'lt restore the pig?" "I will, I will indeed--nor ever touch another, though heaven send it and an archangel fetch it. Go--I am blind for thy sake--I see nothing. I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my hands by force. It is but a crazy, ancient door--I will batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning." "Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break no jailer's bones for his escape." Chapter XXV. Hendon Hall. As soon as Hendon and the King were out of sight of the constable, his Majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle his account. Half an hour later the two friends were blithely jogging eastward on Hendon's sorry steeds. The King was warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London Bridge. Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep would be bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity, and moderate exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the stricken intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out of the tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy stages toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day. When he and the King had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn. The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the King's chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket. The next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and mightily enjoying each other's narratives. Hendon detailed all his wide wanderings in search of the King, and described how the archangel had led him a fool's journey all over the forest, and taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. Then--he said--the old man went into the bedchamber and came staggering back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there to rest, but it was not so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the King's return died out, then, and he departed upon the quest again. "And old Sanctum Sanctorum WAS truly sorry your highness came not back," said Hendon; "I saw it in his face." "Marry I will never doubt THAT!" said the King--and then told his own story; after which, Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the archangel. During the last day of the trip, Hendon's spirits were soaring. His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to say some gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there would be. It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses, marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a glimpse of his home. At last he was successful, and cried out excitedly-- "There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by! You may see the towers from here; and that wood there--that is my father's park. Ah, NOW thou'lt know what state and grandeur be! A house with seventy rooms--think of that!--and seven and twenty servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us speed--my impatience will not brook further delay." All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock before the village was reached. The travellers scampered through it, Hendon's tongue going all the time. "Here is the church--covered with the same ivy--none gone, none added." "Yonder is the inn, the old Red Lion,--and yonder is the market-place." "Here is the Maypole, and here the pump --nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know, but none know me." So his chat ran on. The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble mansion was before them. "Welcome to Hendon Hall, my King!" exclaimed Miles. "Ah, 'tis a great day! My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but coldly welcomed--but mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for when I say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee, thou'lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles Hendon's sake, and make their house and hearts thy home for ever after!" The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door, helped the King down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. A few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated the King with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs. "Embrace me, Hugh," he cried, "and say thou'rt glad I am come again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!" But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and bent a grave stare upon the intruder--a stare which indicated somewhat of offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response to some inward thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling curiosity, mixed with a real or assumed compassion. Presently he said, in a mild voice-- "Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy looks and dress betoken it. Whom dost thou take me to be?" "Take thee? Prithee for whom else than whom thou art? I take thee to be Hugh Hendon," said Miles, sharply. The other continued, in the same soft tone-- "And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?" "Imagination hath nought to do with it! Dost thou pretend thou knowest me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?" An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh's face, and he exclaimed-- "What! thou art not jesting? can the dead come to life? God be praised if it be so! Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after all these cruel years! Ah, it seems too good to be true, it IS too good to be true--I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me! Quick--come to the light--let me scan thee well!" He seized Miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began to devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this way and that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to prove him from all points of view; whilst the returned prodigal, all aglow with gladness, smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his head and saying-- "Go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor feature that cannot bide the test. Scour and scan me to thy content, my good old Hugh--I am indeed thy old Miles, thy same old Miles, thy lost brother, is't not so? Ah, 'tis a great day--I SAID 'twas a great day! Give me thy hand, give me thy cheek--lord, I am like to die of very joy!" He was about to throw himself upon his brother; but Hugh put up his hand in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his breast, saying with emotion-- "Ah, God of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous disappointment!" Miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his tongue, and cried out-- "WHAT disappointment? Am I not thy brother?" Hugh shook his head sadly, and said-- "I pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the resemblances that are hid from mine. Alack, I fear me the letter spoke but too truly." "What letter?" "One that came from over sea, some six or seven years ago. It said my brother died in battle." "It was a lie! Call thy father--he will know me." "One may not call the dead." "Dead?" Miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled. "My father dead!--oh, this is heavy news. Half my new joy is withered now. Prithee let me see my brother Arthur--he will know me; he will know me and console me." "He, also, is dead." "God be merciful to me, a stricken man! Gone,--both gone--the worthy taken and the worthless spared, in me! Ah! I crave your mercy!--do not say the Lady Edith--" "Is dead? No, she lives." "Then, God be praised, my joy is whole again! Speed thee, brother--let her come to me! An' SHE say I am not myself--but she will not; no, no, SHE will know me, I were a fool to doubt it. Bring her--bring the old servants; they, too, will know me." "All are gone but five--Peter, Halsey, David, Bernard, and Margaret." So saying, Hugh left the room. Miles stood musing a while, then began to walk the floor, muttering-- "The five arch-villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal and honest --'tis an odd thing." He continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he had forgotten the King entirely. By-and-by his Majesty said gravely, and with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words themselves were capable of being interpreted ironically-- "Mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world whose identity is denied, and whose claims are derided. Thou hast company." "Ah, my King," cried Hendon, colouring slightly, "do not thou condemn me --wait, and thou shalt see. I am no impostor--she will say it; you shall hear it from the sweetest lips in England. I an impostor? Why, I know this old hall, these pictures of my ancestors, and all these things that are about us, as a child knoweth its own nursery. Here was I born and bred, my lord; I speak the truth; I would not deceive thee; and should none else believe, I pray thee do not THOU doubt me--I could not bear it." "I do not doubt thee," said the King, with a childlike simplicity and faith. "I thank thee out of my heart!" exclaimed Hendon with a fervency which showed that he was touched. The King added, with the same gentle simplicity-- "Dost thou doubt ME?" A guilty confusion seized upon Hendon, and he was grateful that the door opened to admit Hugh, at that moment, and saved him the necessity of replying. A beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed Hugh, and after her came several liveried servants. The lady walked slowly, with her head bowed and her eyes fixed upon the floor. The face was unspeakably sad. Miles Hendon sprang forward, crying out-- "Oh, my Edith, my darling--" But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady-- "Look upon him. Do you know him?" At the sound of Miles's voice the woman had started slightly, and her cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now. She stood still, during an impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted up her head and looked into Hendon's eyes with a stony and frightened gaze; the blood sank out of her face, drop by drop, till nothing remained but the grey pallor of death; then she said, in a voice as dead as the face, "I know him not!" and turned, with a moan and a stifled sob, and tottered out of the room. Miles Hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. After a pause, his brother said to the servants-- "You have observed him. Do you know him?" They shook their heads; then the master said-- "The servants know you not, sir. I fear there is some mistake. You have seen that my wife knew you not." "Thy WIFE!" In an instant Hugh was pinned to the wall, with an iron grip about his throat. "Oh, thou fox-hearted slave, I see it all! Thou'st writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride and goods are its fruit. There--now get thee gone, lest I shame mine honourable soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a mannikin!" Hugh, red-faced, and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest chair, and commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous stranger. They hesitated, and one of them said-- "He is armed, Sir Hugh, and we are weaponless." "Armed! What of it, and ye so many? Upon him, I say!" But Miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added-- "Ye know me of old--I have not changed; come on, an' it like you." This reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held back. "Then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the doors, whilst I send one to fetch the watch!" said Hugh. He turned at the threshold, and said to Miles, "You'll find it to your advantage to offend not with useless endeavours at escape." "Escape? Spare thyself discomfort, an' that is all that troubles thee. For Miles Hendon is master of Hendon Hall and all its belongings. He will remain--doubt it not." Chapter XXVI. Disowned. The King sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said-- "'Tis strange--most strange. I cannot account for it." "No, it is not strange, my liege. I know him, and this conduct is but natural. He was a rascal from his birth." "Oh, I spake not of HIM, Sir Miles." "Not of him? Then of what? What is it that is strange?" "That the King is not missed." "How? Which? I doubt I do not understand." "Indeed? Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that the land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my person and making search for me? Is it no matter for commotion and distress that the Head of the State is gone; that I am vanished away and lost?" "Most true, my King, I had forgot." Then Hendon sighed, and muttered to himself, "Poor ruined mind--still busy with its pathetic dream." "But I have a plan that shall right us both--I will write a paper, in three tongues--Latin, Greek and English--and thou shalt haste away with it to London in the morning. Give it to none but my uncle, the Lord Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say I wrote it. Then he will send for me." "Might it not be best, my Prince, that we wait here until I prove myself and make my rights secure to my domains? I should be so much the better able then to--" The King interrupted him imperiously-- "Peace! What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests, contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the integrity of a throne?" Then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if he were sorry for his severity, "Obey, and have no fear; I will right thee, I will make thee whole--yes, more than whole. I shall remember, and requite." So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. Hendon contemplated him lovingly a while, then said to himself-- "An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke; there's no denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten like your true King; now where got he that trick? See him scribble and scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to be Latin and Greek--and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to pretend to post away to-morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me." The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent episode. So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the King presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act. "How marvellous strange she acted," he muttered. "I think she knew me--and I think she did NOT know me. These opinions do conflict, I perceive it plainly; I cannot reconcile them, neither can I, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even persuade one to outweigh the other. The matter standeth simply thus: she MUST have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be otherwise? Yet she SAID she knew me not, and that is proof perfect, for she cannot lie. But stop--I think I begin to see. Peradventure he hath influenced her, commanded her, compelled her to lie. That is the solution. The riddle is unriddled. She seemed dead with fear--yes, she was under his compulsion. I will seek her; I will find her; now that he is away, she will speak her true mind. She will remember the old times when we were little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she will no more betray me, but will confess me. There is no treacherous blood in her--no, she was always honest and true. She has loved me, in those old days--this is my security; for whom one has loved, one cannot betray." He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and the Lady Edith entered. She was very pale, but she walked with a firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity. Her face was as sad as before. Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped where he was. She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise. Thus simply did she take the sense of old comradeship out of him, and transform him into a stranger and a guest. The surprise of it, the bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a moment, if he WAS the person he was pretending to be, after all. The Lady Edith said-- "Sir, I have come to warn you. The mad cannot be persuaded out of their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded to avoid perils. I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal--but do not tarry here with it; for here it is dangerous." She looked steadily into Miles's face a moment, then added, impressively, "It is the more dangerous for that you ARE much like what our lost lad must have grown to be if he had lived." "Heavens, madam, but I AM he!" "I truly think you think it, sir. I question not your honesty in that; I but warn you, that is all. My husband is master in this region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve, as he wills. If you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my husband might bid you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace; but trust me, I know him well; I know what he will do; he will say to all that you are but a mad impostor, and straightway all will echo him." She bent upon Miles that same steady look once more, and added: "If you WERE Miles Hendon, and he knew it and all the region knew it--consider what I am saying, weigh it well--you would stand in the same peril, your punishment would be no less sure; he would deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough to give you countenance." "Most truly I believe it," said Miles, bitterly. "The power that can command one life-long friend to betray and disown another, and be obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honour are concerned." A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion when she proceeded-- "I have warned you--I must still warn you--to go hence. This man will destroy you, else. He is a tyrant who knows no pity. I, who am his fettered slave, know this. Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest: better that you were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this miscreant. Your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions; you have assaulted him in his own house: you are ruined if you stay. Go--do not hesitate. If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you, and bribe the servants to let you pass. Oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may." Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood before her. "Grant me one thing," he said. "Let your eyes rest upon mine, so that I may see if they be steady. There--now answer me. Am I Miles Hendon?" "No. I know you not." "Swear it!" The answer was low, but distinct-- "I swear." "Oh, this passes belief!" "Fly! Why will you waste the precious time? Fly, and save yourself." At that moment the officers burst into the room, and a violent struggle began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away. The King was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison. 
24053	----	None 
7161	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 8. Chapter XXVII. In prison. The cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a large room where persons charged with trifling offences were commonly kept. They had company, for there were some twenty manacled and fettered prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying ages,--an obscene and noisy gang. The King chafed bitterly over the stupendous indignity thus put upon his royalty, but Hendon was moody and taciturn. He was pretty thoroughly bewildered; he had come home, a jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild with joy over his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder and a jail. The promise and the fulfilment differed so widely that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it was most tragic or most grotesque. He felt much as a man might who had danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by lightning. But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down into some sort of order, and then his mind centred itself upon Edith. He turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights, but he could not make anything satisfactory out of it. Did she know him--or didn't she know him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a long time; but he ended, finally, with the conviction that she did know him, and had repudiated him for interested reasons. He wanted to load her name with curses now; but this name had so long been sacred to him that he found he could not bring his tongue to profane it. Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition, Hendon and the King passed a troubled night. For a bribe the jailer had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of ribald songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing was the natural consequence. At last, a while after midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly killed her by beating her over the head with his manacles before the jailer could come to the rescue. The jailer restored peace by giving the man a sound clubbing about the head and shoulders--then the carousing ceased; and after that, all had an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of the moanings and groanings of the two wounded people. During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a monotonous sameness as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered more or less distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling went on with symmetrical regularity. However, there was a change of incident at last. The jailer brought in an old man, and said to him-- "The villain is in this room--cast thy old eyes about and see if thou canst say which is he." Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the first time since he had been in the jail. He said to himself, "This is Blake Andrews, a servant all his life in my father's family--a good honest soul, with a right heart in his breast. That is, formerly. But none are true now; all are liars. This man will know me--and will deny me, too, like the rest." The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn, and finally said-- "I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets. Which is he?" The jailer laughed. "Here," he said; "scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion." The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and earnestly, then shook his head and said-- "Marry, THIS is no Hendon--nor ever was!" "Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An' I were Sir Hugh, I would take the shabby carle and--" The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat suggestive of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively-- "Let him bless God an' he fare no worse. An' _I_ had the handling o' the villain he should roast, or I am no true man!" The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said-- "Give him a piece of thy mind, old man--they all do it. Thou'lt find it good diversion." Then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared. The old man dropped upon his knees and whispered-- "God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! I believed thou wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and rubbish o' the streets. I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be strangled for it." "No," said Hendon; "thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet help but little in my cause. But I thank thee, for thou hast given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind." The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the King; for he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he also furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the dainties for the King; without them his Majesty might not have survived, for he was not able to eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer. Andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair degree of information each time --information delivered in a low voice, for Hendon's benefit, and interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the benefit of other hearers. So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from Hendon, impaired the father's health; he believed he was going to die, and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he passed away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles's return; then the letter came which brought the news of Miles's death; the shock prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a month's respite, then another, and finally a third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of Sir Richard. It had not proved a happy one. It was whispered about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found among her husband's papers several rough and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the marriage--and Sir Richard's death, too--by a wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since the father's death Sir Hugh had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread. There was a bit of Andrew's gossip which the King listened to with a lively interest-- "There is rumour that the King is mad. But in charity forbear to say _I_ mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say." His Majesty glared at the old man and said-- "The King is NOT mad, good man--and thou'lt find it to thy advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than this seditious prattle." "What doth the lad mean?" said Andrews, surprised at this brisk assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign, and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget-- "The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two--the 16th of the month--and the new King will be crowned at Westminster the 20th." "Methinks they must needs find him first," muttered his Majesty; then added, confidently, "but they will look to that--and so also shall I." "In the name of--" But the old man got no further--a warning sign from Hendon checked his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip-- "Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation--and with grand hopes. He confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour with the Lord Protector." "What Lord Protector?" asked his Majesty. "His Grace the Duke of Somerset." "What Duke of Somerset?" "Marry, there is but one--Seymour, Earl of Hertford." The King asked sharply-- "Since when is HE a duke, and Lord Protector?" "Since the last day of January." "And prithee who made him so?" "Himself and the Great Council--with help of the King." His Majesty started violently. "The KING!" he cried. "WHAT king, good sir?" "What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we have but one, 'tis not difficult to answer--his most sacred Majesty King Edward the Sixth--whom God preserve! Yea, and a dear and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no--and they say he mendeth daily --his praises are on all men's lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in England; for he began humanely with saving the old Duke of Norfolk's life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the people." This news struck his Majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old man's gossip. He wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-boy whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace. It did not seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners and speech would betray him if he pretended to be the Prince of Wales--then he would be driven out, and search made for the true prince. Could it be that the Court had set up some sprig of the nobility in his place? No, for his uncle would not allow that--he was all-powerful and could and would crush such a movement, of course. The boy's musings profited him nothing; the more he tried to unriddle the mystery the more perplexed he became, the more his head ached, and the worse he slept. His impatience to get to London grew hourly, and his captivity became almost unendurable. Hendon's arts all failed with the King--he could not be comforted; but a couple of women who were chained near him succeeded better. Under their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree of patience. He was very grateful, and came to love them dearly and to delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He asked them why they were in prison, and when they said they were Baptists, he smiled, and inquired-- "Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? Now I grieve, for I shall lose ye--they will not keep ye long for such a little thing." They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy. He said, eagerly-- "You do not speak; be good to me, and tell me--there will be no other punishment? Prithee tell me there is no fear of that." They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he pursued it-- "Will they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so cruel! Say they would not. Come, they WILL not, will they?" The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with emotion-- "Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit!--God will help us to bear our--" "It is a confession!" the King broke in. "Then they WILL scourge thee, the stony-hearted wretches! But oh, thou must not weep, I cannot bear it. Keep up thy courage--I shall come to my own in time to save thee from this bitter thing, and I will do it!" When the King awoke in the morning, the women were gone. "They are saved!" he said, joyfully; then added, despondently, "but woe is me!--for they were my comforters." Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in token of remembrance. He said he would keep these things always; and that soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take them under his protection. Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates, and commanded that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. The King was overjoyed--it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and breathe the fresh air once more. He fretted and chafed at the slowness of the officers, but his turn came at last, and he was released from his staple and ordered to follow the other prisoners with Hendon. The court or quadrangle was stone-paved, and open to the sky. The prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and were placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall. A rope was stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded by their officers. It was a chill and lowering morning, and a light snow which had fallen during the night whitened the great empty space and added to the general dismalness of its aspect. Now and then a wintry wind shivered through the place and sent the snow eddying hither and thither. In the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts. A glance showed the King that these were his good friends. He shuddered, and said to himself, "Alack, they are not gone free, as I had thought. To think that such as these should know the lash!--in England! Ay, there's the shame of it--not in Heathennesse, Christian England! They will be scourged; and I, whom they have comforted and kindly entreated, must look on and see the great wrong done; it is strange, so strange, that I, the very source of power in this broad realm, am helpless to protect them. But let these miscreants look well to themselves, for there is a day coming when I will require of them a heavy reckoning for this work. For every blow they strike now, they shall feel a hundred then." A great gate swung open, and a crowd of citizens poured in. They flocked around the two women, and hid them from the King's view. A clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was hidden. The King now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions were being asked and answered, but he could not make out what was said. Next there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much passing and repassing of officials through that part of the crowd that stood on the further side of the women; and whilst this proceeded a deep hush gradually fell upon the people. Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the King saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. Faggots had been piled about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting them! The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping and crackling faggots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on the wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer--just then two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering piercing screams, and threw themselves upon the women at the stake. Instantly they were torn away by the officers, and one of them was kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying she would die with her mother; and before she could be stopped she had flung her arms about her mother's neck again. She was torn away once more, and with her gown on fire. Two or three men held her, and the burning portion of her gown was snatched off and thrown flaming aside, she struggling all the while to free herself, and saying she would be alone in the world, now; and begging to be allowed to die with her mother. Both the girls screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this tumult was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of mortal agony--the King glanced from the frantic girls to the stake, then turned away and leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked no more. He said, "That which I have seen, in that one little moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide there; and I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights, till I die. Would God I had been blind!" Hendon was watching the King. He said to himself, with satisfaction, "His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth gentler. If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these varlets, and said he was King, and commanded that the women be turned loose unscathed. Soon his delusion will pass away and be forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again. God speed the day!" That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain over night, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various places in the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed. The King conversed with these --he had made it a point, from the beginning, to instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners whenever the opportunity offered --and the tale of their woes wrung his heart. One of them was a poor half-witted woman who had stolen a yard or two of cloth from a weaver --she was to be hanged for it. Another was a man who had been accused of stealing a horse; he said the proof had failed, and he had imagined that he was safe from the halter; but no--he was hardly free before he was arraigned for killing a deer in the King's park; this was proved against him, and now he was on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman's apprentice whose case particularly distressed the King; this youth said he found a hawk, one evening, that had escaped from its owner, and he took it home with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court convicted him of stealing it, and sentenced him to death. The King was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to break jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount his throne and hold out his sceptre in mercy over these unfortunate people and save their lives. "Poor child," sighed Hendon, "these woeful tales have brought his malady upon him again; alack, but for this evil hap, he would have been well in a little time." Among these prisoners was an old lawyer--a man with a strong face and a dauntless mien. Three years past, he had written a pamphlet against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been punished for it by the loss of his ears in the pillory, and degradation from the bar, and in addition had been fined 3,000 pounds and sentenced to imprisonment for life. Lately he had repeated his offence; and in consequence was now under sentence to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, pay a fine of 5,000 pounds, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life. "These be honourable scars," he said, and turned back his grey hair and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears. The King's eye burned with passion. He said-- "None believe in me--neither wilt thou. But no matter--within the compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that have dishonoured thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept from the statute books. The world is made wrong; kings should go to school to their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy." {1} Chapter XXVIII. The sacrifice. Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinement and inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further imprisonment should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about that. He was in a fine fury when he found himself described as a 'sturdy vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the stocks for bearing that character and for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall. His pretensions as to brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon honours and estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not even worth examination. He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an occasional cuff, besides, for his irreverent conduct. The King could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good friend and servant. The King had been nearly condemned to the stocks himself for being in such bad company, but had been let off with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth. When the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last, after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. There sat his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a dirty mob--he, the body servant of the King of England! Edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not realised the half that it meant. His anger began to rise as the sense of this new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat, the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush itself against Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its enjoyment of the episode. He sprang across the open circle and confronted the officer in charge, crying-- "For shame! This is my servant--set him free! I am the--" "Oh, peace!" exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, "thou'lt destroy thyself. Mind him not, officer, he is mad." "Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good man, I have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat, to that I am well inclined." He turned to a subordinate and said, "Give the little fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his manners." "Half a dozen will better serve his turn," suggested Sir Hugh, who had ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing glance at the proceedings. The King was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralysed was he with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the record of the scourging of an English king with whips--it was an intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that shameful page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must either take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions; he would take the stripes--a king might do that, but a king could not beg. But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. "Let the child go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he is? Let him go--I will take his lashes." "Marry, a good thought--and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh, his face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "Let the little beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his place--an honest dozen, well laid on." The King was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, "Yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind--only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six strokes the more." Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and whilst the lash was applied the poor little King turned away his face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. "Ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall never perish out of my memory. I will not forget it--and neither shall THEY!" he added, with passion. Whilst he mused, his appreciation of Hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it. Presently he said to himself, "Who saves his prince from wounds and possible death--and this he did for me --performs high service; but it is little--it is nothing--oh, less than nothing!--when 'tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince from SHAME!" Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. The stillness that pervaded the place, when Hendon found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before. The King came softly to Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear-- "Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility to men." He picked up the scourge from the ground, touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, "Edward of England dubs thee Earl!" Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the same time the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign of his inward mirth from showing outside. To be suddenly hoisted, naked and gory, from the common stocks to the Alpine altitude and splendour of an Earldom, seemed to him the last possibility in the line of the grotesque. He said to himself, "Now am I finely tinselled, indeed! The spectre-knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl--a dizzy flight for a callow wing! An' this go on, I shall presently be hung like a very maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe honours. But I shall value them, all valueless as they are, for the love that doth bestow them. Better these poor mock dignities of mine, that come unasked, from a clean hand and a right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging and interested power." The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as silently closed together again. And so remained; nobody went so far as to venture a remark in favour of the prisoner, or in compliment to him; but no matter --the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself. A late comer who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and who delivered a sneer at the 'impostor,' and was in the act of following it with a dead cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and then the deep quiet resumed sway once more. Chapter XXIX. To London. When Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. His sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. He mounted and rode off, followed by the King, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone. Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go? Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor besides. Where could he hope to find this powerful help? Where, indeed! It was a knotty question. By-and-by a thought occurred to him which pointed to a possibility--the slenderest of slender possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of any other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old Andrews had said about the young King's goodness and his generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and try to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a monarch? Never mind--let that matter take care of itself; it was a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients: no doubt he would be able to find a way. Yes, he would strike for the capital. Maybe his father's old friend Sir Humphrey Marlow would help him--'good old Sir Humphrey, Head Lieutenant of the late King's kitchen, or stables, or something'--Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised his head and looked about him. He was surprised to see how far he had come; the village was away behind him. The King was jogging along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's new-born cheerfulness: would the boy be willing to go again to a city where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but ill-usage and pinching want? But the question must be asked; it could not be avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called out-- "I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. Thy commands, my liege!" "To London!" Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer--but astounded at it too. The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance. But it ended with one. About ten o'clock on the night of the 19th of February they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst of a writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from manifold torches--and at that instant the decaying head of some former duke or other grandee tumbled down between them, striking Hendon on the elbow and then bounding off among the hurrying confusion of feet. So evanescent and unstable are men's works in this world!--the late good King is but three weeks dead and three days in his grave, and already the adornments which he took such pains to select from prominent people for his noble bridge are falling. A citizen stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the back of somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the first person that came handy, and was promptly laid out himself by that person's friend. It was the right ripe time for a free fight, for the festivities of the morrow --Coronation Day--were already beginning; everybody was full of strong drink and patriotism; within five minutes the free fight was occupying a good deal of ground; within ten or twelve it covered an acre of so, and was become a riot. By this time Hendon and the King were hopelessly separated from each other and lost in the rush and turmoil of the roaring masses of humanity. And so we leave them. Chapter XXX. Tom's progress. Whilst the true King wandered about the land poorly clad, poorly fed, cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding with thieves and murderers in a jail another, and called idiot and impostor by all impartially, the mock King Tom Canty enjoyed quite a different experience. When we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have a bright side for him. This bright side went on brightening more and more every day: in a very little while it was become almost all sunshine and delightfulness. He lost his fears; his misgivings faded out and died; his embarrassments departed, and gave place to an easy and confident bearing. He worked the whipping-boy mine to ever-increasing profit. He ordered my Lady Elizabeth and my Lady Jane Grey into his presence when he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed them when he was done with them, with the air of one familiarly accustomed to such performances. It no longer confused him to have these lofty personages kiss his hand at parting. He came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and dressed with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning. It came to be a proud pleasure to march to dinner attended by a glittering procession of officers of state and gentlemen-at-arms; insomuch, indeed, that he doubled his guard of gentlemen-at-arms, and made them a hundred. He liked to hear the bugles sounding down the long corridors, and the distant voices responding, "Way for the King!" He even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in council, and seeming to be something more than the Lord Protector's mouthpiece. He liked to receive great ambassadors and their gorgeous trains, and listen to the affectionate messages they brought from illustrious monarchs who called him brother. O happy Tom Canty, late of Offal Court! He enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more: he found his four hundred servants too few for his proper grandeur, and trebled them. The adulation of salaaming courtiers came to be sweet music to his ears. He remained kind and gentle, and a sturdy and determined champion of all that were oppressed, and he made tireless war upon unjust laws: yet upon occasion, being offended, he could turn upon an earl, or even a duke, and give him a look that would make him tremble. Once, when his royal 'sister,' the grimly holy Lady Mary, set herself to reason with him against the wisdom of his course in pardoning so many people who would otherwise be jailed, or hanged, or burned, and reminded him that their august late father's prisons had sometimes contained as high as sixty thousand convicts at one time, and that during his admirable reign he had delivered seventy-two thousand thieves and robbers over to death by the executioner, {9} the boy was filled with generous indignation, and commanded her to go to her closet, and beseech God to take away the stone that was in her breast, and give her a human heart. Did Tom Canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful prince who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot zeal to avenge him upon the insolent sentinel at the palace-gate? Yes; his first royal days and nights were pretty well sprinkled with painful thoughts about the lost prince, and with sincere longings for his return, and happy restoration to his native rights and splendours. But as time wore on, and the prince did not come, Tom's mind became more and more occupied with his new and enchanting experiences, and by little and little the vanished monarch faded almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he did intrude upon them at intervals, he was become an unwelcome spectre, for he made Tom feel guilty and ashamed. Tom's poor mother and sisters travelled the same road out of his mind. At first he pined for them, sorrowed for them, longed to see them, but later, the thought of their coming some day in their rags and dirt, and betraying him with their kisses, and pulling him down from his lofty place, and dragging him back to penury and degradation and the slums, made him shudder. At last they ceased to trouble his thoughts almost wholly. And he was content, even glad: for, whenever their mournful and accusing faces did rise before him now, they made him feel more despicable than the worms that crawl. At midnight of the 19th of February, Tom Canty was sinking to sleep in his rich bed in the palace, guarded by his loyal vassals, and surrounded by the pomps of royalty, a happy boy; for tomorrow was the day appointed for his solemn crowning as King of England. At that same hour, Edward, the true king, hungry and thirsty, soiled and draggled, worn with travel, and clothed in rags and shreds--his share of the results of the riot--was wedged in among a crowd of people who were watching with deep interest certain hurrying gangs of workmen who streamed in and out of Westminster Abbey, busy as ants: they were making the last preparation for the royal coronation. Chapter XXXI. The Recognition procession. When Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a thunderous murmur: all the distances were charged with it. It was music to him; for it meant that the English world was out in its strength to give loyal welcome to the great day. Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in a wonderful floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient custom the 'recognition procession' through London must start from the Tower, and he was bound thither. When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress seemed suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent leaped a red tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening explosion followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude, and made the ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the explosions, were repeated over and over again with marvellous celerity, so that in a few moments the old Tower disappeared in the vast fog of its own smoke, all but the very top of the tall pile called the White Tower; this, with its banners, stood out above the dense bank of vapour as a mountain-peak projects above a cloud-rack. Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord Protector Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the King's Guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in burnished armour; after the Protector followed a seemingly interminable procession of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson velvet robes, and with their gold chains across their breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the guilds of London, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the several corporations. Also in the procession, as a special guard of honour through the city, was the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company--an organisation already three hundred years old at that time, and the only military body in England possessing the privilege (which it still possesses in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands of Parliament. It was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through the packed multitudes of citizens. The chronicler says, 'The King, as he entered the city, was received by the people with prayers, welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an earnest love of subjects toward their sovereign; and the King, by holding up his glad countenance to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to those that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself no less thankful to receive the people's goodwill than they to offer it. To all that wished him well, he gave thanks. To such as bade "God save his Grace," he said in return, "God save you all!" and added that "he thanked them with all his heart." Wonderfully transported were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their King.' In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on a stage to welcome his Majesty to the city. The last verse of his greeting was in these words-- 'Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think; Welcome, again, as much as tongue can tell,--Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink: God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.' The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice what the child had said. Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging sea of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a king, and a nation's idol. Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a couple of his ragged Offal Court comrades--one of them the lord high admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of the bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled higher than ever. Oh, if they could only recognise him now! What unspeakable glory it would be, if they could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock king of the slums and back alleys was become a real King, with illustrious dukes and princes for his humble menials, and the English world at his feet! But he had to deny himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition might cost more than it would come to: so he turned away his head, and left the two soiled lads to go on with their shoutings and glad adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was they were lavishing them upon. Every now and then rose the cry, "A largess! a largess!" and Tom responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for the multitude to scramble for. The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch Street, before the sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch, beneath which was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street to the other. This was an historical pageant, representing the King's immediate progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of an immense white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows around her; by her side was Henry VII., issuing out of a vast red rose, disposed in the same manner: the hands of the royal pair were locked together, and the wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. From the red and white roses proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage, occupied by Henry VIII., issuing from a red and white rose, with the effigy of the new King's mother, Jane Seymour, represented by his side. One branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a third stage, where sat the effigy of Edward VI. himself, enthroned in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of roses, red and white.' This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of the child whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic rhymes. But Tom Canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter music to him than any poetry, no matter what its quality might be. Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young face, the people recognised the exactness of his effigy's likeness to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new whirlwinds of applause burst forth. The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or merit, of the little King's. 'Throughout the whole of Cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold tapestried the streets--specimens of the great wealth of the stores within; and the splendour of this thoroughfare was equalled in the other streets, and in some even surpassed.' "And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me--me!" murmured Tom Canty. The mock King's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point, just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he caught sight of a pale, astounded face, which was strained forward out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. A sickening consternation struck through him; he recognised his mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward, before his eyes--that old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant more she had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was at his side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she cried, "O my child, my darling!" lifting toward him a face that was transfigured with joy and love. The same instant an officer of the King's Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her reeling back whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words "I do not know you, woman!" were falling from Tom Canty's lips when this piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted, that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken valueless: they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags. The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty they were as if they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach. Remorse was eating his heart out. He said, "Would God I were free of my captivity!" He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the first days of his compulsory greatness. The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city, and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the King rode with bowed head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother's face and that wounded look in it. "Largess, largess!" The cry fell upon an unheeding ear. "Long live Edward of England!" It seemed as if the earth shook with the explosion; but there was no response from the King. He heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered under another sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing conscience--a voice which kept repeating those shameful words, "I do not know you, woman!" The words smote upon the King's soul as the strokes of a funeral bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone. New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting multitudes: but the King gave no sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound he heard. By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or anxiety: an abatement in the volume of the applause was observable too. The Lord Protector was quick to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the cause. He spurred to the King's side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said-- "My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen. Be advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these boding vapours, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile upon the people." So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and left, then retired to his place. The mock King did mechanically as he had been bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were near enough or sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of his plumed head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness; the largess which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal: so the people's anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a volume as before. Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the Duke was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered-- "O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the world are upon thee." Then he added with sharp annoyance, "Perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed your Highness." The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and said in a dead voice-- "She was my mother!" "My God!" groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to his post, "the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad again!" 
43150	----	The Constant Prince By Christobel Coleridge Published by Mozley and Smith, London. This edition dated 1879. The Constant Prince, by Christobel Coleridge. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE CONSTANT PRINCE, BY CHRISTOBEL COLERIDGE. PREFACE. It is commonly supposed that the writer of an historical tale idealises the characters therein represented, heightens the romance of the situation, and at any rate brings the fairer tints of the scene into undue prominence. I wish to make it clearly understood that I have not done so in this instance. The high cultivation, the mutual affection, the deep piety, all the peculiar characteristics of the Princes of Avis, are matters of history, and I have only found it impossible to do justice to them. The personal appearance of the three eldest, and the special line taken by all of them with regard to the cession of Ceuta, indeed the whole tragical story, I found ready to hand, the only imaginary incidents being the meeting of Enrique and Fernando at Arzella, and the presence of the two boy princes at the siege of Ceuta. There is a life of the Constant Prince which was written by the priest to whom I have given the name of Father Jose, which I regret much not having been able to obtain, though the outline of the story of his imprisonment is, I believe, taken from it. The details of the Treaty of Tangier are very obscure; but it appears that the Moorish king of Granada considered his African brethren as guilty of a breach of faith in detaining Fernando. The English characters are of course wholly fictitious. Lastly, Calderon in his play, "Il Principe Costante," and Archbishop Trench, in his beautiful poem of the "Steadfast Prince," represent Fernando as refusing to be ransomed by the cession of Ceuta. This refusal he had neither the power nor the right to make. His real nobleness lay in his willing acceptance of the suffering brought on him by the decision of others. C.R. Coleridge. Hanwell Rectory,-- December 2, 1878. CHAPTER ONE. FORESHADOWINGS. "The child is father of the man." In a small marble-paved court belonging to the newly-built palace of King Joao the First of Portugal, on a splendid summer day in the year 1415, five youths were engaged in earnest consultation. The summer air, the luscious scent of the orange-trees beneath which they were seated, might have inclined them to mere lazy enjoyment of their young existence--the busy sounds from the tilt-yard near have summoned them to the sports and exercises for which their graceful, well-grown strength evidently fitted them, or the books, several of which were scattered on the marble steps of the court, have employed their attention. But they were evidently so deeply interested by the subject in hand as to have no thoughts to spare for anything else--a fact the more remarkable as they were not engaged in a dispute, but were discussing something on which they were evidently all agreed, and which they regarded as of the highest importance. "When our great uncle, Edward the Black Prince, won his spurs," said the eldest, a tall, dark-haired young man, with a singularly considerate and intelligent countenance, "it was at Crecy by hard fighting. _He_ did something to deserve knighthood. His father let him win the field for himself. `Is my son unhorsed,' he said, `or mortally wounded? Nay, then let him win his spurs.' And see how he won them!" "And _he_ was only sixteen!" said the second brother, who resembled the first speaker, but had a more fiery and vivacious expression. "Ay, Pedro, we have waited too long for our chance; it suits not with our honour." "Oh," broke in the fourth boy vehemently, "why cannot the King find some pretext for war? If Castile or Arragon would but insult us! But my father says he cannot engage in an unjust war merely to knight his sons. 'Tis very unlucky." "Nay," said the eldest brother, "I cannot blame him. He must consider the country's good." "Ah!" said Pedro, "there always _were_ wars and deeds of arms in those good old days. But these are dull times; it is not worth while living in the world now. Everything is for policy and justice; no one acts for pure glory and knight-errantry." "That is a stupid thing to say," said the third brother, who had not hitherto spoken, a youth with broad, thoughtful brows and large grey eyes. "We do not know what one half of the world is like; there is quite enough to do in finding out." "Enrique is for ever wondering about countries beyond seas," said Pedro. "Are Duarte and he and I to seek knighthood by sailing away to look for savages--the saints know where?" "We have not yet killed _nearly_ all the infidels," said the youngest brother of all, rather dreamily. "There are no Crusades now, Fernando," said Duarte; "and to my thinking absent sovereigns make ill-governed kingdoms." "And are there no Infidels except in Palestine?" cried the little Fernando, springing to his feet. "I would sooner earn _my_ knighthood by destroying the villains who steal children and imprison noble knights than by fighting with brave gentlemen like ourselves. I would sooner be Godfrey de Bouillon than our uncle Edward. Let us go and take Tangiers or Ceuta at the sword's point; then can we be knighted with honour, and the blessed Cross--" Here the child's excitement fairly overcame him, tears filled his eyes, and he hid his face behind Enrique. "There is much in the child's words," said Duarte. "Weep not, Fernando, if I go to fight the infidel, thou shalt be my page. Come, Pedro and Enrique, walk this way with me." And the three elders strolled away together, leaving their juniors to speculate on their subject of conversation. These five brothers, afterwards perhaps among the most brilliant, and certainly among the most virtuous, princes who ever adorned a royal house, were the sons of Joao the First of Portugal, the founder of the house of Avis, so called from the order of knighthood of which he was grand-master. He succeeded to the throne of Portugal rather by election than by inheritance, and after a period of disturbance and trouble; but his great qualities raised the little kingdom to quite a new place among nations, and in Philippa of Lancaster, the daughter of John of Gaunt by his first wife, he met with a Queen fully worthy of him. The interest which John of Gaunt's second marriage gave him in the affairs of Castile made an alliance in the Peninsula desirable to him; but Philippa was free from the distracting claims to the Castilian succession of her young half-sister Catherine, and involved her husband in no quarrels. It may well be a source of pride to the English reader to remember that her sons were of Plantagenet blood, for they inherited all the virtues and few of the faults of that noble and generous race. Perhaps the profound peace which made it so difficult to these young princes to signalise their knighthood by any deed of arms worthy of their name may seem more to King Joao's credit in modern eyes than in those of his sons; but it was not strange that young men, all with talents and aims far above the average in any age, rank, or country, should wish to make a reality of that which was perhaps on the verge of becoming a splendid form, and burning with the truest spirit of chivalry, should, as many have done since, sigh for times when it was easier to express it. They were all as highly educated as was possible to the times in which they lived, and Edward, or Duarte, as he was called by the Portuguese form of his English name, was a considerable scholar; but war was still the calling of a prince and a gentleman, and they felt hardly used in being debarred from it. King Joao, however, was of so enlightened or so degenerate a spirit that he refused to plunge his kingdom into war solely for the purpose of knighting his sons. Hence the foregoing discussion. The three elder brothers walked up and down under the shade of the orange-trees--tall and stately youths, with serious faces, and minds set on the subject in hand. Duarte walked in the middle, and seemed to be weighing the arguments addressed to him by Enrique; his more rounded outlines, and a certain tender gentleness of expression in his dark eyes, gave him the air of being younger than Pedro, whose colouring was darker and his face sterner and more impetuous. He was sometimes arrogant and hasty; but no one ever heard a sharp word from the just and gentle Duarte, whose mental power and high scholarship seemed but to add to his unselfish consideration. The tallest of the three was Enrique, in whose great size and strength and fair skin the English mother loved to trace the characteristics of the Plantagenets. He talked with intense eagerness, and his great dark eyes were full of ardour, but of the dreaminess accompanying ardour for an unseen object. The two younger boys had meanwhile remained sitting on the steps, ostensibly learning their lessons from a very crabbed-looking Latin manuscript spread out between them. Joao was a fine dark-eyed boy of fourteen, with an exceedingly acute and intelligent countenance. Fernando was two years younger, and though tall for his age, was slender and fragile. He had the flaxen hair and brilliant fairness of his mother's race, but the large blue eyes had the same dreamy intensity that marked Enrique's, with a sweetness all their own. These two were kindred spirits beyond the bond that united all the five, and never failed them through the long lives spent in toil and self-denial. Enrique having parted from the two elder ones came up to the steps, and Fernando looked up at him eagerly, while Joao jumped up, announcing that he knew his lesson, and should go and play. "But I do not know mine," said Fernando, disconsolately. Enrique sat down on the step, and drawing the child up to his side, began to translate the Latin for him into French, in which language the Portuguese court, in imitation of the English one, usually conversed. Fernando was so delicate that the strict and severe system under which they were all educated was sometimes relaxed in his favour. He was, however, an apt pupil, and presently Enrique closed the book. "There, now you can go and play." "No," said Fernando, pressing up to his brother. "Tell me, have you been talking about the knighthood?" "Yes," said Enrique; "we are resolved that if we have to wait for ever, we will not make a pretence of that which should be so great a thing. Not the year of tournaments shall tempt us." "When I am knighted," said Fernando, "I will go and fight the Moors in Africa, and destroy the castles where they make good Christians to toil as slaves. Would it not be joy to open the prisons and set them free?" "Ay," said Enrique, looking straight out of his wide-opened eyes as if he saw far away. "Then, too, should we see what lies behind--behind Tangiers and Ceuta, beyond the sands. There might we spread the Cross." "And there maybe are the two-headed giants and the dragons like the one Saint George of England killed; and magic castles, and fiery pits, the very entrance of hell. You used to say so." "Ah, maybe," said Enrique, smiling. "Anyway there is the wide earth, the world that we do not know." "Then you do not think all the countries are discovered yet?" looking up in his face. "Nay, surely not," said Enrique, with gathering eagerness. "There," pointing to the sparkling bay before them, "does that go on for ever, and for ever. Well is the Atlantic called the Sea of Darkness, blue and bright as it may be! But the lost path to the Indies, where is it? Where is that island the Englishman saw in mid-ocean? Where, where?" Enrique paused, his face one unanswered question. "Some day I will know." "But in the meantime," said Fernando, "the enemies of the Blessed Saviour are here close by, killing and destroying good Christians?" "Well," said Enrique, coming out of the clouds, "we will deal first with them, sooner maybe than you think for! But there are more ways than one of subduing the world for Christ. You can win your knighthood in Barbary by and by, while _I_ look for the fiery dragons beyond." He pulled a roughly-drawn map towards him, and began to study it. "Ah, but not all alone," said Fernando, vehemently; "the fiery dragons might kill you, and I could not fight the infidels by myself." "Not yet," said Enrique, soothingly, "you have to grow strong first." He stretched himself out, leaning on his elbow, and knitting his brows in absorbed study of the map before him. Fernando sat leaning against him in silence. His brothers were all tender and good to him; but Enrique was the best-loved of them all, and the idea that these eagerly-desired adventures involved a parting had never been realised by him before. Presently he raised himself, and sat a little apart, looking before him with a face that, with all its fair tinting and delicate outline, set into lines of remarkable force and firmness. "Enrique," he said, presently. "Well?" "I _will_ go without you to fight the infidel if there is no other way. For we are soldiers of the Cross, and our Blessed Lord is our Captain, and He would be with me. But oh! dear Enrique, I will pray every day that He will send you too." "Now, then, mother will be angry," said Enrique, as the excitable boy broke into a passion of tears. "Did she not say you should not talk of infidels, or Christians either, if it made you cry? I feel sure our uncle Edward did not cry at the thought of the French." "I am not afraid; it is not that I am afraid," sobbed Fernando, indignantly. "No, no! I know. See, Fernando, I promise I will go with you when you win your spurs. Hush, now, it is almost supper-time. Shall I take you to mother first?" "No," said Fernando, recovering himself. "I will not cry." "Come then," said Enrique, pulling his long limbs up from their lounging attitude, and holding out his hand. "Come and see the English mastiffs, and some day, maybe, I will tell you a secret." CHAPTER TWO. THE DEED OF ARMS. "I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love." The supper was over, and King Joao was seeking for some relaxation from the cares of state in the society of his wife and children. He and his fair English Queen would then sit in their private room, and the five sons would give an account of their studies, exercises, and amusements during the day, or sometimes practise speaking English with their mother, or receive from her good advice or tender encouragement. The King and Queen sat on chairs, the princes stood respectfully near them, when, after a silence, Duarte suddenly advanced and spoke. "Sire, I and my brothers have a proposal to make to your grace." "Say on. I am ready to hear you, though I do not promise to find wisdom in the proposals of your rash youth," said Dom Joao, while the fair-haired mother smiled encouragement. "Sire, it has pleased you to regard without displeasure our wish not to receive the sacred order of knighthood without some deed of arms that should render us worthy of it; and I, and at least my brother Pedro, have waited till the usual age is past, in the hope that some fortunate quarrel would give your highness the power to grant our request." "My son," said King Joao, "I cannot risk the interests of my subjects for your desire of fame. A knight has other duties--to guard the oppressed, to defend the weak, is indeed the calling of princes; but not always at the point of the sword." Duarte bowed submissively; but, after a pause, he continued-- "Yet there is one enemy with whom we cannot be said to be either at war or at peace, since there cannot be honourable peace with the enemies of Christ. Yet Christian nations suffer nests of pirates to dwell undisturbed opposite our very coasts. Our soldiers, our ships, and innocent children are not safe from the Moors of Africa. When they swoop down on our shores, it is death or--apostasy for Christian men, and for our maidens slavery and imprisonment. The very key of their fastnesses is Ceuta. Could we but take that fortress at the point of the sword, it would be a deed worthy of Christian princes, of use to your grace's subjects, and honourable in the eyes of Europe." Dom Joao looked at his son as if somewhat surprised, to hear so reasonable and well-considered a proposal. His authority was absolute over his five young sons, and though he could not but be satisfied with their progress and development, he had not expected from any of them an independent opinion. "Since when have you thought of this expedition?" he said. "It was suggested to me, sire, by some words of Fernando's," said Duarte; and Fernando, who had listened with breathless interest, sprang forward, and with more freedom than Duarte had ventured to use, exclaimed-- "Oh, dear father, it is the greatest desire of us all!" "It would be fitter for you and Joao to pursue your studies at home," said the King. "Nevertheless, I will consider of this proposal." The five lads did not shout, as perhaps nature would have inclined them to do, they bowed, and stood silent till their father withdrew, when there was a sudden relaxation of their attitude of respectful attention, and they surrounded their mother, pressing up to her, kissing her hand, and demanding if they had not at last found the right thing to do. Philippa was a tall, fair woman, with a beautiful Plantagenet face, and an expression at once simple and noble, a fit mother of heroes. "My fair sons," she said, "it is a noble purpose, an object worthy of Christian swords. It is good that you should win your knighthood by fighting for Holy Church, rather than for your own vain-glory. If your father thinks this attempt wise, it will be well, if not--" "If not," said Dom Duarte, "I will not consent to the year of tournaments my father proposed for us. It is a mockery, a pretence--I hate false seeming." "You do well, my son," said the English mother; "yet the tournaments might show you fit for real warfare." "That might be very well for the younger ones," said Pedro. "I am taller than you," said Enrique, indignantly. "You said I should be your page, and I will not stay at home," said Fernando. "Hush, my boys; do not dispute," said the Queen. "Remember, the true glory is in doing our duty. If every prince and gentleman went out to war, who would punish evil-doers and succour the distressed at home! Your father, who is the wisest man alive, knows that; and Edward must remember it when his time comes. For you younger ones it will be different. The blessed saints guide you to seek the right, and to be worthy of your forefathers." To whatever degree of cultivation and even of virtue the Mohammedan kingdoms had attained among themselves, and whatever injury to learning may have been caused afterwards to mediaeval Christendom by their violent expulsion from the Peninsula, the Moors of Africa were and must have been simply an embodiment of evil. The organised system of piracy which they maintained rendered life and property totally unsafe all along the Mediterranean. A regular system of ransom was in vogue, and where the friends of an unfortunate captive were unable to satisfy their demands, neither rank, nor age, nor calling, was any protection; and noble knights and aged priests were chained to the oars of their galleys, or toiled among the sands of Africa, while their fate remained a mystery to their friends at home--whether death, prolonged suffering, or far worse, apostasy had been their portion. Martyr or renegade, it was an awful choice, to be placed once for all before many an honest, ignorant squire or knight; but "captive among the Moors" was written in many a pedigree of Southern Europe, in some few even of distant countries. More still returned, impoverished by their ransom, to tell of their frightful sufferings; while, most terrible thought of all, girls and children disappeared now and again--to what fate? Every Christian sovereign and gentleman felt the ransom to be a disgraceful black-mail demanded of them, which yet they knew not how to refuse! There is nothing in the modern world that is quite analogous to the situation. The Moors were the enemies of life and property, like the brigands of our own time, only infinitely more powerful, and as such were feared and hated. They were also, of course, as now, unbelievers, outside the pale of the Church; their conversion was a subject of prayer; they were, or might have been, the objects of missionary labour. But the Moors of the Middle Ages were something more than this. They were not only ignorant of Christ; they were the hereditary enemies of Christendom: not merely of Spain, of Portugal, or of France, nor exactly of the Church Catholic, as we should understand it, but of that sort of visible, territorial embodiment of it for which, in old romance, the Seven Champions fought and which Arthur and his Knights laboured to spread, and the defence of which made honour as well as religion a spur to every Crusader. Therefore it was not only as national and personal enemies, or as blinded heathens, that the knights of Europe regarded the Turks and Moors, but as the powerful foes of Christ's kingdom on earth, embodied in Christian nations; so that national honour and religious fervour worked together, and glory alike for earth and for Heaven was won in attacking the Crescent with the Cross. It was not only very sad for a Christian man to see the unbeliever triumph, it was very disgraceful also. Alas! if _all_ the evil in the world could have been so embodied!--if Christendom had had no foes in its own household!--the fight between good and evil would indeed have been simplified, though not dispensed with. It was very clear to an old Christian champion that it was his duty to fight with evil; to do so with a pure heart and unwavering spirit was just as hard then as now. Our heroes lived in the dawn of a new day: when other duties were rising into view, other talents coming to be consecrated, but when the old visible symbolical struggle was still in full force. For faith, for knowledge, for good government, for the honour of Christendom, for the old and the new, they all fought and toiled--and one died. CHAPTER THREE. THE THREE SWORDS. "Oh, mother! mother! can this be true?" Many months passed before the crude suggestion of the young Infantes was worked by the King and his ministers into a practicable form; and it is not necessary here to enter into all the considerations of policy and prudence that were involved. In spite of many feints and pretences hardly worthy of so liberal a prince as Dom Joao, the Moorish sovereign became aware of his intentions, and sent offers of splendid presents to the Queen for her young daughter, if she would intercede with her husband and preserve peace. "My daughter," said Queen Philippa, "has jewels enough of her own. I know not your customs; but with us, wives do not interfere with their husbands' business." So, after much discussion to and fro, the fleets were prepared, the army gathered together, and the King determined to take the command of the expedition. Still, the foremost places were to be given to his three sons, who would thus have every opportunity of earning worthily their long-deferred knighthood. Joao and Fernando were too young for any such hopes, and, to their great disappointment, were forbidden to take any part in the expedition at all, but were to remain at home with their mother. Joao consoled himself with planning future feats of marvellous bravery; but Fernando, who had relied on Duarte's promise, was pronounced naughty and rebellious, and received double tasks, because he would not submit patiently to his father's decision. His conscience was very tender, and he learnt the hard lessons diligently, and repented of his fault, while he pondered over the tales of boy-martyrs and child-crusaders, which, though held up to his admiration, it seemed so impossible, and even so wrong, to imitate. It was much harder simply to do as he was told; but Fernando did his best, and practised patience. The time was drawing near for the expedition to start, when one morning the little boy was sitting by himself in a room in the palace of Lisbon which was devoted to the studies of the young princes. Fernando sat on a bench by the great oak table, employed in what a boy would now call "doing his sums"--that is to say, he was working out, in the cumbrous method of the time, a somewhat abstruse mathematical problem. There was no ornament to the bare wall, but a great crucifix over the high fireplace; the window was high up in the wall, offering no temptation to wandering eyes; and the only spot of colour in the room was the crimson dress and long fair hair of the little prince as he bent over his task. Fernando shared in some degree the strong mathematical turn of his elder brothers, and did not find his work uninteresting, though it strained his boyish powers to the utmost. His brothers were engaged in preparations for war, and his mother and sister Isabel were at a place called Saccavem with the chief part of the court. The little boys had been left behind with their tutors. Suddenly the door was flung open, and Enrique, dusty and travel-stained, and with a face pale as death, came in. Fernando sprang up with a cry of joy, but his brother's look silenced him. Enrique took him into his arms and sat down on the bench. "I have come to fetch you, Fernando," he said, huskily. "Be a brave boy; do not cry. You and Joao must come to mother, for she is ill at Saccavem, and--and--I must take you to her." Fernando was more frightened by his brother's look of anguish than by his words, which were too new and strange to be more than half comprehended, and there was little time for the indulgence of grief. Enrique hurried their preparations, and soon the two boys were riding beside him, with but a few followers, hardly realising, in the haste of their journey, what awaited them at the end of it. For the good Queen Philippa was dying, and the children must lose her motherly care--her encouragement of all their efforts after goodness and learning. High aims and kindly ways she had alike set before them; by her own example she had taught them the severest self-denial in the midst of the state necessary for the support of their rank: and the old chronicles tell--us that her five sons owed to her tender training much of the deep religious feeling, the loyalty to their father and to each other, the strong mutual affection and the remarkable virtue, that afterwards distinguished them. "She constantly talked with them of their duties towards their father and to the state," and, spite of the stiff and ceremonious manners of the times, they loved her tenderly, and showed their love; and for her dear sake, her English habits, opinions, and language became dear to her husband and children, and largely influenced the development of her adopted country. She lay on her death-bed in the palace of Saccavem. Her ladies stood weeping round, her confessor was by her side, the low chanting of the priests who had been praying for her departing soul had ceased for the time, and before receiving the last Sacraments of the Church she had desired to take leave of all her children. Joao and Fernando, as they entered awe-struck into the dim chamber, were clasped and held back by their sobbing sister, who knelt at some distance from the high dais on which the Queen's bed was placed. She lay raised high on her pillows, and on the silken coverlet beside her were three swords, their jewelled scabbards catching here and there the light of the lamp. The King sat near her, his head resting on his hand, his elder sons standing behind his chair, and at the further end of the long room several people were kneeling, sadly watching the dying Queen--her English squires, and other members of her household, to whom she had been the most faithful of friends. All was silent, save for the sounds of weeping that could not be repressed. "My sons, come hither," suddenly said the Queen; and the five brothers came slowly forward and stood beside her, Fernando following the rest in a sort of trance of awe and bewilderment. "My sons!" said Philippa, in a clear and audible voice, "you all know well that my blessing goes with you in your undertaking." "Alas, dear wife?" said the King, weeping, "it will be long before your sons or I have heart for any such enterprise." "Not so," said the Queen, heartily; "you will sail, I doubt not, on Saint James's Day, and the fair wind I feel in my face from the casement will fill your sails and blow you to victory." The King could not answer; but he felt as if Saint James's Day might come and go before he could take the field, in his great grief. "My sons!" again said Philippa, "it has pleased me well that you have so earnestly desired to earn your spurs by real service, and especially against the enemies of Holy Church; for pretences and empty forms are unworthy of princes. Therefore, I have caused to be made these swords, which ye will draw, I trust, in many a good fight in a good cause, and never against your sovereign or each other. Duarte, the time will come when you must use this sword in defence of your subjects; see that you rule them with justice, and make their happiness your highest good. And, my son, be kind to your brothers, to Isabel, and to Fernando; he is weakly and young--" "Always, dear mother, so help me God and the Holy Saints," said Duarte, kneeling and kissing her hand. "Pedro, you are brave and strong; let it be ever your part to do a knight's duty, in defending the weak and helpless,--fight for the oppressed. And Enrique, our soldiers love you, as my good father and uncle were loved; look ever to their welfare, nor ever regard them as churls and their deaths of no account." "Oh, mother, mother, give us swords too!" cried Joao, pressing forward as his brothers faintly promised all that was asked of them. "Alas! my little boys," said the mother, for the first time faltering, "I have no swords for you. I had thought to keep you with me longer. Alas! what will become of you! Love God, and serve Him. What better can I say?" Then gentle Duarte drew first Joao and then Fernando up to the bed-side for their mother's kiss. Joao sobbed aloud; but Fernando remembered how his mother had blamed him for his tears, and shed none; while in his childish heart was the thought that he too would one day be worthy of a good knight's sword. Then the Queen commended her daughter to the King's care, and bid him choose a good husband for her, that her lot might be happy, as her mother's had been before her; and then she grew worse, and her speech failed her; and Joao and Fernando were sent away into another room. The fair wind of which the Queen had spoken blew into their faces as the two boys, so soon to be motherless, crouched up in the window and looked out at the sunset, feeling less wretched so than in the dark. It was not long before they heard a movement, and sounds of weeping and lamenting; but no one came near them, and they were afraid to stir. "Let us say our prayers," suggested Fernando: and they knelt down in the fading light; but it seemed an endless time before Enrique came in to them. "Have you been here alone?" he said. "Ah, there is no one now to care for us. Our mother is dead." Enrique's voice was stifled with grief; but Joao flung himself up against him, Fernando laid his head on his shoulder; both feeling their worst misery softened by the mere presence of their kind, strong brother. CHAPTER FOUR. PERILS AND DANGERS. "He sails in dreams Between the setting stars and finds new day." The Queen's dying words were fulfilled. The fair wind she had promised sprang up in time, and on Saint James's Day, 1414, such a fleet as had never been known in Portugal before set sail from the Bay of Lagos. The Portuguese ministers had wished to delay the expedition till the days of public mourning were over, but Dom Joao and his sons knew better what Philippa would have wished them to do, and did not wait an hour after their preparations were complete. Fifty-nine galleys, thirty-three tall ships of war, and 120 transports carried 50,000 sailors and seamen on board; while several English ships had volunteered to join in an expedition that promised so much glory, and was in so good a cause. For the Pope had granted them a bull of Crusade, making the war a holy one, and the blessing of the Church had been invoked on their arms by a series of solemn services, immediately following on the ceremonies of the Queen's funeral; and no doubt the grief which they were enduring with all its chastening influences, deprived the young Infantes of none of their crusading spirit; but caused them rather to strive more earnestly to be worthy in their inmost souls of that knighthood which they hoped to win at the sword's point. All had done their utmost to further the preparation; but Enrique had shown so much skill in the arrangements as to win for himself a foremost place in making them. After all, the younger brothers were not left behind. Dona Isabel had been left in the charge of the abbess of a great Lisbon convent; and it was at first proposed to leave the boys at Lisbon with their tutors. But Enrique and Duarte had pleaded for them, the latter urging that Joao was really old enough for the duties of a page, and strong enough not to suffer from hardship, and Enrique promising to take care of Fernando. He might stay on board ship when they neared the enemy's quarters, and the change would rouse him from his grief. A little rough living would be much less hurtful to him than the misery of solitude and separation. The sun was setting clear and bright over a sea of purple blue. A light wind stirred the gay banners and devices which floated from the mastheads, an unceasing source of admiration to the Portuguese sailors, for they had been introduced in imitation of the more northern nations, and were hitherto unknown in the Peninsula. The invention and embroidery of these banners had been for a long time a favourite employment of Queen Philippa's court. Dom Enrique's ship was one of the largest, and all on board was well ordered, and ready for action. "_Talent de bien faire_" was inscribed on his crimson flag, and "The desire to do well," as the old French is said to signify, inspired him in small things as well as great. The evening hour was a time of leisure, and on the deck of the vessel a group of young gentlemen were lounging about telling stories, prophesying success, and indulging in speculations as to what Ceuta would be like when they got there, while Enrique, at a little distance in his deep mourning dress, was sitting on a bench, his chin resting on his hand, and his great eyes gazing out towards the horizon, as if longing to see to the very world's end. Fernando, who was more sociably inclined, was listening with great interest to a description of the interior of a Moorish city, given by a lively young Englishman, named Northberry, who belonged to Dom Enrique's household, and who insisted forcibly that the Moors were in the habit of feasting on their Christian prisoners, arrayed in silks and cloth of gold, in palaces ornamented with untold splendour. Other poor slaves were forced to serve, sometimes to share the horrible banquet, and were driven to it with blows and curses. Poor Fernando grew pale with horror, and Dom Jose de Alemquer, a knight of some renown, and brother to the Portuguese Prime Minister, remarked grimly-- "And with whom, Senor, have you conversed who has partaken of this extraordinary feast?" "'Tis commonly believed in England, I understand, sir," said Northberry. "What matter, since we are about to punish the miscreants?" "When you are served up, may I be there to see!" muttered Dom Jose. "We shall find our work out out for us; it were better to prepare for it in a pious spirit." "Prepare! we shall prepare," shouted another young man, enthusiastically. "We are ready to wade through rivers of blood, and tear down the accursed Crescent if we leave not one infidel found alive in Ceuta." "If we fall ourselves, it is a sure path to heaven," said another. "That depends, so said the Bishop, on whether we have a true crusading spirit," remarked a third. "By Saint George!" said Northberry, "I'll strike a good blow, crusade or no crusade; and God defend the right!" "We are sure of success in such a cause!" cried the first speaker. "But the crusaders were sometimes defeated," said Fernando. "Ah, my lord, doubtless they had not the true spirit," said Northberry, with something of earnestness, carried off by the apparent sneer. Fernando moved away towards his brother, and, pulling his sleeve to attract his attention, repeated some of the foregoing conversation. "Did Enrique think it possible that they might be defeated?" "Surely," said Enrique, "it is possible, if it were God's will, but," he added, colouring with enthusiasm, "I think, we are so well prepared, it is not likely." "But could it be God's will that the infidels should triumph?" "Why, yes," said Enrique; "you do not think what you say. It is His will that we should offer ourselves to his service; but it is not always His will to give us the victory. Else there would have been no martyrdoms. But yet," he continued, with the grave ardour peculiar to him, "there is a blessing on zeal and self-devotion. I, for one, would risk the result!" Fernando looked satisfied, and then demanded if Enrique thought that the Moors were really man-eaters. No; Enrique did not think so. They were very cruel and treacherous; kept no faith with Christians; but they were not, so far as he understood, savages. In fact, he hardly thought that they would treat prisoners of distinction otherwise than well. "What else?" he added, smiling, as Fernando still looked thoughtful. "It would be better to convert them than to kill them," said the boy, earnestly. "That is what I hope for," returned Enrique. "Their crimes have deserved a just punishment; but Ceuta once in our hands, we can there show them what Christian life and Christian worship really is; and from thence I hope to send out missionaries to the lands beyond, where all is darkness. The good Franciscans will be willing to go, and who knows into what strange worlds they may penetrate?" "I don't think," said Fernando, "that your gentlemen here think of converting them." "Perhaps not. It is the part of princes to show themselves of a more enlightened spirit than other men. We must take heed that no needless cruelty stain our arms, and especially that in our own lives we show what it is to be Christians." "Even a prisoner might do that, if he were very patient," said Fernando. "Yes, like the holy martyrs. See, Fernando, I think there is no object worth living for, but that of winning men to the service of our Lord by conquest, by preaching, by the discovery of distant lands. I long to make myself worthy of it!" Fernando's young heart thrilled within him, and he longed ardently for the day when he too should be old and strong enough to fight for the holy Cross. For he did not quite follow all that Enrique said, and the storming of Ceuta was, as was natural, much the distinctest image in his mind. The sun sank below the horizon, the purple headland of Turo came into view, one by one the stars came out in the deep clear sky; while at the prow of each vessel was hung a great lantern, so that in the gathering darkness the fleet seemed almost as if composed of ships of fire. Enrique threw himself back on the bench, and lay looking up at the sky. The study of the heavens was familiar to him, and the movements of the stars, both as a means of guiding mariners and as in themselves wonderful, were a favourite source of contemplation both to himself and to his elder brothers. They were indeed among the first to find the true science more interesting than the false one, and in their study of astronomy deliberately to lay astrology on one side. He was pointing out to Fernando the different constellations that were visible, when suddenly, as they gazed upward, the dark still heaven flashed into lurid light, and the peaceful silence was broken by a loud shout of alarm. The great lantern of their own ship had caught fire. "Back! back! Stand still," shouted Enrique, springing to his feet, and, in a moment, he rushed forward, climbed on to the high prow of the ship, and clinging on with one hand, with the other he detached the burning lantern, and flung it into the sea. Another moment and the ship must have been on fire: as it was, the wind caught a piece of flaming framework and wafted it on to the deck at Fernando's feet. He caught it up--it was too large to trample out, or he thought so--he could not push through the crowd that had rushed to the sides of the vessel, and he held out the burning mass at arm's length, unflinchingly, till Northberry, turning, snatched it out of his hand, and succeeded in throwing it into the water. At the same moment Enrique sprang down upon the deck, giving orders, and, allaying the excitement, desiring torches to be lit, and calling on all to give thanks to God for the saving of their lives. Morning and evening a solemn service of prayer and praise arose from the whole fleet, and now on board the ship of _Good Hope_, as Dom Enrique had named his vessel, the sense of recent danger quickened every heart to thanksgiving. Messages came from the King and from the other Infantes, to know what had caused the sudden extinction of Dom Enrique's lantern, and in the answering of these no one thought of Fernando till Enrique missed him, and, hastily looking for him, found him on the bench where they had been sitting, half fainting with the pain of his burnt fingers. "I did not think of it at first," he said; "and then if I am a soldier I must bear pain." Enrique could not understand how he had been hurt; and when he heard the story, declared that Fernando's courage had saved the ship, and then turned on Northberry with one of his rare outbursts of anger. Could he not see that Dom Fernando was burnt when he took the flaming wood from him! Enrique was habitually gentle; but there was an intensity in his displeasure when it was once roused, which was not easily forgotten. "I hid my hand behind me; it did not hurt me _much_," said Fernando, who was reviving. "Senor Northberry could not see." "Dom Fernando is as true a soldier as yourself, my lord," said Northberry. "I know it," returned Enrique; but he said no more, only anxiously watching while one of his chaplains, Father Jose, who, like most priests, was something of a surgeon, bound up the injured hand, saying that it was after all but a trifle. He would hardly, for the rest of the voyage, let Fernando out of his sight; though the boy, exceedingly anxious to prove that he was able to bear such trifling casualties of war, resolutely concealed all the ill-effects which the adventure caused to his delicate constitution. CHAPTER FIVE. THE SIEGE OF CEUTA. "Upon them with the lance!" The Christian host approached the pillars of Hercules amid violent storm and tempest. Separated from each other, and scattered far and wide in the darkness of the night, there were hours when they feared that all their preparations had been in vain, when they dreaded the morning light that would reveal to them the gaps in their numbers. But the winds sank, and the sun rose, and the dispersed vessels drew together again, after but little damage, and the King prepared to superintend the landing of the troops. He did not then know what would have greatly encouraged him, that Zala-ben-Zala, the Governor of Ceuta, trusting too much to the effects of the tempest, had allowed the 5,000 allies whom he had collected to return home, thinking the danger over. Joao and Fernando were ordered to remain and watch the assault from a vessel, moored at a safe distance from the shore, behind the rest of the fleet; in which were also safely stored all the Church vessels and furniture, which it was hoped might be used in the conquered city, but which must not in the event of a defeat, be allowed to fall into the hands of the Infidels. Here, too, many of the priests and chaplains, after saying mass in the different vessels, retired to watch the event, and here, all day long, the voice of prayer went up for the success of the Christian arms. The two little boys were taken, before daybreak, on board their father's ship that he might bid them farewell, and here they saw all their three brothers ready armed for the attack, full of joy at the thought that the long-wished-for moment had at last come when they were to prove themselves worthy of knighthood. All looked grave, collected, and resolute, and the boys caught the tone of their elders, and bore themselves as like soldiers as they could. "If we were _only_ going too!" whispered Joao, as they went down again into their boat. "We will one day," returned Fernando; but as he glanced up at the ship, he saw Enrique looking down at him with the light of the dawn on his shining helmet and clear, solemn eyes. Fernando thought that Enrique would look like that in heaven, and for the first time it occurred to him how likely it was that his brothers would be killed in the attack, and he felt that Ceuta might be dearly won. That was a strange day on board the young princes' ship. They heard, and could dimly see, the attack on the town of Ceuta, led by the Infantes Duarte and Enrique, and directed by their father from a small boat near the shore. They heard the shouting, the noise of the cannon, the rush, and the hurly-burly, behind the constant chanting kept up all day by the waiting priests, who bade the young princes pray for their father, since they could not otherwise aid him. The sea was now perfectly calm, the ships, lately so busy, almost deserted, save this one, where high on the deck an altar had been raised, and the solemn chant went up through all the conflict of hope and fear. At last they became aware that the Infantes had entered the town, at least there was no retreat. The long, hot afternoon wore on, when, suddenly from every soldier in reserve, from every sailor in charge of the fleet, there rose a mighty shout; for, on the walls of Ceuta, there appeared the banner of the Cross. The town was taken. Over the fortress above the Crescent still drooped as if in despair. Joao shouted and danced, and threw himself about in an ecstasy of triumph. Fernando felt half stifled; he could not speak. Presently a boat put off from the shore, and was rowed rapidly towards their vessel. "What news; what news?" shouted Joao, pressing before captain and chaplains, and nearly throwing himself overboard in his eagerness. "Good news, my lord," said the young squire, as he came up the side of the ship. "The town is taken, the fortress is yielding to the attack. The King, your father, bids me summon you and my lord Dom Fernando to his presence, as he is now in a place of safety, and would that you should see how towns are won." "And the Infantes?" said Fernando as he prepared eagerly to obey the summons. "They have shown courage worthy of their name, in particular my lord Dom Enrique, to whom, in great part, this happy result is owing." The young princes were taken by a strong guard through the half-conquered city, for on the outskirts the battle still continued, or rather the Portuguese soldiers were still engaged in completing their conquest. The wonderful architecture, with its splendid colouring of red, blue, and gold all blazing in the hot light of an August sun against a sapphire sky, astounded the Portuguese princes, in whose native country the Moors had left no trace. All along the streets as they passed lay the bodies of the slain, Christian and Infidel side by side, while here and there frightful groans were uttered. Most of the inhabitants had fled or hidden themselves; but by chance a face scowled at the new-comers from the windows, and once they passed a group of dark-skinned, strangely-attired children, who were uttering in their unknown language griefs which needed no interpretation. "We will make them Christians," thought Fernando, as he shrank a little from the terrible sights around him, through all the thrill of triumph. They were taken to a mosque in the middle of the town, where their father, in full armour, was seated, receiving reports and giving orders to his different captains. Duarte was standing behind his father's chair; he looked grave and troubled. The King made a sign to the boys to wait while he listened to Dom Pedro, who was speaking to him. "And so, sire, we fear my brother must have been surrounded, and his retreat cut off. Duarte and I have endeavoured to show ourselves worthy to be your sons, but Enrique--" Pedro paused, and Duarte added with a faltering voice, "It was he who forced a way into the town and beat back the enemy. If we have lost him, would the victory were a defeat?" The King's face was pale as when he had stood by the death-bed of his beloved wife, but he answered firmly, "My sons, this is the fortune of war. If my son Dom Enrique has fallen, he has fallen as becomes a Christian prince. Weep not for him, but see that we make sure of that which we have gained, and to-morrow shall the traces of the accursed worship be removed from this mosque. And in a Christian temple will I give you the knighthood you have so nobly won. And for my son Enrique there is a martyr's crown." Many and many a time had Fernando, in daydreams and fancies, pictured to himself the fall of Ceuta. He had seen his brothers triumphant in the fresh honours of their knighthood, had heard the Infidel city proclaimed the property of Christ and of His Church, seen the Cross raised and the Crescent cast down. And now these things had come to pass, and for him, instead of joy and triumph, were grief and sorrow of heart. Ceuta was Christian, but Enrique was dead! This was the cost of the victory! Probably, if the alarm had arisen earlier, the boys would not have been sent for into the city; but now their father welcomed them with the same stern self-control, and bid them listen to the orders he gave, and hear of their brothers' prowess. Nothing would ordinarily have pleased them better; and the excitement and novelty prevented Joao from realising their loss. Fernando stood still, pale and silent, till the ever-kind Duarte, in a pause of the arrangements, beckoned him up to his side and put his arm round him, and Fernando knew by the grasp of Duarte's hand that he was quite as unhappy as himself. How long this lasted Fernando could not tell; he felt as if it was a whole day since he came into the city, but it could not have been much more than an hour, for the sun had not yet gone down, when there was a great shouting among the soldiers who were guarding the mosque without, the door was flung back, and Enrique, alive and unhurt, came hurriedly in and dropped on his knees before his father. "My father, I grieve to have alarmed you, but I and my troop were surrounded in a mosque at the farther end of the town, and had much ado to cut our way out. We have now crushed the last efforts at resistance; the town is ours by the grace and mercy of God, we can offer what terms we will." There was no drawback now to the joy of victory. The King and his sons embraced Enrique, and presently a messenger was sent to demand the surrender of the fortress where Zala-ben-Zala with the remnant of his troops had taken refuge, and, after some delay, terms for its delivery on the next morning were agreed upon. The inhabitants of Ceuta were to be offered the choice of leaving the city or of submitting to the Christian rule. The mosques were to be turned into Christian churches, a Bishop to be appointed, and every effort made to induce the people to adopt the faith of their conquerors, which faith the Portuguese princes were too high-minded and far-seeing to discredit by permitting cruelty, plunder, or rapine to their troops, as was too often done in like circumstances. So all was quiet and orderly when the sun went down, and the King retired to rest in a house near the central mosque, taking his two younger sons with him, while the other princes occupied themselves in the disposal of the troops. CHAPTER SIX. THE CAPTURED CITY. "Where bells make Catholic the trembling air." Royal prince though he was, Fernando had never slept under such embroidered coverlets, nor seen such hangings of gold and silver, such carving and fretwork, as met his waking eyes in the dawn of the new day. The horseshoe arch of the window framed a piece of deep blue sky, against which a gilded dome, surmounted by a crescent, glittered in the morning sun. Fernando sat upright and devoutly crossed himself, with a thrill of joy, as he thought how soon that symbol of evil would give place to the golden cross brought with them so carefully from Lisbon for the purpose. Presently he became aware that Enrique, still fully dressed but with the heavier parts of his armour removed, was lying asleep near the window, his long limbs extended on a coverlet of pink and silver, as if he had thrown himself down, wearied with his day of fighting. As Fernando looked round the room he heard an extraordinary chattering and screaming, a noise quite unknown to him, and, not having any confidence in the character of his surroundings, he began to feel frightened. What powers of evil might not lurk amid those unnatural splendours! Joao was in the next room, and Enrique slept through the increasing clatter, which actually sounded like spoken words in an unknown tongue; and yes, a peal of horrible mocking laughter apparently just over his head. Fernando could bear it no longer. He jumped up and seized his brother's arm. "Enrique--Enrique, wake up! I think the foul fiend is in this room?" "Fernando, hark! there is some Moorish devilry here!" and Joao, looking quite pale with alarm, peeped out of the inside chamber, then fled to Enrique as a refuge. The latter awoke, considerably surprised to feel his little brothers pulling at each arm, and as they had considered it their duty, as soldiers in war-time, to go to bed in their clothes, with their long hair rumpled and their dress disordered, they presented rather a startling aspect. "What ails you both?" cried Enrique. "Enrique, listen! it is certainly the devil." Enrique sat up and looked round, and presently began to laugh heartily himself. "There are your foul fiends," he said, painting to some carving over the window, where were perched two huge green and scarlet birds with hooked bills, the like of which the boys had never seen before. "Are they birds?" said Joao, slowly. "Yes, they are parrots," said Enrique. "Once, when I went to the Court of Castile, I saw such a one that the King of Granada had sent as a present to my aunt Catalina. Moreover I have read of them in the writings of the ancients. They were sent formerly from Africa to Rome, and these are doubtless favourites of the ladies of this house. For I suspect we are in the ladies' chamber." "But it is wonderful--they laugh," said Joao. "Ay, and speak, though not in our tongue. There are wonderful things in the world that we know not of." "Well," said Joao, "since no one can tell _what_ there may be in these Infidel places, _I_ came to take care of Fernando." "Indeed," said Enrique; "I thought you woke me to take care of you. However 'tis small blame to you to have been puzzled." Joao, not finding an answer ready, applied himself to trying to catch the parrots, and pursued them on to the balcony, while Enrique looked thoughtfully and curiously round the strange scene which he had entered in the dark two or three hours before. Presently he looked at Fernando, and smiled. "So," he said, "Ceuta, praise be to God, is ours, fortress and all, for Zala-ben-Zala fled in the night, and before I came here Duarte and Pedro were there in command. It was your words, Fernando, that set us on this track." Fernando blushed deeply. "Enrique," he said, "I am not a good Christian, and I shall never be like the holy martyrs." "Why not!" said Enrique. "I do not wonder that the chattering parrot frightened you." "No; but I thought I would do anything in the world to win Ceuta to be a Christian city, and the day our mother was buried, while we knelt in the abbey at Batalha, I made a vow that I would give up my life to convert the Infidel, to win the world back to holy Church." "I think," said Enrique, "that you are too young to make vows save with your confessor's permission, or what holy Church ordains for you." "That is what Father Jose said, when I told him what I had done. He bade me prepare myself by prayer and obedience for whatever life God might send me. But I did make the vow, Enrique, and I shall keep it. I thought--and this is what I want to tell you--that it would be quite easy, for I thought I cared more about it than about anything in the world." "Well," said Enrique, as Fernando paused, faltering, but with his great ardent eyes fixed on his brother, "surely it is not now in the hour of triumph that you change your mind?" "No; but dear Enrique, when I thought you dead, I did not care at all about Ceuta: I would have given it back to save you! Was that wrong?" How little Enrique thought, as he listened with tender indulgence to his little brother's troubled conscience, with what awful force that question would one day ring in his own ears. Now he put it aside. "If we were fighting side by side, Fernando, we should not hold each other back; but if it were easy to imitate the holy martyrs, they would the less have deserved their crowns. If we would seek any object earnestly, we most count the cost. But it was ill-managed that you should have had such an alarm. Never heed it. I am safe, and Ceuta _is_ ours, and _will_ be a Christian city soon. And now I must go to make all due arrangements; for we must confess our sins and prepare ourselves for the knighthood that is to come at last." Fernando looked after him with admiring envy, as he pictured to himself a future day, when he and Joao should head such another expedition, and be themselves the heroes of it. But all vain-glorious thoughts received a rebuke when he heard Duarte and Pedro petition their father, that since Enrique had certainly distinguished himself the most in the attack, he might receive the honour of knighthood _first_, before his elder brothers. The King replied that he owed so much to his son Enrique, that he was willing to grant this request; but Enrique refused, saying that the rights of seniority should be respected; he would rather be knighted in his turn after his brothers. So the next morning beheld a wonderful and glorious sight. Over the fortress of Ceuta hung the Portuguese colours; instead of the Crescent on the great mosque was to be seen a golden Cross. Within all traces of the Mohammedan ritual had been swept away, an altar which, with all its furniture, had been brought from Lisbon, was erected, and instead of the turbans and the bare feet of the Mussulman worshippers were the clanking spurs and uncovered heads of the Christians; while, most wonderful of all, the sweet peal of Catholic bells for the first time woke the echoes of the Moorish city. [A fact.] For the conquerors had actually discovered, stowed away in the mosque, a peal of imprisoned bells, doubtless carried off from some sea-side church by the pirates of Ceuta. Then after high Mass had been duly performed, with all the ceremony possible under the circumstances, one by one, Duarte, Pedro, and Enrique stepped forward, and were knighted by their father before the altar of the new Christian church. Nobly had their desire been fulfilled; they had proved their courage, and in a noble cause. All this time bands of Moorish people were pouring unmolested out of the gates of the city, great numbers choosing rather to go than to stay; and in the darkness, when the gates were closed, they came back and beat wildly against them with outcries of anguish and despair. "Oh, why will not they stay and become Christians?" cried Fernando, bursting into tears, as he listened to their lamentations. "That is not to be expected," said Enrique; "but now we have drawn their fangs for them. More than half their detestable privateers sailed from this port. It is in our hands, and we can penetrate into the unknown world beyond, and from hence send out missionaries among the people. That is what I mean to do." "All is not gained by the taking of Ceuta," said Fernando, dreamily. "No," returned Enrique, "we cannot gain in a day objects which need the devotion of our lives." CHAPTER SEVEN. THE TWIN SISTERS. "Against injustice, fraud, or wrong, His blood beat high, his hand waxed strong." Twelve or thirteen years after the taking of Ceuta a little group was assembled in the central court of a handsome house in Lisbon. This open space was indeed the summer sitting-room of the family; the sleeping apartments and the great entrance hall opened into it. Large orange, citron, and pomegranate-trees, were ranged round the marble pavement, and filled the air with their fragrance, while in the centre was a little fountain falling into a carved basin. An awning was palled across the top to exclude the sun, and a few seats and coaches were arranged round the fountain. On one of these sat a tall man in the prime of life dressed in deep mourning. Several women, one prepared for a journey, were standing near, and also a couple of men-servants. In front of the gentleman, hand-in-hand stood two little girls of seven or eight years old. They were dressed in black, with little black hoods tied over their light-brown hair, which hang down in long curls beneath; they had fair, rosy faces and large grey eyes, out of which they were staring with an expression of alarmed solemnity. Poor little things! They were as merry-hearted a pair as ever made home cheerful, by chatter and laughter and pattering feet; but life looked very serious to them then, for they were about to be sent away from home, their mother's recent death having left them with no efficient female protector. The gay young Walter Northberry, who had been attached to Dom Enrique's suite at the time of the taking of Ceuta, had some time after married Mistress Eleanor Norbury, a lady whose father, like his own, had followed Queen Philippa from England; and on her death he had resolved on sending her little twin daughters to be educated by his English relations. His own habits were not such as made it easy for him to bring up his little girls at home, and he was jealous enough of their nationality not to wish to send them to any of the Lisbon convents, where all their training must have been Portuguese. So having received affectionate offers from his brother, who represented the old family in England, the little maidens were to be sent under fitting escort to Northberry Manor House, in Devonshire. Communications were frequent between the two countries, and there was no difficulty in arranging for their journey. "Well, Kate and Nell," the father said, "it's a hard matter to part with you after all, my pretty blossoms. Be good maids, and obey your aunt, and soon, maybe, I'll come and see you, and my father's country too." "We want to stay at home," said Nell, with a pout, and with a tone of decision. "Father, keep us?" said Kate more softly, with her big eyes full. "No, no, my pretty ones," said Walter Northberry, wiping his own eyes; "'tis a fine place you are going to see; come along." He held out his arms, and the two little black-frocked things sprang into them, clinging round his neck and crying. "Come--come. Is the litter ready, else I shall be too late to get you aboard Dom Manuel's ship? But hark! who comes? 'Tis my lord the Infante himself." Sir Walter set down his daughters, who retreated, hand-in-hand, under a great orange-tree; while their father rose and went to the door, as he heard horses stopping without. In a few moments he returned, accompanied by a tall, slender young man, dressed in black velvet, with a red cross on his breast. Fernando of Avis, as he was called, since, like his father, he was Grand-Master of the Order of Avis, had led, during the twelve years since the taking of Ceuta, neither an idle nor a useless life, but his boyish ambition was still unsatisfied; he had struck no blow against the Infidel power, led no armies to battle, and won no triumphs. His health had always been so delicate, and he was subject to such long attacks of illness, that it was only at intervals that he could indulge in his taste for military towards which, however, his natural impulse was so strong that he had no inconsiderable skill in riding, fencing, and tilting. The delicate Fernando was more essentially a soldier than any of his powerful brothers; he longed with a more ardent desire for knightly glory--a longing hitherto perforce suppressed; but it was for glory to be won by that chivalrous self sacrifice which formed the ideal of the Middle Ages, however seldom it was put in practice. And Fernando's dreams were of personal distinction only in one cause--the cause of the Church; he had therefore gladly accepted the control of one of these military orders which, somewhat similar in character to the Knights Templar, were so common in Spain and Portugal. The vows of these orders pledged their members to the most perfect devotion and purity of life. They did not always preclude marriage; and where celibacy was their rule, dispensations were obtainable, as in the case of King Joao himself; and their great revenues formed an ample provision for princes of the blood, and were applied by Dom Enrique--who was head of the Order of Christ; Dom Joao, who was Master of that of Saint James; and by Dom Fernando himself--to many useful and charitable ends. Fernando was thus pledged to the life of a soldier-saint. He could not be a soldier, and with the discontent of his ambitious and ardent nature he daily felt himself still less of a saint. But those who watched his deep religious fervour, his constant self-denials, and his untiring patience, thought differently; still more those who felt his kindly charity and his unfailing sweetness of temper and warmth of heart. He still possessed the fair colouring regular features of his English cousins, but his blue Plantagenet eyes had a softened, wistfulness as of unsatisfied desires. He had always shown marked friendship to Sir Walter Northberry, and was fond of the little twin maidens, to whom he would bring toys and comfits. "You are better, I trust, my lord, as I see you abroad," said Northberry. "Thanks, Sir Walter--yes, I am better, and I came to bring a parting gift to the children. Here, Mistress Eleanor and Mistress Kate--are not those the English titles?--come here and choose." He held out two little jewelled copies of the cross of his order as he spoke, and the little girls approached him, well pleased; but Eleanor said-- "We are Leonor and Catalina. I will not kiss any one who calls me Eleanor." "Fie, little one!" said her father; "it would become you better to ask my lord for his blessing on your journey." "If I could help it I would not go," said Leonor; while the gentler Catalina was silent, and softly stroked the fur trimming of Fernando's mantle. "See, now," he said, coaxingly, "my brother Dom Pedro has been in this terrible England, and he liked it well. Why, the little King Harry is my cousin, and he has made my brother Knight of the Order of the Garter. We have all cousins in England." Leonor appeared somewhat consoled. "And besides, do you not know," said the Prince more gravely, "that wherever God may send us, He will be with us--ay, in a desert or a dungeon? Then surely in a strange country, where He will send you kind friends." Catalina looked at him with eyes of deep earnestness. Nell said frankly, "My lord Dom Pedro has come safe home again." "Yes, little one, and soon we shall see his marriage with Dona Blanca of Urgel. My brother Dom Pedro has been a great traveller. He tells us wonderful things. You, my little maidens, will see some of them." By this cheerful view of the subject, Eleanor--or, as her mother had loved to call her by an English name soft enough for Portuguese lips, Nella--and Catalina were lifted into their litter in much better spirits than might have been expected, and, accompanied by their nurse and by two stout soldiers belonging to Northberry's household, were put on board the ship bound for England; while their father, thus set free from fears for their welfare, turned his attention to the military matters in which he excelled. It was the eve of the Duke of Coimbra's wedding to Dona Blanca of Urgel, and once again the five princes were gathered in the little marble court under the orange-trees, as when, long ago, they had discussed the question of how their knighthood might best be won. Well and fully had they all answered that question; and long as had been the separations which the work of life had made between them, the bond that united the eager lads was no way loosened between the grown men who had held so staunchly to the high aims of their boyhood. Fernando was resting on some cushions placed on the broad shallow steps, and close by him sat Enrique. Long ago Fernando had learnt that his life could not be passed side by side with this most dear brother, but the intervals that they passed together were his happiest hours, much as he owed to the more constant and as tender companionship of Duarte, whose duties kept him more continually in Lisbon. But Duarte only tried to make life easy to Fernando, regarding him as one to be shielded from every vexation. Enrique alone of all the brothers sympathised with his longing for the struggle of active work. Joao had grown into a stern, resolute person, of great courage and decision of character; but Pedro, as he looked at his brothers almost with a stranger's eye, thought that none of them equalled the majestic dignity of Enrique's grave, ardent countenance, and great strength and size. Pedro was himself a very splendid figure, the gay attire proper to a bridegroom elect contrasting with the grave semi-religious habits of the three grand-masters. Enrique and Joao had come to Lisbon for the wedding, and this was the first meeting of the five. "And among all these adventures and these foreign scenes, brother," said Duarte, "what has struck you most with admiration? What is there to be learnt for the good of our country?" "Much," said Dom Pedro, "that I hope to tell my father at leisure. And, Enrique, in the great naval cities of Venice and Genoa, I saw much that I hope may be applied for the good of your sailors. But I saw no one who, to my mind, equalled our cousin King Harry, now alas! taken from his kingdom: God rest his soul! I felt that he was of our kin, for he had our blessed mother's face, whom I think Fernando favours most of us all. And a king more beloved was never lost to his people; nor a more winning friend and kinsman." "It is indeed grievous," said Duarte, "to think of two great kingdoms-- France and England--left thus to a helpless child." "If our cousin had lived to fulfil his purpose of proclaiming a general crusade, we might have seen great results," said Enrique. "The conquest of France stood in his path," said Joao. "Ah," said Fernando, "that was a glorious purpose--for all the princes of Europe to lay aside their selfish quarrels, and purified by one great aim, to unite in winning back the Holy Sepulchre! Where would then be room for ambition and intrigue?" "In former crusades there was a good share of both. You are a dreamer, Fernando," said Joao. "Nay," said Enrique, "Fernando is right. There is no purification like a high purpose; but we must pursue it in the teeth of intrigue and ambition; it will not sweep them away." "True, for they spring from the selfish desires of the heart," said Pedro, rather sententiously. "We are not all free," said Duarte thoughtfully, "to devote our lives to _one_ aim, be it ever so high: for our duties are many. And so it was, I suppose, with our cousin King Harry." "Nay, the golden lilies had a tempting flash," said Joao, laughing. "Well, and I will not say, having seen much of good and ill government, that to pacify the unhappy kingdom of France was not as good an aim as any. But how is it with your purposes, Enrique? I half feared to find you bound for some savage island in the midst of the sea of darkness." "No," said Enrique; "but there is light in the darkness now. Come with me to Sagres so soon as our fair bride can spare you, and see the observatory I have built--the calculations that I have made. This is a much wider world than our fathers thought, Pedro, and one day there shall be known Christian lands which the Mussulman has never polluted; and where the simple natives will know no faith but that of Christ." "There are other dreamers here besides Fernando," said Pedro, with a smile. "No," cried Enrique, eagerly; "it is no dream. I will show you grapes grown in our new found island, such as Spain cannot beat, and the inhabitants listen willingly to Christian teaching. If I can but perfect our compasses and other instruments, we can penetrate the sea still further--already have we reached the African coast--and then a Christian kingdom behind Barbary and Morocco, and Christian lands to the far west. Look you, Pedro," and Enrique sprang up and came over to him, laying both hands on Pedro's shoulders, and looking in his face, "your mathematics were used to be more perfect than mine. You must come to Sagres and help me." "Willingly," said Pedro; "you shall explain your problems to me." "I owe much to Duarte," said Enrique, "in such matters; and he has studied so thoroughly the courses of the heavens, and can so well judge of fair or foul weather, he should have been a sailor born. Then I purpose to bring some of my natives hither, that they may return to their own country good Christians and civilised men. They trust my sailors as if they were messengers from Heaven. See what a power it is for good. Whole islands--nay, Pedro, I sometimes think whole continents, may owe to us their salvation." So spoke the great Enrique of Avis, in the young days of the modern world, he who was at once a great soldier and a devoted son of the Church, the priestly knight of the Middle Ages, who helped the new learning many miles on her way, to whom astronomy and physical science began to open their treasures; while in his breast burnt the same fire of adventure, the same longing for discovery, that in our day has penetrated Arctic seas and African deserts, fulfilling the command to replenish the earth and subdue it. But, prince though he was, Enrique met with scant sympathy beyond the limits of his family, in designs which the world had not yet learnt to understand. And little did he dream of how much misery Christian men would bring to those unknown lands, after which his heart hungered; or that his earnest desire to bring his islanders to a sight of the blessings of Christianity should be quoted as a precedent and justification for all the horrors of the slave trade. Pedro had enough of the same power to understand his efforts, and he was beginning a sympathetic reply, when one of Fernando's attendants came towards them telling him that Sir Walter Northberry desired to speak with him. "Ask him to come hither," said Fernando; and even as he spoke, Northberry, with a pale and disturbed countenance, came hurriedly towards the brothers. "Alas! my lord!" he said, with a hasty reverence, "I have the worst of ill news. I am a miserable man. The ship in which my little daughters sailed him been attacked by Moorish pirates. There was a vessel bound from France to Lisbon came to the rescue, and beat them off; but oh, the saints pity us! the cursed villains carried with them my little Kate. Woe's me that ever I let them go." Northberry covered his face with his hands, unable to repress his despairing grief; while the princes pressed round him, full of sympathy and indignation. Fernando took his hand, and drew him to a seat, saying eagerly-- "Everything is at your command. What can be done? Have you any due?" "Surely," said Duarte, "a sufficient ransom will open the prison gates." "Horrible degradation!" cried Enrique and Fernando in a breath. "As to that, my good lords," said Northberry, "I care not for degradation, if I can but get my poor little maid back. Better tempest and shipwreck. But this French vessel that brought me the news said that the attack was made at night by a superior force, and that they were gone in the morning beyond pursuit. So Dom Manuel sent the wretched news back, and sailed as fast as might be for England, lest Nella should share her sister's fate. Alas! alas!" "And _this_!" cried Fernando, with flashing eyes, "_this_ is what we suffer on our shores--we! princes, knights, Christians--shame--shame upon us! Better spend the last coin in our treasury--shed the last drop of our blood--better die among nations, lose all--everything--than have it so! What! we hold our kingdom undisturbed by a false peace with friends such as these! Let it go, but let us drive them from Portuguese waters--from Christian soil. I will endure it no longer; I will do it single-handed." Fernando stood with lifted hand and face on fire, long suppressed passion giving startling effect to his words; but suddenly his face paled and he dropped back on his seat. "I--I can do nothing," he said, in a voice of inexpressible melancholy. Enrique leaned over him, and put his arm round him, as if he had been still the little brother, whose excitement he had soothed so often in early years. "Everything in our power shall be done, good Sir Walter," said Duarte, earnestly. "Indeed, my lord, I doubt it not," said Northberry. "I am sorry so to grieve Dom Fernando." Fernando looked up. "Duarte, I meant to reproach no one," he said, humbly. "My friend, I can do little for you, or any one, but pray; I will go and do that." "My lord," said Sir Walter, kissing his hand, "such prayers as yours must be answered." Fernando shook his head sadly. He blamed himself for the outburst of feeling which had seemed to reproach his brothers for failing in a duty which he could not even attempt, and for long hours that night he knelt in his private chapel, and prayed that at whatever cost to himself the power of the Moor might be lessened and the little captive restored unharmed to her friends. Fernando often pursued his devotions at risk to his own health, the care of which did not present itself to him as a duty in the way it would now to an equally conscientious person; and perhaps, had his austerities been fewer, he would have been better able to follow the wish of his heart. But he followed the light given him, and his prayers in due time bore fruit. But not immediately; no tidings of Katharine Northberry came to Lisbon; the sorrow narrowed itself to one sore spot in her father's heart, while a long and dangerous attack of illness for Fernando followed close on Dom Pedro's wedding. Enrique put aside his pressing schemes to stay with him and to nurse him, and as he grew better to understand the deep desire of Fernando's heart, he resolved that before every other object he would devote himself to carry it out. CHAPTER EIGHT. TWO LIVES. "And like a double cherry--seeming parted." The clear light of an English spring evening was shining down on the grey walls of the convent of Saint Mary, streaming through the golden green of the neighbouring wood, showing the towers of Northberry Manor House through the trees, and sparkling on the blue strip of sea behind them. Far on either side stretched wood and forest, hitherto untouched by the hand of man, while from the pleasant fields cultivated round the convent and Manor House green glades and glens wound away into the forest, where the hunter might sound his horn, the outlaw take refuge, where wild game of all kinds still dwelt without chance of extinction, and where fairy rings were found on the grass, strange sights seen, and strange sounds heard beyond the chime of the church bells of Northberry. The lords of the manor rode through the rough roads now and again on visits to their neighbours, or for assize meetings at the nearest town; the convent priests, who also served the little village church, went through the wood now and then at the summons of the Bishop; but the villagers who clustered round the convent and manor walls were afraid of the forest, and Eleanor Northberry had never passed through it since she had been brought there, six years before, a solitary and frightened child, pining for the little twin sister who had been torn from her side. She had been tenderly received and cherished by her cousins, and with their daughter Adela was placed at the convent, where she learnt to read and to sing, to sew and to embroider, going home occasionally to Northberry Manor, and growing so much into a part of the family, that Sir Edward Northberry contemplated finding a husband for her in due time among the gallant squires of Devon, and never sending her back again to the "foreign parts," which, spite of his connection with Lisbon, he regarded as peopled by a mixture of Frenchmen and Moors. Within the convent precincts was a garden surrounded by high old walls, through one of which a gate led into the little burial-ground where the convent chapel stood. There was a sun-dial in the midst of the garden, on the step of which Eleanor--or as she loved better to be called, Nella--Northberry sat making wreaths from a great heap of white hawthorn on the grass beside her. The garden was neatly kept, with a plentiful supply of herbs useful for cooking or for medicine, and a few spring flowers, such as bluebells or lilies of the valley, and in the centre of the turf an apple-tree in full blossom; there were cherries and plums in plenty, with the fruit just setting among their green leaves. A large oblong pond full of fish lay across the bottom of the garden. The birds sang sweetly; a family of robin-redbreasts were making their first attempts at flying from the low branches of the apple-trees. There was a low sound of chanting from the chapel, where the nuns were practising the services for the approaching festival of Whitsuntide. All was full of peace and calm, brightened by the fresh and hopeful spring-time. Nella finished her long white garland, and laid it at her feet. She clasped her hands on her knees, and watched the little snowy clouds as they came floating from behind the cherry-trees across the sky. She was very simply dressed in a grey frock cut square at her neck, and finished with a white frill; but she was a tall and beautiful girl, almost a woman in height, with her long brown hair drawn back from a broad fair brow, a frank and simple countenance, and eyes at once innocent and fearless. She was almost too much for the nuns sometimes, with her wild spirits and dauntless gaiety, delighting in woodland scrambles and hairbreadth escapes. But she was loving and loyal-hearted, and no rebel, though a little difficult of control. Just now, however, the evening calm had stolen over her spirit, and she sat lost in thought, her memory, seldom active, going back to the days of her early childhood, as she glanced at the gold cross which she wore constantly round her neck. Nella could not be said to have forgotten Catalina. She prayed for her morning and evening, and she knew that masses were constantly sung in the convent chapel for her deliverance; but the sorrow of her loss was regarded as too terrible for common speech. A cloud of horror hung over her memory, and Nella, whose simple, healthy nature easily adapted itself to new surroundings, rather shrank from the thought of her. Her father had never fulfilled his promise of coming to England; her nurse had been taken captive with Kate. She could vividly remember the night attack, when she had run out to see what was the matter, and found the others gone on her return, and carrying her thoughts back she could remember different trees and flowers, a house that seemed to her of wonderful splendour, a mother's kiss, her bluff father's voice, and, more clearly than anything else, the tall, pale young prince who had given her the jewel round her neck and bid her trust in God. It must be remembered that though Nella's memory enabled her to recall orange-trees and pomegranates, strange dresses and customs, and the "Moors" as familiar objects of dread, she never met with any one who had ever seen an orange-tree, or done more than hear of a Moor as a sort of emissary of evil. She had nothing therefore but her own childish impressions to fall back upon, which were confused and blurred, and she invariably pictured Catalina as her own double, grown to the same height, wearing the same clothes, and thinking the same thoughts. But the image seemed as far removed from her as if she had been taught to regard Catalina as among the saints in Paradise. Nella was not imaginative; she did not realise strange conditions; a sort of reserve had always veiled even from her own thoughts the present condition of her twin sister. But her convent life was almost over, and the change in her own existence made her thoughtful. "I am thirteen," she thought; "I have made my first communion, perhaps before many years I shall be married; but Catalina--" Suddenly, for the first time, it came clearly before her mind that Catalina, if alive, could not be in the least like herself, could not be a Christian at all. Nella sprang to her feet and almost cried out as the thought stung her, and for the first time in her life she was seized with the intensest desire to know her sister's fate; she felt as if she must discover what had become of her, as if the uncertainty so long acquiesced in had become suddenly intolerable to her. The chapel bell began to ring for vespers; one of the nuns came into the garden and called Nella. She took up her wreath and followed into the chapel, and as she knelt and prayed, the twin sister whom she could no longer picture to herself seemed to call to her out of terrible and unknown darkness. In the convent chapel, among the oak-wood and the cherry-blossoms of an English spring, Eleanor Northberry laid her garlands on a holy shrine and listened to the chanting of the vesper service; while the light faded away over the peaceful garden, and the last reflection of the sunset died out from the long fish-pond, and the nuns were left to the peace and the stillness of night. The sun also dropped down to rest over another small inclosure, far away in the warm south. Round the royal palace of Muley Hassan, King of Fez, were magnificent gardens, and on the side devoted to the women was one, the very gem of them all. A kind of cloister surrounded it, built with the utmost elaboration of Moorish art, horseshoe arches, fretwork of the most exquisite forms, blazing with gold and silver, and glowing with the gorgeousness of Oriental colour. Flowers of almost tropical variety and beauty were growing in profusion, and in the centre was a fountain in which gold and silver fish were swimming. On the brink stood a young girl with a splendid wreath of crimson passion-flowers in her hand. She was dressed in a tunic of blue silk, wonderfully embroidered with coloured flowers, full white silk trousers were fastened round her ankles above her golden slippers; on her head was a rose-coloured turban, coquettishly set on the top of the long straight plait of hair that fell down her back. She seated herself on the rim of the fountain, and laying her flowers at her feet, listened to the distant sound of girlish voices laughing and chattering beyond the cloister, or to the noise of a number of parrots and other birds inclosed in a golden network at one corner of the garden. The girl's face was fair, with fine outlines, large blue eyes of a peculiar wistful softness, and with an expression gentle, dreamy, and somewhat passive. This was Leila, a Christian slave, the pet and plaything of the ladies of Muley Hassan's harem; this was Katharine, Eleanor Northberry's lost sister. Strangely enough there had been a sort of outward similarity between the lives that were essentially so different. Each sister had been brought up in seclusion in a household of women. Catalina, like Nella, learnt to embroider and to sing; she too lived among birds and flowers and pleasant places. She too was taught to be obedient, to submit to rules; and the gentle nature obeyed more perfectly, and carried cushions and sang little songs or gathered flowers for the princesses, more aptly than Nella learnt her tasks or steadied her dancing steps in Northberry convent. But the little slave had been treated as a favourite toy, and nothing had occurred to drive her thoughts beyond herself. She had at once been separated from her nurse and taken to the palace, and though she could have told, if asked, her real name and have understood probably her own language, years of soft living separated her from any reminder of her old life. "Leila, Leila!" cried a clear voice. Leila sprang up and ran to the garden-gate to meet a lady, of exquisite dark beauty, who came and sat down on a pile of silken cushions near the fountain. Leila took, at her signal, a golden casket from another little girl, and kneeling before her mistress, began to take out its contents and display them. Mistress and maiden smiled with delight as rubies, diamonds, and emeralds came to view. "My jewels are the best in the harem," said the Princess Zarah, proudly. "Yes, lady," said Leila, "neither Zuleika nor Zoraya have half so many." "There is a string of pearls for you," said Zarah. "Or, no--choose among these for yourself." "What is that?" said the little slave suddenly, pointing to a small eight-pointed ornament with a ruby in the centre. "That!" said the princess. "Why, child, that is yours already. It was tied round your neck when you were brought to me." Leila took the cross in her hand, and gazed at it with a fixed, dreamy look. "Nella had one too," she said suddenly. "Dom Fernando gave them to us." "Who is that?" said Zarah, indolently. Leila looked perplexed, tears filled her eyes, and, with a half-unconscious movement, she made the sign of the cross. Zarah struck her hand sharply. "Hold, child! that is wicked. Do that again and you shall be beaten." "Are all Christians wicked?" said Leila, timidly. "Of course, child--they are unbelievers." "And Nella must be a Christian--I was once." "There, do not fret. Here is a spray of emeralds, for you to put in your turban. You are happy enough, and spoiled, my little one. Religions do not matter so much for a woman, certainly not for a slave. Some day, when I can spare you, you shall marry a true Mussulman, who shall give you sweetmeats and jewels. You are very pretty--none of the other princesses have such a pretty slave." Leila laid the jewels down, and, slipping away from her mistress' side, she leaned over the carved parapet of the ladies' garden, peeping through the trellis-work that divided it from the more public grounds of the palace. Down below, she saw four or five men, haggard, weary, and scantily clothed, dragging heavy loads of earth to form a bank on one side of the garden. Presently a Moor came up and struck one of them a sharp blow. He cowered under it for a moment, and then, as the striker turned away, his victim looked up to Heaven and made the sign of the Cross. These poor sufferers were Leila's fellow-Christians. Tears filled her eyes; she longed to help them. But she was a slave, petted, soft, and self-indulgent, like a pet animal. She shrank away from the painful thought, and, going back to her mistress, tried to forget it in wreathing the passion-flowers round her hair. CHAPTER NINE. IN NORTHBERRY FOREST. "The huge, broad-breasted old oak-tree." Northberry Manor house was a heavy, grey stone building, with a small court in the centre, and four little round towers at the corners. A moat surrounded it, crossed by a drawbridge, which, however, was rarely raised. England still felt the benefit of the strong government of Henry the Fifth, and all was at peace. The gates stood open, save at night; the servants and retainers stood idling about the court, and the great hunting-dogs sat in the sun and enjoyed life, one lovely morning in Whitsun week, as Nella Northberry, in all the delight of a holiday, came running out of the hall-door among them, calling them to her, and stroking and petting them with fearless affection. "Oh, how much nicer this is than embroidery!" she cried, clapping her hands. "And oh, how shocked Dame Agnes would be to hear you say so?" said a tall, slim lad, with a ruddy brown skin, bright hazel eyes, and an air of alert and cheerful activity. "Ah, but, Harry, I have improved so much. See, this is my new green holiday kirtle, and I worked the border to it, I did indeed. Sister Katharine showed me the stitch." "It is a very fine kirtle, truly," said the boy. "See, you have let Lion lay his paws all over the front of it." "It will brush, it is made of serge," said Nella, blushing. "But now, Harry, I have something very serious to speak of. Where will you come and talk to me about it?" "Let us come on to the tower battlements then," said Harry, struck with the air of serious purpose that suddenly changed the girl's laughing face. Harry Hartsed also had relations in Portugal, and his father, a poor squire, lived not many miles from the manor. Sir Walter Northberry, after the fashion of the time, had taken him into his household that he might acquire the education of a gentleman, and he was now about seventeen, a fine, high-spirited boy, earnest and ambitious. He and Nella took their way on to the top of one of the little towers, from which they could see over miles of forest, in every variety of spring colouring. Nella leaned against the battlement, the wind freshening her rosy cheeks and blowing her long hair about her shoulders. She fixed her eyes on Harry, and said-- "Now I am going to tell you a secret. I want you to help me, but I will never forgive you if you speak to any one else about it." "I always keep your secrets, Nella; you need not scold me beforehand," said Harry. "Well," said Nella, too much in earnest to reply to his challenge, "it is about my--my sister." Her eyes fell, and she coloured deeply, with the awe of one approaching a mystery. "Your sister! But you know nothing about her, Nella," said Harry, tenderly and rather shyly. "No; but I mean to find out. I began to think of her on Whitsun Eve, when I was making a garland for Our Lady. I want to know what has become of Catalina. I am sure she is alive." "But it is quite impossible that you can find out about her, Nell," said Harry. "Either she is dead--God rest her soul!--or lost to you for ever." "I am going to ask the witch in the forest," said Nella, coolly. Harry started, and said in a tone of strong disapproval-- "I shall not help you to do that." "Then I shall go by myself." Harry was a straightforward youth, who disliked what he could not understand. There was something disgraceful as well as dreadful in a Moorish captivity. If the lost girl was a Mahometan slave, the less they knew of her the better; and as for the witch in the forest, in plain English he was very much afraid of her. "I will not hear of such a thing, Nella," he said. "It is very wicked to consult a witch who has sold her soul to the Evil One. Besides, how do you know what she might do to you! Now, do you think Father Anselm, or the Lady Abbess, or your aunt, or Sir Walter would consent to it?" "No," said Nella, "of course not. But I am sure that it is right to go. And I shall tell my beads all the way and wear my cross round my neck. She cannot harm my soul or my body while I have that. I will let her cut my hair off and give her my string of pearls if she wants them. And if you are afraid, I will go by myself." "Afraid! I am not afraid of the forest! But you ought not to deceive Dame Agnes and go in secret." "Very well," said Nella. "And ought you to have got out at the little postern, and gone to Dunford Fair, when Sir Walter forbade you? Or away down on the rocks to get the sea-gull's eggs, when he sent you to the Master Armourer at Newton? If you may play truant for pleasure, surely I may for a good purpose." Master Harry Hartsed, like many another, found his principles impeded by his practice, and, dropping the question of obedience, observed-- "You are a girl, which alters the question." "Ask Father Anselm if a boy has any more right to be disobedient than a girl," retorted Nella. "I shall not let you run into danger," said Harry, firmly. "Then," said the girl, bursting into tears, "I shall be very unhappy, and I thought you loved me better. I'll never forgive you--never. And, oh dear, dear Harry, _do_ help me--_do_! I don't want Walter Coplestone and Adela to know about it; but if you are so cruel, I--I think I must ask Walter. He would--" Perhaps the fact that Nella was a girl _did_ alter the question. Harry yielded, as he usually did, to her strong will and ready tongue, and said-- "Well, what do you want me to do?" "To wait outside the postern to-morrow at the full of the moon. I can get out, but I can't get across the moat; so I want you to have your little boat ready, dear Harry. Then, I am not afraid of the forest; but I don't know the way to the blasted oak, and you do. So you must come, and wait there while I go and see the witch. You will, dear Harry!" Harry was perfectly aware that Nella was going to do a thing that was both wrong and dangerous; but, alas for his good nature! he hated saying no, and more than one scrape that lay heavy on a tender conscience and truthful spirit had been caused by this weakness. Young as Nella was, she was so much of a woman for her years that he, whose thoughts had hardly yet strayed beyond his boyish round of duties and amusements, could not withstand either her coaxing or her contempt. He admired her more, though he hardly knew if he liked her so well as kind little Adela; but Nella was queen of Northberry Manor, and turned all the young people there round her finger. Besides, he could not make her give up her plan save by betraying her secret, and he could not let her carry it out alone. In the depths of that untrodden forest, strange things were sometimes seen, and much stranger were imagined. Many a frightened woodman or swineherd had seen a werewolf dash aside into the impenetrable undergrowth, or in a sudden clearance had beheld a gnome or a demon grinning at him from between the trees, had heard the rush of the wild huntsman over his head in the autumn storms, and fled in terror from the haunted spot. No doubt it needed little to suggest these and the like phantoms; but it takes a long time for any race of animals to become extinct, and chance specimens of the wolf and the wild boar may have lingered in forest glades long after they were supposed to be exterminated. And wild men of the woods may have had a real existence in a state of society when maniacs were regarded with superstitious horror, and when these vast forests afforded a refuge for criminals and outlaws of every description. To the boy and girl who by the light of the May moon penetrated the forest glades, they seemed to be peopled with fearful forms and more fearful possibilities. Moonlight and towering tree-trunks, thick undergrowths of hazel and elder, made strange combinations; and as at the sound of their footsteps great owls and woodpeckers started from their roosting-places and screeched and whirred round their heads, hares and foxes rushed through the grass and brambles, and the wind stirred and echoed through the tree-tops, they shuddered, and Nella felt that she had hardly counted the cost of the undertaking. The path was tolerably plain to them; it was a horse track, and led through the forest down to the shore, and they pursued it for about a mile, in almost entire silence, and then turned aside to the right into a narrower one, which shortly led them, to what was always called the blasted oak. This was a great withered tree, which stood alone in the centre of a clearing, without a leaf or a twig to break the forlorn aspect of its wide-stretching arms now glimmering white in the moonlight. "Now," said Nella, "we must sound a hunting horn, and some one will show us the way to the witch." Harry took hold of the horn that was slung round his neck; to sound it required a considerable effort; but he was ashamed to hesitate in Nella's presence, and putting it to his lips, blew a blast much fainter than that with which he was accustomed to summon the dogs on a hunting morning. It seemed to them as if the whole forest rang with the sound, as if it echoed away through glade and thicket till it must rouse Northberry Manor itself, nay, as if it might call the whole country to arms. Nella shrank up to Harry and they both stood trembling and terrified. No one answered their summons. "The witch will not come, Nella," said Harry in, it must be confessed, a tone of relief. "Then we must blow again," said Nella; but, as she spoke, they saw running in the grass in front of them a little white rabbit. Instead of starting from them it ran up to Nella's feet, and then away from her for a short distance, then back again. "Is that the witch?" she whispered. "Must I follow that? I will cross myself first." As the rabbit retained its form and showed no alarm at the holy sign, Nella, summoning all her courage, quitted Harry's hand--as no two people could, it was supposed, approach the witch together--and followed the little creature, which now turned and ran back into the wood. Nella, child as she was, was of the stuff that makes heroes. She conquered her terrors, and clasping her cross tight, she followed the mysterious summons. It did not occur to her that the animal was pulled by a string attached to its neck. It did not lead her very far, for she soon found herself in front of a low hut, under the door of which the rabbit disappeared. Nella tapped timidly, the door was flung back, and she stepped into a tiny room, very full of smoke, since the chimney consisted only of a hole in the roof. Neither in that respect nor in any other did it differ from the huts of the peasantry round, except that a torch was stuck into a wooden stand of peculiar shape in the centre. The roof was so low that the tall Nella could have touched it with her hand, and on the floor under the torch sat a very little woman, with black eyes, sharp features, and a red cloak over her head. She rose as Nella entered, and stood upright, even then hardly reaching to the girl's shoulder, and said a few words in a language which Nella recognised, though she did not quite understand. "I cannot speak Cornish," she said. Perhaps the witch was not accustomed to visitors with their wits so much about them, though the old Cornish language still crossed the border into Devon, and was not unknown there among the peasantry. Still, it added to the mystery of the witch's proceedings in the eyes of some of her visitors, and increased the confidence of those to whom it was familiar. "And what do you want of me then, maiden?" she said in English. "I am Eleanor Northberry; I want to know where my sister is who was stolen away by the Moors, and I will give you these pearls if you will tell me," said Nella, who had rehearsed her little speech. She looked at the witch as she spoke, in full confidence of receiving an answer, and with less fear than she had expected. Somehow, there was something very commonplace about the witch now that she had found her. "You have asked a hard question, my lady," said the witch in a much more respectful tone. She knew her position too well to frighten the young lady of the Manor to death, aware that, though feared and tolerated, a little too much licence would bring the laws against witchcraft in full operation upon her. She turned her back on Nella, and mumbled and muttered a little to herself, and then facing round, said in a wheedling tone, "Sure, it's the face of the lovely young lady herself, I read in the stars. Wouldn't you like to hear what suitors you will have, my pretty lady--about the great lord across the sea?" "No," said Nella, though a little reluctantly. "I want to hear about Catalina. For," she thought, "I shall not be able to pay her to tell me _too_ much, and besides,"--Nella's thoughts here became hazy even to herself; but they were to the effect that she would not use this sinful means of information more than she could help. "I see," said the witch, after a moment, "a maiden like this one before me!" "Yes," said Nella, "we were both of an age, and alike exactly." "Her eyes are blue, and her face is fair," looking at her visitor's. "Those around are--dark--dark." "Yes--for the Moors are black," eagerly said Nella. "Oh, is she alive and happy?" "The prisoners of the Moors live far away," said the witch. "One day shall there be a great ransom--and a great deliverance. Friends shall meet across the sea--a talisman will save the lost." "Why, I come from across the sea," said Nella. "A talisman! would it be the cross that Prince Fernando gave us?" "Ay, the fate of a prince is in the balance," said the witch, mysteriously. "But shall I ever see my sister again?" urged Nella. "Across the sea--across the sea," repeated the witch. "I can tell no more, my lady--no more." "Then I think I had better go home," said Nella, hardly knowing whether she were impressed or disappointed, but a good deal less frightened than when she came in. "Give me the pearls, and keep the secret of your visit, else will the talisman work for ill. But now go home, Mistress Nella, go home with Master Harry, and don't you be coming into the forest at night; 'tisn't fitting for young ladies like you, and will anger his honour, Sir Walter, sure enough." The different tone in which these last words were spoken startled Nella, for the witch dropped all her mysterious solemnity, and spoke, with half-coaxing command, in a voice that sounded strangely familiar. Perhaps she was afraid of losing the doles of bread that Dame Agnes Northberry dispensed in the courtyard of the Manor, and which old Bess, as she was called, came to claim without any one guessing at her identity with the witch of the forest, who was visited in darkness and mystery. The young lady of Northberry was a client with whom she was afraid to deal. On the whole, Harry, standing without in the darkness, listening to the strange cries of bird and beast, and watching the awful shadows change and sway in the rising wind, had the hardest time of it. He had followed Nella almost to the door of the hut, and was unspeakably thankful when she ran out alive and unhurt and ready to hurry home as fast as possible. She hardly spoke, till they were safe out of the forest shades and in the familiar home fields, and then Harry said, in a subdued tone, "Was it very terrible, Nell?" "No--no," said Nella, with hesitation. "She said Catalina was across the sea, and had a talisman--the cross, you know--and that if I saw her it would be across the sea. But I was not much frightened,--and I don't think there was anything--wicked. There were no--demons." Nella sunk her voice a little, and spoke in a tone of slight disappointment mingled with relief. "Well," said Harry, breaking the spell with a laugh, "for all she told you, you might as well have stayed at home, Nell." "No, not when I had said I would go." But they both thought it rather remarkable that the next morning Harry Hartsed received a letter from his relations at Lisbon, duly favoured by a ship bearing despatches to the court, inviting him to come to Portugal and try his fortunes "across the sea." CHAPTER TEN. HIS HEART'S DESIRE. "He greatly longed some land that now did feel The yoke of misbelieving men once more To his Redeemer's kingdom to restore." Harry Hartsed arrived in Lisbon while the court was still in mourning for the death of the great and good King Joao the First. He bore various despatches to Sir Walter Northberry from his English cousins, and from his daughter; and was kindly received by his own distant cousin, Sir James Hartsed, and by him placed in the household of the Master of Avis, who showed him much kindness, and made many inquiries after his little favourite, Nella Northberry. There were enough English about the Court of Lisbon to prevent Harry from feeling lonely, and the life there was full of interest and energy. Not that Harry's disposition led him to emulate the Portuguese princes in their love of literature and science; but he did ardently desire to make as graceful a figure in the tilt-yard as Dom Fernando, and to be able to pick up a nut with the point of his lance when his horse was at full gallop, as cleverly as King Duarte himself. He succeeded beyond his hopes in these aims, growing from an uninformed country lad into an accomplished gentleman; and, moreover, in the atmosphere of earnest piety and strict performance of duty in which he found himself, he could not but perceive that something more than good horsemanship and skill in arms, or even in learning, went to the making of these splendid princes. The years since the disappearance of Katharine Northberry had been full of changes. The marriage of Dom Pedro had been followed by that of Dom Duarte to Leonora of Aragon. The Princess Isabel had been given by her father to Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and Dom Joao had also found a wife for himself. These various royal households added greatly to the gaiety of the court; and when the period of mourning for King Joao was over, it proved that the young Queen Leonora loved state and ceremony, and inaugurated many festivities. She was at this time very popular with the people, and every one rejoiced in the presence of a lady at the head of affairs. Duarte, meanwhile, with an industry and talent equal to his father's, and with an even greater purity of action and intention, devoted himself to schemes for the good of his subjects, and by so doing made up for the loss of his father's great minister, Alvarez de Pereira, who had died a few months before the king, and who had long ago put into shape the young princes' plans for the tithing of Ceuta. Dom Enrique had been but little at Lisbon, his great undertakings filled up his time, and he had of late joined the King of Aragon in a war with the Duke of Milan, during which he had been taken prisoner, to the great alarm and distress of his brothers; but he had soon regained his liberty, and now, at the end of 1435, was at the court. Fernando's health had become somewhat less delicate, though it was still a check on his sharing in his brothers' exploits; but he led a very busy, useful, and devout life, managing the affairs of the Order of Avis, spending nearly all his private fortune in ransoming prisoners from the Moors, and in acts of charity or devotion. To the poor, wherever he went, he was a personal friend, and the young men of his household regarded him with enthusiastic admiration, marvelling at the combination of such saintly qualities with such a genuine love for all connected with military honour and personal prowess. The people spoke of his almsgiving, his life of prayer and self-denial, his unfailing gentleness of word and deed, of the sufferings borne with such exemplary patience, and thought that he led the life of a saint on earth. And all this while the life that looked so holy and so peaceful, and was so pure from outward stain, was full of inward storm and struggle, of longings and ambitions, but imperfectly laid at the foot of the Cross. There was much yet to come before Fernando's victory was won. One bright winter's day he was sitting in his private room in the palace. As Master of Avis, he possessed property and residences in more than one part of Portugal; but in Lisbon he still lived under his brother's roof, chiefly that Duarte might bestow on him, in his frequent illnesses, as much as possible of his scanty intervals of leisure. Besides, Fernando's tastes were simple, and he loved the surroundings of his boyhood. He had been occupied all the morning, after attending mass in the king's chapel, with the various affairs of his order, and with a consultation with the Archbishop of Lisbon, over the details of a new mission to be despatched to the coast of Africa, in the wake of some of Dom Enrique's recent discoveries, and now, wearied with so much exertion, was sitting by the hearth, on which burned a small wood fire. It was a pleasant room enough, long and narrow, with a high carved and painted ceiling, and a great chimney-piece of white marble, carved with the dragon's heads that King Joao, in honour of his English Garter, introduced on every occasion, just as he taught his soldiers to shout Saint George. Harry Hartsed and a young nephew and namesake of the great minister, Alvarez de Pereira, were sitting at the farther end of the room, and talking in a subdued voice, as they looked out between the mullions of the window over the palace garden. After some discussion between themselves, Harry glanced at the prince, and, perceiving that he was doing nothing, crossed the room and ventured to address him. "My Lord, Dom Alvarez and I were discussing a question. May I crave leave to ask your opinion on it?" Fernando started from his reverie, and looked up with the expression in his eyes, half-wistful, half-eager, altogether unsatisfied, that contrasted so strangely with the kind bright smile with which he ever greeted a request. "You are welcome to my opinion," he said, gaily; "but I know not if it will be of much value to _you_." "My Lord, Alvarez here declares that his fate has been foretold by the stars, and that certain days in the year are unfavourable to him. That if he went into battle on those days he would assuredly be slain. That being so, it would be well to cast one's horoscope, and learn how to keep from such dangers." "But," said Fernando, "if duty called Dom Alvarez to battle on these fateful days, he would but go in with a worse heart for thinking it sure that he would never come out again." "I should do my duty, my lord, I trust," said Dom Diego Alvarez, who had followed Hartsed. "Assuredly, senor; I did but speak to show you how little, to my thinking, knowledge of the future is a help to the present performance of duty. And you have, surely heard, since it is the common story, how a Jewish astrologer would have dissuaded the king, my brother, from receiving the homage of his subjects on the day appointed, declaring it to be an unfortunate one." "But his grace was not influenced by a rascally Jew," said Harry. "No," returned the prince; "against the opinions of his councillors he held to his first intention. The king and the dukes, my brothers, having deeply studied the courses of the stars, have found great wonders among them, for which they glorify God; but they do not read in them their own future." "Well," remarked Harry, "I must say that little knowledge came by one attempt I know of, to read the future," and, in answer to the prince's question, he related his expedition to the forest with Nella. "Alas, poor child," said Fernando, much moved, "it needs no witch to guess at her fate. Young Mistress Nella must have a brave heart." "There's nothing, my lord," said Harry, "that I should enjoy more than a good blow at the Infidel, and there are many here that think with me. We listen to tales of the siege of Ceuta, and long for our turn." "Ay?" said Fernando, thoughtfully. "It seems as if our prayers must be weak when we withhold ourselves. But who is coming?" "It is the Duke of Viseo, my lord," said Alvarez. "Then you may leave us," said Fernando, as Dom Enrique entered, and, after an affectionate greeting, sat down beside him. "I think of soon returning to Sagres," he said; "my sailors will be looking for me. Since we have penetrated to the coast of Africa, I have more business than ever." "I should like to go with you for a time to Sagres," said Fernando. "I could not make observations for you like Duarte, nor work out your mathematics like Pedro, but I long to see more of your doings there." "It is so cold at Sagres," said Enrique; "the winds there are too bleak and rough for you; and yet it would be well for you to spend a few idle weeks." "I am strong now," said Fernando hastily; "nothing will hurt me." Enrique smiled and shook his head. "Nothing ails me _now_ but idleness," repeated Fernando, as he looked up at his brother with a sort of inquiry in his face. Enrique was standing leaning his back against the high chimney corner, and now he turned his eyes on Fernando and said-- "Is that thought so fresh in your mind still?" "Is it ever absent?" cried Fernando, rising in his eagerness. "Can I forget my childish vow, and the longing I have ever had so to devote myself? We have done much with Ceuta for a centre for the spread of the Cross. If Tangier were ours--" he paused, laying his hand on Enrique's shoulder. "See, my brother, I am strong enough now for a campaign. I should run no more risk than the rest of you. Is it not my turn? I am the only one of us all whose sword has never been drawn. Am _I_ fit to be head of the Order of Avis? Does such home-staying become my father's son? Must I be the only one to do nothing for the honour of Portugal or for Holy Church?" Enrique's enthusiasm was easily fired. All his life he had been ready to turn aside from his own special objects to strike a blow at the Moor. "If you and I could head an expedition," he said, thoughtfully; "much toil need not fall on you." "Ah!" cried Fernando. "At such a time I should feel no hardships. I am not so full of my own conceit as to imagine myself a fit leader. Let me but fight under your banner; profit by your experience. Is not our prosperity a shame, while we suffer that unimaginable evil at our very gates?" "It would consecrate all other efforts," said Enrique, with the peculiar earnestness that always made his words weighty; "and to fight as we have always wished, side by side, in this holy war!" "Yes. Alone I could do little! This hope has been my one aim, my prayer, through all the poor life that has borne so little fruit. Enrique, _you_ have known it?" "Yes. I know that you have never swerved from it. But you must not call your life fruitless, my Fernando." "Fruitful of impatience and discontent! In truth I am not worthy of this task." "Nevertheless," said Enrique, with his grave smile, "let us together offer our unworthiness to Him Who will purge our sins away. So shall we win honour for ourselves and our brother." Self-devotion and personal glory were so united in the mind during the reign of chivalry, that it was not marvellous that these ardent souls did not quite distinguish between them. Enlightened as the princes of Avis were, they were, even Enrique, men of their own day. Their more personal aims of scientific discovery, missionary work, organised charity and the like, were experimental, and they could not set them quite on a level with the recognised privilege and the duty of distinguishing themselves in the battle-field. First, they must be soldiers, afterwards, men of science and philanthropists, and Fernando felt himself to have missed his vocation. The deep sense of religion, felt in especial by these two, offered them another and higher object. Perhaps the strong desire of self-devotion was the talent specially committed to the "ages of faith." The evil they wished to remove was great and obvious, and Fernando did not consider that he might be doing the Church's work perhaps as effectually in another way. He was humble enough in his estimate of himself; he had done the work at hand without a complaint; but the long-restrained wish, once entertained, swept all before it like a flood, and could see no obstacles and no objections. His natural tastes, his religious fervour, his wish for self-denial, and that self which he had not yet altogether learned to deny, all worked together, by the force of his strong will, to attain his object. Enrique loved him too well to oppose him, and moreover was to the full as impetuous, and more used to having his own way. CHAPTER ELEVEN. DIFFUSING MINDS. "How often, O my knights, Your places being vacant at my side, This chance of noble deeds will come and go." The Princes Enrique and Fernando, having matured their ideas by much discussion, decided on proposing to the King to make an expedition for the taking of Tangier, similar to the one that their father had sent out against Ceuta. Should he, however, be unwilling to make a great national expedition, they would obtain from him his consent, and as much aid as he thought proper, and would devote to the cause all their own resources, which were considerable. Their eagerness grew as their ideas developed, and some inkling of their wishes getting abroad, all the younger nobility caught fire at the notion, and the princes soon saw that their cause would be a popular one. It was therefore with some confidence in the result that they sought their brother in his private apartments, to lay their plans before him. Duarte's life was one of unceasing toil for the good of his subjects. He had already worked out a great scheme for improving the legal system of Portugal, and his industry was immense. His difficulties were much increased by the over-liberality with which his father had given away the crown-lands to his nobility, and many an anxious hour was spent by Duarte in trying to find means to fill his empty exchequer. He set an example of economy in his household, closer than his young queen altogether approved of; but the remedy for this great evil was still to seek. Busy as he was, however, he retained the scholarly tastes of his youth, and his book, _El Leal Conselheiro_; or, _The Faithful Counsellor_, a collection of moral and political sayings, was in its day of great value. Nor, however hurried, did he ever fail in kindness and consideration, especially to Fernando, whom he regarded with almost the protecting affection of a father. He rose now from the table at which he was writing, and greeted his brothers warmly. "Ah! Enrique," he said, "have you come to tell me how matters go in your new dominions?" For Duarte had made Enrique a present of his recent discovery, the island of Madeira. "Not now, sire," said Enrique, with some formality. "We have a request to make to you." "You can hardly ask me for what I will not grant," said the King. "Sit here, Fernando," pointing to a couch by the fire. "You look pale--are you well to-day?" "I am well and strong," said Fernando. "You think too much of my weakness." And he remained standing, while Enrique, whose words of course carried greater weight, unfolded their cherished scheme. Duarte's face grew very grave as he listened. "This is your wish, my Fernando?" he said, moving over to him. "The wish of my heart--of my life!" said Fernando, as he grasped Duarte's hand. "I fear that I see not the way to grant it," said Duarte, with a reluctant gentleness difficult to contradict. "Tangier," said Enrique, "would be a splendid jewel to set in the crown of Portugal. We were young and untried when we took Ceuta; it is little likely that we should now fail." "I do not fear failure," said Duarte; "assuredly not under your leading. Yet my father could not see his way to further conquests in Barbary, nor can I." "How so?" said Enrique, bluntly. He was quite as great a man as his brother, and though thoroughly loyal to Duarte, was not much accustomed to opposition from him, but rather to admiring assistance in whatever he proposed. "I will tell you," said Duarte, gently. "You are a greater soldier than I, Enrique, and your eyes see far into the possible future; but it is I who must consider the well-being of Portugal." "Pardon," said Enrique, "if I spoke in haste. Without your good will we could do nothing." Duarte sat down on the couch and drew Fernando to a place beside him, watching his face while he spoke. "First," said Duarte, "I cannot tell where the funds to engage in such a war are to be found. We have no money to spare; it costs me much care to consider how to support the state." "We put our resources at your disposal," said Enrique. "But yours, my brother, are already hardly pressed for purposes which will, to my thinking, do more in the end for the spread of the Cross than even the taking of Tangier." Enrique was silent; he knew well enough the truth of this. Scientific discoveries were not made for nothing in days when only one man saw the necessity of them. "But," said Fernando, "it seems to me that a small force, well armed and full of zeal, would be sufficient." "You think so?" said Duarte, as if weighing words. "War is very costly, and even if the council consent, that would be no holy war for which unjust taxes were levied." Justice was too strongly impressed on the sons of King Joao for this principle to be resisted, however unfamiliar it was to the fifteenth century. Fernando, however, spoke pleadingly. "You speak of the well-being of Portugal. Surely it is for the highest well-being of a nation to engage in a noble and self-sacrificing struggle. There are better things than prosperity and ease." "Yes," said Duarte. "There are good laws and honest living, education, and the due support of Holy Church. See you, if my father's reign had been, as we all once wished, one long war against the Infidel, where would have been his translation of the Holy Scriptures into Portuguese-- where Batalha and our other great abbeys, to say nothing of the general reform of the kingdom? Do not mistake me, my brothers; my heart glows like yours to fight for the Cross. But, as I read my duty, God has given me this piece of ground to till, and it calls for all my care. You, too, would both be missed much from all the good works you have taken in hand." "We can return to them with new ardour," said Enrique. "Yes, and Fernando longs rightly to bear arms. I would it could be so." "I live but half a life," said Fernando, low and earnestly. "But then, bear with me while I tell you another difficulty. What pretext have I for making war on the Moorish king? He has in no way injured me!" "There is never a prisoner taken but offers no pretext, but a reason," said Fernando, eagerly. "Every captive groaning in those dungeons is a good cause." "There has been less kidnapping of late," said Duarte. "Yes, since Ceuta was ours," replied Enrique. "Take Tangier and there will be none." Perhaps Duarte was more inclined to the scheme by the ardour of Fernando's wish than by any other cause. He was still hesitating, when there was a summons at the door, and the two other brothers were admitted. "Consult them on the matter," said Enrique; and Duarte, after the first greetings, rehearsed Enrique's arguments and his own, demanding the opinion of the new-comers. "I say," said Pedro, decidedly, "that the scheme is a foolish one. What is the good of plunging Portugal into a rash war with a prince who is a tolerable neighbour, as times go? I give my voice against it." "If it is done," said Dom Joao, "it must be by the force of the whole country. No smaller expedition could have a chance. If Fernando had seen anything of warfare, even his hot head could make no such proposal." "I do not rest on my own judgment, my brother," said Fernando, gently. "Enrique's experience is beyond dispute." "Enrique once tried to take Gibraltar," said Joao, referring to a rash attempt of Enrique's youth, "and took me with him." "When you were glad enough to go," said Enrique, smiling. "Ay, but since then I have grown wiser. Look you here. Your ardour runs away with you, and Fernando knows nought of the matter. Tangier would be a hard nut to crack, and he could not bear the campaign needful for taking it." "You have no right so to put me aside," exclaimed Fernando; then checked himself. "Pardon me, I am hasty. I think indeed little enough of my own powers. I do but wish to devote my uselessness to the service of Holy Church." "Holy Church would take the will for the deed!" said Joao, with a contemptuous good nature which was hard to bear. He was very fond of Fernando, but his practical and less tender nature had less sympathy for him than any of the others. Fernando coloured, but said nothing; and Duarte, with an elder's authority, said-- "The wishes of our brothers, Enrique and Fernando, and their opinions, have due weights I give way to them so far that I shall lay this matter before the Council of Portugal, when all may speak their mind. But, my brothers, let not our difference of opinion bring the first cloud between us." "Nay," said Fernando, with rather a painful smile, "Joao does but prove the truth of my complaint, that I have hitherto been the idle one among you. But we have taken enough of the king's time. I would but ask him to forgive me for urging my wishes on him." "Nay, it is well to be reminded of our higher aims," said Duarte, who had not quite approved of the way in which Fernando had been put down by the others. "We will speak of it again in Council." In spite of Duarte's warning there was a good deal of hot discussion between Enrique, Pedro, and Joao, which certainly resulted in fixing Enrique's own view of the matter. Duarte declined to speak of it further in private, and Fernando's desire grew so strong that he feared to trust his own temper in the dispute. He spoke, however, in the council well and to the point, urging his view of what number would be sufficient for the attack, and the reasons why he thought that it should be made. Enrique supported him with all the weight of his influence, and the war was exceedingly popular among the younger nobility. Pedro opposed it entirely; Joao declared it to be only possible with a very large force and at great expense; and the king, finding his council divided, at last appealed to the decision of the Pope. If he authorised the war, and would give a Bull of Crusade, well and good; if not, the project must be abandoned. But meanwhile Enrique and Fernando made their preparations, to be ready to start at once when the consent, of which they never doubted, arrived. CHAPTER TWELVE. SELF CHOSEN WAYS. "I saw the Holy Grail, and heard a cry-- O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me." The number of voices raised in favour of the Moorish war concealed the fact of how many regarded it with disapproval. Sir Walter Northberry at once offered himself as a volunteer, and Harry Hartsed, in common with all the members in Dom Fernando's suite, was hot in the cause, saw no difficulties, and talked as if Tangier were already won, a mode of proceeding provoking to the opposing princes, and to those who thought with them. No such light-mindedness could be urged against the prince himself. There was, indeed, a light of hope and happiness in his face rarely seen there before; but he spent long hours in prayer, not so much for the success of his undertaking, as that he might be worthy to engage in it, and constantly urged on his followers the necessity of preparing for a holy war by a holy life. He showed no resentment at his brothers' opposition, merely saying that he did not wonder at their distrust of the views of so inexperienced a person as himself, though he could never be grateful enough to Enrique for his comprehension of them. Enrique had so many other matters in hand, in preparation for his departure, that he had not much time to bestow on the collecting of the forces, and moreover had something of the self-confidence of great conscious power, that anything in which he was engaged could be made to succeed. So that Fernando had it all his own way, and perhaps was hardly the person to realise all the difficulties in his path, since he credited others with his own strong and unwavering zeal. The war was, on the whole, popular among the clergy, and was approved by the Archbishop of Lisbon; and Father Jose--who had been Fernando's confessor and chaplain from childhood, and had constantly listened to his longings for such an opportunity--rejoiced that his dear son, as he regarded Fernando, should at last gain the wish of his heart. But he said much less about triumphing over the Moors, than about the necessity of faith, purity, and holiness in those who would attack them, about the sin of rivalry and contention among men engaged in a holy war, pointing out how self-indulgence and disputes had been the ruin of crusades. No one, he said, who entered on a holy war, in such an unholy spirit, would find the sword of the Moor open to him a passage from earth to Heaven. No one, who, during this period of preparation, fell into mortal sin, neglected his religious duties, or indulged in uncharitable feelings, would be a true crusader, though he bound the cross on his shoulder, and sailed under the authority of a Bull of Crusade. These truths, however wholesome they might be, and however entirely accepted and enforced by the prince himself, were not always palatable, and Father Jose's preaching was often deserted for that of a chaplain belonging to Dom Enrique's household, named Martin. This priest was instrumental in turning the minds of many towards the war. He preached in glowing terms the glory that was to be won both for earth and Heaven, the certainty of success, the sure path to Paradise; painted vividly the triumph over the conquered city, the splendid spoils that would be the rightful property of the conquering soldiers of the cross, the dreadful fate that would rightly befall the "Pagan hounds," whom they would destroy; and finally promised absolution and the Church's blessing to all those who heartily engaged in the contest. This preaching worked up the young nobility to a state of wild enthusiasm, and among others Harry Hartsed, who, though greatly admiring his prince, thought his sentiments rather fine-spun, and that to take arms with a view of revenging the wrong of the Northberry family, and of gaining some spiritual advantages for himself, was quite enough. All his interest in his little playmate's lost sister was revived by the intelligence that Sir Walter had declined all offers of marriage for Nella in England, and that in the event of his returning safely from the present campaign he meant her to come to Lisbon and rejoin him. She was now more than sixteen, and her reputation as a beauty had preceded her. Harry thought that when spoils and honours should enable him to think of a wife, he would like to see Nella's brave blue eyes, and hear her frank tongue, before he gave his heart away to any dark-glancing, soft-spoken Portuguese. All through the spring the preparations were pushed forward; and at last, after much delay, came the long-expected answer from the Pope. He wrote that wars of offence with the Infidel were allowable in resistance to any actual injury committed by them on any particular kingdom, but during a period of entire peace could only be justified by proving that the existence of the infidel power was injurious to Christendom at large, in which latter case the Pope granted a bull of crusade. He could not now perceive that the King of Portugal had received any injuries from the King of Barbary, or that the latter had recently in any way made himself obnoxious to the nations of Christendom. He could not therefore grant the bull of crusade, and recommended King Duarte to abstain from the attack. This was King Duarte's own opinion; but he could not read the Pope's despatch without thinking of the disappointment it would inflict on his ardent brothers; and, alas! of the great unpopularity of disbanding the already impatient army. This difficulty also occurred to Pedro, who blamed Duarte for having allowed the preparations to be begun. "Look you," said Duarte, "I shall leave it in their hands. If they can conscientiously disregard the opinion of his holiness, let them make the attempt. It is indeed true that Fernando has never seen warfare. When this is over he will be content, and if Tangier is taken, maybe the Pope will not think the war unjustifiable." The Popes of the fifteenth century had not so lived or ruled that their fiat should be accepted with unquestioning respect. It was a hard matter, however, to display the letter to the eager spirits who were staking their all on the attempt. Fernando turned pale as death, and uttered not a word. Enrique read through the parchment, and then started up, exclaiming-- "There are things that man must do at his own risk. Who can authorise the inmost promptings of the soul that lead to great ends? The holy father may fear to speak; we will give Tangier to the Church, and win his blessing at the sword's point." So said Enrique, having indeed much experience of the inward promptings of which he spoke; and Duarte was much swayed by his words. Fernando was still silent. There was the sharpness of a personal wish, both to sway him and to cause a fear of being swayed. "Let it be as the king will," he said, slowly; but Duarte had not the heart to accept his submission. "Matters have gone too far to recede," he said. "Go, my brothers; I confide in your judgment, and may the blessing of God rest on your arms." Fernando bent down and kissed the king's hand, while Enrique exclaimed-- "Tangier shall be yours, when we meet again." Dom Joao shrugged his shoulders. "That depends," he said, "on the number and the condition of your troops." All was now hurry and excitement. And between the contending views there was much confusion. Dom Joao's opinion on military matters had great weight; and when it was known that he disapproved of the expedition, many held back from it. The young queen liking the excitement of the start, and the probable glory to Portugal favoured the enterprise; and strangely enough it fell out, that the war was advocated by all the gayer and wilder spirits, while the more sober doubted and held back. Queen Leonora laughed at her husband for the strange reluctance that he showed to part with Fernando. "All the--others," she said, "were constantly absent from him on long and dangerous errands; surely he could let Fernando go for a few months." "That is the very thing," said Duarte sadly; "I have never been parted from him, and this war fills me with anxiety and dread." "Why, you grow slow of heart," said Leonora, laughing. "You did not think so when Ceuta was before you." Spite of this rallying, the parting was a cruel one. Although there was a keener sympathy of character and opinion between Enrique and Fernando, Duarte had been to the latter a constant companion and support; and to act against his judgment, and to cause him pain and anxiety, was the first sacrifice in which his project involved him. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BEFORE TANGIER. "Who is there that wishes for more men from England!" On the 22nd of August the fleet of the Infantes set sail from Lisbon, fourteen thousand men having been decided on as the number necessary for the expedition, and in due course arrived at Ceuta, where Dom Enrique, who had hitherto exercised but little personal superintendence, proceeded to review them, and to examine into their efficiency, Fernando assisting him. The sight of Ceuta recalled to them both that first campaign--so brilliant, so prosperous, so well-planned and executed. It was something to receive the blessing of the Bishop of the city that their father had made Christian, and to see it happy and prosperous under its new rule. As the day went on, Fernando grew very weary of riding about in the hot sun, and began sadly to discover how unequal his strength was to the fatigues of a campaign. Enrique, perceiving this, sent him back to his lodging, whither he presently followed him in much perturbation. "Fernando," he said, "things are against us. My mind misgave me when we landed as to our numbers; and now I find that, instead of the fourteen thousand ordered to embark, we have but eight! Many fell back on hearing the Pope's decision; many more from respect to Joao's views. There has been some strange want of common sense in the officers who superintended the embarkation. They say their orders were not precise, and the king's commands uncertain. Anyhow, we are here with but half our troops?" "Well, dear Enrique, we who are here must fight the harder!" said Fernando, smiling. "The commanders wish to send back the fleet for more troops," said Enrique. "No! How should we keep up the spirits of those waiting here? What would the king think? And the enemy would get wind of our intentions! We must push on at once, and trust in the force of our onslaught?" "That is my own view," said Enrique, "but my mind misgives me!" "That is the most fatal thing of all. It is too late for misgivings," said Fernando, resolutely. "And you--how can you bear the march over these hot sands? You are over-wearied already." Fernando winced somewhat, but answered, "You might go by land with the main body of the troops, while I with the rest go to Tangier by sea. I could well do that." This plan, after a good deal of discussion, was finally adopted; for Fernando was far from well, and could not have attempted the land march. He was the most cheerful and sanguine of the party; but there was so much difference of opinion, and so much depression at the insufficiency of the forces, that the joyful, resolute spirit of crusaders, seemed far from the rest of the army, and time and energy were wasted in disputes and lamentations. The men had lost confidence in their leaders, every one was of a different opinion as to waiting for fresh troops or pushing on as they were, and instead of prayer, praise, or hopeful anticipation, there was perpetual wrangling. It was now found that Father Jose's teaching had far more effect in softening, these differences than Father Martin's; for the former led them to dwell on the blessing of a high and earnest purpose, which would consecrate success, and could not be destroyed by failure; while the latter fell in with the popular feeling, by finding fault with the lukewarmness and want of zeal shown by the other Infantes, who had thus risked the success of the expedition. As he belonged to Dom Enrique's household, he accompanied the land march; while Father Jose went by sea, in company with all the members of Fernando's suite. Harry Hartsed was one of the malcontents. There was something provoking to his common sense in the ill-management of the start; and though he had no expectation of failure, it afforded him great satisfaction to grumble at the princes, and even at the king, by way perhaps of showing that he was not a Portuguese subject. Young Alvarez was more scrupulous and more serious-minded, but he had misgivings as to disregarding the wishes of the Pope; and these two lads represented widespread phases of public opinion. Fernando heard but little of this. Remembering how easily Ceuta had been won, and feeling the utmost confidence in Enrique's skill, he did not much fear failure, and bore no grudge against his other brothers for thinking differently from himself. He recovered his strength during the sea-voyage, and as they neared Tangier, and he stood on the deck in full armour with the cross of his order on his breast, the look of hope and joy on his face communicated itself to his followers; and whatever else they differed about, they were all ready to live or die for him. Under his orders the landing of the troops and the meeting with Dom Enrique's contingent was safely accomplished, and, in better spirits than they had yet enjoyed, the little army prepared for the attack. They found that their old enemy, Zala-ben-Zala, was in command at Tangier, and soon became aware that the King of Fez was bringing large numbers into the field against them. Before they left Lisbon the king had strenuously advised them not to leave the beach unguarded so that the enemy could cut off their chance of retreat; and he felt the necessity of this so strongly, that he sent an autograph letter to Enrique at Ceuta, entreating him to observe this precaution. Enrique, however, either disregarded it, or found that with his small number it was impossible to spare any from the attack; for there began such a struggle as tried the courage of veterans, and showed the young recruits the face of war in good earnest. The Portuguese forces marched to the attack in two divisions, commanded by the two princes. Each division fought under the flag of Portugal, and also under that of the order to which its leader belonged, the red cross of Avis, the green cross of the Order of Christ; and on Enrique's banner was inscribed the motto he had so well earned the right to carry, "_Talent de bien faire_;" on that of Fernando the humbler legend, "_Le bien me plait_." They fought on through the hot September day, with fresh battalions constantly coming up to the defence, till they became conscious that they were contending against a superiority of numbers such as they had never contemplated. Troop after troop of turbaned soldiers came pouring down upon them; nevertheless, they fought with such ardour, that Enrique's division pressed right up to the walls of the town and raised their scaling-ladders against them; Fernando's side having meanwhile been so fiercely attacked, that it was all that he could do to hold his ground. Alas! the scaling-ladders which they had brought were too short to reach the top of the ramparts, and after frightful loss of life, and long hours of vain effort, Dom Enrique was forced to sound a retreat, before the darkness overtook them, at the enemy's very gates. He reached the camp just as Fernando came up to join him, and the two brothers embraced eagerly, thankful at least to find each other safe. "You are unhurt?" said Enrique. "Then all is not lost." "Oh, yes, I am unhurt," said Fernando, "and ready for another attempt to-morrow. The odds are great, but our men showed no flinching. I fear me our losses are terrible." "So great," said Enrique with reluctance, "and the odds are so much against us, that there is but one thing left to do, and that is to retreat. We must go back to Ceuta, and wait there for fresh troops and longer ladders." Fernando recoiled almost as from a blow. "What!--have we failed?" he said. "Well, say we have not yet succeeded. There is no help for it, Fernando; it must be done." Enrique was bitterly mortified, and disappointed, and spoke less gently than usual; and perhaps Fernando had never struggled so hard; with himself as before he answered-- "You can judge best, my brother; be it so." There was no time to be lost in making the arrangements. The army was to re-embark while sheltered by the darkness, and Fernando went to see how best to transport the wounded; while Enrique held council with the officers, who all agreed with him as to the necessity. There were loud murmurs, however, among the younger noblemen, and there was a good deal of delay after the first decision before the final start was made. At last all was ready, and Enrique prepared to give the order for the march in the silent night, without banner, shout, or trumpet. How different from that, morning's approach! What was it moving in front of them, through the purple darkness of the southern night--long, dim, white lines, between them and the sea? Alas for the disregard of the king's counsel! They were the white cloaks of the Moorish troops, and the little Christian army was surrounded on all sides. "Betrayed! betrayed! Caught like mice in a trap!" cried Enrique, losing his self-control. "Where is the false traitor to whom this is owing?" "Hush!" said Fernando, laying his hand on Enrique's arm. "Let none see your amazement. The hand of God is against us. We were unworthy of the cause we undertook in self-willed opposition." He spoke in a tone of calm, sad conviction, and then, seeing Enrique's distress, added gently-- "The blame lies on me. I know well that you acted for my sake." Enrique shook his head; then, after a moment's silence, started into energy again. "Now we must sell our lives hard. There is no choice remaining. We march on the town with the first dawn of light. And now to prayer. May God have mercy on us! we are in evil case. Where is Father Martin?" "My lord, my lord!" cried young Alvarez, rushing up, "here is a sentinel who declares that in the dusk he beheld Father Martin pass him by, and afterwards a figure steal to the enemy's lines." "Where is the holy father!" said Enrique, calmly disregarding this assertion. But Father Martin was nowhere to be found, and instead of the proposed solemn services, the whole camp was engaged in a passionate discussion as to whether he had been the traitor or not. Young Hartsed hotly defended him, and he and Alvarez disputed till words almost came to blows. With the first ray of light the rail to arms was sounded, and several hours were spent in desperate efforts to break through the enemy's ranks. It was all in vain; and as the shadows of evening fell the recall was sounded, and in humiliation and sorrow of heart the defeated princes sent to offer terms of capitulation, and to ask for what ransom they and their troops would be allowed to depart. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE STEADFAST PRINCE. "Still to abide 'mid failing hearts high-hearted." The two Infantes occupied a tent in the centre of the Portuguese camp, and when their messengers returned they came out to the front of it, and, surrounded by their chief officers, prepared to receive the Moorish delegates who had come to offer them terms of surrender. The wounded had been cared for as well as circumstances admitted, and an attempt had been made to draw up the poor remnant of the troops in good order, so as not to produce an impression of utter defeat. But nothing could alter the dejected countenances and downcast air of the beaten army; the very banners hung listless in the still air of evening, and many a wistful look was cast at the blue sea, so near yet so unapproachable, beyond which lay Portugal and home. Life had never held so bitter a moment for Enrique of Portugal as when he stood there to receive and not to dictate terms of surrender; and from an enemy whom he regarded with a mixture of contempt and hatred. He was, however, perfectly calm and impassive, not losing the advantage that his splendid presence gave him, and prepared to accede to the demand for a heavy ransom before he and his army were allowed to depart. Fernando stood beside him; disappointment and self-reproach put aside for the present, he showed himself an equally worthy representative of the honour of Portugal. The Moorish envoys were exceedingly courteous, and began their interview with many compliments on the valour of their illustrious foes. Enrique replied, very briefly, that the fortune of war being against them, they must leave it to the King of Fez to name their ransom. And then, still wrapped in courteous phrases, came the ultimatum. The town of Ceuta must be restored to its former owners, and to insure this one of the Infantes, with a certain number of nobles, must remain as a hostage in the hands of the King of Fez. "The King of Portugal," said Enrique, "will be prepared for the payment of any money ransom the King of Fez may demand." "The town of Ceuta," said the chief officer of the Moors, "is the price of your liberty. Otherwise your troops must be put to the sword, and you and your chief nobles retained as prisoners at the king's pleasure." "The King of Fez," said Fernando, "has a right to impose conditions. I offer myself as the hostage he demands." "Fernando--no!" cried Enrique, suddenly losing his self-contained manner, and laying his hand on Fernando. "The noble Infante," said the Moorish envoy, "need have no fears. He and his companions will be treated as the guests of the king, and will be released immediately that Ceuta is in the hands of my master." Fernando smiled. "I have no fears," he said, quietly. "And doubtless," said the Moor, "the King of Portugal will see that it is consistent with his honour to release his noble brother without delay." "The King of Portugal," said Fernando, "will act as becomes an honourable and a Christian king." "I do not consent--I do not consent!" said Enrique, in such agitation that Fernando said-- "We will crave leave to withdraw, and to discuss this matter first with each other and then with our nobles." So saying, he moved back into the tent, followed by Enrique, who threw himself into a seat, covering his face. "I--it must be I," he said. "I will not leave you. How can I look Duarte in the face?" "But I could not undertake the command of the troops alone," said Fernando; "and besides, we will not give them _more_ than they ask." Enrique still seemed unconvinced; Fernando sat down beside him and spoke earnestly. "Look you, Enrique. My self-willed longing to give my life to the cause of Christendom him brought this on us. `Behold! to obey is better than to sacrifice;' but I heeded neither Duarte's wish nor the Pope's will, nor our other brothers' opinion. It is fitting therefore that I should bear the brunt of failure." "To demand Ceuta," cried Enrique; "Ceuta, our one conquest from the realms of darkness! A law, alas! that we--that _I_ should have lost Ceuta to Christendom!" "That," said Fernando, very low and tenderly, "will not be for _your_ decision." Enrique started, and looked up in his face. Fernando took him by both hands and smiled with wonderful sweetness, while he said-- "When we _took_ Ceuta, my Enrique, and all my joy was gone at the fear of your death, you bade me remember that we would both have given our lives for it in the battle. _I_ bid you think of that now." Enrique bent his head down on his brother's hands and groaned aloud. "How can I face Duarte--what can I say to him?" he repeated. "Tell him," said Fernando, "to remember that both he and I are Christian princes, soldiers of the Cross of Christ. And give him my--my love." Here he faltered for a moment; then, recovering himself, said, firmly-- "We delay too long. Let us consult with the officers. I cannot, I suppose, remain here alone." Enrique seemed quite unable to recover himself, and Fernando was forced to take the lead in the discussion that followed. There was no lack of volunteers to share in his self-devotion, nor indeed was there any particular reason to shrink from a temporary detention in an enemy's country. Several nobles of sufficient station to satisfy the requirements of the Moors were selected, and Father Jose resolved on accompanying his beloved prince; and this fact a little comforted Enrique, and enabled him once more to meet the Moorish envoys, and to announce to them that he had resolved on accepting the terms proposed, and that his brother, with twelve companions, would remain behind as hostages for the restitution of the town of Ceuta, he himself and the rest of the army being allowed to depart unharmed. Moussa-Ben-Hadad, the Moorish envoy, was courtesy itself. El Senor Dom Fernando, Infante of Portugal and Grand-Master of Avis, would be the guest of his king, who would be honoured by his presence, and would do his best to make his stay agreeable, short as it would be. He would be allowed free communication by letter with Portugal. A document was prepared and signed by Moussa-Ben-Hadad and by the two Infantes, to the effect that Fernando was to remain a prisoner until such time as Ceuta should be given up. Alvarez and Harry Hartsed both entreated to remain with him; but he refused steadily, saying that their rank was not sufficient for hostages, and that no unnecessary force should be wasted. Sir Walter Northberry was among the wounded. All was prepared for the start during the night, and with the first dawn of day this defeated Christians began their retreat, in good order and with banners flying. They had no need to eat their hearts out with mortification and wounded pride, as they noticed the innumerable ranks of the foes between whom their own small force took its way to the beach. Self-reproach and shame was for the leaders, who had so misjudged and mismanaged; and Enrique felt as if the weight bowed him to the earth. The time for parting came, and the two brothers were alone. It might seem but a formal parting for a short time, but upon them both lay the weight of a conviction which each was too tender to the other to put into words. But the sympathy between them was too deep and keen for any doubt as to the other's opinion. Fernando laid his hands on Enrique's shoulders and looked full into his face. "You are my other self, and you know my heart by your own," he said. "Courage! for we shall not part for ever." Enrique dared not give way. He took Fernando's hand, and together they went out to the front of the tent--the last one remaining of the little camp--where Enrique's suite were ready mounted on the one side, and the escort of Moors awaited Fernando on the other. The brothers embraced each other in silence; Fernando mounted his horse and bowed to the knights and nobles standing round. In the light of the summer morning, with the new sun shining on the red cross on his breast and on his steadfast, smiling eyes, Enrique beheld him; then, mounting his horse, he rode away, and left this well-beloved brother behind. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A BURNING QUESTION. "To do a great right, do a little wrong." The ill-fated expedition had not long set sail before the king discovered its insufficient numbers, and in all haste he ordered Dom Joao to equip himself and follow his brothers to Ceuta. Joao, to do him justice, was perfectly ready to do so, and in a very short time set sail with a fair number of troops, hoping to join them before they could leave Ceuta, and, had they waited for a reinforcement, all might have been well. He had not calculated on their over-haste. The vessel bearing the fatal news crossed him on the way; and when he arrived at Ceuta he was greeted with the story of the defeat of the army, of the detention of Fernando, and of the serious illness of Enrique, who, completely overcome by mortification and anguish of heart, had fainted on reaching his ship, and had been carried on shore at Ceuta, unable to exert himself further. All was in confusion; but Dom Joao wasted no time in reproaches or regrets; but after giving a few necessary orders, and encouraging the troops to look for better times, he went at once to his brother's lodging. Enrique was recovering a little from the violence of the fever that had seized on him, and was dressed and lying on a couch; but when he saw his brother he rose up, weak as he was, and threw himself on his knees before him, covering his face. "Alas, my brother! how can I look on you?" he cried. "I have been the worst enemy of my country and of the Church and of my most dear brothers!" "It has all gone very ill," said Joao. "We must seek for a remedy. Rise up, my brother; you shame me. This from you to me!" "Ah, could I but find a harder penance!" sighed Enrique; but he allowed Joao to help him back to his couch, and began to tell him how it had all chanced, and to ask what had brought him there in such good time. "Duarte has troubled much about Fernando," said Joao; "how was it with him when you left him?" But the attempt to speak of Fernando threw Enrique into such an agony of weeping that Joao was obliged to cease questioning him, beginning to perceive how terrible must have been the experience that had thus prostrated one of such resolute will and power of endurance. "Courage!" he said; "a better day must dawn. Fernando will soon be restored to us; and though we yield Ceuta nominally, it shall go hard but we will soon win it back again. For that object a war will cause no difference of opinion." Enrique made no answer. He lay silent for some moments, then turned and looked up at his brother. "We were eating our horses before we yielded, and there was no water, and no hope. That must soon have killed him and all the poor fellows whom we have led to ruin." "You would have been fools to hold out," said Joao, bluntly. "But what is to be done now? Here am I, with six thousand at my back--" "Here? Fresh troops?" cried Enrique, starting into animation. "Then what is to hinder one more effort? Let us go back to Tangier, and win it, or die!" "But the treaty?" said Joao. "The treaty! That does but hold Fernando fast. We gave no pledge not to continue the war on another footing. And they harassed our rear enough as we retreated to show how far they care to keep their word. I am another man, now you give me hope." Joao was not altogether averse to the proposal, and Enrique, with reviving spirits, recovered his natural ascendency; and arrangements were made for Joao to return home with the sick and wounded, while Enrique, with the fresh troops, marched again on Tangier. No second brother, he said, should be thus risked. His first care, however, was to put Ceuta into a complete state of defence; and while he was thus engaged came first the news that the fleet which he had sent home immediately after the retreat from Tangier had met with a violent storm and been wrecked on the coast of Andalusia, where the Castilians had showed great kindness to the distressed sailors. Next arrived a peremptory despatch from the king, ordering both his brothers to return at once, and to make no further effort to continue the war for the present. Enrique was bitterly disappointed, though he felt that he could not wonder at the king's doubt of his judgment. "I cannot look him in the face," he said; "I cannot see his grief. Go you to Lisbon, and I will hide myself in Sagres, and pray for pardon." The king convoked the States-General of Portugal, and a great council was held to decide on the next step. The Pope was again written to for his opinion, and the discussion began with all the ardour and heat attending a question where good men see, strongly, different sides of the right. For Duarte himself it was a time of agonising doubt. His peculiar tenderness for Fernando made the thought of his loneliness and suffering, of his possible hardships and of the loss of his daily presence, haunt him by night and day. Every feeling of his heart urged him to give up the city and win this beloved brother back. But then, he looked on himself but as the steward who must give an account of his kingdom. Ceuta, Portugal itself, were not his to yield. What right had he to give back one acre of Christian land to the realm of darkness--to let the consecrated soil be profaned once more by the accursed faith of Mahomet? What life, what love, was too precious to be sacrificed to save the souls of the Christians of Ceuta? This was one side of the question; and perhaps it is hardly possible in these days to realise how powerful this obligation seemed to such a prince as Duarte. On the other hand, it was urged that it was a foul shame to grudge any fortress, however valuable, for the life of a prince of Portugal, who had voluntarily offered himself, trusting in the honour of his country, and also that, after all, they had given their word to cede Ceuta, and were bound to redeem it, even to an infidel power. These were the nobler views on either side. Of course the party who contended for the retention of Ceuta contained many who cared nothing for the religious question, but who declared openly that the great sea-port was worth far more to the state than the precarious life of a prince who had never been able to make himself prominent or useful, while many of those who wished to yield it cared little for Fernando, and less for the pledge, but were only anxious to avoid the expense of a war. But between the right on either side Duarte's scrupulous conscience wavered with agonising uncertainty; though with his deep love for his brother, and his instinctive preference for the simpler, more immediate duty, he inclined somewhat to the view of yielding the city. Pedro and Joao spoke in the council with no uncertain sound. A treaty should be kept, they said, and their dear brother's life saved at all costs. No sacrifice could be too great to make. Then let them go to war with every resource at their command, and win Ceuta back, and Tangier, too. Their words had great weight; but the Archbishop of Braga, a powerful ecclesiastic, spoke on the other side, all the other bishops agreeing with him, declaring that one man's life must not be considered in comparison with a whole city. The Pope's letter came in support of this view. The war had been undertaken in defiance of his wishes, and had led to an unhappy result. Certainly, Christian land must not be given up to an infidel power; but he offered the much-desired full of Crusade, and recommended Duarte to go to war to deliver his brother. All this time Enrique had remained at Sagres and made no sign, only trusting that the matter might be settled without his intervention. But now, Duarte wrote, summoning him to Lisbon, assuring him of his forgiveness and affection, and desiring to hear his view of the question. The time had gone by for the wild anguish with which Enrique had met Joao; but when he came into Duarte's presence, and kissed his hand, ten years might have passed over the heads of them both since they parted. Duarte's gentle cheerfulness had faded, and all the fire had gone out of Enrique's great grey eyes, and his manner was subdued and spiritless. Duarte made him sit beside him, and for a long time they were silent, holding each other by the hand. Then Enrique said-- "My brother, you can forgive?" "We suffer together," said Duarte. "Enrique, you know what our brothers say in this matter, and the contrary opinion of the Pope. How does your conscience speak?" Enrique's strong frame shook, as he answered-- "Were I the hostage, I could not so buy my freedom. Would that I were!" Then Duarte took a letter from his bosom and put it into Enrique's hand. It contained a few lines from Fernando, speaking of his good health and kindly treatment, and begging for Duarte's forgiveness for the rashness that had risked so much. He sent messages of love to all his brothers, especially to Enrique, "who granted me my heart's wish at the cost of his own judgment." There was no single word as to his own return, or as to the cession of Ceuta, and Duarte said-- "This most precious letter was doubtless read by his jailor before he was permitted to send it, so that he could not freely speak his mind, to us." Enrique kissed the letter, he seemed unable to speak, and Duarte said-- "I sent for you, since you and he were ever as one, so that your mind on this matter will be his." "So he said." "Yes, you wrote me his words," said Duarte. There was long silence, and at last the King spoke again. "Grieve not so terribly, my brother, speak as your conscience urges. Alike we love him." "Alas, yes! Duarte, his one wish was to see those cities Christian. For that he longed to die. I _know_, he meant that you should hold fast by Ceuta. And we were bound to that service. Had he died by a Moslem sword, we must have given thanks for a blessed end. My life--_his_ life must not be weighed in the balance with Christian souls. Remember our knighthood. We shame him, if for his sake we tear down the Cross our father raised, and see the Crescent glittering again on the cathedral of Ceuta. We dare not put our brethren before our God." Enrique's faltering voice strengthened, and the colour came back into his face as he spoke. The terrible anguish of this avowal had been faced and met; the bitter cross which he had helped to fashion taken on his shoulders. It had cost many a long hour of prayer and fasting before he had brought himself to the point of declaring the view that his inmost conscience had all along suggested, and even now he implored Duarte to spare him from the necessity of speaking of it in the council. He could not change his mind; but if the States-General, if Duarte thought otherwise-- "This was for me only," said Duarte. "No one shall question you. Alas! your silence might have told me your conviction. I seem to hear him speak through your lips." Pedro was less considerate than Duarte. He was indeed too generous to utter a word of reproach to Enrique for his former disregard of his opinion, and when, coming in to seek Duarte, he saw his changed looks, he greeted him with the utmost kindness; but the substance of the conversation could not be concealed from him, and he said, sarcastically-- "Well, your conscience may be at ease. There are many in the council beside you and the Archbishop of Braga, who think our poor Fernando's life worth less than a valuable fortress. He is sickly, they say, and of no use to the state, let him pine in exile, we will keep Ceuta safe while we have it." "Hush, my brother," said Duarte with his gentle authority. "Well you know that taunt is out of place." "I meant no taunt," said Pedro; "but it was one thing for Fernando to dream of crusading lying here on his couch, or even to lead an army to the attack, and quite another for him to suffer all the contumely which Moorish cruelty and spite can suggest, if we do not hold to our side of the bargain." "You speak as if we would leave him in their hands without an effort," said Duarte. "But, come, the Queen waits for supper for us. My Enrique, you will be a welcome guest." Enrique would fain have been spared the supper, though of course no one but his brothers had a right to question him on his views; but he knew that it was best that he and the King should be seen together, and came to the table, though he looked so white and sad that the Queen rallied him on his unsocial air. Leonor disliked depression and dull times, and did not see why the cession of Ceuta should be made a burning question. Dom Pedro, on the other hand, disliked the Queen's frivolity, so he turned to Enrique and engaged him in a discussion of the latest calculations, by which his study of the stars was being reduced to a science useful to mariners; and that congenial topic brought a little brightness to Enrique's mournful face, for he and Pedro differed on some nice point, and in discussing it forgot for a brief moment the dreadful difference that really lay between them. But the responsibility that rested on his shoulders never passed from the King's mind. Others thought, argued, believed, but in the long run he must act. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. OLD FRIENDS. "But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face, And her frank voice, showed her of English race." In the midst of all this turmoil and excitement Eleanor Northberry came back to Portugal. Suitable escorts were so rare that, one having offered itself, she was sent back without previous notice, and arrived just as her father had recovered from the wound received before Tangier, and while the question of the cession of Ceuta was still before the States-General. She had grown into a most beautiful maiden, tall and straight, light of foot, and slender of limb, with a clear voice that spoke her mind without fear or favour; blue eyes, clear and bright as the morning; and a skin fair and rosy, such as had not been seen in Lisbon since the young days of Philippa of Lancaster. The arrival of the English beauty was like a ray of sunlight in the gloom of that time of suspense and sorrow; and to Harry Hartsed it dispersed the clouds altogether; for she greeted him heartily as fellow-countryman and friend. He lived, too, with Sir Walter Northberry since the break-up of Dom Fernando's household, so that they had many opportunities of intercourse, and Harry was envied, especially by Alvarez, who fell a victim to this new and lovely creature the first time that he beheld her. Young hearts will be gay, and young lips will laugh, happily for the world, even in sad times; and Harry and Nella, a few days after her return were enjoying a lively chat over their old recollections of pleasant Northberry. "This central court, with its fountain, and those tall orange-trees, and the couch on which my father sits, is almost the only thing I can remember well. We stood there under the trees, I and Catalina, and the prince sat here, by my father, and gave us the little crosses, on the day we sailed." "Alas!" said Harry; "when shall we see our beloved prince again?" Nella did not know much of the matter in dispute, and decidedly inclined to the view of rescuing the good prince at all cost. She looked solemn for a moment, and then said,-- "Ah! there is no witch here to tell us what he is doing." "Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?" said Harry, slyly. "No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin's hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so." "I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister," said Harry in an insinuating tone. "Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl." "There is no speech like English," said Harry; "I love it best." "Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner," said Nella, saucily. "I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me." There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella's voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness. "See, Harry," she continued. "To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day." She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey. "Rise, fair Senorita," said Harry; "our poor court is honoured by such a guest." "Now--now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!" cried Nella. "That speech was never learned in Devon!" "Like a Portuguese, madam, I can talk; but I mean what I say like a true son of Devon." "I cannot believe in such perfection. You were never one to belie yourself with over-diffidence." "I leave that to my betters," said Harry, with a bow. "Oh, saucy boy!" cried Nella, laughing, then paused suddenly, as the gates were thrown back without, and her father entered, cap in hand, escorting an exceedingly tall and stately personage, with a sad but kindly face. Behind him came Alvarez; and the whole scene brought back strongly to Nella's mind the visit of Dom Fernando, years ago. "My lord," said Sir Walter, "allow me to present to you my remaining daughter Eleanor." Blushing, and with unwonted bashfulness, Nella curtsied timidly, in very different style from her mock reverence five minutes before. "Welcome home, senorita," said Dom Enrique, with a grave smile. "You come at a sad time;" and then, as if he could hardly turn his thoughts from the matter in hand, he continued, addressing her father,-- "You know, Sir Walter, that the States-General have at length resolved to offer a heavy ransom for my dear brother, and if this is refused, the Pope offers a Bull of Crusade, and we strain every nerve to free him by force of arms." "I am aware, my lord, that Ceuta is not to be ceded," said Sir Walter rather drily. "It has been so determined," said Enrique, with a sigh; for well he knew that the decision had been made on no such lofty motives as actuated himself. Most men had thought Ceuta too precious to be parted with, not because it was a Christian town, but because it was a strong fortress; and Enrique had the unspeakable pain of finding himself on the same side with men who cared nothing for his brother; and whose principles he despised. "The king resolves," he said, "on the strictest economy, to make this possible. He has changed his mode of living, and cut off his few pleasures, for our brother's sake. He hopes that his nobility will follow his example." "The late king, my lord, was so generous to his nobles that they owe their utmost to his blessed memory." "Even so," said Enrique. "But now, Sir Walter, I came here to-day to speak with you of--of the foul treason that cut off our retreat, and made my brother's sacrifice necessary. That most accursed traitor and renegade, Brother Martin, has indeed disappeared; but it has been whispered that others--his friends and followers--knew of his intention, and that he had in some measure spread the poison of his apostasy among his followers and admirers. Think you this is so?" Harry Hartsed, who had been standing apart with Alvarez, gave an indignant start, and coming forward, said, impetuously,-- "My lord, Brother Martin's preaching was ever in favour of the war. He never uttered a word of treason in my hearing, and I saw much of him. I do not believe that he was the traitor." "Softly, softly," said Sir Walter. "Master Harry, you speak too freely to the duke." "Pardon," said Harry, doggedly; "but I will speak for my friends when falsely accused." "The treason of Brother Martin," said Enrique, "has been proved by eye-witnesses. No Christian gentleman should call him his friend." "If I may speak," said Alvarez, "Senor Hartsed was much with Brother Martin, and in his councils." "What! You dare to say that he spoke treason to me!" cried Harry. "Young gentlemen," said the prince in his tone of grave dignity, "you forget yourselves. Sir,"--to Harry--"you have given your opinion, and that is enough. Sir Walter, I must go, for I have much business on hand." Dom Enrique rose as he spoke, gave to Nella--who had retired to some distance--a courteous farewell, and went out, his look of sorrowful oppression never having given way during his visit. Alvarez followed him. Sir Walter, when his guests had departed, turned back to Harry, and rebuked him sharply, both for daring to stand up for so foul a traitor as the renegade monk, and also for forgetting the respect due to the prince. Harry took the reproof sullenly. His heart too was sore at the thought of his lost master. Brother Martin's passionate preaching had really stirred his emotions, and made him feel himself a true Crusader. He thought him unjustly accused, and was determined to defend him. Alvarez, on the other hand, was filled with wrath at the very sound of his name, and the result was that the next time they met the two young men had a violent quarrel, in which Alvarez was passionate and Harry obstinate and sulky. They were silenced and rebuked by Sir Walter, who happened to overhear them; but they parted in mutual anger and hatred. All was going wrong. The king suffered much in health from his sorrow and from the great labours which his endeavours to fill his empty exchequer cost him. Dom Enrique was unapproachable in his grief and pre-occupation; and the gentle Fernando, whose eyes and ears had ever been open to his followers' troubles, and who had managed to heal many a quarrel, was far away. Into the midst of this sad society, where every one was full of mortification, sorrow, or anger, had come Nella Northberry, and her high spirits recoiled from it. She was sorry for the prince and angry at Brother Martin's treason, but she was not unhappy like the rest--only dull, and a little home-sick. She soon became aware of her power both over Harry and Alvarez, and her vanity was not quite proof against the flattery of the passionate homage of the young Portuguese. Her love of mischief prompted her to provoke her old companion by as much sauciness as was consistent with the etiquette which she was compelled to observe towards him; for the queen had placed her among her ladies-in-waiting. Nella hated court life, was too young and undeveloped constantly to keep herself in sympathy with the prevailing troubles, and, in short, she diverted herself by making her two admirers jealous of each other. Nella was young, gay, and unguarded; but she soon had cause to regret her first month in Lisbon. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. MISJUDGED. "But whispering tongues may poison truth." Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics. Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin's treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying which _now_ appeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen's movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety. "Well sir," she said, in English, "these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours." "Speak now, then, fair mistress," said Harry, smiling; "and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?" "No," said Nella, pouting. "Why, have you grown into a courtier too?" "And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?" "Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry," said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, "sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough." "I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune," said Harry; "nor do I wish to go--now," he added, meaningly. Nella blushed a little and cast down her eyes, and as she raised them they met those of Alvarez, fixed on her with an expression of such passionate jealousy that her heart gave a frightened throb. How she wished that she had never teased Harry by encouraging his rival--for as such she began to recognise Alvarez; and though she scarcely realised that Harry wished her to be more to him than his old playmate, he had always been jealous of interference, and the feelings of Alvarez were unmistakable. The latter, too, was by far the best match, and Nella had a frightened conviction that her father would favour this suit whenever it was formally offered. She was glad when the queen signed to her to attend her, so that further speech was impossible. While this little scene was passing a dance had been going forward--one of those stately and ceremonious exercises which were limited to a few couples at a time, whose graceful movements afforded a spectacle for the rest of the company. Dom Pedro had led out Queen Leonor; and the king excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, sat down a little apart, watching the dancers with sad, unseeing eyes. Presently Enrique came up and joined him. "I have a petition to present to you, my brother," he said. "What is it, then?" asked Duarte; "what is it you wish?" "Will you give me leave to go with the envoys who offer the Moors this ransom? Who could plead as I? And at least I should see my Fernando once more." "I cannot refuse you," said Duarte; "but, Enrique, my mind misgives me. I would not be too long without your counsel." "_My_ counsel!" said Enrique, bitterly; "take any counsel rather than mine." Duarte smiled. "Your presence, then," he said. "But I think it is well that you should go, though I have little hope, Enrique, in my heart--" "Dare to utter such a threat, and you shall answer for it with your life!" These words, in tones of high indignation, suddenly interrupted the brothers' colloquy. "How now? Young gentlemen, remember where you are?" said Enrique, advancing, and confronting with his stately presence Hartsed and Alvarez, who, with flashing eyes, and hands on their sword-hilts, had been so carried away by their dispute as to forget entirely the royal presence. Alvarez collected himself at once, bowed, and drew back; but Harry cried out, fiercely, "My lord, I care not where I am! Dom Alvarez has insulted me foully, and I defy him to repeat his base slander!" "The cause of your dispute, sir," said the prince, "can be of no moment to me, unless it were confided to me in a more suitable manner. Such violence argues ill for your cause, be it what it may." The prince was himself very sore-hearted, and Harry had committed a great breach of propriety; but he felt himself deeply injured, and flung away without a word. Alvarez followed him into the court outside, and then the two young men turned and faced each other, and Alvarez spoke. "I believe you to have been cognisant of the treason of your friend, the miscreant priest, Martin." "Speak at your peril," shouted Harry, "or I will go back and before all the princes give you the lie!" "As you will, senor. I will not yield the Lady Eleanor to a traitor, nor see my prince's confidence abused by a foreigner." "Foreigner!" cried Harry. "No one but a rascally _foreigner_ would utter such an insult. Draw, and defend yourself!" Alvarez was not slow to answer this demand, but the clash of arms in the palace precincts soon collected an indignant crowd, and among them Sir Walter Northberry. "Now, Master Hartsed," he cried, wrathfully, "brawling in the palace court. What means all this? Put up your swords this moment, gentlemen--for shame?" "Master Hartsed challenged me and gave me the lie," said Alvarez. "Dom Alvarez insulted me and called me traitor," cried Harry. "This is not the first time that I have heard this wrangling," said Sir Walter. "Senor Dom Alvarez, it would be well if you would explain your charge against a member of my household. And you, Harry, be silent until I question you." Trembling with indignation, Harry put a great force upon himself and remained silent; while Alvarez bowed, and looking at Sir Walter with his dark, flashing eyes, said-- "Sir, I had not meant in any way to make public my suspicions, but Master Hartsed's violence towards me, in especial after the honour which you this morning have done me, obliges me to speak." Sir Walter bowed, and Alvarez continued--"Perceiving some slight tokens of favour which the lady whom I am unworthy to name had the grace to bestow on me, Master Hartsed lost patience and demanded how I dared to address Mistress Northberry." "That is false?" cried Harry, "you lie in your teeth!" "Master Harry, will you be silent at my desire?" said Northberry, sternly, "and hear Dom Alvarez to the end!" "I," said Dom Alvarez, "was fain to tell him, that I marvelled how the friend and defender of the traitor Martin, whose name was on all men's lips, should dare to raise his eyes to an honourable lady. Upon which he threatened, and finally drew upon me." "And on what grounds, Senor Dom Alvarez, do you accuse Master Hartsed of cognisance of this foul treason?" "Master Hartsed," said Alvarez, "was ever in the company of the traitor, he has denied the possibility of his treason, and still calls him his _friend_. He must choose, I think, between this friend and loyal gentlemen." "Into my house he comes not if he takes the traitor's name on his lips," said Northberry. "Now, Master Harry, what have you to say?" "Nothing, before those who call me traitor," said Harry, with some dignity; then his anger getting the better of him he exclaimed--"Dom Alvarez knows best whether it was not he who threatened to interrupt _my_ suit with his foul slander." "Your suit, ha, ha!" said Sir Walter, roughly, "'tis the first I have heard of it. Now, to put an end to this folly, I will tell you, sir, that I have betrothed my daughter to Senor Dom Alvarez de Pereira. Nor do you make a fit return for my hospitality by raising your eyes to her. And this matter of your intimacy with the traitor priest must be looked to. Not that I hold you guilty of his treason, but it misbecomes you even to name his name." Those present noticed, that instead of violent self-defence Harry Hartsed received this speech in silence, only turning very pale as he bowed stiffly to Sir Walter and walked away by himself. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. AT ABZELLA. "My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widowed race be run." Many miles inland, out of sight of the blue sea, on the other side of which was home and freedom, the Portuguese captains waited at Arzella for the news of their deliverance. They had been hurried away from Tangier almost immediately after the Portuguese had embarked, and though no positive cruelties were inflicted on them, the Moorish promises of courteous treatment did not prevent their escort from making their journey as wretched as they could. Intentional forgetfulness of needful comforts, rude jests, over-haste, and much ill-temper, tried the hot spirits of the Portuguese nobles sorely, and they were less wretched now that they remained under the charge of Zala-ben-Zala, and were allowed a certain amount of freedom and solitude, during which they could solace themselves with speculations as to the turn events were taking in Portugal, and how soon Ceuta would be handed over to the Moors. The prince never joined in these discussions, and when they were urged upon him would reply gravely--"As God wills;" though he sometimes endeavoured to pass the time by tales of the old Crusaders, of the sufferings they endured, and of the support which was granted to them. And once, when some of the younger nobles repeated to him the insulting language used towards them by their jailers, he pointed to a gang of slaves who were toiling over some of the fortifications of Arzella. "So suffer our fellow-Christians," he said. "They are not peers of Portugal," said the young man, sullenly. "Stripes wound and blows hurt, be they who they may," said Fernando. "We can but endure; but oh, my friends," he added with tears in his eyes, "would that I were alone to suffer!" "Alas, sir!" cried the young man, yielding, "it is your indignities that cut us the most." It was after some weeks of dreary waiting that the prisoners became aware that envoys had arrived from Portugal and had been brought under a safe-conduct to Arzella, where Zala-ben-Zala was to discuss with them the terms of their deliverance, and one day the prince was summoned alone to meet them. Fernando turned as he left his companions and said, in a tone of peculiar earnestness-- "My friends, remember, were we free, we would all give our lives to save Ceuta to the Church of Christ." Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor's palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death. "You are at liberty to speak with one another," said Zala-ben-Zala. "Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness." "I speak the mind of the council of Portugal," said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: "Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me," he said. Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other's face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom. "Come," he said, "tell me your errand." "They will not yield the fortress," said Enrique. "They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none." "As God wills," said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique's hand. "My most dear brother, Pedro and Joao would have freed you; but I--that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life--not for the Church, but for selfish power, and _I_--I lent my voice to theirs." "I, too, have thought much on it," said Fernando, steadily; "of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it." "What, they ill-use you?" "Nay--you see I am well. And I think of those unhappy ones whose fate hangs on mine. And I thank the merciful Saviour, who lays not the choice on me, but gives me the easier way of submission, and permits my poor life to be a defence to a fortress of Christendom as in no other way it could be. The wish of my heart is given,--may I but tread, in the footsteps of those blessed ones who have endured worse sufferings in the same cause, on honour which myself little deserved?" Fernando smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Enrique felt that the confusion of good and bad motives, the doubtful self-denial, and still more doubtful justice, that led to the retention of Ceuta, were lifted by his brother's faith and love into the instrument of a holy martyrdom. "So," continued Fernando, "bid Duarte not to grieve, for if I suffer, it is no more than I have deserved, and to suffer, even without choice, for such an end, is too great honour." "Duarte is sick with the care and weight of decision," said Enrique sadly. "Ah, could I but see him?" said Fernando, suddenly faltering; then, with renewed firmness, "But it cannot be. And you, my Enrique, how changed your face is. You must turn your thoughts again to Sagres and the adventures of your mariners. That is the appointed way in which you must serve. We still work together." "And if--if the council and the king resolve to yield Ceuta?" "Why then--God's will be done!" said Fernando, "and we may yet clasp hands again. Meanwhile some soul is passing away with the holy rites of the Church, some babe receives Christian baptism--who else were cast into outer darkness. But see; the governor interrupts us." "Prince Fernando," said Zala-ben-Zala, "I trust your entreaties have induced the Duke of Viseo to endeavour to change the mind of the king." "The King of Portugal," said Fernando, steadily, "must act as he thinks well. I have made no entreaties, and shall make none." "Know you what you say!" thundered out Zala-ben-Zala, suddenly changing his tone. "Think you that henceforth your life will be easy, as it has been! Shall the forsworn hostage be treated as a king's son? No! Our prisoner no longer--you are our slave; and when next King Duarte sends envoys, let them see their prince of the blood--their Grand-Master-- tending the horses of his Moorish masters as a slave--I say--in fetters and in rags?" "The princes of Portugal do not yield to threats," said Fernando, calmly. "I am but a mouthpiece," said Enrique, as steadily as he could. "Go home and tell what you have seen," said the Moor, roughly. The coarse threats stood the two princes in good stead, for their pride nerved them to a firm and silent farewell, though Enrique's heart was ready to break as he passed out of the hall with the officers who accompanied him, and left Fernando standing alone among his captors. A short while afterwards, as the Portuguese nobles were eagerly watching for the prince's return, or for a summons to join him, their prison was suddenly entered by a party of Moorish soldiers. "Now, Christian dogs, our turn has come," roughly shouted the foremost; and seizing on the Portuguese nearest to him he tore off his velvet mantle, flung it aside, and forced him down while he fastened fetters on his wrists. Resistance was vain, and with blows and curses the whole party, the old priest included, were loaded with chains, and dragged through the streets to the courtyard of the governor's palace. There stood their beloved prince in a rough dress of common serge, fetters similar to their own on his wrists, and his chained hands on the rein of Zala-ben-Zala's beautiful Arab horse. He stood with his head up and his lip curled, with a sort of still disdain. At that moment the Portuguese envoys, with Dom Enrique at their head, passed with their guards through the court, and Zala-ben-Zala advanced to mount his horse with a rude gesture to the prince who held it. Fernando bowed with knightly courtesy, and, advancing, held his stirrup, as if it were a graceful service rendered by a younger to an elder noble; then looked up and smiled in his brother's face. CHAPTER NINETEEN. TIMES OUT OF JOINT. "Commingled with the gloom of imminent war The shadow of his loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world." Nella Northberry was standing alone by the fountain in the hall of her father's house. The oranges were ripe on the trees, their sweet blossom was passed, and she herself looked pale, sad, and sullen. She had scarcely known what made her heart so heavy when her father had told her that she was to regard Dom Alvarez as her betrothed suitor, receiving her girlish expressions of unwillingness with entire indifference. Spirited as Nella was, it could not occur to her to resist her father's will, or think of disposing of herself in marriage; she knew that it was impossible, and the girls of her day had generally too little intercourse with the world before marriage to feel aggrieved at their absence of choice. Nella's life had not passed quite in accordance with established rules hitherto, and the fetters galled her. She stood looking down into the clear waters of the fountain, her tall slim figure drooping a little with unwonted sadness, and her thoughts straying tenderly back to England--England, which she should never see again now. She thought of the grey convent, the wide woodlands now painted with russet and gold, the fresh autumnal breezes, the cheerful barking of the dogs at the old Manor house door; and her heart went out to it all with a passionate yearning that brought the hot tears to her eyes. "If Catalina were here, perhaps Dom Alvarez would have liked _her_ best," she thought, "and I might have gone home again." And with this strange reason for missing her lost sister, the tears came faster, and she pressed her hands over her eyes. "Nella?" suddenly said a voice beside her, "does your father tell me true? Are you indeed betrothed to Dom Alvarez?" Nella looked up with a start, for beside her stood Harry Hartsed, with a pale face and heavy eyes, as if he had passed a sleepless night. "Oh, yes, Harry, it is true!" said Nella. She turned her head away and cried bitterly, while Harry was dumb for a moment; for if she had told him that she was married already, there would hardly have been a greater barrier between them. It did not occur to Harry to ask her if she loved Dom Alvarez; but he said, passionately-- "I had hoped one day to go back to the old Devon tower, which must come to me; and though I never could have made you a great lady, Nell, you should never have been vexed or crossed, and have had your will always." "Oh, hush! hush!" said Nella, "hush!" "Tell me one thing," said Harry; "Dom Alvarez accuses me of a share in the treason that rained my beloved prince. Do you believe _that_ of your old playmate!" Nella turned round, her blue eyes flashing through their tears. "I would as soon believe it of myself," she said. "Then I care for no one," cried Harry; "and when my prince comes home, he will see me righted." Perhaps it was as well for Nella that her father at this moment came out of the inner room. She ran up to him, and grasped his hand. "Father, Harry is no traitor! How dared Dom Alvarez utter such a falsehood!" "Leave me to settle that matter, my daughter," said Sir Walter, sternly, "and go you within. What have you to do with the disputes of these gentlemen? Your country-breeding makes you too forward, and too free of tongue." Nella blushed deeply, and withdrew; but as she curtsied to her father, she looked for a moment at Harry, and said quickly-- "I shall never believe it!" In all ages of the world, it is hard for women to sit at home and wonder how matters are going in the world without, and Nella had no chance of asking a question as she prepared for her first interview with her suitor. She was very unhappy, and knew too well that she would not have been so had Harry Hartsed been in Alvarez's place; but she submitted to her unusually splendid toilet with a sense that she was submitting to the inevitable. Only she felt as if the blue brocade weighed down her young limbs till there was no life left in them, and as if the strings of pearls were burning their way into her brain. She waited long after she was dressed, growing more and more weary, till she began to wonder at the delay. Perhaps Dom Alvarez would not come to-day after all. At last, hearing sounds without, she sent one of her maids to inquire if her father had returned, and in a moment Sir Walter came into the room. "Alas! my daughter!" he said, "better a widow's coif than all this bravery! Young Hartsed, whom I renounce for ever, has foully slain Alvarez!" "How?" said Nella, in a tone of utter amaze. "He attacked and challenged him in the public street; they fought, and Alvarez is wounded well-nigh to death; while Hartsed is put in ward during the king's pleasure. Now we see his treason plain enough--he sought to be rid of the witness of it." "Do not all men fight those who call them traitor?" said Nella, in a low clear voice. "Your lady is distracted with the fatal news," said Sir Walter, hastily; "she knows not what she is saying. See to her, ladies, I have no time to spare." With desperate hands Nella unfastened the jewels from her hair, and helped to cast aside her gay attire; then she sent all the ladies away, and alone awaited further tidings. These were not long in coming. Dom Alvarez was severely wounded, but it was thought that he would recover in time; and after a very hasty inquiry into the matter, the king sentenced Hartsed to banishment from Lisbon. It was ill for them all that his strength was failing under sorrow and suspense, and that Dom Enrique had started on his unhappy embassage to Arzella. As it was not thought suitable for Nella to visit the court during the severe illness of her betrothed, she was not aware of the king's increasing indisposition, and was not present at Dom Enrique's sad return, yet she dimly hoped that he might take up the cause of his brother's favourite. But the news he brought stirred up the whole nation to a pitch of fury, and preparations for a renewal of the war were begun on a much larger scale, and with lavish expenditure. The pride of Portugal was touched to the quick, and the king reduced his private expenses, and gave all he could save to the common object. The winter and spring passed in arming and planning the campaign. Nella's affairs were in abeyance. Harry Hartsed was gone, no one knew whither; and Dom Alvarez, on recovering from his wound, left Lisbon for change of air, and was to join the army with Sir Walter. All the talk was of hope and revenge, only the king's face was unchangeably sorrowful. One evening, shortly before the expedition was to start, Duarte was lying on a couch in his private room, resting from the fatigue of a long day in council. Beside him sat Enrique, who, with Joao, was to command the army, Dom Pedro being needed at home in the king's weak state. "Enrique," said Duarte, breaking a long silence, "ere we part, I would tell you my mind on certain matters." "I will never cross your will again, my brother," said Enrique, humbly. "I have thought much and long," said Duarte, with his grave gentleness. "This war is good,--justified by the conduct of the Moors to our beloved one. But, if it fails, I have written in my will that Ceuta must be ceded to them, and, to my thinking, it was our duty to have abided by our word. I was slow plainly to see this, but in this long sickness my eyes have grown clearer. Our Blessed Lord knows the souls in Ceuta which are His own, and would guard them through the fiery persecution which the failure of our arms would have brought on them. Maybe He would have allowed us to deliver them from it. It shows the faith of the blessed Cross in a poor light to the heathen when Christian men break plighted faith. And yet, Enrique, though as I lie here on soft cushions, with all things easy round me, I seem verily to feel _his_ rough usage, taste _his_ hard fare, it goes harder with me to pluck that jewel out of my father's crown, and give it back to the darkness whence he won it, than to see my Fernando win a martyr's crown." "I shall never raise my voice against your will," said Enrique. "Daily, with prayer and penance, I entreat that Ceuta and Fernando both may yet be saved to us. If Ceuta goes, there is nothing for me who lost it but to vow myself to a life of penitence, and till Fernando is safe, there is no joy on earth for me." "Take heart, my Enrique," said Duarte, tenderly. "If you have risked Ceuta, you have won wide lands to Portugal and to the Church; and remember, it is to you and Pedro I confide my son." "Alas, Duarte, there would be no hope for church or country without you at the helm." "As God wills," said Duarte, and words and tone vividly brought Fernando before Enrique's mind. And before many days were over the stroke fell; and, as some say, of an attack of the plague, which he was too weak to resist, as others tell, of the long strain of grief and responsibility, the just and gentle Duarte died, of whom all agree that he never uttered a harsh word, nor committed an unrighteous action. "A selfless man and stainless gentleman, Who reverenced his conscience as his king." He died, and with his life all the preparations for war fell to pieces, and came to an end. Portugal was plunged into a wild chaos of dispute and mis-government; the three remaining princes passed out of the clear following of clear aims that had marked their youth, into the wretched conflict, half-good, half-evil, of hand-to-hand fighting, with the necessities of every-day, till they hardly knew for what they were striving. There were miserable differences and cabals between the widowed Queen and Dom Pedro, who yet strove to act honourably by her; wild, mad accusations against these loving brothers of having poisoned Duarte, for whom either of them would gladly have died, a world of wrong and worry, from which they could not escape. With the rights and wrongs of that unhappy story, a sadder one perhaps than the fatal siege of Tangier, we have now no concern; but some strange change must have passed over the mind of the nation, for no other effort was ever made to rescue Fernando. To all seeming, his country forgot him, as Harry Hartsed was forgotten. But Enrique, when in the intervals of his wretched life at court he went to gaze over the wide Atlantic, and plan how to penetrate its mysteries, prayed for the unknown suffering of his beloved brother, while Nella Northberry added to her prayers the name of another loved and lost one. CHAPTER TWENTY. DARKNESS. "For there is no way out of pain and trouble but only to endure them." A party of travellers had come to a halt in the shade of a clump of trees, which pleasantly varied the monotony of the rough, sandy plains, covered with long grass, through which the road lay between Arzella and Fez. A weary journey, under the blasting winds and blazing sun of a North-African May. The sun was sinking now, and the wind was calm, and the Moorish cavalry, with their white turbans, flashing weapons, and beautiful steeds, brought to a halt on the small spot of grass, stood out picturesque and bright under the dear, rosy sky, a subject for a picture; the foil to these splendid soldiers being the coarsely-clad prisoners, or perhaps slaves. Prisoners, for how could they escape from their well-mounted guards? Slaves, for they ran hither and thither, fetching and carrying, rubbing down the horses, and bringing them water from a spring at hand, their steps, if lagging, hastened often by blows, and their answers, if sullen, met by rough jests or curses. And very various was their demeanour. Some fierce, and evidently stung to the quick, glanced up at their tyrants with muttered curses, and eyes of wrath and scorn; some sulkily did as little as they could; some stumbled through their work in utter weariness and pain, others hurried over it with officious readiness, humbled into an effort to avoid offending their terrible masters. It is not noble blood alone that can give a man patience, dignity, and courage, when called to lead the life of a slave. One there was who, a little apart from the rest, was tending a splendid charger, black as jet, and with large, gentle eyes. The beautiful creature stood patient and still, as slowly, as if from fatigue and weakness, but with no apparent reluctance, and with more than one gentle word and caress, his delicate-handed attendant washed the sand from his hoofs, and gave him food and drink. As the prisoner turned somewhat feebly to lift a heavy skin of water, one of his fellow-slaves flung down his own burden, and, lifting the skin, held it to him on his knee, kissing the hand that took it. "My lord, my lord, to see you serving that accursed brute?" "Nay, my friend; thanks for your help; but do not call the good horse names. My brother, the king, has none such in his stable. I think I have something of his love for noble horses," said Fernando, with a smile. "But finish your own task, Manoel, or Moussa-ben-Hadad will give you the rough words you like so little." "No matter, if I can aid your highness." "I have finished," said the prince; "and our hour of rest is coming." As he spoke, a tall Moor came up and struck young Manoel a rough blow, bidding him not to linger, but to bring him the water for his horse at once. Fernando did not interfere; perhaps experience had taught him that it was useless; but his brow contracted, and he bit his lip hard. A little later, and while the Moors were taking their evening meal, the Christians, with whom of course they might not eat, sat together apart, eating the coarse black bread provided for them. It was their most peaceful moment, for they could then talk freely with each other. The prince was one of the last to join them, and as he came up slowly and wearily, several sprang up to meet him, trying to form a couch for him with their rough garments, and offering to bathe his feet, which were bruised and dusty. Fernando accepted their services gently and gratefully, asking them how they had fared during the day. "As ill as usual, my lord," said one sulkily; "and small prospect of anything better at Fez. But the infidel dogs might beat my brains out ere I would consent to fawn and crouch and feign compliance, as Dom Francisco did but now. I scorn it!" "Scorn will not give us a better supper than black bread; see, here are dates, to flavour it," said Dom Francisco, while the first speaker, an older man, snatched the gift from his hand and flung it away; and there was a disproportionate outcry of annoyance and vexation. Worn-out nerves and tempers were easily raffled, and the men who had resigned themselves to lose their freedom could ill bear the loss of a handful of dates. "Ah, hush, my friends," said Fernando; "worse than blows without are quarrels within." "Now, now, my sons," said Father Jose, who had come up unperceived, "that was ill done. Now, if my lord of Viseo will not fling them away, here are oranges and a piece of dried goat's flesh, given me by that lad in a green caftan, who has, methinks, a less hard heart than the rest. And it has struck me, my children," proceeded the good father, "that the blessed Paul and Silas would not have converted their jailer had they bickered with each other, or grumbled at the prison fare, instead of singing Psalms in the darkness of the night. Wherefore, as singing causes the Moslems to blaspheme, I propose, while we divide the goat's flesh, to recite a portion of the Psalter." Father Jose was a powerful though elderly man, and as he had never been accustomed to a luxurious life, he was able to endure the privations and hardships of his captivity better than most. He was good-tempered, too, and cheerful, and was without the heart ache that almost all the others carried about with them for near and dear ones, lost, it seemed, for ever. And, more than all, his faith was strong and clear, and a real support to the failing hearts of others. Fernando's weak health caused him to suffer far more physically than any of his companions: he had been very ill at Arzella, and was even now hardly able to bear the fatigue of each day's journey. Nor did the blood either of Avis or Plantagenet run so tamely as to make insults easy of endurance; he pined for his brothers, and felt every trouble of his comrades as if it were his own. But then, too, he was able to feel the comfort of their love and devotion. As he lay on the ground, too weary to eat or take much share in the conversation, his face, worn as it was, had not its old restless look, and his eyes as they watched the sunset, were full of peace. It was not only that he had lost the sense of an unfulfilled desire; not only that he felt that his sufferings _did_ serve the cause that he loved so well; better still than this, the passionate will that could see but one way of serving had learnt to submit at last, till he could take each trial patiently as it came from the Hand that sent it, and--completest victory of all--accept also each alleviation. The evening air and the fair landscape, the interval of rest and quiet, were really soothing to him, and there was something in this peacefulness which drew all his comrades to his side, each with his tale of trouble, or with the offer of some little service as comforting to himself as to the prince. "We are still together," was a consolation even in the midst of their suffering. Alas! it was soon the only one left them. Too soon they looked back on that hard journey as a period of comparative happiness. When they reached Fez their masters changed. Whether the sea-port towns had been considered as too unsafe in case of a siege, or whether the African Moors had been enraged by the strong representations of the Moorish king of Granada--that, under all the circumstances, the heavy ransom ought to have been accepted,--Zala-ben-Zala sent his prisoners into the domains of Abdallah, the young king of Fez, whose prime minister was named Lazurac, and was one of the most savage monsters of history. The unhappy prisoners were driven, with stripes and curses, through the streets of Fez, the dark-faced Moors flinging rude words, and even stones, at them as they passed. "_One_ bore His Cross through a raging multitude, and for us!" said Fernando to Manoel, who was near him; but as he spoke they came close under the frowning towers of the Darsena, a kind of castle, which guarded the town. Here they hoped at least for rest and shelter; and it was with almost a sense of relief that they were driven through the gates and into the inclosure of the castle, and on--through a long passage, down--down a sort of rough slope, through some great doors, which were locked and barred behind them, leaving them, in an utter blank of darkness, they knew not where. Utter darkness--not a ray of light penetrated their prison. As they sank down, wearied, they could not see each other; when they put out their hands they could feel nothing near; all was silent and black as the grave. "Let us pray," said Father Jose, and began, "Out of the deep have I called unto Thee, O Lord." It was the deep indeed--the very depth of misery; and as they began to recover from the fainting weariness of their terrible march the horror of the darkness struck them more forcibly, and they were afraid to move, lest they should lose each other in unknown depths, till Fernando proposed that the least exhausted should try in a body to reach the wall of their prison, but never going beyond easy recall from himself and one or two others, who were completely spent. They found that their dungeon was of considerable extent, but they were afraid then to penetrate all across it. It was damp, too, and bitterly cold, and no provision of food or drink seemed to have been made for them. It seemed like the intentional ending of their sorrows; and numb, stupefied, and utterly hopeless, they crowded together on the cold floor of their dungeon, unknowing whether minutes, hours, or days passed over them, till suddenly their door was opened, and a man with a basket and a dim lantern in his hand was allowed to enter. "Prisoners," he said, in broken Portuguese, "I am a Majorcan merchant, and am allowed to sell bread to the prisoners." "For the love of Heaven, a light," cried Manoel, "that we may see our misery." The merchant came towards them, and turned his flickering light on the face of Fernando, who lay, almost senseless, in Father Jose's arms. "We have no money to buy of you, good friend," said the priest; "but if of your charity you could give us a drop of wine for our dear Lord--" The Majorcan knelt down, put his lamp into the hand of Manoel, and pouring out a little wine, held it to the prince's lips; and as it touched them he opened his eyes and looked round, as if bewildered. The merchant had a good grave face, and, when they repeated that they could not buy of him, he smiled and said, "Still, he came there to trade with prisoners," and put his provisions down beside them; and he also left them the means of making a light; but this he advised them to use secretly and at rare intervals, as for that he had no leave. He showed them the extent of their prison, and left them two or three sheepskins to form a bed. Whether at this time Lazurac really cared if his prisoners perished or not, or whether he intended to force the prince into entreating his brother to deliver him at any cost, certain it is that the few visits of this good Samaritan were all that kept hope, nay, life itself, in the wretched prisoners. The hopeless darkness, the terrible inaction, and the damp, dark atmosphere, broke down both health and spirits. Some, to add to the misery, were seized with fever, and lost their senses, raving wildly; and though Fernando was saved from this, he was never able to raise himself from the ground, and suffered terribly from pain and weakness. But through the three long months of that terrible trial he never uttered a complaint, save of his companions' sufferings; and little as he could do for them, there was an influence of peace in the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice. There were times when, treated like brutes as they were, the animal nature awoke within them, and they were ready to tear each other to pieces in the bitterness of their despairing fury; other times, when they sought a kind of relief in wild ribald jests, and many long intervals of sulky, faithless despair; when even Father Jose's prayers and encouragements were unavailing. Then the voice that was always gentle, the words that were always pure, the faith that saw beyond the dungeon walls, would woo them to a better mind; and the love they bore him helped them to hold to the love of God; and when, now and again, by the faint light of their little lamp, Father Jose took of the good Majorcan's bread and wine, and celebrated the Holy Eucharist, as long ago it had been celebrated by martyrs and confessors in dens and caves of the earth, they felt the power of that Holy Presence, and attained to something of the martyr's spirit as well as the martyr's fate. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE FEAST OF FLOWERS. "Go, bring me showers of roses--bring." Flowers--flowers everywhere; one blaze of colour through the royal gardens of Fez. Was not the young King Abdallah about to marry the Princess Hinda, daughter of a neighbouring potentate, and had he not vowed that since she loved flowers better than anything in the world, flowers she should have, specimens of every flower in his dominions! Lazurac might rule over people and prisoners as he would, but he must provide flowers for his boy sovereign, and workmen to plant, deck, and wreathe his gardens within the space of a few hours with every flower under heaven. Round every column and arch were twined ropes of roses, oleanders, and arums, in limitless profusion. Crowds of girls tied the wreaths, while the slaves brought them by hundreds and festooned them from tree to tree. And so, because hands were short, or perhaps to insult them still further, the Portuguese prisoners were released from their dungeon and brought out once more into the light of day, to hang up rose-wreaths for the king's _fete_. But although food had been given them and somewhat more decent clothes, and they had been allowed to wash off their prison-stains before meeting the eyes of their fellows, they sat blinking at the light and staring at each other, feeling as if they were the ghosts of the men who three months before had entered that gloomy dungeon, so terrible had been its effect on them. As the slave-drivers perceived that even the strongest of them were really incapable of any active exertion, they were desired to sort the great heaps of flowers that had been thrown down in a shady spot, "and to feast their eyes on their master's magnificence." Soon they were told their work would be daily in the royal gardens. At another time all would have chafed bitterly at so effeminate an occupation; but now air, light, and employment of any sort were so enchanting to them that these bearded European nobles picked away contentedly at the flowers, and Father Jose sorted the red roses from the white with positive pleasure, while young Manoel, who had failed much of late, fell asleep with a smile on his face; and Fernando, twining the flowers round his fingers, told how his mother, Queen Philippa, had described to him and to Joao how the maidens of England would deck a pole with flowers and dance round it on the first of May. Suddenly rushing out towards them from an inner court, laughing and chattering, their veils pulled carelessly half over their faces, came a party of young girls. "More flowers--flowers! Slaves, bring them hither!" cried the foremost, imperatively; then as the prisoners rose to comply, she recoiled with a scream at the ghastly figures that sat among the gorgeous summer flowers. "Make your obeisance to me," said a Moor, coming up, as he struck Fernando across the shoulders with his staff; while Manoel, weak as he was, sprang at him like a wild cat. "Ho, fetters here!--Villains, you resist?" "No no!" cried the lady. "They cannot work so fast in fetters. The princesses want flowers--more flowers;" and the girls flew back to their garden, followed by some of the Portuguese. The seclusion of the Moorish women was not so complete as to forbid occasional intercourse with the other sex, slaves especially; and presently the foremost girl came scudding back again to where Fernando lay, holding something in both her hands. "Poor Christian," she said, "here is some milk for you. Muley is cruel to strike you. Shall I ask Princess Hinda to beg the king to cut his head off?" Fernando had acquired enough of the Moorish language to understand her, and negatived this alarming proposal decidedly, while he thanked her for the milk, saying-- "I would not be so discourteous, lady, as to sit in your presence, but that I cannot rise." "I suppose that is because they ill-use you," she said, sorrowfully. "Look," taking a heap of flowers and laying them beside him, "now Muley will think you have sorted those. What do they call you?" "Selim," said Fernando; for though it was well known who he was, like all the rest he had a slave's name. "Perhaps you will work for my princess," said the girl; "she will be kind to you." "Leila, Leila?" cried a voice, and, snatching up a handful of flowers, she ran off in haste. The preparations were soon made, and the _fete_ proceeded, like a dream of Eastern splendour and profusion. Thousands of lamps, as the twilight fell, shone among the flowers. The slave-girls danced wonderful and graceful figures before the guests, and the Portuguese prisoners, with other slaves, held long garlands in a circle to enclose a space for the dancers, their pale, haggard faces showing in strange contrast to their surroundings. Zala-ben-Zala was the chief of the guests. As he walked round to survey the dancing, he paused opposite to Fernando and addressed him-- "So, slave?" he said, scornfully, "how like you this work? Is this fit service for a Prince of Portugal?" "No," said Fernando; "nor fit treatment for a hostage, nor even for a prisoner of war, if so you choose to regard me." "Will you now write and urge on your brother to deliver you--that loving brother who has let you pine in a dungeon rather than yield a fortress for your sake?" "I will urge nothing on the King of Portugal," said Fernando, steadily; "nor are the sufferings you choose to inflict on me worthy to change the policy of a nation." "You know not yet what those sufferings may be." "Well," said the prince, calmly, "the worse they are, the sooner they will end in death, when your power ceases. You fear not death, Zala-ben-Zala, neither do I." "There are those here that will break your proud spirit yet," said the Moor fiercely, as he went on. But the prince's words had not been altogether without effect. If he died from the cruelties practised on him, the power of his captors was over, and their last chance of winning Ceuta was gone. Therefore it became their aim to make his life as wretched and degrading as it could be, but still a life possible to live; and none of the party could have borne many more days in their terrible dungeon. A wretched lodging was assigned to them in Fez, their food was of the coarsest bread, their clothes of undressed sheepskins, and all day they toiled as common labourers in the royal gardens, with multitudes of other slaves, Christians of all nations, degraded by their miseries till their Christianity and even their manhood was forgotten; while, mingled with them, were dark-skinned natives from other parts of Africa, ignorant heathens. Miserable as this life was, in that beautiful climate it was so great an improvement on the Darsena, that the poor prisoners, except Manoel, regained much of their health and strength, and Fernando was usually able to get through the amount of toil required of him, and even not seldom to help his unhappy comrades. For the only use he made of the consideration, which, as far as they dared, all the other slaves showed him, was to persuade them to live peacefully with each other, to bear each other's heavy burdens, and not, as some of the poor wretches were apt to do, curry favour with their masters by complaining of each other. When they saw Fernando endure blows and curses for neglected work rather than betray the weakness of those who worked with him, they were ready to listen to the words he spoke to them of One Who also had endured insult and cruelty, and Who was with them through all their weary days, and the first gleam of hope came to many of them from his voice and smile. One day Fernando, with several others, had been carrying stones and earth for an embankment near the ladies' garden. Father Jose at some little distance was sturdily heaping up the burdens brought by the rest, murmuring Psalms to himself the while, Manoel slowly helping him. The times were good, for the mildest of their overseers was in charge of them, and they had passed the whole day without a blow to hurry their footsteps. Presently Fernando beheld, leaning over the garden-wall, the same maiden who had given him the milk. "Selim," she called, and Fernando put down his load of stones and came towards her. "What is your will, lady?" he said, with an involuntary smile at the fair, childish face before him. "My little green parrot has flown away over the wall; it is there by your working place; I want it back." Fernando bowed, and returning, caught the parrot with so much ease as to surprise him, and brought it back to its mistress. "It is safe, lady," he said. "I am not a lady, I am a slave too," said the girl, fixing her eyes upon him. "But your fetters are but chains of roses," said the prince. "Tell me," she said, "which of the Portuguese prisoners is Dom Fernando?" "He speaks to you now," said Fernando, a little surprised at her accurate repetition of his title. Leila, for she it was, coloured deeply, a whole world of memories waking in her. She put her hand to her bosom and drew out a little ornament, which she laid on the wall before the prince. It was a gold cross set with jewels, and Fernando recognised it at once. "You are Catalina Northberry," he exclaimed, and at the sound of the name so long unheard, the slave girl burst into tears. "Oh, I had forgotten--I had forgotten," she cried. "But after the flower feast I heard the king tell how the Prince of Portugal was now his slave. And I can remember the fountain, and my lord Dom Fernando, who gave us the crosses, and Nella--Nella--a little girl like me." "It is true, Senorita," said Fernando; "long have they wept for you." "Hush! I am called. I will speak again with you," cried Catalina, running away hastily, while Fernando hurried back, lest his absence should be found out, rejoicing at the discovery; for surely he could manage that some intimation might reach Lisbon of Catalina's existence. Certainly if deliverance ever came for himself and his friends she might be included in it. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. NEWS FROM HOME. "And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." The days passed on until October. Fernando saw no more of Catalina, though he still laboured in her neighbourhood; and no incidents broke his life of toil, till one day the Portuguese were sent for to the presence of the prime minister. It was part of the humiliation laid upon him that he was now and then, forced to appear in the midst of the splendid court in his slave's dress, his hands stained with toil and fettered, as they always were, except when actually engaged in working. But spite of all this, and though his stiff limbs moved slowly and feebly, there was no air of embarrassment, no consciousness of degradation. He walked up the great hall, and looked Lazurac firmly in the face, bowing to him with the courtesy of a superior, neither shrinking nor defiant. Lazurac burst out in sudden accents of fury. "Now, slave," he cried; "now you are wholly in our power. What is to prevent us from flaying you alive, beating you to death, in revenge for the perfidy of your countrymen? And now no fleets will sail to deliver you; we need fear no more from the vengeance of Portugal." "And why?" said Fernando, as soon as Lazurac paused. The Moor came and stood over him, his dark face convulsed with rage, a strange contrast, with his splendid dress and infuriated aspect, to his prisoner, whose clear calm eyes were raised to his without fear or falter. "Because the king, your brother, has died while shilly-shallying over his intentions of freeing you. Here is the news of his death, and no word of keeping the treaty. Ha! I have moved you now!" For Fernando staggered, and would have fallen but for Lazurac's rough grasp. "My brother--my brother!" was all he could utter. "Ay, there is a letter for you also; but the news is enough for you, rest content." "I pray you give me the letter?" said Fernando, faintly. Lazurac laughed scornfully. "Have you no mercy--no pity?" cried Fernando. "Offer me any insult you will, but _give_ me the letter?" It was the first time his calm dignity had been moved to intreaty or anger; but now he flashed out suddenly-- "You do not dare to withhold it from me? Nay, nay, I would not anger you; only give me the letter?" Lazurac drew out the letter, with Enrique's writing above the great black seal on the cover, and held it before his eyes. "Kneel to me then; kneel to your master, and beg him of his favour to grant you your boon." Fernando drew himself up for a moment, while the other Portuguese rushed forward and threw themselves on their knees. "Give us the letter," they cried; "but spare this insult to our prince." "Rise, friends," said Fernando, who had regained his self-control. "The shame lies not with me; and to my Master I kneel;" and he knelt, and for a moment raised his eyes to Heaven. Lazurac flung him the letter, with a sense of gratified spite and hatred, and the prisoners were suffered to withdraw. What mattered the scene that had passed to Fernando; what mattered insult and hardship, compared to the sorrow and anguish of heart of reading of the beloved brother's illness and death! Tears such as all his suffering had never wrong from him flowed fast as he read, and for the first time he was unable to comfort and support his followers, who all knew that a much blacker cloud had fallen on them, and that their chances of deliverance were lessened by this blow. "My son," said Father Jose, tenderly, "our beloved king suffered much grief and anxiety. We may think of him now in the rest of Paradise." "Grief and anxiety which I helped to cause," sighed Fernando. "Doubtless it is well; but now, submission is hard." And when the prince was thus cast down, the spirits of the whole party failed utterly, and one after another fell into disgrace with their tyrants, and suffered accordingly. At last, after a second night of tears and anguish, Fernando regained the mastery over himself, and before they started on their day of toil he called his friends around him, and thus spoke-- "My friends, I think we must put hope away. It was my dear brother's earnest wish to free us by ransom, by force, or even by the yielding of the Christian city, for which, for my part, I think our poor lives were a bad exchange. But what he could not do, our bereaved country in its hour of trial will fail to accomplish. So pardon me my share in your sorrows, my rashness first, and now that I cannot bring myself to beg our freedom at the price they ask. Could I but bear it all--could I but make in our own land such a home and rest as you deserve! But there remaineth a rest for us all, where my brother is gone before. So let us pray, my friends, that the will of the Lord may be perfectly fulfilled in us; let us in utter submission find peace at last. For there is an end to our trial, and a home from which we shall not be shut out." And so Fernando wholly, and the others as far as they might, gave up the restless hope of freedom, and set themselves to bear the suffering of each day as it passed, not looking to the morrow. And so there came to them in the midst of their toiling, driven lives, some still and peaceful moments, some inward consolations that carried them through. Their lives were very monotonous, chiefly varied by the sickness of one or other, often of Fernando himself, which held them solitary prisoners in the miserable, airless lodging where they dwelt, or by a different overlooker at their toil, or a change in the part of the gardens where they pursued it. Now and then, too, they saw their old friend the Majorcan merchant, who brought them little comforts; on which occasions Fernando's appetite was often found to fail, and he would beg some other to take his share. They had very little opportunity of intercourse with the other slaves, by whom a chance word or look from Fernando was highly valued; but since the Moors were not all fiends incarnate, Fernando's faultless life and ready performance of all that was allotted to him won him some favour from his masters, and with some of them a little courteous intercourse. Their lot, with its toil, squalor, and hardship, was bad indeed, but endurable when not made worse by wilful cruelties. Soon after the news of the king's death, Fernando and Manoel, alone of their party, were digging out the ground for some new fountains in the ladies' garden. Their overseer was a certain Hassan, the mildest of his race, and he was superintending the other prisoners at a little distance, sitting cross-legged on a bank, smoking his hookah. Princess Zarah and her maidens were seated at some distance, watching the alterations. Manoel worked slowly, and paused often for breath. "Rest, now," said the prince, "there is nothing to do here but what I can finish easily." "I would gladly save your highness from doing one stroke of it," said Manoel, wearily; "but sometimes I think, sir, my sorrows are nearly over." "If so, dear lad," said Fernando, with a smile, "the rest of us might envy you; sorely, as I, at least, should miss your face." "But for you, my lord, I could not have held out so long," said Manoel, as, weak and faint, he sank down on the ground. The prince raised him in his arms, and looked round for help. "Princess! princess!" said Leila, who was stringing beads for her mistress, "one of the slaves is fainting." "It was very stupid of Hassan not to send men who can do their work. He should whip them when they are idle," said Zarah, indolently. "Oh, princess! let me take him water; he will die!" cried Leila. "If you like," said Zarah, putting a sweetmeat between her lips. Leila seized a jar of water, and some fruit and bread, and came towards the prisoners. She looked frightened and shy; but held out the jar of water to Fernando, who bathed Manoel's face with it. "He does not revive," said the girl. "Yes! his eyes open!--Manoel, dear friend!" But as Fernando looked in his face, he saw that the last hour was come, and Father Jose far away on the other side of the gardens. He laid Manoel down, with his head on a heap of turf, and kneeling beside him, made the sign of the cross over him, and repeated the Pater Noster, while a smile of peace passed over the face of the dying boy. Beside them knelt Leila, brought there by her sweet impulse of pity. She clasped the cross still hanging within her dress, and the long-forgotten words of the prayer taught in her childhood rose to her lips. The words were hardly said, Fernando bent down to kiss Manoel's brow, when the end came, and with a long, gasping sigh, _one_ prisoner was free. "_He_ is at rest," said Fernando, in thankful accents, though his lips quivered as he thought how much he should miss the special love which this poor boy had borne him. Leila stood trembling beside him, hardly knowing that she looked on death, and Hassan, seeing something amiss, came hurrying down to them, and not unkindly summoned some of the other Portuguese to bear away their comrade, allowing Fernando to follow, while he called other slaves to finish their work. Leila was surrounded by her companions, who pressed her with a thousand frivolous questions, more amused at the exciting incident than horrified at it. Leila shrank away from them, and as soon as she found herself alone, sat down under a tree and tried to think--tried to remember. Long ago a strange pang had shot through her, when she had recognised in the toiling slaves her fellow-Christians. And the sight of Fernando had awakened in her a whole world of recollections; had made her suddenly feel, as well as know, that she was not of kin to the soft luxurious life around her--her kindred were these wretched toiling slaves--her faith should be their faith--in their sorrows she, too, ought to suffer. Leila could not have clearly explained this to herself; she could only feel the strong impulse that twice had carried her to the aid of a Christian slave in distress. And now an odd sort of instinctive respect for the prince, who had been the hero of her babyhood, rose up in her mind. She had been taught but little religion to put in the place of the forgotten faith she had learnt with her sister so long ago; and the only result of being a Christian that could occur to her was miserable slavery. A great terror came over her, she tried to wake as from a dream, and ran back hurriedly to her companions. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. LOVING SERVICE. "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; A free and quiet mind doth take These for a hermitage." The streets of Fez presented often a motley mixture of passengers-- merchants and traders of all nations mingling with the Moorish inhabitants and with the numerous slaves. One morning, bright with all the glory of a southern spring, a tall young man, sunburnt, and carrying a merchant's pack, was standing in one of the chief streets watching the passers-by. First was a dark Ethiopian, heavily fettered; then several of the lower-class Moors themselves; then a pair of slender, long-limbed Italians, trudging wearily beneath a burden too heavy for them. The trader accosted them-- "Can you direct me to the lodging assigned to the Portuguese prisoners? I would speak, if permitted, with the Prince Dom Fernando." "Softly, Signor," said the Italian; "it is not so we obtain speech with friends. There is the lodging for your compatriots; but all day they toil in the royal gardens." "That wretched hovel?" ejaculated the stranger. "Ay, and now I recollect one of the Portuguese told me sadly, but now, that their prince was sick, so he will be within. Maybe a bribe to their warder will gain you an entrance." Like one in a dream, the young man moved towards the entrance of the low stone building which his acquaintance had indicated, and accosted a Moor who stood before the door. "I am servant to Paolo, a Majorcan merchant," he said, "who is permitted to visit the prisoners. Will the King of his grace permit me entrance?" and he dropped a purse into the warder's hand as he spoke. "Well, may be, if you leave your pack behind you. Who knows what it may contain?" "Willingly, so I may take these few dried fruits to my compatriots." The warder sullenly unlocked the door, and ushered the young merchant into a small low room, with no furniture save a few sheepskins thrown on the floor. On one of these, in a corner, lay a figure, worn and wasted, and dressed in a torn and ragged coat of the commonest serge. His eyes were closed as if asleep, and only the delicate outline of the features, and the fair hair, still tended more or less carefully, bore any resemblance to the Infante Fernando. "Wake!--rouse up!" said the Moor with a rough push. "House up, slave!-- here's a visitor for you." The prisoner opened his large blue eyes and looked up languidly. "Just a draught of water," he said, faintly, "for my lips are parched with this fever." "My prince!--oh, my prince! My lord, my lord!--oh, wretched day, that I should see this! Curses on the ruffians. Oh, my dear master!" and down dropped the young merchant on his knees, sobbing, and covering the prince's hand with kisses. "What!--Harry Hartsed! Not a prisoner too?" "No, no! Alas, alas!" "Hush!" said Fernando. "Come, good Moussa, thou knowest I am to be trusted. Withdraw but for a few minutes." "Well--'tisn't much harm can be done. I'll get you that draught of water, since a tamer set of birds I never had in cage." And locking the door behind him, Moussa went out. "That man is often kind to us," said Fernando; "but oh, Master Hartsed, what brings you here?" "I come--I have sought your highness for months--that a word from you might right me. But oh! what are my wrongs to this? Oh, my lord! let me but share your prison, that I may wait on you and tend you. Alas, alas!" "Nay, nay," said Fernando, "I have no lack of loving tendance, and to-morrow I hope to be at my work again, for this is but a passing sickness, and at night my poor friends return to me. But when were you at Lisbon? My brothers!--oh, Harry, you come from home?" and the gentle eyes grew wistful, and filled with tears. "I come not now from Lisbon," said Harry, "and I know not what is now passing there. My lord, when you were sick formerly, you would sometimes rest on my arm--so--" "Thanks--thanks!" The poor prince closed his eyes; the familiar voice and touch, unknown for so long, brought back a dream of home. Could he but sleep so, and know no waking in his dreary prison! It almost seemed for a moment as if, when his eyes opened, he should see Enrique leaning over him, and hear his loving greeting. Ah, never--never! till they met in Paradise! With a great effort he roused himself, for time was passing. "But these wrongs of which you speak?" Harry was silent. The boiling indignation in which he had quitted Lisbon, the rage and hate that had proved his own undoing, sank away ashamed; and it was very meekly that at length he told his tale--told of the false accusation, the quarrel with Alvarez, the anger of Sir Walter, the hasty banishment, adding, as he had never done before-- "My lord, had I been patient, it might have been otherwise with me." "Ah, dear friend, there is no remedy but patience for all the evils brought on us by our own rash folly. Repentance and patience. But now, have you tablets?" "Yes, my lord." "Then--your arm again for a moment, and I will Write--for Moussa will soon return." So saying the prince wrote-- "I, Fernando of Avis, declare that Harry Hartsed was my most faithful friend and servant, and that no charge of treason can be proved against him, and I beg my dear brother, Dom Enrique, to look once more into the matter." "Go, Harry," said the prince, "at once to my brother. And now I have a matter to tell you. I have found Catalina Northberry, Sir Walter's lost child." "My lord! Where?" "Here, in the royal palace of Fez. She is the slave of the Princess Zarah; but happy and tenderly nurtured. Alas! I know not whether escape is possible for her; but she knows her name and has a kind heart. I dare not write of her; but you might, through Paolo, obtain speech with her, and take welcome news to Sir Walter," said Fernando, concluding with a smile. Harry looked as if he could hardly believe in so startling a coincidence. "But oh, my dear lord! your sufferings--this wretched place." "I can but thank our blessed Saviour, and those holy saints who have followed in His steps, for the grace that has been given me so to meditate on their examples, and to remember their far greater sufferings, as to bear with somewhat less repining _my_ share in the blessed cross. For what is it that _I_ should bear rough words, or now and then a blow, when for my sake the Lord Himself was mocked and scourged?" "And oh," thought Harry, with bent head, "what is it then that _I_ should be misjudged?" "And yet," said Fernando, "since our dear Lord knows how weak I am, and how hard it is to hold a firm heart amid slavery and cruelty, and without those whom I love, He holds me up with such a frequent consciousness of His presence, and such a blessed sense of His goodness, as is better than freedom and friends; so weep not, dear Harry, and bid my Enrique not to weep for one who has blessings of which he is all unworthy." Harry could only bend down and kiss the wasted hands that held his. "My lord, I have sinned in my fierce anger," he said; "I see it, now I know what my prince has to bear." "You did always know, Harry, what was borne by the Prince of Peace," said Fernando. "But here is Moussa; maybe we shall meet again in the royal gardens; if so, pay me no respect--treat me as a slave." Moussa here entered with a skin of water, with which he permitted Harry to bathe the prince's face and hands before quitting him, as he lay grateful and smiling, with a word of thanks to Moussa for his kindness. When Harry found himself in the free air again, he staggered as if he would faint, and, hardly recovering, hurried away out of the streets of the town into a quiet spot, where he threw himself down on the ground, able to think of nothing but of the condition in which he had found the prince. When he quitted Lisbon, full of resentment and anger, he had at once resolved to seek the prince in his imprisonment, and obtain some evidence from him of his innocence. He was far too proud to go back to England with a dishonoured name, and though he believed Nella lost to him for ever, he could not bear to think that she should be taught to disbelieve in him. He was too angry to consider that his violent quarrel with Alvarez, rather than the vague charge against him, had been the cause of his banishment. After a long series of adventures, and some hardship and difficulty, he finally encountered the good Paolo, who undertook to obtain him speech of the prince, and provided the bribe for the warder. But not all the merchant's descriptions had prepared Harry for what he saw, and he could not recover from the impression. He hung about the place where the slaves were employed, and obtained speech of one or two of the Portuguese, who were all eager to hear a word from home. They were all more patient than the other poor slaves, and had evidently learnt something from the example of the prince, who after a day or two appeared again among them, working feebly at his humble toil; a sight that nearly drove Harry crazy. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. RESTORED. "Laila rushed between To save--. She met the blow, and sank into his arms." _Thalaba_. Meanwhile Leila mused much over the death of Manoel. The dim visions of her childhood were too far away to be attractive. Even Nella, though a tender thought to her, was vague compared to the maidens by whose side she had played for years. The notion of a father was utterly strange to her--too strange to be attractive. She loved the princess, who had been on the whole kind to her, with the devotion of a loving nature; and she shrank timidly from the unknown world without the palace walls. "To be a Christian" hardly came before her in the light of an obligation; she knew nothing of Christianity but a few words of prayer, which she did not understand, and the sign of the cross, made instinctively, to which she could scarcely attach a meaning. She was frightened by the call to become something so new and strange. Her feelings were dormant and uncultivated. She was happy enough; why should she change? Then there rose up before her the one figure who had come to her out of the mists of darkness, the enslaved prince. _Her_ friends oppressed _him_, and she thought with a shudder of the ill-treatment she had witnessed. If she was a Christian too, was it not a shame to lie there on her soft couch, to eat sweetmeats, and play with flowers, while he suffered such cruel pangs! Strange contradiction!--it was not freedom, a father or a sister's love, that made her feel that she was a Christian, but the stripes and the fetters of her fellow-slave. Still this was but a feeling; and this poor child was no heroine, no deliverer of her race, but a little soft, spoiled, tender creature, who had lived all her days on sweetmeats and caresses. But a great desire possessed her to hear what the prince would say to her about that unknown world of which she had been lately thinking; and with a view to getting an interview with him, she set herself to watch the slaves as closely as possible. She soon perceived that it was a bad time for the Portuguese. The mild Hassan had been succeeded by an overseer named Jussuf, whose cruelties were frightful, and the poor prisoners could do nothing so as to escape his blows. One day, as she stood by the garden-wall watching, with a fascination that grew every moment more painful and more intense, Fernando detached himself a little from the others, and, unobserved for a moment, rested the heavy load under which he staggered against the wall. The little gate was unfastened, for some work had been going on within; and, with sudden courage, Leila, pulling her veil over her face, pushed it open, and touched the prince's arm. "They are not looking. Come inside and rest," she said. Fernando was almost fainting; he yielded unthinkingly, and putting down his burden of heavy stones, dropped down on the grass. "Oh, you will die, as the other slave did," cried Leila, in terror. "No, lady," said Fernando, recovering himself; "this rest has revived me. I have sought to speak with you to tell you that I have been enabled to send home a message to your father, telling him of your safety; and I doubt not that he will find means to offer such a ransom as may restore you to your friends." Leila trembled. "My lord," she said, "I am afraid to be a Christian." "Ah, do not think," said Fernando, "that the cross would bring on you such suffering as you see in these poor slaves; or, if so, it is in the service of a Master Who endured infinitely more for His followers." "Like you," said Leila. "Nay," said Fernando, "yet if I could reach that likeness--" The prince had risen to his feet, and stood leaning against the gateway. Leila sat on the grass. She had pushed aside her veil, and was looking up at him with her clear blue eyes shining through half-shed tears. Suddenly Jussuf's heavy hand fell on Fernando's shoulder, striking him down to the ground again. "Dog of a Christian!--what do you here?" he cried, striking blow after blow. With a sudden impulse Leila rushed forward, and threw herself on her knees beside them. "I too am a Christian!" she cried, and before Jussuf could stay his hand, the heavy blow intended for his victim, fell on Leila's head, and stretched her senseless on the grass. "Coward and villain!" cried the prince, all his knightly manhood roused, as with sudden strength he sprang up, and for once returned the blow. All passed in a moment. Leila's screams had brought both the other women and the slaves and overseers without to the spot, and Fernando's hands were pinioned, and he was dragged away before he had time to see whether Leila's senses returned to her. He bitterly blamed himself for having yielded to her proposal, for the incident brought far severer restrictions on himself and his companions, and he feared much suffering on the poor maiden herself; and many were the prayers he offered that she who had been impelled to so brave a confession might not be forced into denying the Faith which she scarcely knew, and that this tender, innocent child might not have to endure such suffering as tried the uttermost strength of grown men. Leila, when she revived from the stunning blow, was dizzy and faint; but when her princess questioned her, she answered boldly, that she knew the slave Selim to be the Prince of Portugal, and that she herself was a Christian lady--she could not bear to see him beaten. Whereat the princess angrily reminded Leila that she too was but a slave, and sentenced her to a whipping--not very severe--for her disobedience and folly. Leila _was_ a slave, and she took the stripes as her due, and cried at their smart, then kissed her mistress's hand, and begged for pardon; and the princess indolently forgave her, and bade her go and work at her cushion. "But do not weep," said she, "for Ayesha is growing prettier than you, and if you cannot laugh and sing to amuse me, I shall let Jussuf marry you as he wishes. I told him you entertained me, and I would not spare you." "Oh, princess!" cried Leila in an agony, "I love you; let me stay with you." "Well, sing then, and learn some pretty dances; you are tiresome when you cry." But Leila's efforts failed to please. She was no longer a little soulless plaything. Thoughts of her distant home, of her prince's sufferings, yearnings after that unknown Saviour, Whom he followed, filled her heart, and her eyes grew absent and her lips sad. She fretted, and her feet were less light, her voice less ringing. "I shall let Jussuf have her," thought Zarah; "they are not so pretty and amusing as they grow older. Ayesha is only fourteen." In the meantime Harry Hartsed left Fez in company with Paolo, and before many weeks were over found himself on the stormy promontory of Sagres, telling his tale to Dom Enrique himself. There Enrique had retired, and amid plans for navigation, observations of the heavens, and constant efforts to improve the mathematical instruments with which they were carried out, endeavoured to forget the distracting disputes between Dom Pedro's party and that of the queen. Nevertheless he was never deaf to the call of duty, and succeeded on the whole in keeping unimpaired both his brotherly love and his loyalty to his young nephew, through all the petty spite and false accusation of that miserable time. He listened with great attention to Harry's story, and then said-- "I think, Master Hartsed, that in the soreness of our hearts we neglected to inquire sufficiently into the vague story that so angered you. But it is ended; for a wretched soldier not long since made confession that he, and he only, was aware of the traitor's intention on that fatal night, and being sentry, permitted him to pass the outpost. But I will come with you to Sir Walter Northberry and confirm this tale." "I thank you, my lord. Dom Alvarez is doubtless--is doubtless--" "Dom Alvarez and Sir Walter are no longer friends, since Dom Alvarez, with his family, has joined the party of the queen. Sir Walter is one of those who wish for my brother's regency. His betrothal therefore is at an end." "Oh, my lord, I never hoped--I never dreamed of hearing this," cried Harry so ecstatically, that a smile broke over the prince's grave face. "Well, Master Hartsed, you shall come with me to Lisbon. I offer you again a place in my household, and doubtless Sir Walter will understand how matters have sped, especially when you bring him such good news." "My lord, I can never thank you." "I ask but this, this precious writing," said Enrique, sorrowfully, as he laid his hand on the tablet. "Oh, my lord, is there no hope of a deliverance? I would give the last drop of my blood to save him!" Enrique shook his head. "Sometimes," he answered, "I am thankful that he does not know the intrigues and the meannesses that have kept him where he is, and all the light of my life with him. Well," added the prince, as if to himself, "he is winning a martyr's crown, and I must do that work in the world to which I am called. But you love him." And with a smile of exceeding sweetness Enrique rose and held out his hand to Harry, as if that love was to be a bond between them. He kept his word. When they came to Lisbon, he took on himself to tell Sir Walter how completely he considered Master Hartsed's character to be cleared from the doubt cast on it. He showed Fernando's precious writing, and prepared the father for the revelation of Catalina's existence. And so it came to pass that one day Nella was called away from her embroidery, and found herself once more in the presence of her old friend, and heard that he had found her lost sister. Nella had passed but a dreary time of late; but she was of a hopeful nature, and certainly had found it hard to regret the quarrels that parted her from her unwelcome suitor. She had learned too, by the endurance of a real grief and loss, to be more patient of the rubs and the dullnesses of daily life, just as Harry had learned patience by the sight of suffering so far exceeding his own. Both were changed from the impetuous boy and wilful girl, who had laughed and disputed little more than a year ago. But their hearts were unchanged towards each other, and Dom Enrique's influence soon induced Sir Walter to consent to a union which ensured his daughter's happiness and gained a faithful adherent to the Regent's cause. But first there was great joy at hearing of Catalina's safety, and Dom Enrique aided Sir Walter in offering a ransom large enough to insure her freedom, and it was sent to Fez by trusty messengers. It came at the right time; Leila had been bidden to consider herself the promised bride of the terrible Jussuf, and all her tears and intreaties had availed nothing. The princess was tired of her, and when a sum of money large enough to purchase a ruby on which she had set her fancy was offered, Jussuf having at the same time fallen into disgrace for neglecting some trifling order, Leila, with hardly a farewell, scared and half reluctant, was handed over to the unknown Christians who were to conduct her to Lisbon. She was passive in the bewilderment of change and novelty; her few words of Portuguese failed her utterly; her father's welcoming kiss made her tremble and hide her face; and though she returned Nella's embraces, and smiled when her sister dressed her in clothes like her own, and called her Kate, it was with a bewildered surprise. Dom Enrique asked to see her, knowing enough of the Moorish tongue to question her as to all she could tell of his dear brother; and when she saw him she threw herself at his feet and kissed his hand, with an abandonment unlike indeed to Nella's stately greeting. But Enrique won from her the story of the blow she had borne for Fernando's sake, and thenceforth she was to him an object of entire admiration and reverence. In order that she might learn the duties of her religion and accustom herself a little to the life of a Christian lady, she was sent to a convent, and there she was far more at home than in her father's house, learned to speak Portuguese slowly and with difficulty, and practised with great docility all the observances required of her. The nuns would fain have kept so apt a pupil altogether, and Catalina was not unwilling: the outer world was too strange to be a happy one. But she went home on the occasion of her sister's marriage, and there her beauty, equal to Nella's, and the soft gentleness that distinguished her manner from the bride's gayer, franker air, attracted the notice of Nella's old suitor, Dom Alvarez, whose friendship, in some new turn of court intrigue, was now sought again by Sir Walter. Here was Nella's face, without Nella's untamable English spirit, and the young Portuguese thought the face none the less fair for the deficiency. He asked Catalina in marriage, being assured, he said, that she was a good Christian and a gentle lady; and Sir Walter, glad to be quit of this perplexing maiden, at once agreed. Catalina showed no unwillingness, and perhaps her gentle passiveness agreed better with Portuguese notions than ever Nella's lively will could have done. She was loving and dutiful, and in the love of her children she was happy, knowing little and caring less for the political ambitions and intrigues which formed her husband's life, simply believing that his part must be the right one. Eleanor Hartsed looked differently on life, and perhaps her clear and steadfast nature helped to point the right path to her husband in the troublous days in which their lot was cast, for Harry was too much attached to Dom Enrique to desert his adopted country, and the great prince never ceased to mark with a peculiar favour those who had been among the last to love and serve his beloved brother. But Catalina never forgot to pray for the captive prince who had taught her what it was to be a Christian; and Harry Hartsed, amid civil strife and political passion, cherished to his dying day the precious memory of having seen in the very flesh the "patience of the saints." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. VICTORY. "It is not exile--rest on high; It is not sadness--peace from strife; To fall asleep is not to die; To dwell with Christ is better life." In the meantime the slow years went by for the prisoners of Fez and brought no change in the main features of their lot. One or two, like the poor young Manoel, sank and died, and for these the survivors could but give thanks; but still Fernando lived on and endured. Perhaps the voluntary self-denials to which he had accustomed himself in earlier years made him better able to bear these later hardships; but certainly for seven long years he bore his cruel lot so firmly and so calmly as to win the respect even of his jailers, while his fellow-captives loved him with such entire and devoted affection that they could hardly be miserable in his presence. They leant on him with a dependence strange towards one who indeed could not defend them "from the least insult of the meanest foe." Long years of hopeless slavery did not as a rule raise the character or ennoble the life. Many of the poor Christian slaves were degraded by the tyranny under which they suffered to a lower level than the masters who oppressed them, and became faithless, cowardly, and brutal. For oppression does not of itself make men heroic. It is much to say of the Portuguese that as the years went by they grew more patient, more manly, and more Christian; while to Fernando the blissful end of his sorrows shone ever nearer and more bright, till his daily trials seemed hardly felt for the inward light that shone on them. Perhaps this strange content defeated the intentions of Lazurac, or perhaps Fernando's increasing weakness and helplessness made him fear that he would soon lose his captive, and with him his hold over the Portuguese nation; but Fernando was one day suddenly separated from his companions and confined in a separate prison, the reason alleged being that he was unable to perform the toil exacted from him. This was the cruellest stroke that had ever fallen on them. They felt utterly lost and forsaken, and for days could have no news of him, till at last the more compassionate Hassan pointed out to them the dungeon where he was imprisoned, and showed them a grating through which it was possible, not indeed to see him in the darkness, but to hear him speak, and then they heard his, "Ah, dear friends, this is joy indeed. You are still free to move; and well, I trust, and patient?" "But you, my son, my dear son," cried Father Jose, for once inconsiderate, as he pushed aside Dom Francisco and pressed his face to the grating, "have you food and tendance?" "My father, I think I have not much more to suffer; I think I have never yet been grateful enough for the love that has been with me all these years. To-morrow you will come again?" For trial had not changed the loving, clinging nature; it was the same Fernando who, long years ago, had wept at the thought of life without the beloved Enrique, who now, while he uttered no murmur and patiently endured this last, worst suffering, felt that the loss of his dear companions would kill him. "Our Blessed Saviour was forsaken by His friends, while I am but separated from mine," he thought, and rays of comfort stole into his soul; but he was very ill, and growing weaker every day, and his heart, though never rebellious, was very faint. Yet every day he had a cheerful word for his visitors, rejoicing in their comparative freedom, while to them the moment at the grating was the one point in the whole day. At last one day his door was opened, and two figures entered instead of one, and in a moment Father Jose knelt beside him. "My son, I am here," he said, in a trembling voice-- And Fernando answered-- "My father, oh my father, pray for me, for my spirit fails me. I am unworthy, weak and unworthy still!" "Well, my dear son, our good Lord knows your weakness, for He has sent me to be with you to the end." He raised Fernando in his arms, shocked and grieved at the change since they had parted, at his wasted frame, and face burning with fever; while, wretched as had been the food, air, and accommodation of their former lodging, they were comfortable compared to what he found in this dark and dismal place. But Fernando looked up with the old sweet smile. "See," he said, sadly, "how my faithlessness is rebuked. I feared to die alone, not trusting in my Saviour, and He sends my best earthly friend to be with me." The sufferings of those weeks of loneliness had evidently been most severe, for the fever that had attacked him frequently confused his senses and peopled the lonely dungeon with frightful visitants while he was troubled by a sense of the failure of the trust and faith that had hitherto supported him. But the good priest's care lessened somewhat his physical sufferings, and his prayers and words of comfort brought back once more hope and peace, and at intervals Fernando had much to say. "When I think," he said, "of what have been the trials of the saints, I feel how little I have had to bear. Never have I been without such loving service as is given to few. Our very jailers have been less harsh than they might be; some, even, have been kind. Our poor fellow-slaves have made me happy by saying that my words lightened their burden, and, though with no choice of mine, my presence here has saved Ceuta to the Church: and this as a reward for the rash folly that would choose my own way of service. And now, when my poor weak spirit failed. I have the blessing of your presence. Our Lord is very merciful; for such trials as I have read of, I think, would have been more than I could bear." "God's grace, my son, is strong enough always to support our weakness," said Father Jose, unable to help believing that there was at least as much saintliness in this humility as in the stern fortitude of a stronger nature. "Yes," said Fernando, "that is my one comfort for those I leave behind. My poor companions! in their love they will grieve for me. You, father, must be their support, as you are mine." "My son, they will remember your constancy," said Father Jose, "and-- and--give thanks for your deliverance." "I would I could see them once more, to bid them take courage." And when it was indeed certain that the captive prince was dying, this favour was granted, and his fellow-prisoners were admitted for one last farewell, their bitter grief hushed, their anger stilled, by the wonderful peace on his wasted face and the light in his shining eyes. "My Lord is indeed with me, and has given me the victory," he said. "In _this_ way, at least, will freedom come to us all." And then, with much effort, as each knelt beside him, he spoke a word of the peculiar trials of each, knowing how one shrank from insulting words, another dreaded bodily hardship, a third pined especially for home: commending them all to Father Jose's care; and when he saw that the worst trial for all was grief at his loss, he said, simply, that the life seemed to have been taken from him with the loss of his dear brothers; but he had found a Better Friend still, and so would they. And so, with aching hearts, they left him; and, after a night of restless pain and fever, a great quiet fell on him, till, towards evening, as the end drew near, he lay-- "In calmest quiet, waiting his release. `Lord, now Thou lettest me depart in peace,' Were the last words which he was heard to say. Upon his left side turning, as the day Slow sinking now with more than usual pride, Streamed through the prison bars a glory deep and wide. "When the last flush had faded from the west, When the last streak of golden light was gone, They looked, but he had entered on his rest; He, too, his haven of repose had won; - Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none, That what the scroll upon his shield did say, That well his life had proved--_le bien me plait_." So died, on the 5th of June, 1443, Fernando of Avis, the Constant Prince--"So good a man," said the young king of Fez, "that it is a pity he was not a true Moslem." And a tall tower was erected over his grave as a monument to his patience and to the triumph of the Moors over his countrymen. Years went by, and at last the few poor survivors of that little band, Father Jose among them, were ransomed and released; but the body of Fernando still rested in an infidel grave. His brother Joao was killed in battle. Pedro fell in a civil war, after a life which, spite of some errors, had, on the whole, been noble, conscientious, and loyal; and the only survivor of the five loving brothers was Enrique, the great navigator, the first of the discoverers of the modern world. The young Alonzo, Duarte's son, grew up into a brave and prosperous sovereign, and, in another war with Fez and Morocco, took captive two sons of the king of Fez. Long before this the memory of the captive Fernando was reverenced as that of a saint and a martyr by the men whose lukewarmness and indifference had caused his death; and now the only ransom demanded for the Moorish princes was the body that, for thirty years, had been in the hands of his enemies. And so, in 1473, Enrique sailed once more for Ceuta, and there received from the hands of the Moors the body of the beloved brother of his youth, which, with solemn funeral services, was shortly laid in the Abbey of Batalha, where Enrique has rested beside him for many a long year, while Christian services of prayer and praise have risen from the city of Ceuta, over which the Crescent has never been lifted again. 
7157	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 4. Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer. As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's --no, the King's--wrist. The tremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tears sprang to his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's creatures--then another cry shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "Long live King Edward the Sixth!" and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers' ends. "Ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--I AM KING!" Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it had its inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It looked upon the two neighbours which it linked together--London and Southwark--as being well enough as suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. It was a close corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and mothers before them--and all their little family affairs into the bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course--its fine old families of butchers, and bakers, and what-not, who had occupied the same old premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends; and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited. Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age, and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries, its neighings and bellowing and bleatings and its muffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves somehow the proprietors of it. And so they were, in effect--at least they could exhibit it from their windows, and did--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for affording a long, straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns. Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull and inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard spectre, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder of London Bridge. In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object lessons' in English history for its children--namely, the livid and decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its gateways. But we digress. Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said-- "So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again, I warrant thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap"--and John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy. Miles Hendon stepped in the way and said-- "Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What is the lad to thee?" "If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others' affairs, he is my son." "'Tis a lie!" cried the little King, hotly. "Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with me." "I do, I do--I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I will go with him." "Then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say." "We will see, as to that!" exclaimed John Canty, striding past Hendon to get at the boy; "by force shall he--" "If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee like a goose!" said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon his sword hilt. Canty drew back. "Now mark ye," continued Hendon, "I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him now to a worser fate?--for whether thou art his father or no--and sooth to say, I think it is a lie--a decent swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my nature." John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple of sickly candles. The little King dragged himself to the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had been on his feet a good part of a day and a night (for it was now two or three o'clock in the morning), and had eaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily-- "Prithee call me when the table is spread," and sank into a deep sleep immediately. A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself-- "By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them--with never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-usage. Well, I will be his friend; I have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him; already I love the bold-tongued little rascal. How soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! And what a comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its griefs. I will teach him; I will cure his malady; yea, I will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso would shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though I be burnt for it he shall need it!" He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed over the boy's form. Hendon muttered-- "See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and fill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'twill wake him to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth sleep." He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, "I am used to nipping air and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold!"--then walked up and down the room, to keep his blood in motion, soliloquising as before. "His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that WAS the prince is prince no more, but king--for this poor mind is set upon the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by the prince and call itself the king. . . If my father liveth still, after these seven years that I have heard nought from home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, Arthur; my other brother, Hugh--but I will crack his crown an HE interfere, the fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither will we fare--and straightway, too." A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to a sitting posture, and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, "Alack, it was but a dream, woe is me!" Next he noticed Miles Hendon's doublet--glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had been made for him, and said, gently-- "Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and put it on--I shall not need it more." Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stood there, waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice-- "We'll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything is savoury and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a little man again, never fear!" The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon the tall knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said-- "What's amiss?" "Good sir, I would wash me." "Oh, is that all? Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, with all that are his belongings." Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once or twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed. Said he-- "Bless us, what is it?" "Prithee pour the water, and make not so many words!" Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, "By all the saints, but this is admirable!" stepped briskly forward and did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of stupefaction, until the command, "Come--the towel!" woke him sharply up. He took up a towel, from under the boy's nose, and handed it to him without comment. He now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash, and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table and prepared to fall to. Hendon despatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly-- "Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the King?" This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to himself, "Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! It hath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in fancy is he KING! Good lack, I must humour the conceit, too--there is no other way--faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!" And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table, took his stand behind the King, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest way he was capable of. While the King ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He said--"I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee aright?" "Yes, Sire," Miles replied; then observed to himself, "If I MUST humour the poor lad's madness, I must 'Sire' him, I must 'Majesty' him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause." The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said--"I would know thee--tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble--art nobly born?" "We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty. My father is a baronet--one of the smaller lords by knight service {2}--Sir Richard Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in Kent." "The name has escaped my memory. Go on--tell me thy story." "'Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded--a reptile. Such was he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him--a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin--she was sixteen then--beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved--but then 'twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the other. But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated him--these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of lying --and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself. I was wild--in troth I might go yet farther and say VERY wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree. "Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account--he seeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path--so--but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken ladder in mine apartments--conveyed thither by his own means--and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will. "Three years of banishment from home and England might make a soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harboured me. Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir, my meagre tale is told." "Thou hast been shamefully abused!" said the little King, with a flashing eye. "But I will right thee--by the cross will I! The King hath said it." Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to himself-- "Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind; else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!--ay, made whole and sound --then will he make himself a name--and proud shall I be to say, 'Yes, he is mine--I took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be heard some day--behold him, observe him--was I right?'" The King spoke--in a thoughtful, measured voice-- "Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine." This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He was about to thank the King and put the matter aside with saying he had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and consider the gracious offer--an idea which the King gravely approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a thing of such great import. Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, "Yes, that is the thing to do--by any other means it were impossible to get at it--and certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will propose it; 'twas a happy accident that I did not throw the chance away." Then he dropped upon one knee and said-- "My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your Majesty is pleased to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, King of England, and the King of France, it was decreed that two champions should fight together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the arbitrament of God. These two kings, and the Spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the French champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that our English knights refused to measure weapons with him. So the matter, which was a weighty one, was like to go against the English monarch by default. Now in the Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped of his honours and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle; but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his famous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause was lost. King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, and said, 'Name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom;' whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answer, 'This, then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of England, henceforth while the throne shall last.' The boon was granted, as your Majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or helm before the King's Majesty, without let or hindrance, and this none other may do. {3} Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer, I beseech the King to grant to me but this one grace and privilege--to my more than sufficient reward--and none other, to wit: that I and my heirs, for ever, may SIT in the presence of the Majesty of England!" "Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, Knight," said the King, gravely--giving the accolade with Hendon's sword--"rise, and seat thyself. Thy petition is granted. Whilst England remains, and the crown continues, the privilege shall not lapse." His Majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a chair at table, observing to himself, "'Twas a brave thought, and hath wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my poor lad's wits are cured." After a little, he went on, "And so I am become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not laugh--no, God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to me is REAL to him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in him." After a pause: "Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title before folk!--there'd be a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my raiment! But no matter, let him call me what he will, so it please him; I shall be content." Chapter XIII. The disappearance of the Prince. A heavy drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. The King said-- "Remove these rags"--meaning his clothing. Hendon disapparelled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked him up in bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself, ruefully, "He hath taken my bed again, as before--marry, what shall _I_ do?" The little King observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with a word. He said, sleepily-- "Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it." In a moment more he was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber. "Dear heart, he should have been born a king!" muttered Hendon, admiringly; "he playeth the part to a marvel." Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying contentedly-- "I have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude to Him above to find fault with this." He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. Toward noon he rose, uncovered his unconscious ward--a section at a time--and took his measure with a string. The King awoke, just as he had completed his work, complained of the cold, and asked what he was doing. "'Tis done, now, my liege," said Hendon; "I have a bit of business outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again--thou needest it. There--let me cover thy head also--thou'lt be warm the sooner." The King was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. Miles slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy's clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy, and suited to the season of the year. He seated himself, and began to overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself-- "A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not the long purse one must be content with what a short one may do-- "'There was a woman in our town, In our town did dwell--' "He stirred, methinks--I must sing in a less thunderous key; 'tis not good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him, and he so wearied out, poor chap . . . This garment--'tis well enough--a stitch here and another one there will set it aright. This other is better, albeit a stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise . . . THESE be very good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry--an odd new thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to foot it bare, winters and summers the same . . . Would thread were bread, seeing one getteth a year's sufficiency for a farthing, and such a brave big needle without cost, for mere love. Now shall I have the demon's own time to thread it!" And so he had. He did as men have always done, and probably always will do, to the end of time--held the needle still, and tried to thrust the thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a woman's way. Time and time again the thread missed the mark, going sometimes on one side of the needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes doubling up against the shaft; but he was patient, having been through these experiences before, when he was soldiering. He succeeded at last, and took up the garment that had lain waiting, meantime, across his lap, and began his work. "The inn is paid--the breakfast that is to come, included--and there is wherewithal left to buy a couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for the two or three days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at Hendon Hall-- "'She loved her hus--' "Body o' me! I have driven the needle under my nail! . . . It matters little--'tis not a novelty--yet 'tis not a convenience, neither . . .We shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! Thy troubles will vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper-- "'She loved her husband dearilee, But another man--' "These be noble large stitches!"--holding the garment up and viewing it admiringly--"they have a grandeur and a majesty that do cause these small stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mightily paltry and plebeian-- "'She loved her husband dearilee, But another man he loved she,--' "Marry, 'tis done--a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with expedition. Now will I wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed him, and then will we hie us to the mart by the Tabard Inn in Southwark and --be pleased to rise, my liege!--he answereth not--what ho, my liege!--of a truth must I profane his sacred person with a touch, sith his slumber is deaf to speech. What!" He threw back the covers--the boy was gone! He stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment; noticed for the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also missing; then he began to rage and storm and shout for the innkeeper. At that moment a servant entered with the breakfast. "Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!" roared the man of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise. "Where is the boy?" In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information desired. "You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought him hither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger--and so--" "And so thou'rt a fool!--a fool and easily cozened--hang all thy breed! Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the boy. I will go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them--happened that by accident?" "I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with them--he that came for the boy." "Thousand deaths! 'Twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done to gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?" "All alone, your worship." "Art sure?" "Sure, your worship." "Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man." After a moment's thought, the servant said-- "When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them--" "What THEN?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting. "Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com--" "Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?" "Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--" "Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little mad master--it is a bitter thought--and I had come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, NOT lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast--and mine, but I have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it--speed, speed! that is the word!" As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge he several times said to himself--clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one--"He grumbled, but he WENT--he went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad--he would ne'er have done it for another, I know it well." Chapter XIV. 'Le Roi est mort--vive le Roi.' Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions, and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst out in a rapturous but guarded voice-- "I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am indeed awake at last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! . . . Ho, Nan, I say! Bet!" A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said-- "Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?" "Commands? . . . O, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak thou--who am I?" "Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-day art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England." Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively-- "Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir--leave me to my sorrows." Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair meadow called Goodman's Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and said, "Dig by that stump." He did so, and found twelve bright new pennies--wonderful riches! Yet this was not the best of it; for the dwarf said-- "I know thee. Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new pennies. Tell none--keep the secret." Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his prize, saying to himself, "Every night will I give my father a penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I shall no more be beaten. One penny every week the good priest that teacheth me shall have; mother, Nan, and Bet the other four. We be done with hunger and rags, now, done with fears and frets and savage usage." In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies into his mother's lap and cried out-- "They are for thee!--all of them, every one!--for thee and Nan and Bet --and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!" The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and exclaimed-- "It waxeth late--may it please your Majesty to rise?" Ah! that was not the answer he was expecting. The dream had snapped asunder--he was awake. He opened his eyes--the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber was kneeling by his couch. The gladness of the lying dream faded away--the poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a king. The room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles--the mourning colour--and with noble servants of the monarch. Tom sat up in bed and gazed out from the heavy silken curtains upon this fine company. The weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after another knelt and paid his court and offered to the little King his condolences upon his heavy loss, whilst the dressing proceeded. In the beginning, a shirt was taken up by the Chief Equerry in Waiting, who passed it to the First Lord of the Buckhounds, who passed it to the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, who passed it to the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest, who passed it to the Third Groom of the Stole, who passed it to the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, who passed it to the Master of the Wardrobe, who passed it to Norroy King-at-Arms, who passed it to the Constable of the Tower, who passed it to the Chief Steward of the Household, who passed it to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, who passed it to the Lord High Admiral of England, who passed it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who passed it to the First Lord of the Bedchamber, who took what was left of it and put it on Tom. Poor little wondering chap, it reminded him of passing buckets at a fire. Each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn process; consequently Tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so weary that he felt an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last saw his long silken hose begin the journey down the line and knew that the end of the matter was drawing near. But he exulted too soon. The First Lord of the Bedchamber received the hose and was about to encase Tom's legs in them, when a sudden flush invaded his face and he hurriedly hustled the things back into the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury with an astounded look and a whispered, "See, my lord!" pointing to a something connected with the hose. The Archbishop paled, then flushed, and passed the hose to the Lord High Admiral, whispering, "See, my lord!" The Admiral passed the hose to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, and had hardly breath enough in his body to ejaculate, "See, my lord!" The hose drifted backward along the line, to the Chief Steward of the Household, the Constable of the Tower, Norroy King-at-Arms, the Master of the Wardrobe, the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of Lancaster, the Third Groom of the Stole, the Head Ranger of Windsor Forest, the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, the First Lord of the Buckhounds,--accompanied always with that amazed and frightened "See! see!"--till they finally reached the hands of the Chief Equerry in Waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face, upon what had caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered, "Body of my life, a tag gone from a truss-point!--to the Tower with the Head Keeper of the King's Hose!"--after which he leaned upon the shoulder of the First Lord of the Buckhounds to regather his vanished strength whilst fresh hose, without any damaged strings to them, were brought. But all things must have an end, and so in time Tom Canty was in a condition to get out of bed. The proper official poured water, the proper official engineered the washing, the proper official stood by with a towel, and by-and-by Tom got safely through the purifying stage and was ready for the services of the Hairdresser-royal. When he at length emerged from this master's hands, he was a gracious figure and as pretty as a girl, in his mantle and trunks of purple satin, and purple-plumed cap. He now moved in state toward his breakfast-room, through the midst of the courtly assemblage; and as he passed, these fell back, leaving his way free, and dropped upon their knees. After breakfast he was conducted, with regal ceremony, attended by his great officers and his guard of fifty Gentlemen Pensioners bearing gilt battle-axes, to the throne-room, where he proceeded to transact business of state. His 'uncle,' Lord Hertford, took his stand by the throne, to assist the royal mind with wise counsel. The body of illustrious men named by the late King as his executors appeared, to ask Tom's approval of certain acts of theirs--rather a form, and yet not wholly a form, since there was no Protector as yet. The Archbishop of Canterbury made report of the decree of the Council of Executors concerning the obsequies of his late most illustrious Majesty, and finished by reading the signatures of the Executors, to wit: the Archbishop of Canterbury; the Lord Chancellor of England; William Lord St. John; John Lord Russell; Edward Earl of Hertford; John Viscount Lisle; Cuthbert Bishop of Durham-- Tom was not listening--an earlier clause of the document was puzzling him. At this point he turned and whispered to Lord Hertford-- "What day did he say the burial hath been appointed for?" "The sixteenth of the coming month, my liege." "'Tis a strange folly. Will he keep?" Poor chap, he was still new to the customs of royalty; he was used to seeing the forlorn dead of Offal Court hustled out of the way with a very different sort of expedition. However, the Lord Hertford set his mind at rest with a word or two. A secretary of state presented an order of the Council appointing the morrow at eleven for the reception of the foreign ambassadors, and desired the King's assent. Tom turned an inquiring look toward Hertford, who whispered-- "Your Majesty will signify consent. They come to testify their royal masters' sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your Grace and the realm of England." Tom did as he was bidden. Another secretary began to read a preamble concerning the expenses of the late King's household, which had amounted to 28,000 pounds during the preceding six months--a sum so vast that it made Tom Canty gasp; he gasped again when the fact appeared that 20,000 pounds of this money was still owing and unpaid; {4} and once more when it appeared that the King's coffers were about empty, and his twelve hundred servants much embarrassed for lack of the wages due them. Tom spoke out, with lively apprehension-- "We be going to the dogs, 'tis plain. 'Tis meet and necessary that we take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith they be of no value but to make delay, and trouble one with offices that harass the spirit and shame the soul, they misbecoming any but a doll, that hath nor brains nor hands to help itself withal. I remember me of a small house that standeth over against the fish-market, by Billingsgate--" A sharp pressure upon Tom's arm stopped his foolish tongue and sent a blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any sign that this strange speech had been remarked or given concern. A secretary made report that forasmuch as the late King had provided in his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the Earl of Hertford and raising his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, to the peerage, and likewise Hertford's son to an earldom, together with similar aggrandisements to other great servants of the Crown, the Council had resolved to hold a sitting on the 16th of February for the delivering and confirming of these honours, and that meantime, the late King not having granted, in writing, estates suitable to the support of these dignities, the Council, knowing his private wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to Seymour '500 pound lands,' and to Hertford's son '800 pound lands, and 300 pound of the next bishop's lands which should fall vacant,'--his present Majesty being willing. {5} Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying the late King's debts first, before squandering all this money, but a timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford, saved him this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent, without spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort. While he sat reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing strange and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his mind: why not make his mother Duchess of Offal Court, and give her an estate? But a sorrowful thought swept it instantly away: he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and great nobles were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature of a diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor. The dull work went tediously on. Petitions were read, and proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last Tom sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, "In what have I offended, that the good God should take me away from the fields and the free air and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me a king and afflict me so?" Then his poor muddled head nodded a while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the business of the empire came to a standstill for want of that august factor, the ratifying power. Silence ensued around the slumbering child, and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations. During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of his keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and the little Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses were rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the royal house; and at the end of the visit his 'elder sister'--afterwards the 'Bloody Mary' of history --chilled him with a solemn interview which had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity. He had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing, except his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black, --doublet, hose, and all. He bore no badge of mourning but a knot of purple ribbon on his shoulder. He advanced hesitatingly, with head bowed and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of Tom. Tom sat still and contemplated him soberly a moment. Then he said-- "Rise, lad. Who art thou. What wouldst have?" The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of concern in his face. He said-- "Of a surety thou must remember me, my lord. I am thy whipping-boy." "My WHIPPING-boy?" "The same, your Grace. I am Humphrey--Humphrey Marlow." Tom perceived that here was someone whom his keepers ought to have posted him about. The situation was delicate. What should he do?--pretend he knew this lad, and then betray by his every utterance that he had never heard of him before? No, that would not do. An idea came to his relief: accidents like this might be likely to happen with some frequency, now that business urgencies would often call Hertford and St. John from his side, they being members of the Council of Executors; therefore perhaps it would be well to strike out a plan himself to meet the requirements of such emergencies. Yes, that would be a wise course--he would practise on this boy, and see what sort of success he might achieve. So he stroked his brow perplexedly a moment or two, and presently said-- "Now I seem to remember thee somewhat--but my wit is clogged and dim with suffering--" "Alack, my poor master!" ejaculated the whipping-boy, with feeling; adding, to himself, "In truth 'tis as they said--his mind is gone--alas, poor soul! But misfortune catch me, how am I forgetting! They said one must not seem to observe that aught is wrong with him." "'Tis strange how my memory doth wanton with me these days," said Tom. "But mind it not--I mend apace--a little clue doth often serve to bring me back again the things and names which had escaped me. (And not they, only, forsooth, but e'en such as I ne'er heard before--as this lad shall see.) Give thy business speech." "'Tis matter of small weight, my liege, yet will I touch upon it, an' it please your Grace. Two days gone by, when your Majesty faulted thrice in your Greek--in the morning lessons,--dost remember it?" "Y-e-s--methinks I do. (It is not much of a lie--an' I had meddled with the Greek at all, I had not faulted simply thrice, but forty times.) Yes, I do recall it, now--go on." "The master, being wroth with what he termed such slovenly and doltish work, did promise that he would soundly whip me for it--and--" "Whip THEE!" said Tom, astonished out of his presence of mind. "Why should he whip THEE for faults of mine?" "Ah, your Grace forgetteth again. He always scourgeth me when thou dost fail in thy lessons." "True, true--I had forgot. Thou teachest me in private--then if I fail, he argueth that thy office was lamely done, and--" "Oh, my liege, what words are these? I, the humblest of thy servants, presume to teach THEE?" "Then where is thy blame? What riddle is this? Am I in truth gone mad, or is it thou? Explain--speak out." "But, good your Majesty, there's nought that needeth simplifying.--None may visit the sacred person of the Prince of Wales with blows; wherefore, when he faulteth, 'tis I that take them; and meet it is and right, for that it is mine office and my livelihood." {1} Tom stared at the tranquil boy, observing to himself, "Lo, it is a wonderful thing,--a most strange and curious trade; I marvel they have not hired a boy to take my combings and my dressings for me--would heaven they would!--an' they will do this thing, I will take my lashings in mine own person, giving God thanks for the change." Then he said aloud-- "And hast thou been beaten, poor friend, according to the promise?" "No, good your Majesty, my punishment was appointed for this day, and peradventure it may be annulled, as unbefitting the season of mourning that is come upon us; I know not, and so have made bold to come hither and remind your Grace about your gracious promise to intercede in my behalf--" "With the master? To save thee thy whipping?" "Ah, thou dost remember!" "My memory mendeth, thou seest. Set thy mind at ease--thy back shall go unscathed--I will see to it." "Oh, thanks, my good lord!" cried the boy, dropping upon his knee again. "Mayhap I have ventured far enow; and yet--" Seeing Master Humphrey hesitate, Tom encouraged him to go on, saying he was "in the granting mood." "Then will I speak it out, for it lieth near my heart. Sith thou art no more Prince of Wales but King, thou canst order matters as thou wilt, with none to say thee nay; wherefore it is not in reason that thou wilt longer vex thyself with dreary studies, but wilt burn thy books and turn thy mind to things less irksome. Then am I ruined, and mine orphan sisters with me!" "Ruined? Prithee how?" "My back is my bread, O my gracious liege! if it go idle, I starve. An' thou cease from study mine office is gone thou'lt need no whipping-boy. Do not turn me away!" Tom was touched with this pathetic distress. He said, with a right royal burst of generosity-- "Discomfort thyself no further, lad. Thine office shall be permanent in thee and thy line for ever." Then he struck the boy a light blow on the shoulder with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Rise, Humphrey Marlow, Hereditary Grand Whipping-Boy to the Royal House of England! Banish sorrow--I will betake me to my books again, and study so ill that they must in justice treble thy wage, so mightily shall the business of thine office be augmented." The grateful Humphrey responded fervidly-- "Thanks, O most noble master, this princely lavishness doth far surpass my most distempered dreams of fortune. Now shall I be happy all my days, and all the house of Marlow after me." Tom had wit enough to perceive that here was a lad who could be useful to him. He encouraged Humphrey to talk, and he was nothing loath. He was delighted to believe that he was helping in Tom's 'cure'; for always, as soon as he had finished calling back to Tom's diseased mind the various particulars of his experiences and adventures in the royal school-room and elsewhere about the palace, he noticed that Tom was then able to 'recall' the circumstances quite clearly. At the end of an hour Tom found himself well freighted with very valuable information concerning personages and matters pertaining to the Court; so he resolved to draw instruction from this source daily; and to this end he would give order to admit Humphrey to the royal closet whenever he might come, provided the Majesty of England was not engaged with other people. Humphrey had hardly been dismissed when my Lord Hertford arrived with more trouble for Tom. He said that the Lords of the Council, fearing that some overwrought report of the King's damaged health might have leaked out and got abroad, they deemed it wise and best that his Majesty should begin to dine in public after a day or two--his wholesome complexion and vigorous step, assisted by a carefully guarded repose of manner and ease and grace of demeanour, would more surely quiet the general pulse--in case any evil rumours HAD gone about--than any other scheme that could be devised. Then the Earl proceeded, very delicately, to instruct Tom as to the observances proper to the stately occasion, under the rather thin disguise of 'reminding' him concerning things already known to him; but to his vast gratification it turned out that Tom needed very little help in this line--he had been making use of Humphrey in that direction, for Humphrey had mentioned that within a few days he was to begin to dine in public; having gathered it from the swift-winged gossip of the Court. Tom kept these facts to himself, however. Seeing the royal memory so improved, the Earl ventured to apply a few tests to it, in an apparently casual way, to find out how far its amendment had progressed. The results were happy, here and there, in spots--spots where Humphrey's tracks remained--and on the whole my lord was greatly pleased and encouraged. So encouraged was he, indeed, that he spoke up and said in a quite hopeful voice-- "Now am I persuaded that if your Majesty will but tax your memory yet a little further, it will resolve the puzzle of the Great Seal--a loss which was of moment yesterday, although of none to-day, since its term of service ended with our late lord's life. May it please your Grace to make the trial?" Tom was at sea--a Great Seal was something which he was totally unacquainted with. After a moment's hesitation he looked up innocently and asked-- "What was it like, my lord?" The Earl started, almost imperceptibly, muttering to himself, "Alack, his wits are flown again!--it was ill wisdom to lead him on to strain them" --then he deftly turned the talk to other matters, with the purpose of sweeping the unlucky seal out of Tom's thoughts--a purpose which easily succeeded. 
33779	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) MAJESTY A Novel by LOUIS COUPERUS Newly Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos With a Preface by Stephen McKenna New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1921 PREFACE The betting-book in one of London's oldest and most famous clubs contains a wager, with odds laid at one hundred sovereigns to ten, that "within five years there will not remain two crowned heads in Europe." The condition--"in the event of war between Great Britain and Germany"--was imposed by the date of the wager, for one member was venturing his hundred to ten at a moment when another was dining with him to kill time before the British prime minister's ultimatum took effect: the imperial German government had to deliver its reply before midnight, by Greenwich time, or eleven o'clock, by Central European reckoning. Since the fourth of August, 1914, the King of the Hellenes, the Czar of Bulgaria, the Emperor-King of Austria-Hungary, the German Kaiser and a host of smaller princes have abdicated and sought asylum in countries left neutral by the war; the Czar of All the Russias also abdicated, but was executed without an opportunity of escape. Thus, though republican and royalist may protest that the wager was too sanguine or too pessimistic, the challenger must have taken credit for his prescience, as three of the great powers and two of the lesser converted, one after another, their half-divine sovereign into their wholly material scapegoat; by no great special pleading he might claim that the bet was won in spirit if not in fact when the morning of Armistice Day shewed monarchy surviving only in Spain, Italy, Roumania and Greece, in the small liberal kingdoms of Scandinavia and the Netherlands, in the minute principality of Monaco, in the crowned republic of Great Britain and Ireland and in the eternal anachronism of the Ottoman Empire. And the time-limit of five years had been exceeded by only three months. In the peaceful period, four times longer, between the publication of _Majesty_ in 1894 and the outbreak of the Great War, historians were kept hardly less busy with their record of fallen monarchs and extinguished dynasties: King Humbert of Italy was assassinated in 1900; King Alexander of Servia, with his queen, in 1903; King Carlos of Portugal, with the heir-apparent, in 1908; and the Sultan Abdul Hamid was deposed and imprisoned in 1909. Before the year 1894 no ruler of note had removed himself or been removed since the assassination of the Czar Alexander II in 1881; this study of "majesty" in its strength and, still more, in its weakness was published at a time when even the autocrat was more secure on his throne than at any period since "the year of revolution," 1848. If _Majesty_ is to be regarded as a _roman à clef_, there is a temptation, after six and twenty years, to call Couperus 'prophetic:' to call him that and nothing else is to turn blind eyes to the intuitive understanding which is more precious than divination, to ignore, in one book, the insight which illumines all and to overlook the quality which, among all the chronicles of kings, penetrates beyond romance and makes of _Majesty_ an essay in human psychology. So long as the fairy-tales of childhood are woven about handsome princes and the fair-haired daughters of kings, there is no danger that the setting of royalty will ever lose its glamour; so long as "romantic" means primarily that which is "strange," the writer of romance may bind his spell on all to whom kings' houses and queens' gardens are an unfamiliar world; so long as the picturesque and traditional hold sway, the sanction and titles of kingship, the dignities and the procedure, the inhibitions and aloofness of royalty will fascinate, whether they like it or not, all those in whose veins there is no "golden drop" of blood royal. A romance of kingship, alike in the hands of dramatist, melodramatist and sycophant, is certain of commercial success. The strength of this temptation is to be measured by the number of novels written round the triumphs and intrigues of kings, their amours and tragedies, their conflicts and disasters: King Cophetua and "King Sun," Prince Hal and Richard the Second, Louis the Eleventh and Charles the First, a king in hiding, a king in exile, a king in disguise; so long as he is a king, he is a safe investment for the romantic writer. But the weakness of those who succumb to this temptation is to be measured by their failure to make kings live in literature. Those few who survive beyond the brief term of ephemeral popularity survive more by reason of their office than of themselves and Jan de Witt makes little show beside Louis the Sixteenth; their robes are of so much greater account than their persons that the feeblest German prince cuts a more imposing figure than the strongest president of the Swiss Confederation. Those who stand out in despite of their romantic setting, the human, perplexed Hamlets and vacillating, remorseful Richards, are inevitably few; and few they are likely to remain so long as the frame outshines the picture and the prince is labelled and left a celestial being apart, or labelled and dragged into passing sentimental contrast with men less exalted; it would seem that to regard a king first as a man and afterwards as an hereditary office-holder was to waste his romantic possibilities. This, nevertheless, is what Couperus has set himself to do in _Majesty_; he presents his family of kings as a branch of the human family; their dignity ceases to be stupefying when all are equally high-born; they wear their uniforms and robes as other men wear the conventional clothes of their trade; and, stripping them of their titles and decorations, he paints his group of men and women who have been born to rule, as others are born to till the soil; to marry for love or reasons of state, as others marry for love or reasons of convenience; to experience such emotions as are common to all men and to face the special duties and dangers apportioned to their caste by the organization of society: _"... The Gothlandic family,"_ says Couperus, _"... lived [at Altseeborgen] for four months, without palace-etiquette, in the greatest simplicity. They formed a numerous family and there were always many visitors. The king attended to state affairs in homely fashion at the castle. His grandchildren would run into his room while he was discussing important business with the prime minister.... He just patted their flaxen curls and sent them away to play, with a caress.... From all the courts of Europe, which were as one great family, different members came from time to time to stay, bringing with them the irrespective nuances of different nationality, something exotic in accent and moral ideas, so far as this was not merged in their cosmopolitanism."_ To this "one great family" the organization of society apportioned with one hand special privileges and exemptions, with the other special hardships and dangers. Revolution, to these professional rulers, was what successful trade rivalry is to a store-keeper; assassination was a daily risk to which store-keepers are commonly not exposed: _"... Such is the life of rulers: the emperor lay dead, killed by a simple pistol-shot; and the court chamberlain was very busy, the masters of ceremonies unable to agree; the pomp of an imperial funeral was prepared in all its intricacy; through all Europe sped the after-shudder of fright; every newspaper was filled with telegrams and long articles...._ _"All this was because of one shot from a fanatic, a martyr for the people's rights._ _"The Empress Elizabeth stared with wide-open eyes at the fate that had overtaken her. Not thus had she ever pictured to herself that it would come, thus, so rudely, in the midst of that festivity and in the presence of their royal guest...."_ It is to be understood, none the less, that she had always expected it to come: assassination is one of the special risks attaching to majesty at all times when one form of kingship or the whole institution of kings is debated and criticized. _"When the intellectual developments or culture of a race,"_ wrote Heine, in _The Citizen Kingdom in 1832, "cease to accord with its old established institutions, the necessary result is a combat in which the latter are overthrown. This is called a revolution. Until this revolution is complete, so long as the reform of these institutions does not agree at all points with the intellectual development, the habits and the wants of the people, during this period the national malady is not wholly cured and the ailing and agitated people will often relapse into the weakness of exhaustion and at times be subject to fits of burning fever. When this fever is upon them, they tear the lightest bandages and the most healing lint from their old wounds, throw the most benevolent and noble-hearted nurses out of window and themselves roll about in agony, until at length they find themselves in circumstances or adapt themselves to institutions that suit them better."_ So much for the race, in the gripe of growing-pains; but what of the nurses? How little benevolent or noble-hearted soever they be, nurses are bound by the honour of their profession and by personal pride not to forsake their patients. In one passage of _Majesty_ the crown-prince is shaken by fundamental doubts of his own inherited right to rule; he questions and analyses until he is brought to heel by his imperial father who remembers that an excess of "victorious analysis" rotted the intellectual foundations of the old order and prepared the way for the logical French revolution. In another passage the boy realizes without any qualification that he at least is unfitted for the burthen of empire and that it is better to abdicate in favour of his brother or to commit suicide than to play Atlas with a world that he cannot sustain; once more, his imperial father silences any admission that his own flesh and blood can be too degenerate for the task of majesty. And so, at the moral sword-point, this hereditary nurse is held to the duty and privilege of standing by an hereditary patient whom he cannot relieve with "the most healing lint" and who may at any moment throw him out of window. Not even in thought may majesty abdicate: a prince inherits his philosophy as he inherits his title. _"Life is so simple,"_ proclaims the collectivist Zanti. _"'As you picture it, but not in reality,' objected Herman._ _"Zanti looked at him angrily, stopped still, to be able to talk with greater ease, and, passionately, violently, exclaimed:_ _"'And do you in reality find it better than I picture it? I do not, sir, and I hope to turn my picture into reality. You and yours once, ages ago, made your picture reality; now it is the turn of us others: your reality has lasted long enough....'_ _"Othomar, haughtily, tried to say something in contradiction; the old man, however, suddenly turned to him and, gently though roughly, with his penetrating, fanatical voice which made Othomar shudder:_ _"'For you, sir, I feel pity!... Do you know why? Because the time will come!... The hour will come. Perhaps it is very near. If it does not come in your father's reign, it will come in your reign or your son's. But come it will! And therefore I feel pity for you. For you will not have enough love for your people. Not enough love to say to them, "I am as all of you and nothing more. I will possess no more than any of you, for I do not want abundance while you suffer need. I will not rule over you, for I am only a human being like yourselves and no more human than you." Are you more human? If you were more, then you would be entitled to rule, yes, then, then.... See here, young man, you will never have so much love for your people as to do all this, oh, and more still and more! You will govern and possess abundance and wage war. But the time will come! Therefore I have pity for you ... although I oughtn't to!'"_ The dead weight of inheritance, always a psychological fascination for Couperus, becomes doubly fascinating when one generation after another inherits an undwindling legacy of divine, ironic whim. As, in _The Books of the Small Souls_ and in _Old People and the Things that Pass_, the children and grandchildren are born with minds tainted by prenatal memories, so, in _Majesty_, a prenatal influence has ordered the life and determined the fate of an infant who first draws breath as Count of Lycilia, eldest son of the Duke of Xara, himself crown-prince and eldest son of the Emperor of Liparia. There is no escape, no lack of heirs to the ironic inheritance: _"'If it's a son,'"_ says the empress mother, on the morrow of her husband's assassination, _"'it will be a Duke of Xara....'_ _"And then the Emperor of Liparia ... lost his self-restraint. In one lightning-flash, one zig-zag of terror, he saw again his life as crown-prince, he thought of his unborn son. What would become of this child of fate? Would it be a repetition of himself, of his hesitation, his melancholy and his despair?..."_ If _Majesty_ be a _roman à clef_, "this child of fate," with his father and mother and sisters, had his short spell of hesitation, melancholy and despair ended in 1918 by the revolver-shots of his gaolers. If Othomar be not a portrait of the Czar Nicolas II., it is hard to believe that the character was not suggested by him; though the Czar Alexander III. died a natural death, he would seem to have supplied a parallel for the Emperor Oscar, as Alexander II. supplied one for the liberal emperor, Othomar XI. The fanatical Zanti has his model in Count Tolstoi; and even the tragic romance of Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz has its historical counterpart. But the interest and value of the book do not lie in any fancied resemblance, among the characters, to living or dead kings; the study of Prince Othomar does not depend on any likeness to the Czar Nicolas II.; Couperus succeeds or fails not as a court painter, but as a great sympathetic and imaginative artist who does or does not create, in the unfamiliar atmosphere of a court, first the collective life and spirit of a caste long trained to formalize its life and suppress its emotions, then a group of human characters who stand out compelling and vital against the posturing, shadowy kings and queens of romance. To the composition of _Majesty_ go the understanding and the historic sense, the irony and tenderness that enable Couperus in later books to draw with unfaltering touch his exquisite portraits of old age and youth, of men and women, in their moments of solitude and in their reactions upon one another. Few men have stepped so lightly and surely across the confines of the centuries and the continents; his intuition makes him equally at home in Alexandria and the Hague, with women and men, in the second century and in the twentieth; and it is not benumbed by the surface inhumanity of a court. When the Archduchess Valérie had lost her lover, the crown-prince could not understand her being able to talk as usual at dinner. _"It irritated him, his want of penetration of the human heart: how could he develop it? A future ruler ought to be able to see things at a single glance.... And suddenly, perhaps merely because of his desire for human knowledge, the thought arose within him that she was concealing her emotions, that perhaps she was still suffering intensely, but that she was pretending and bearing up: was she not a princess of the blood? They all learnt that, they of the blood, to pretend, to bear up! It was bred in their bones."_ Perhaps it was bred in his bones, perhaps it was his mere desire for human knowledge that gave Couperus his penetration into the emotions which they of the blood were taught to conceal. In none of his books has he lavished more sympathy than in his painting of Prince Othomar's vacillation and passionate good-will, his timidity and desperate courage; nowhere has he used greater tenderness than in his sketch of the chivalry and gratitude which did duty for love in the passionless union of Valérie and the crown-prince. STEPHEN MCKENNA. LINCOLN'S INN, LONDON, 7 _October_, 1920. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE My first translation of _Majesty_ was written in collaboration with my dear friend Ernest Dowson and published in the year 1895. A small edition was sold by the London publisher to Messrs. D. Appleton & Company and has long been out of print. Messrs. Appleton, with characteristic generosity, have relinquished to the present publishers any copyright which they had established in the book and have thus enabled me to produce this new version. For even a translator's style undergoes notable modifications in a quarter of a century; and I should not have been satisfied to see this novel reissued in its earlier English form. The story should not therefore be regarded as a mere reprint. Incidentally, when collating the old Teixeira-Dowson version with the original, I was struck with the chaste and discreet appearance of the Dutch as compared with the English edition, soiled as the latter was on every page with a splash of capital letters. Is it some innate snobbery or merely lack of intelligence or thought that induces English writers--and for long myself among them--to dab a capital at the head of such nouns as the "emperor," the "crown-prince," the "duke," the "chancellor," "empire" and "state," nay, even the "major," the "professor," the "doctor," or of such adjectives as "royal" and "imperial"? If we are to write of the "Major" and the "Professor," why not be still more lavish with our capitals and write of the "Midshipman," the "Postmistress" and the "Postman"? Anyhow, I felt that a suitable time had come to experiment with an innovation and I decided to reduce my capital letters to a minimum and to affix them to titles only when these were followed by the name. Even the Germans do not distinguish their titles with capitals; they have the more logical habit of beginning every substantive with a capital; and, in their murky language, this habit has one advantage, that it assists the reader to hunt the elusive verbs to their lair. The English have not this reason nor this excuse. My thanks are due not only to Messrs. Appleton but also to Mr. Stephen McKenna, the most acceptable of our younger novelists, who in his admiration for the elder craftsman, has volunteered to write a preface to Louis Couperus' present masterpiece. ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. VENTNOR, I.W., 1 _November_, 1920. MAJESTY CHAPTER I 1 Lipara, usually a city white as marble: long, white rows of villas on a southern blue sea; endless, elegant esplanades on the front, with palms whose green lacquer shimmered against an atmosphere of vivid blue ether. But to-day there drifted above it, heavily, a sombre, grey sky, fraught with storm and tragedy, like a leviathan in the firmament. And this grey sky was full of mystery, full of destiny, of strange destiny: it precipitated no thunder, but remained hanging over the city, merely casting faint shadows over the brightness of its palaces, over the width of its squares and streets, over the blue of its sea, its harbour, where the ships, upright, still, anxious, raised their tall masts on high. White, square, massive, amid the verdure of the Elizabeth Parks, in the more intimate mystery of its own great plane-trees--the celebrated plane-trees of Lipara, world-famed trees--stood the Imperial, the emperor's palace, quasi-Moorish, with white, pointed arcades: it stood as the civic crown of the capital, one great architectural jewel, separated from the city, though standing in its very midst, by all that park-like verdure. The empress, Elizabeth of Liparia, sat in the private drawing-room of her apartments in the right wing; she sat with a lady-in-waiting, the Countess Hélène of Thesbia. The windows were open; they opened on the park; the famous plane-trees rose there, knotty with age, wide-spreading, anxious, motionless with their trimmed leaves, between which a dull-green twilight shimmered upon the lawns which ran into the distance, rolling softly and smoothly, like tight-stretched velvet, into an endless violet vista, with just here or there the one strident white patch of a statue. A great silence buzzed its strange sound of stillness indoors from the park; it buzzed around the empress. She sat smiling; she listened to Hélène reading aloud; she tried to listen, she did not always understand. A nervous dread haunted her, surrounded her, as with an invisible net of meshes, unbreakable. This dread was for her husband, her children, her elder son, her daughters, her younger boy. This dread crept along the carpet beneath her feet; it hung from the ceiling above her head, stole round about her through the whole room. This dread was in the park: it came from afar, from the violet vistas; it swept over the lawns and climbed in through the open windows; it fell from the trees, it fell from the sky, the grey, thunder-laden sky. This dread trembled through Liparia, through the whole of Liparia, through the whole empire; it trembled in, in to the empress, enveloping her whole being.... Then Elizabeth drew a deep breath and smiled. Hélène had looked up to her at a certain sentence with a light stress of voice and eyes, pointing the dialogue of the novel; this made the empress smile and she listened afresh. The anxiety smouldered in her, but she extinguished it with abounding acquiescence, acquiescence in what was to happen, in what must happen. The novel which Hélène was reading was _Daniële Cortis_, a work that was in vogue at court because the Princess Thera had liked it. The countess read carefully and with great expression; the rhythm of the Italian came from her lips with the elegance of very pointed Venetian glass, flowery and transparent. And the empress wondered that Hélène could read so beautifully and that she did not seem to feel the anxiety which nevertheless stole about everywhere, like a spectre. There was a knock at the door leading from the anteroom; a flunkey opened the door; a lady-in-waiting appeared between the hangings and curtseyed: "His highness Prince Herman," she announced in a voice that hesitated a little, as though she knew that this hour of the afternoon was almost sacred to the empress. "Ask the prince to come in," replied the empress: her voice, with all its haughtiness, sounded kind and attractive and sympathetic. "We have been expecting the prince so long...." The door remained open, the lady-in-waiting disappeared, the flunkey waited at the hangings, motionless, for the prince to come. His firm tread sounded, approaching quickly, through the anteroom; and he made a pleasant entrance, with friendliness in his healthy, red face and the joy of meeting in his large grey eyes, with their gleaming black pupils. The flunkey closed the door behind him. "Aunt!" The prince stepped towards the empress with both hands outstretched. She had risen, as had Hélène, and she moved a step towards him; she took his two hands and allowed him to kiss her heartily on both cheeks. Hélène curtseyed. "Countess of Thesbia," said the prince, bowing. "So you have come at last!" said the empress, with jesting discontent. She shook her head, but could not but look kindly at his pleasant, handsome, healthy face. "Why did you not telegraph for certain when you were coming? Then Othomar would have gone to the station, but now...." She shrugged her shoulders with a smile of regret, as much as to say that now it could not be helped that his reception had only been _tel quel_.... "But, aunt," said Herman--the tone of his voice implied that he would never have demanded this of Othomar--"I have been excellently received: General Ducardi, Leoni, Fasti, our worthy minister and Siridsen...." "Othomar will be sorry all the same," said the empress. "He is out driving now with Thera. Thera is driving her new bays. I can't understand why they went; it is sure to rain!" The empress resumed her seat, with an anxious look at the weather outside; the prince and Hélène likewise sat down. A cross-fire of enquiries after the two families was kindled between the empress and her nephew; they had not seen each other for months. There was much to be discussed; the times were full of disaster; and the empress showed a long telegram which the emperor had sent from Altara about the inundations. Her fingers shook as they held the message. She was still a woman of remarkable beauty, in spite of her grown-up children. But the charm of her beauty was apparent to very few. In public that beauty acquired a hardness as of a cameo: fine, clear-cut lines; great, cold, brown eyes, without expression; a cold, closed mouth; before people her slender figure assumed something stiff and automatic; she even showed herself thus before the more intimate circles of the court. But when she was seen, as now, in the seclusion of her own drawing-room, with no one except her nephew, whom she loved almost as much as her own children, and one little lady-in-waiting whom she spoilt, then, in spite of the dread which she repressed deep down in her heart, she became another woman. In her simple grey silk--she was in slight mourning for a relation--what was stiff and automatic in her figure changed into a gracious suppleness of carriage and movement, as spontaneous as the other was studied; the cameo of her face became animated; a look almost of melancholy came into her eyes; and, above all, a laugh about that cold, hard mouth was as a gleam of sympathy that rendered her unrecognizable to one who had seen her for the first time cold, stiff and austere. Prince Herman of Gothland was the second son of her sister, the Queen of Gothland. A tall, sturdy lad in his undress uniform as a naval lieutenant, with the healthy, Teutonic fairness of the house of Gothland: a firm neck, broad shoulders, the swelling chest of an athlete, the determined quickness of movement of a lively nature, more than sufficient intelligence in his large grey eyes with the black pupils and with now and then a single pleasant, soft note in his baritone voice, a note that caused a momentary slight surprise and rendered him attractive when it sounded gently in the midst of his virility. And now that he sat there, easily, simply, pleasantly and yet with a certain dignity that did not permit him an absolute excess of joviality; now that he spoke, with his sweet voice, of his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters and asked after his uncle, the Emperor Oscar of Liparia, asked after Othomar, Thera: now, yes, now he aroused in the empress a delicate feeling of family affection, something of a secret bond of blood, a very solid support of relationship amid the isolation of their respective grandeurs, the grandeurs of Liparia and Gothland. Yonder, at the other side of Europe, far, far away from her and yet so near through the magnetism of this delicate feeling, she felt Gothland lying as one vast plain of love, whither she could allow her thoughts to wander. She was no longer giddy with melancholy and dread in that she was so high together with those whom she loved, her husband and her children, for she was not high alone: in her highness she leant against another highness, Liparia against Gothland, Gothland against Liparia. It brought moist tears to her eyes, it brought a melancholy that was like happiness clinging to her breath. The spectre of dread had disappeared. She could have embraced her nephew; she would have liked to tell him all this: his mere presence gave her this feeling, a feeling of comfort and of strength; she had not known it for months. 2 The door was opened; the flunkey stood stiff and upright, with a fixed look that stared straight before him, in the shadow of the hangings. Princess Thera and Othomar entered. The princess went up gaily and kindly to her cousin, they kissed; Othomar also embraced Herman, with a single word. But, in comparison with the natural utterances of the empress and of Thera, this single word of the Duke of Xara sounded studied and smilingly cold, not intimate, and carried a needless air of etiquette. It failed to conceal a translucent insincerity, a transparent show that made no effort to simulate affection, but seemed quite simply what at this moment it could not but seem, a greeting of feigned kindness between two cousins of the same age. Prince Herman was accustomed to this: there was no intimacy between him and Othomar; and this was the more striking when they saw each other for the first time after several months; it affected the empress keenly, disagreeably. The conversation again turned upon the inundations in the north. The empress showed her children the latest telegram, the same that she had shown to Herman; it mentioned fresh disasters: still more villages swept away, towns harassed by the swollen and overflowing rivers, after a month of rain that had resembled the Flood. It had caused the emperor to proceed three days ago to the northern provinces; but they at court were now every moment expecting his orders that the crown-prince should replace him there, as he himself was returning to Lipara because of the cabinet crisis. The crown-prince discussed all this a little coldly and formally. He was a young man of twenty-one, slender and of short stature, very slightly built, with delicate, melancholy features and dull, black eyes, that generally stared straight before him; a young moustache tinted his upper lip as with a stripe of Indian ink. He had a way of drooping his head a little on his chest and then looking up from under his eyelids; he generally sat very quiet; his hands, which were small and broad but delicate, rested evenly upon his knees; and he had a trick of carrying his left hand to his eyes and then--he was a little short-sighted--just peering at his ring. He was tightly girt in the blue-and-white uniform of a captain in the lancers, the uniform which he generally wore in public: its silver frogs lent a certain breadth to his slenderness; on his right wrist he wore a narrow, dull-gold bracelet. "This is the first letter," said the empress. "Read it out, Thera...." The princess took the letter. The emperor wrote: "It is heartrending to see all this and to be able to do so little. The whole district south of the Zanthos, from Altara to Lycilia, is one expanse of water; where villages stood there now float the remains of bridges and houses, trees, accumulations of roofs, dead cattle, carts and household furniture and, as we were going along the Therezia Dyke, which--God be praised!--still stands firm at Altara, a cluster of corpses was slowly washed straight before our feet in one gigantic embrace of death...." The crown-prince had suddenly turned pale; he remained sitting in his usual attitude, peering at his ring, with the trick that was his habit. Thera read on. When the crown-prince looked up he met his mother's eyes. She nodded to him with her eyelids, unseen by the others, who were listening to the letter; he smiled--a smile full of heartbreaking melancholy--and answered her with the same invisible quiver of the eyelids; it was as though he understood that gentle greeting and drew a scrap of comfort from it for a mysterious, silent sorrow that depressed him within himself, that lay on his breast like an oppression of the breath, like a nightmare in his waking life. But Prince Herman was already talking about the ministerial crisis: it was momentarily expected that the authoritative government, rendered powerless, since the new elections, in the house of deputies with its majority of constitutionals, would proffer its resignation to the emperor. The question, as always, was that of a revision of the constitution, which the constitutionals desired and the authoritatives--taking the side of the emperor--opposed. The Empress Elizabeth heaved a sigh of fatigue: how often had not this question of a revision of the constitution, which in Liparia always meant an extension of the constitution and a restriction of the imperial authority, come looming up during their twenty years' reign as a personal attack upon her husband! Resembling his long line of Liparian ancestors, hereditarily autocratic, Oscar could never forgive his father, Othomar XI., for allowing a constitution to be passed in his more liberal reign. And now, at this crisis, it was no small thing that they were asking, the constitutionals. The house of peers, hereditary and authoritative, the emperor's own body, which cancelled every proposal of a too constitutional character sent up from the house of deputies, was no longer to stand above them, hereditary and therefore, because of its hereditary nature, invariably authoritative: they wanted to make it elective! Even Othomar XI., with his modern ideas in favour of a constitution, would never have suffered this attack upon one of the most ancient institutions of the empire, an attack which would shake Liparia to its foundations.... While Herman was debating this, casually, his words lightly touching this all-important question, it seemed to Othomar as though he were turning giddy. A world passed through his head, rushing with rapid clouds through his imagination; and out of these clouds visions loomed up before him, pale-red, quick as lightning, terrible as a kind of apocalypse, the universe ending in a dynamite explosion. Out of these clouds there flashed up for an instant a scene, a recollection of the history of his imperial inheritance: an emperor of Liparia murdered centuries ago by one of his favourites at a court festival. Revolutions in other countries of Europe, the French revolution, flickered up with a blood-red reflection; the strikes in the quick-silver mines of the eastern provinces grinned at him out of them, out of the clouds, the world of clouds storming through his thoughts.... And so many more, so many more, all so rapid, with the rapidity of their lightning-flashes; he could not grasp them, the ruddy lightning-flashes; it all just flickered through him and then away: it flickered away, far away!... And it seemed strange to him that he was sitting there, in his mother's drawing-room, with the stately park swarming behind the plate-glass windows, with tints of old, medieval gold-leather, now, in the lowered gleam of the sun-rays; with his mother opposite him, so sweet, so daintily gentle in the intimacy of this short, uninterrupted meeting: his cousin talking and his sister replying and the little lady-in-waiting listening with a smile.... How strange to sit like this, so easily, so peacefully, so serenely, in the seclusion of their palace, as though Liparia were not shaking like an old, crazy tower!... Yes, they were talking about the crisis, Herman and Thera, but what did talking amount to? Words, nothing but words! Why this endless stringing together of words, beautiful, empty words, which a sovereign is obliged to string together and then utter to his subjects, now on this occasion, now on that? No, no, they were not in his province, speeches! For what, after all, were they supposed to express, this or that? What was right, what was just, what was right and just for their empire, this or that? How could one know, how could one be certain, how could one avoid hesitating, seeking, groping, blind-folded? Even if he had a thousand eyes all over the empire, would he be able to see everything that might happen? And, if he were omniscient, would he always be able to know what would be right? The constitution: was it good for a country to have a constitution or not? In Russia: was it good in Russia? A republic: would a republic be better? And who was right? Was his father right in wanting to reign as an absolute monarch, with his hereditary house of peers, in which he, Othomar, now recalled his admission, as Duke of Xara, at his eighteenth year, with the ducal crown and the robes and chain of the order of the Imperial Orb? Or was the house of deputies right? Would it be a good thing to place a restriction upon absolute sovereignty? It was difficult to decide.... The inundations: "It is heartrending to see all this and to be able to do so little.... An expanse of water all the way to Lycilia, a cluster of corpses in the embrace of death...." It lightened. Dull, heavy rumblings rolled through the sky; thick drops fell hard as liquid hail upon the leaves of the plane-trees; the whole park seemed to shiver, dreading the threatening cloud-burst. Hélène rose and closed the open window. Then Othomar heard a strange sound: Syria.... Had they ceased talking of the house of peers? Syria, Syria.... "The king and queen were to have come next week, but they have now postponed their visit," said the empress. "Because of the inundations," added Thera. "They are going to Constantinople first. I only wish they would remain with the sultan...." "This visit seems to me at least to be something of an infliction," said Herman, laughing. "And how long do they stay, aunt?" The empress raised her shoulders to say that she did not know: the approaching visit of the King and Queen of Syria pleased neither her nor the emperor, but it was not to be avoided.... However, not wishing to say much on this subject before Hélène, she replied: "All the court festivities are now postponed, as you know, Herman, because of these terrible disasters. You will have a quiet time, my boy. You had better go with Othomar to Count Myxila's this evening...." Count Myxila, the imperial chancellor, was that day keeping his sixtieth birthday. He was the emperor's principal favourite. That morning he had been to the empress to receive her congratulations. The crown-prince was, by the emperor's desire, to appear for a moment at the reception in the chancellor's palace. Prince Herman glanced at Othomar enquiringly, as though expecting a word from him too. "Of course," the Duke of Zara hastened to say. "Myxila will reckon on seeing Herman...." 3 When, at half-past ten in the evening, Othomar and Herman returned from the chancellor's palace in a downpour of rain, it was known among the empress' entourage also that the government had resigned; the princes had met the ministers at Count Myxila's; the crisis had thrilled through the outward ceremonial of the reception like a threatening shudder of fever. Also there was a telegram from the emperor for the Duke of Xara: "I wish your imperial highness to proceed to Altara to-morrow. "OSCAR." The telegram did not come as a surprise, but was the natural consequence of the resignation of the government and of the emperor's return, for the emperor did not wish to leave the scene of the disasters without the consolation that the heir-apparent was about to replace him. After a moment spent with the empress, Othomar withdrew to his own apartments. He sent for his equerry, Prince Dutri, and consulted with him shortly and in a few words, after which the equerry hurried away with much ado. In his dressing-room Othomar found his valet, Andro, who had been warned by one of the chamberlains and was already busily packing up. "Don't pack too much," he said, as the valet rose respectfully from the trunk before which he was kneeling. "It would only be in the way...." So soon as he had said this, he failed to see the reason. Nor did the valet seem to take any notice of it: kneeling down again before the trunk, he continued to pack what he thought fit. It would be quite right as Andro was doing it, thought Othomar. And he flung himself into a chair in his study. One of the windows was open; a single standard lamp in a corner gave a dim light. The furious downpour raged outside; a humid whiff of wet leaves drifted indoors. The prince was tired, too tired to summon Andro to pull off his tight patent-leather boots. He was wearing the white-and-gold uniform of a colonel of the throne-guards, the imperial body-guard; the chain of the order of the Imperial Orb hung round his neck; other decorations studded his breast. The reception at the imperial chancellor's still whirled before his eyes; in his brain buzzed, mingling with the rain, the inevitable conversations about the crisis, the government, the house of peers. He saw himself the crown-prince, always the crown-prince, always too condescending, too affable, not sufficiently natural, not simple, not easy like Herman; and he saw Herman moving easily through the rooms of the chancellor's palace, asking quite simply to be introduced to the ladies, now by Count Myxila and again by an equerry. And he envied his cousin, who was a second son. Herman did not cause the atmosphere around him to freeze at once, as did he, with the cold imperial look of his crown-princedom. He saw the ministers, the ministers who were about to retire, each with his own interests at heart instead of those of Liparia. He suspected this from their humble attitudes before him, the crown-prince, when he had spoken to all of them.... He felt that they were only playing a part, that there was much in them that they did not allow to transpire; and he suddenly asked himself why, why this should all be so, why so much show, nothing but show.... And he was suffering now, deep in his breast; the tightness of his uniform, loaded with decorations, oppressed him.... He saw old Countess Myxila and some other ladies, whom he had seen curtseying amid the crackling of their trains and the sudden downward glitter of their diamonds, whom he had seen flushing with pleasure because the Duke of Xara had taken notice of them. And the wife also of the court-marshal, the Duchess of Yemena, who had so long been absent from court in voluntary exile at her estate in Vaza: he saw her approaching on Prince Dutri's arm. For he did not know her: years ago, when she was at court, he was a boy of fifteen, undergoing a strict military education, seldom with the empress and never at the court festivals; he had never seen the duchess at that time. Now, in the twilight of that one lamp, with the weather raging outside, he saw her once more and she became as it were transparent in the lines of the rain; she looked strange, seen through the rain, as through a curtain of wet muslin. A tall woman, voluptuously formed, half-naked under the white radiance of her diamond necklace, that was how she approached him: her hair blue-black with a gleam in it, her face a little pale under a thin bloom of rose powder; she came nearer, slowly, hesitating, in her yellow-gold figured satin, edged with heavy sable; she bowed before him, with a deep, reverential curtsey before the imperial presence: her head sank upon her breast, the tiara in her black hair shot forth rays, her whole stature curved down as with one serpentine line of grace in the material of gleaming gold that shone about her bosom and seemed to break over the thick folds of her train with a filagree of light. He had spoken to her. She rose from the billows of her reverential grace; she replied, he forgot what; her eyes sparkled upon his like black stars. She had made an impression upon him. He thought it was because he had heard her much spoken of as a woman with a life full of passion, a thing that was a riddle to him. His education had been military and strictly chaste, his youth had remained uncorrupted by the easy morals of the court, perhaps because his parents, after a long and secret separation, known to none but themselves, had come together again from a need of family-life and mutual support; the Empress Elizabeth had forgiven the Emperor Oscar and submitted to his infidelities as inevitable. Round about him Othomar had never had occasion to observe the life of the senses. At the university of Altara, where he had studied, he had never taken part, except officially, in the diversions of the students; he had always remained the crown-prince, not from haughtiness, but because he was unable to do otherwise, from lack of ease and tact. And something in the duchess had made an impression on him, as of a thing unknown. He felt in this woman, who curtseyed so deeply before him with her sphinx-like smile, a world of emotion and knowledge which he did not possess; he had felt poor in comparison with her, small and insignificant. What was it that she possessed and he not? Was it a riddle of the soul? Were there such things, soul-enigmas, and was it worth while to try to fathom them? Such a woman as she, was she not quite different from his mother and sisters? Or did his equerries, among themselves, speak of his sisters too as they spoke of the duchess? And this life of passion, this life of love for so many, was that then the truth? Did they not slander her, the equerries, or at least did they not make truth seem different from what it was, as they always did in everything, as if the truth must always be made to seem other to a prince than to a subject? He felt tired. And he sat on, striving in vain to drive from him the whirl of the strange figures of that reception seen through a transparency of rain. Before him, as though in his room, they all walked through one another: the ministers, the equerries, Count Myxila and the duchess.... A knock, a chamberlain: "Prince Herman is asking whether he may intrude on your highness for a minute." He nodded yes. After a moment Prince Herman entered. "You are always welcome, Herman," said Othomar; and his voice sounded cold in spite of himself. "I have come to ask you something," said Herman of Gothland. "I should much like to go with you to Altara to-morrow; but I want to be certain that you don't mind. I would not have asked it of my own accord, if my aunt hadn't spoken of it. What do you think?" Othomar looked at Herman; Othomar did not like his cool voice: "If you do so out of sympathy, because you happen to be at Lipara, by all means," he began.... "Let me tell you once more: I am doing this chiefly because of ... your mother." His voice sounded very emphatic. "Do it for her then," replied Othomar, gently. "It will give me great pleasure if you go with me for my mother's sake." Herman realized that he had been unnecessarily cool and emphatic. He was sorry. The empress had asked him to accompany Othomar. He had hesitated at first, knowing that there was a lack of sympathy between Othomar and him. Then he had yielded, but had not known how to ask Othomar. His usual ease of manner had forsaken him, as it always did in Othomar's presence. "Very well, then," Herman stammered, awkwardly. Othomar put out his hand: "I understand your intention perfectly. Mamma would like you to go too, because she will then be sure that there is some one with me whom I can trust in everything. Isn't that it?" Herman pressed his hand: "Yes," he said, pleased, contented, feeling no annoyance that Othomar had had the best of the conversation, delighted that his cousin took it like this. "Yes, just so; that's how it is. Don't let me detain you now: it's late. Good-night...." "Good-night...." Herman went. It was still pouring with rain. Othomar sat down again; the chill of the rainy night pressed coldly into the room and fell upon his shoulders. But he remained staring motionlessly at the tips of his boots. Andro entered softly: "Does your highness wish me to...." Othomar nodded. The valet first closed the window and drew the blind and then knelt before the prince, who, with a gesture of fatigue, put out his foot to him and rested the heel of his boot on the man's knee. 4 The downpour ceased during the night; but it was raining again in the morning. It was seven o'clock; a sultry moisture covered the colossal glass roof of the station, as though it had been breathed upon from end to end. The special train stood waiting; the engine gave short, powerful snorts, like a discontented, tired beast. A great multitude, a buzzing accumulation of vague people filled the glass hall; a detachment of infantry--two files, to right and left; the uniforms, dark-red and pale-grey; above, a faint glitter of bayonets--drew two long stripes of colour diagonally through the sombre station, cut the crowd into two and kept a broad space clear in front of the imperial waiting-room. Dissatisfaction hovered over the crowd; angry glances flashed; rough words crackled sharply through the air, mingled with curses; a contemptuous laugh sounded in a corner. There was a long wait; then a cheer was heard outside: the prince had arrived in front of the station. The waiting-room became filled with uniforms, glistening faintly in the morning light; brief sentences were exchanged in a low voice. Othomar entered with Herman and the Marquis of Dazzara, the governor of the capital, the highest military authority, whose rich uniform stood out against the simpler ones of the others, even against those of the princes; they were followed by adjutants, Liparian and Gothland equerries, aides-de-camp. The mayor of the town and the managing director of the railway stepped towards Othomar and saluted him; the mayor stumbled through long phrases before the two princes. "Why wasn't the approach to the platform closed to the public?" asked General Ducardi of the director, after the adjutant-general had glanced at the platform through the lace curtains, curious about the humming outside. The director shrugged his shoulders: "That was our first intention; it was done in that way when the emperor left," he replied. "But a special message was received from the Imperial, urgently requesting us not to shut off the platform; it was the Duke of Xara's wish." "And how about all those soldiers?" "By command of the governor of the capital. An aide-de-camp came and told us that a detachment of infantry was coming as a guard-of-honour." "Was that aide-de-camp also from the Imperial?" "No, from the governor's palace...." Ducardi shrugged his shoulders; an angry growl fluttered his great, grey moustache. He walked straight up to the crown-prince: "Is your highness aware that there is a detachment of infantry outside?" he said, interrupting the mayor's long sentences. The governor heard him and drew nearer. "A detachment?... No," said Othomar, in astonishment. "Did your highness not command it, then?" Ducardi continued. "I? No," Othomar repeated. The governor bowed low; the general's loud, gruff voice unnerved him. "I thought," said the governor, urbanely, but mumbling, stammering--and he tried to be at once humble before the prince and haughty towards the general--"I thought it would be well to safeguard your highness against possible ... possible unpleasantness, especially as your highness desired ... desired that the platform should remain open to the public...." Othomar looked out as Ducardi had done; he saw the infantry drawn up and the crowd behind; angry, murmuring, drab, threatening: "But, excellency," he said, aloud, to the governor, "in that case it would have been better to shut off the platform entirely. This is quite wrong. The police would have been sufficient to prevent any crowding." "I was afraid of ... of unpleasantness, highness. Troubled times, the people so discontented," he whispered, fearing to be overheard by the equerries. "Quite wrong," repeated Othomar, angrily, nervously excited. "Let the infantry march off." "That's out of the question now," Ducardi hastened to say, with an unhappy smile. "You understand that that can't be done." The conversation had been carried on aside, in a half-whispering tone; yet everybody seemed to listen. All eyes were gazing on the group surrounding the princes; the others were silent. "Then let us prolong this regrettable situation as little as possible; we may as well go," said Othomar; and his voice quivered high, young and nervous in his clear throat. The doors were opened; Othomar, in his hurry, stepped out first; the equerries and aides-de-camp did not follow him at once, as they had to make way for Prince Herman, who happened to be a little behind. Herman hurried up to Othomar; the others followed. The princes made a movement of the head to left and right as though to bow; but their eyes met the fixed, round eyes of the soldiers, who had presented arms with a flash; they saluted and walked on to their compartment a little quickly, with an unpleasant feeling in their backs. Under the colossal glass roof of the station, behind the files of soldiers, the crowd stood as still as death, for the humming had almost ceased; there was no curse nor scornful word heard, but also no cheer, no loud, loyal hurrah sweet to the ears of princes. And the faces of those vague people, separated by uniforms and bayonets from their future ruler, remained gazing fixedly with dull, hostile eyes, with firmly-closed lips, full of forced restraint, as though to stare him out of existence in the imperial compartment. The princes waved their hands from the windows to the dignitaries, who stood on the platform bowing, saluting. The engine whistled, shrieked, tore the close atmosphere of humidity under the dome; the train left the station, drove into the early morning, which was lighter outside the glass roof, glided as it were over the rainy town upon viaducts, with canals, streets, squares beneath it; farther on, the pinnacles and spires of the palaces and churches; the two marble towers of the cathedral, with the doves nestling in the renascence tracery of the lace-work of its steeples, standing out pale-white against the sky, which was now turning blue; then, in the centre of the town--green and wide, one oasis--the Elizabeth Parks, the white mass of the Imperial and, behind that, the gigantic bend of the quays, the harbour with its forest of masts, the oval curve of the horizon of the sea, all wet, glittering, raining in the distance. Othomar looked sombrely before him. Herman smiled to him: "Come, don't think about it any more," he advised him, adding with a laugh, "Our poor governor has had his appetite spoilt for to-day." General Ducardi muttered an inward curse: "Monstrously stupid," Herman heard him mumbling. "I wanted to show them," said Othomar, suddenly.... He had intended to say, "that I am not afraid of them." He threw a glance around him, saw the eyes of Prince Dutri, his equerry, fixed upon him like a basilisk's and let his voice change from proud to faint-hearted; sadly he concluded, "that I love them and trust them so completely. Why need it have happened like this?..." His voice had sounded faint, to please Prince Dutri; but it displeased the general. He first glanced aside at his crown-prince and then at the Prince of Gothland; he drew a comparison; his eye continued to rest appreciatively, in soldierly approval, on the smart naval lieutenant, broad and strong, sitting with his hands on his thighs, bending forward a little, looking back at the white capital as it receded before his eyes through the slanting rainbeams.... * * * * * After four hours' travelling, Novi, in the province of Xara. The train stops; the princes and their suite alight, consult clocks, watches. They express surprise, they walk up and down the platform for half an hour, for an hour. Prince Herman engages in a busy conversation with the station-master. It is still raining. At last the special from Altara is signalled. The train glides in and stops; the Emperor Oscar alights from the imperial compartment. He is followed by generals and aides-de-camp: their uniforms, the emperor's included, have lost something of their smartness and hang in tired creases from their shoulders, like clothes worn a long time. The emperor, still young, broad and sturdy and only just turning grey, walks with a firm step; he embraces his son, his nephew, brusquely, hastily. The imperial party disappear into the waiting-room; Ducardi and one of the Gothlandic officers follow them. The interview, however, is a short one: in ten minutes they reappear on the platform; brief words and handshakes are exchanged; the emperor steps back into his compartment, the crown-prince into his. The prince's train waits until his father's passes it--a last wave of the hand--then it too steams away.... Care lies like a cloud upon Othomar's forehead. He remembers his father's words: in a desperate condition, our fine old city. The Therezia Dyke may be giving way; so little energy in the municipal council; thousands of people without a roof to cover them, fleeing, spending the night in churches, in public buildings. And his last word: "Send some of them to St. Ladislas...." Othomar reflects; all are silent about him, depressed by the after-sound of the emperor's words, which have painted the disaster anew, brought it afresh before their eyes: the eyes of Ducardi, who knows himself to be more ready with sword in war than with sympathy in cases of inundation; the eyes of Dutri, still filled with the mundane glamour of the incomparable capital. Some part of their self-concentration falls silent; a thought of what they are about to see crosses their minds. And Othomar reflects. What shall he do, what can he do? Is it not too much that is asked of him? Can he, _can_ he combat the stress of the waters? "Oh, this rain, this rain!" he mutters, secretly clenching his fist. Five hours' more travelling. The towers of the city, the crenulated outline and Titanic plateaus of St. Ladislas, with its bastions, shoot up on the horizon, shift to one side when approached. The train stops, in the open country, at a little halting-place; the princes know that the Central Station is flooded; the whole railway-management has been transferred to this halt. And suddenly they stand in the presence of the smooth, green, watery expanse of the Zanthos, which has spread itself into one sea of water, broad and even, hardly rippled, like a wrath appeased. A punt is waiting and carries them through ruins of houses, through floating household goods. A dead horse catches on to the punt; a musty odour of damp decay hovers about. At an over-turned house, men in a punt are busied fishing up a corpse; it hangs on their boat-hooks with slack arms and long, wet hair, the pallid, dead head drooping backwards; it is a woman. Herman sees Othomar's lips quiver. Now they float through a street of tall, deserted houses in a poor suburb. This part has been flooded for days. They alight in a square; the people are there; they cheer. Louder and louder they cheer, moved by the sight of their prince, who has come across the water to save them. A group of students shout, call out his name and cheer and wave their coloured caps. Othomar shakes hands with the mayor, the minister for waterways, the governor of Altara and other dignitaries. His heart is full; he feels a sob welling up from his breast. From among the group of students one steps forward, a big, tall lad: "Highness!" he cries. "May we be your guard-of-honour?" Etiquette hardly exists here, though the dignitaries look angry. Othomar, remembering his own student days, not yet so long ago, presses the student's hand; Prince Herman does the same; and the students grow excited and once more shout and clamour: "Hurrah! Hurrah! Othomar for ever! Gothland for ever!" Behind this square the city is perceived to be in distress, a silent distress from yet greater danger threatening: the old coronation-city, the city of learning and tradition, the sombre monument of the middle ages; she looks grey compared with white Lipara, which lies laughing yonder and is beautiful with new marble on her blue sea, but which does not love her sovereigns so well as she does, the dethroned capital, with her gigantic Romanesque cathedral, where the sacred imperial crown with the cross of St. Ladislas is pressed on the temples of every emperor of Liparia. Though her masters are faithless to her and have for centuries lived in their white Imperial over yonder and no longer in the old castellated fortress of the country's patron saint, she, the old city, the mother of the country, remains faithful to them with her maternal love and not because of her oath, but because of her blood, of her heart, of all her life, which is her old tradition.... * * * * * But, like his father, Othomar was not this time to go to the Castle of St. Ladislas: the fortress lay too high and too far from the town, too far from the scene of disasters. Open carriages stood in waiting; they stepped in, the students flung themselves on horseback; the princes were to take up their residence in the palace of the cardinal-archbishop, the primate of Liparia, in the Episcopal, which, together with the cathedral and the Old Palace, formed one colossal, ancient, grey mass, a town in itself, the very heart of the city. They rode quickly on. The people cheered; they look upon them as a train of deliverers who, they thought, would at last bring them safety. Between the departure of the emperor and the arrival of the prince a depression had reigned which, at the sight of Othomar, changed into morbid enthusiasm. It became suddenly dark, but not through the sun's setting--it was only five o'clock in the month of March in the south--it became dark because of the clouds, the ships in the sky carrying in their tense, bowl-shaped, giant sails water which already was beginning to trickle down again in drops. Under that grey sky the cheering of the people rose in a minor key, when suddenly, as though the swollen clouds were bursting open with one rent, a flood dashed down in a solitary, perpendicular sheet of water. Othomar was sitting with Herman and Ducardi in the first carriage. "Would not your highness prefer to have the carriage closed?" asked the old general, helping the prince on with his cape. Othomar hesitated; he had no time to answer the general; the crowd increased, became thicker, cheered; and he bowed in acknowledgement, saluted, nodded. The heavy rain clattered straight down. The hard rainbeams ran down the princes' and the general's necks, down their backs, soaked their knees. The crowd stood sheltered under an irregular roof of umbrellas, as though grouped under wet, black stars, filled the narrow streets of the old city, pressed in between the outriders and the carriage: the coachman had to drive more slowly. "Won't you have the carriage shut?" Herman repeated after Ducardi. Othomar still hesitated. Then--and he himself thought his words a little theatrical and did not know how they would sound--he answered aloud: "No, do not let us be afraid of the water; they have all suffered from the water here." But Ducardi looked at him; he felt something quiver inside him for his prince.... The carriage remained open. In one of the landaus following, Prince Dutri looked round furiously to see how much longer the Duke of Xara meant to let himself be saturated with rain and his suite with him. In the narrow, high streets near the cathedral they had to drive almost at a walking-pace, right through the cheering of the crowding populace. Soaked to the skin, the Crown-prince of Liparia with his following arrived at the cardinal-archbishop's; they left a trail of water behind them on the staircases and in the corridors of the Episcopal. 5 In changed uniforms, a short dinner with the high prelate; a few canons and minor ecclesiastics sit down with them. The room is large and sombre, barely lighted with a feeble glimmer of candles; the silver gleams dully on the dressers of old black oak; the frescoes on the walls--sacred subjects--are barely distinguishable. A silent haste quickens the jaws; the conversation is conducted in an undertone; the servants, in their dark livery, move as though on tiptoe. The cardinal, on either side of whom the princes are seated, is tall and thin, with a refined, ascetic face and the steel-blue eyes of an enthusiast; his voice issues from low down in his throat, like that of an oracle; he says something of the Lord's will and makes a submissive gesture with both hands, the fingers lightly outspread, as Jesus does in the old pictures. One of the priests, the cardinal's private secretary, a young man with a round, pink face and soft, white hands, laughs rather loudly at a joke of Prince Dutri, who, sitting next to him, tells a story about a countess in Lipara whom they both know. The cardinal casts a stern glance at the frivolous secretary. After the hurried dinner, the princes and their suite ride into the town on horseback, cheered wherever they go. The water already mounts close to the cathedral and the Archiepiscopal Palace. Groups of men, women and children, sobbing, flow towards the prince, as he rides across the dark squares; they carry torches about him, as the gas is not everywhere lighted; the ruddy flares look strange, romantic, over the ancient dark mass of the walls and are reflected with long streaks of blood in the water lying in the narrow alleys. A large house of many storeys and rows of little windows appears to have suddenly gone under: a sudden mysterious pressure of water, filtering from the foundations through the masonry of the cellars, making its treacherous way through the least crack or crevice. The inhabitants save themselves in skiffs, which pass with little red lights through the black, watery town; a child cries at the top of its voice. They are poor people there in hundreds, living, packed as in boxes. The princes alight and step into a boat and are rowed to the spot; it becomes known who they are; they themselves help an old woman with three children, all wet to the waist, to climb on to a raft; they themselves give them money, shout instructions to them. And they point to the old fortress of St. Ladislas as a refuge.... But a cry arises, farther on, a cry at first not clearly perceived in the darkness of the evening, then at last distinctly audible: "The Therezia Dyke! The Therezia Dyke!..." The princes want to go there; it is not possible on horseback; the only way is in boats. Prince Herman himself grasps the sculls; in the next boat Dutri declares to Von Fest, one of the Gothlandic equerries, that, taken all round, he thinks Venice more comfortable.... "The Therezia Dyke! The Therezia Dyke!..." The dyke lies like the black back of a great, long beast just outside the town, on the left bank of the Zanthos, and protects the whole St. Therezia district, the eastern portion of the city, which stands tolerably high, from the river, which generally overflows in springtime. The boats glide over the water-streets; a landing is possible in the Therezia Square; lanterns are burning; torches flare, ruddy scintillations dart over the water. The square is large and wide; the houses stand black round about it and surround it in the night with their irregular lines of gables and chimneys, with the massive pile of the church of St. Therezia, whose steeples are lost in the dark sky; in the centre of the square rises a great equestrian statue of a Liparian emperor, gigantic in motionless bronze, stretching one arm, sword in hand, over the petty swarming of the crowd. Othomar and Herman have sent their three equerries, Dutri, Leoni and Von Fest, for whom horses have been found and saddled, to the dyke, which protects a whole suburb of villas, factories and the St. Therezia railway-station against the waters of the Zanthos, which has already poured its right bank over the country and is drowning it. The princes stand in the middle of the square on the steps of the pedestal of the statue; they would have liked to go on farther, but the mayor himself has begged them to stay where they are: farther on mortal danger threatens at every moment.... All that could be done has been done; there is nothing more to do but wait. Quarters of an hour, half-hours, pass. This waiting for terrible news calms them; they hope afresh. The officers ride to and fro; the villas and factories yonder are deserted: a whole town lies empty, forsaken. Prince Dutri, turning his horse, which he has ridden out of breath, assures them that the embankment will hold firm; after he has spoken with the princes, he is surrounded: it is the occupiers of the villas, the manufacturers, who overwhelm him with questions, fortified by the self-assurance of the imperial equerry. Dutri gallops off once more. Now the doors of the church are opened wide, quite wide; at the end of the vista, between the pillars, the tiny lights glitter on the altar; a procession files out slowly: a mitred bishop, priests, acolytes, singing and carrying banners and swinging clouds of smoke from their censers; behind the upraised crucifix, the relics of St. Therezia, in their antique shrine of medieval gold and crystal and precious stones, round or roughly cut; it is borne under a canopy and in the shimmering gleam of candles it glitters and sparkles like a sacred jewel, like a constellation, across that sombre square, through that black night of disaster; flicker the giant emeralds, glitters the precious chased gold and before the Most Holy the crowded populace draws back on either side and falls upon its knees. This is the fifth time to-day that the procession goes its round, that the reliquary is borne on high, to exorcize the calamity. It passes the statue, the princes kneel down; the Latin of the chant, the gleam of the relics in their shrine, the cloud of the incense pass over them with the blessing of the bishop.... The procession has brought stillness to the square, but a murmur now approaches as from afar.... The crowd seems to surge as though in one wave, nobody is now kneeling; the very procession is broken up and confused. Through the throng rushes the report: the dyke has given way!... They do not yet believe it; but suddenly from above the fort of St. Ladislas, which spreads its ramparts about the castle, a shot thunders out and vibrates over the black city and shakes through the black sky as though its rebound were breaking against the lowering clouds. A second shot thunders after it, as with giant cymbals of catastrophe, a third ... the whole town knows that the Zanthos has broken the dyke. The whole square is in confused motion, like a swarm of ants; troops of tardy fugitives still come thronging in, poor ones now and indigent, who had not been able to fly earlier, who had been still hoping; through the crush Prince Dutri, panting, cursing, on horseback, terror in his eyes, strives to reach the statue; the distant murmur as of a sea comes nearer and nearer. Men scatter along the streets, on foot or in boats; the disordered procession, with the glitter of its reliquary, seeming to reel on the billows of a human sea, scatters towards the church. "Is not even the square safe?" asks Othomar. He can hardly speak, his chest seems cramped as it were with iron, his eyes fill with tears, an immense despair of impotence and pity suffuses his soul. The mayor shakes his head: "The square lies lower than the suburbs, highness; you cannot remain here. For God's sake go back to the Episcopal in a boat!..." But the princes insist on remaining, though the murmur grows louder and louder. "Go into the church in that case, highnesses: that is the only safe place left," the mayor beseeches. "I beg you, for God's sake!" The square is already swept clean, the torch-bearers lead the princes to the steps of the church; the Zanthos comes billowing on, like a soft thunder skimming the ground. Inside the church the organ sounds; they sing, they pray all through the night. And the whole night long everything outside remains chaotically black, gently murmuring.... When the first dawn pales over the sky, which begins in the distance to assume tints of rose and grey, faint opal and mother-of-pearl, Othomar and Herman and the equerries emerge on the steps of the church. The square stands under water; the houses rise out of the water; the statue of Othomar III. waves its bronze arm and sword over a lake that ripples in the morning breeze. From the Therezia Square to the Cathedral Square everything lies under water. 6 "TO HER IMPERIAL MAJESTY THE EMPRESS OF LIPARIA "THE EPISCOPAL, "ALTARA, "--_March_, 18--. "MY ADORED MOTHER, "Your letter reproaches me with not writing to you two days ago, without delay; forgive me, for my thoughts have so constantly been full of you. But I felt so tired yesterday, after a busy day, and I lacked the strength to write to you in the evening. Let me tell you now of my experiences. "You describe to me the terrible impression produced at Lipara by the telegram from here about the breach in the Therezia Dyke and how none slept at the Imperial. We too were up all night, in St. Therezia's Church. No such fearful inundation has been remembered for fifty years; at the time of that which my father remembers in his childhood, the Therezia Square was not flooded and the water only came as far, they say, as the great iron-factory. "How can I describe to you what I felt that night, while we were hoping and waiting, hoping in turn that God and His Holy Mother would ward off this disaster from us and waiting for the catastrophe to burst forth! We stood on the pedestal of the equestrian statue, unable to do anything more. Oh, that impotence about me, that impotence within me! I kept on asking myself what I was there for, if I could do nothing to help my people. Never before, dearest Mother, have I felt this feeling of impotence, of inability to counteract the inevitable, so possess my soul, until it was wholly filled with despair; but neither have I ever so thoroughly realized that everything in life has its two sides, that the greatest disaster has not only its black shadow but also its bright side, for never, never have I felt so strongly and utterly, through my despair, the love for our people, a thing that I did not yet know could exist in our hearts as a truth, as I then felt it quivering all through me; and this love gave me an immense melancholy at the thought that all of them, the millions of souls of our empire, will never know, or, if they did know, believe that I loved them so, loved them as though my own blood ran in their veins. Nor do I wish to deceive myself and I well know that I should never have this feeling at Lipara, but I have it here, in our ancient city, which gives us all her sympathy. I feel here that I myself am more of a Slav, like our Altarians, than a Latin, like our southerners in Lipara and Thracyna; I feel here that I am of their blood, a thing that I do not feel yonder. "No doubt much has been said and written in the papers about the want of tact of the Marquis of Dazzara, with his foolish guard-of-honour at the station at our departure; be that as it may, I felt great sadness in the train to think that, in spite of their having come to see me leave, they did not seem to love me. I know you will again disapprove of this as false sensitiveness on my part, but I cannot help it, my dear Mother: I am like that, I am hypersensitive to sympathy in general and to the utterances of our people in particular. And for that reason too I love the people here, very simply and childishly perhaps, because they show that they love me: enthusiasm everywhere, genuine, unaffected enthusiasm wherever we go; and yet what are we able to do for them, except give them money! I find this sympathy among the lowest: workmen and labourers whom I had never seen before to my knowledge and to whom I could only speak three or four words of comfort--and I can never find much else to say, it is always the same--and among the soldiers, although they must feel instinctively, in spite of never seeing me except in uniform, that I am no soldier at heart; and also among the students, the priests, the civic authorities and the higher functionaries. Yesterday we went round everywhere, to all the places appointed as refuges: not only the barracks and shops and factories, but even some of the rooms at the law-courts, two of the theatres and the prison, poor souls! And also St. Ladislas. From the Round Tower we had a view of the surrounding country: towards the east there was nothing but water and water, like a sea. My heart felt as though screwed tight into my breast. "We went to the university also. I remembered most of the professors from two years ago, when I was here as an undergraduate. "It was a terrible scene outside the town. Oh, Mamma, there were hundreds, there were thousands of corpses, laid out side by side on a meadow, as in a mortuary, before the burial, for identification! I saw harrowing scenes, my heart was torn asunder: troops of relations who sought or who, sobbing, had found. A terrible air of woe filled the whole atmosphere. I felt sick and turned quite pale, it required all my energy to prevent myself from fainting, but Herman put his arm through mine and supported me as well as he was able without ostentation, while a couple of doctors from among the group of physicians to whom I was speaking gave me something to smell. Oh, Mamma, it was a terrible spectacle, all those pallid, shapeless, swollen corpses, on the green grass, and, above, the sky, which had become deep blue again! "I have informed the municipal council, in accordance with your wish and my father's, that you are each of you presenting a personal donation of a million florins and I presented my own at the same time. The whole world seems in sympathy with us; money is flowing in from every side, but the damage is like a pit that cannot be filled up. As you say, the donation of our Syrian friends is truly princely and oriental. "What more have I to tell you? I really do not know; my brain is confused with a nightmare of ghastly visions and I have difficulty in thinking logically. But I promise you, my dear Mother, to do what I can and to do it with all my might; and all I ask is that you will send me a single word to tell me that you are not too dissatisfied with your boy. "As my father desires, I will stay here another week; it seems to do the people good to see us, they love us so. They were enraptured when it was announced that after my departure you and Thera were coming to Altara. You with your soft hand will be able to do so much that we have omitted. How they do love us here! And why are we not always at St. Ladislas? Though the fortress is sombre, it is bright with their sympathy. "But do not let me write to you so poetically in these distressful days, in which we should be practical. Herman's society does me a deal of good and I can do more when he is by my side. General Ducardi is a fine, indefatigable fellow, as always. The others have all been very willing and practical; and, if I may be allowed respectfully to differ from my Father, I am inclined to think that the municipal council does what it can. It is true, an English engineer told me that with better precautions and a more thorough supervision the Therezia Dyke would perhaps have held out; however, I don't know. "Herman will accompany me on my journey through the provinces. We shall go to Lycilia and Vaza and so far as possible to the lowlands. These are of course in the worst case. "I have just received the telegrams: the Marquis of Dazzara dismissed and the Duke of Mena-Doni--I don't like that man--governor of the capital! Lipara under martial law! And will my father succeed in preserving our house of peers by this dissolution of the house of deputies? "Dearest Mother, his eminence has just sent to ask me to receive him. I do not want to keep him waiting and therefore close my letter hurriedly; with a fond embrace, I am, with fondest and most respectful love, "your own boy, "OTHOMAR." CHAPTER II 1 The Province of Vaza also, lying to the north of the Altara Highlands, the Alpine range of the Gigants, was harassed in parts by the Zanthos. The capital, Vaza, was flooded. In the neighbourhood of the mountain-slopes the province had been spared. There vast terraces of vineyards lay, alternating with forests of chestnut-trees and walnut-trees and olives. The glittering white snow-line of the mountain-tops surged up against a dazzling blue sky, piercing it with its crests and biting long pieces out of the deep azure in ragged lines; it seemed to whet ice-teeth, gleaming white fangs, against the metal of the firmament, which was like burnished steel. There, enthroned on its rocks, twelve miles from the town, stood old Castel Vaza, the castle of the dukes of Yemena and counts of Vaza, surrounded by parks and woods, half castle, half citadel, strong, simple, medieval, rough in outline, with its four towers and its square patches of battlements, rounding off the horizon about it on every side and keeping it aloof. Near at hand, a swarm of little villages; in the distance, the towers and steeples, the huddled roofs of Vaza; still farther, in the circle of panorama that broadly girt the towers, the wide Zanthos, winding down to hurl itself into the sea, and Lycilia, white in the sun with its little squares of houses, set brilliantly on the blue of the water; then a second sea: the mountain-tops, surging away in snowy vistas and distant mists. And, also glittering in the sun, those strange lakes on the Zanthos: the water which the full river had vomited, the inundations.... * * * * * The square castle, enclosing a courtyard in its four wings, has two more wings added at the back, in a newer style of more elegant renascence, and looking on the park, in which lie the ornamental basins, like oval dishes of liquid silver, set in emerald lawns. The fallow deer graze there, dreaming, as it were, and graceful, roaming slowly on slim legs: sometimes, suddenly, extending themselves, their heads thrown back, their eyes wild, they run some distance, a number of them, fleeing before an unseen terror; others, calmer, graze on, laconically, philosophically. The dukes of Yemena and counts of Vaza are one of the oldest families of the empire; and their ancestral tree is rooted ages back, before the time of the first emperor of Liparia. The present duke, court-marshal and Constable of Liparia, has three children of his first marriage: the heir to his title, the young Marquis of Xardi, aide-de-camp to the emperor, and two daughters, younger, girls still, at a convent. The duchess is alone at the castle. She is sitting in a large boudoir, built out with a triangular loggia, and looking over the park, the basins, the deer. A breeze is blowing outside; and the rapid clouds, which, like flaky spectres, like rags hidden beneath diaphanous veils, chase one another through the clear blue sky, trail their shadows, like quick eclipses, across the park, just tinting it with passing darkness, which darkens the deer in their turn and then makes them gleam brown again in the sun. It is silent outside; it is silent in the castle. The castle stands secluded; within, the servants move softly through the reception-rooms and corridors, speaking in whispers, in expectation of the august visitors. Lunch is over. The duchess lies half-out-stretched on a couch and gazes at the deer. She is not yet dressed and wears a tea-gown, loose, with many folds: _vieux rose broché_, salmon-coloured plush and old lace. When she is alone, she likes plenty of light, from a healthy need of space and air; the curtains are drawn aside from the tall bow-windows and the shrillness of the spring sky comes streaming in. But the light does not suit her beauty; for, though her hair is still raven black, her complexion has the dullness of faded white roses; her eyes, which can be beautiful, large, liquid and dark, look full of lassitude, encircled with pale-yellow shadows; and very clearly visible are the little wrinkles at the side, the little grooves etched around the delicate nose, the lines that have lengthened the mouth and draw it down. The duchess rises slowly; she passes through a door that leads to her bedroom and dressing-room and stays away for a few moments. Then she returns; in both hands, pressing it to her, with difficulty, she carries an obviously heavy casket and sets it on the table in front of the couch. The casket is of old wrought silver enriched with gilt chasing and great blue turquoises, of that costly renascence work which is not made nowadays. She selects a little straight, gold key from her bracelet and unlocks the casket. The jewels glisten--pearls, brilliants, sapphires, emeralds--and catch in their facets all the spring light of the sky, blue, white and yellow. But the duchess presses a spring unclosing a secret drawer, from which she takes two packets of letters and some photographs. The photographs all show the face of a man no longer young, a strange face, half-dreamy, half-sensual, filled with great mystery and great charm. The photographs show him in the elaborate uniform of an officer of the throne-guards, in fancy-dress as a medieval knight, in flannels and in ordinary mufti. The duchess' eyes pass slowly from one to the other; she compares the likenesses, a sad smile about her mouth and melancholy in her eyes. Then she unties the ribbons of the letters, takes them out of the carefully preserved envelopes, unfolds them and reads here and there and reads again and refolds them.... She knows by heart the phrases that still tell her of a strange passion, the most fervent, the truest, the simplest and perhaps for that reason the strangest that she has ever felt, that has surrounded her with fairy meshes of fire. Though her eyes look out again at the deer--the sunshine streams like fluid gold over the park--between her and the peaceful landscape there rise up, transparent, in tenderly gleaming phantasmagorias, remembrances of the past, the pictures of that love, and it seems to her as though sparks are dancing before her eyes, as though brilliant curves and scintillations of light are swarming on every hand. She lives through past events in a few moments; then she closes her eyes, draws her hand over her forehead and thinks how sad it is that the past is nothing more than a little memory, which flies like dust and ashes through our souls which we sometimes endeavour, in vain, to collect in a costly urn. How sad it is that one cannot go on mourning, though one wish to, because life does not permit it! Nothing but that dust and ashes in her soul ... and those letters, those photographs.... She locks them away again and now gazes at the jewels. And she looks well into her own heart, sees herself exactly as she is, for she knows that she has been loyal, always, loyal to him and to herself: loyal when their love broke like a glittering rainbow of sparkling colours on a wide firmament and she became unwilling to see or to exist and withdrew from the court into this castle and let it be rumoured that a lingering illness was causing her to pine away. And she mourned and mourned, first sobbing and wringing her hands, then calmer in despair, then ... The deer had gone on grazing there, as though they always remained unchanged. But she.... * * * * * She had been loyal, always: in her despair and also in what followed, in the abatement of that despair. Then she was saddest of all, because despair was able to abate. Then sad, because she still lived and felt vitality within her. Then ... because she began to grow bored. Because of all this a great despair had filled her strange soul, luxuriantly, as with the morbid blossoms of strange orchids. She hated, despised, cursed herself. But nothing changed in her. She was bored. She led a solitary life at the castle. Her husband and her stepson were at Lipara; her stepdaughters, to whom she was much attached, were finishing their education at a convent, of which an imperial princess, a sister of the emperor, was abbess. She was alone, she never saw anybody. And she was bored. Life awoke in her anew, for it had only slumbered, she had deemed it dead, had wished to bury it in a sepulchre around which her memories should stand as statues. Within herself, she felt herself to be what she had always been, in spite of all her love: a woman of the world, hankering after the glamour of imperial surroundings, that court splendour which fatally reattracts and is indispensable to those who have inhaled it from their birth as their vital air. And, at moments when she was not thinking of her despair, she thought of the Imperial, saw herself there, brilliant in her ripe beauty, made much of and adored as she had always been. Then she caused her stepson, the Marquis of Xardi, to spread the rumour that she was convalescent. A month later, in the middle of the winter season, after a great court festival but before one of the intimate assemblies in the empress' own apartments, she requested an audience of Elizabeth. Thus she beheld herself in true, clear truth and was deeply mournful in her poor soul filled with desire of love and desire of the world and humanity, because life insisted on continuing so cruelly, as in a mad triumphal progress, crushing her memories under its chariot-wheels, clattering through her melancholy with its trumpet-blasts, making her see the paltriness of mankind, the pettiness of its feeling, the littleness of its soul, which is nevertheless the only thing it has.... * * * * * The duchess locks the twice-precious casket away again. She forgets what is going on about her, what is awaiting her; she gazes, dreams and lives again in the past, with the enjoyment which a woman finds in the past when she loses her youth. There is a knock at the door, a footman appears and bows: "Excellency, the cook begs urgently to be allowed to speak to you in person...." "The cook?..." She raises her beautiful face, dreaming, half-laughing, with its profile like Cleopatra's, so Egyptian in its delicacy and symmetry, settles herself a little higher on the couch and leans on her hand: "Let him come in...." Everything returns to her, reality, the actual day; and she smiles because of it and shrugs her shoulders: such is life. The footman goes out; the cook enters in his white apron and white cap: he is nervous and, now that his mistress is already frowning her eyebrows because of his disrespectful costume, he begins to stammer: "Forgive me, excellency...." And he points with an unhappy face to his apron, his white sleeves.... And he complains that the head gamekeeper has not provided sufficient ortolans. He cannot make his pasty; he dares not take it upon himself, excellency. She looks at him with her sphinx-like eyes; she has a great inclination to burst out laughing at his comical face, his despairing gestures, his outstretched arms, to laugh and also to cry wildly and loudly. "What are we to do, excellency, what are we to do?" The town is too far away; there is no time to send there before dinner and, for the matter of that, they never have anything in the town. Besides, it is really the steward's fault, excellency; the steward should have told her excellency.... "There are larks," she says. "Those were to go to Lipara to-morrow, excellency, to his excellency the duke!" The duchess shrugs her shoulders, laughing a little: "It can't be helped, my friend. His imperial highness the Duke of Xara comes before his excellency, does he not? Make a _chaufroid_ of larks." Yes, that is what he had thought of doing, but he had not ventured to suggest it. Yes, that would do very well, admirably, excellency. She gives another little laugh and then nods, to say that he can go. The cook, evidently relieved, bows and disappears. She rises, looks at herself in a mirror as she stands erect in her lazily creased folds of pink and salmon-colour and old lace, stretches her arms with a gesture of utter fatigue and rings for her maid, after which she enters her dressing-room. Does she want to laugh again ... or to cry again? She does not know; but she does know that she has to get dressed.... Whatever confront a person, love or ortolan-pasty, that person must dress, must dress and eat and sleep ... and after that the same again: dress ... and eat ... and sleep.... 2 Three carriages, with postillions, bring Othomar, Herman and the others along the broad, winding, switchback road to Castel Vaza. It is five o'clock in the afternoon; the weather is mild and sunny, but not warm: a fresh breeze is blowing. The landscape is wide and noble; with each turn of the road come changes in the panorama of snow-clad mountains. The country is luxuriantly beautiful. The little villages through which they drive look prosperous: they are the duke's property. Between Vaza and the castle the land has been spared by the water: the overflowing of the Zanthos has inundated rather the eastern district. It is difficult here to think constantly of that dreadful flood and of the condition of Lipara yonder, which the emperor has proclaimed in state of siege. It is so beautiful here, so full of spring life; and the sunset after a fine, summery day is here devoid of sadness. The chestnut-trees waft their fresh green fans; and the sky is still like mother-of-pearl, though a dust of twilight is beginning to hover over it. A lively conversation is in progress between the princes, Ducardi and Von Fest, who sit in the first carriage: they talk with animation, laugh and are amused because the villagers sometimes, of course, salute them, as visitors to the castle, with a touch of the cap or a kindly nod, but do not know who they are. Prince Herman nods to a handsome young peasant-girl, who stays staring after them open-mouthed, and recalls the delightful big-game hunt last year when he was the duke's guest, together with the emperor and Othomar. They did not see the duchess that time: she was unwell.... General Ducardi tells anecdotes about the war of fifteen years ago. And they all find some difficulty in fixing their faces in official folds when they drive through the old, escutcheoned gate over the lowered drawbridge into the long carriage-drive and are received by the chamberlain in the inner courtyard of the castle. This is prescribed by etiquette. The duchess must not show herself before the chamberlain, surrounded by the duke's whole household, has bidden the Duke of Xara welcome in the name of his absent master and offered the crown-prince a telegram from Lipara, which the steward hands him on a silver tray. This telegram is from the Duke of Yemena; it says that his service and that of his son, the Marquis of Xardi, about the person of his majesty the emperor, the Duke of Xara's most gracious father, prevent them from being there to receive their beloved crown-prince in their castle, but that they beg his imperial highness to look upon the house as his. The prince reads the telegram and hands it to his aide-de-camp, the Count of Thesbia. Then, conducted by the chamberlain, he ascends the steps and enters the hall. Notwithstanding that it is still daylight outside, the hall is brilliantly lighted and resembles a forest full of palm-trees and broad-leaved ornamental plants. The duchess steps towards the crown-prince and breaks the line of her graciousness in a deep curtsey. He has seen her bow like this before. But perhaps she is still handsomer in this plain black velvet gown and Venetian lace, cut very low, her splendid bosom exposed, white with the grain of Carrara marble, her statuesque arms bare, a heavy train behind her like a wave of ink; a small ducal coronet of brilliants and emeralds in her hair, which is also black, with a gold-blue raven's glow. She bids the princes welcome. Othomar offers her his arm. Prince Herman and the equerries follow them up the colossal staircase, through the hedge of flunkeys, who stand motionless with fixed eyes that do not seem to see. Then through a row of lighted rooms and galleries to a great reception-room, glittering with light from the costly rock-crystal chandelier, in which the candle-light coruscates and casts expansive gleams and shimmers over the marble mosaic of the floor and along the decorative mirrors, in their frames of heavy Louis-XV. arabesques, and the paintings by renascence masters on the walls. A momentary standing reception is held, a miniature court: in their dazzling uniforms--for it was a delightful, though long drive from Vaza and the men had had time to change into their full-dress uniforms in the town--the equerries and aides come, one after the other, to kiss the duchess' hand; except the Gothlandic officers, she knows them all, nearly all intimately; she is able to speak an almost familiar word to each of them, while the gold of her voice melts between her laughing lips and her great, Egyptian eyes look out, strangely dreaming. So she stands for a moment as a most adorable hostess between the two princes, she, a woman, alone among these officers who surround them, in the midst of a cross-fire of compliments and badinage that sparkles around them all. Then the steward appears, while the doors open out and the table is revealed brightly glittering, and bows before his mistress as a sign that she is served. The duchess takes the crown-prince's arm; the gentlemen follow. The dinner is very lively. They are an intimate circle, people accustomed to meet one another every day. The duchess sees that an easy tone is preserved, one of light familiarity, which restrains itself before the crown-prince, yet gives a suggestion of the somewhat cavalier roughness and _sans-gêne_ that is the fashionable tone at court. The Gothlandic officers are evidently not in the secret; Von Fest, a giant of a fellow, looks right and left and smiles. For the rest, the duchess possesses this smart, informal manner in a very strong degree, but moderates herself now, although she does sometimes lean both her shapely elbows on the table. The crown-prince once more has that indescribable stiffness which makes things freeze around him; the ease which he displayed at Altara has again made way for something almost constrained and at the same time haughty; his smiles for the duchess are forced; and the handsome hostess in her heart thinks her illustrious guest an insufferable prig. Possibly Othomar behaves as he does because of the conversations, which all focus themselves about the duchess and concern the gossip of the Imperial; the inundations are hardly mentioned, hardly either the state of siege in the capital; only a single word now and again recalls them. But for the greater part all this seems to be forgotten here, in these delightful surroundings, at this excellent dinner, under the froth of the soft gold lycilian from the duke's private vineyard. This lycilian is celebrated and they also celebrate it now: even the crown-prince touches glasses with the duchess with a courteous word or two, which he utters very ordinarily, but which they seem to think a most witty compliment, for they all laugh with flattering approbation, with glances of intelligence; and the duchess herself no longer thinks him so insufferable, but beams upon him with her full and radiant laugh. But what has he said? He is astounded at himself and at their laughter. He intended nothing but a commonplace; and.... But he remembers: it is always like that; and he now understands. And he thinks them feeble and turns to Ducardi and Von Fest; he forces the conversation and suddenly begins to talk volubly about the condition of the town of Vaza, which also has suffered greatly. Then about Altara. He gives the duchess a long description of the bursting of the Therezia Dyke. The duchess thinks him a queer boy; for an instant she fancies that he is posing; then she decides that for some reason or other he is a little shy; then she thinks that he has fine, soft eyes, looking up like that under his eyelids, and that he has a pleasant way of telling things. She turns right round to him, forgets the officers around her, asks questions and, with her elbows on the table and a goblet of lycilian in her hand, she listens attentively, hangs on the young imperial lips and feels an emotion. This emotion comes because he is so young and august and has those eyes and that voice. She is attracted by his hands, with their broad, delicate shape, as of an old strength of race that is wearing out; she notices that he looks now and then at his ring. And, becoming serious, she talks of the dreadful times, of all those thousands of poor people without a roof over their heads, without anything.... This is, however, only the second moment that she has thought of those thousands; the first was that short half-hour when the duke's chaplain was asking her for money and how she wished it bestowed.... She remembers that, at the time of this conversation with the chaplain, a cutter from Worth's was waiting for her to try on the very dress which she is now wearing and she thinks that life's accidents are really most interesting. She knows, in her inner consciousness, that this philosophy is as the froth of champagne and she herself laughs at it. Then she again listens attentively to Othomar, who is still telling of the nocturnal watch in St. Therezia's Church. The officers have grown quiet and are listening too. His imperial highness has made himself the centre of conversation and dethroned the duchess. She has noticed this too, thinks it strange of him but nice, above all does not know what she wants of him and is charmed. 3 After dinner a cosy gathering in two small drawing-rooms. One of them contains a billiard-table; and the duchess herself, gracefully pointing her cue, which she holds in her jewelled fingers, plays a game with Prince Herman, Leoni and young Thesbia. Sometimes, in aiming, she hangs over the green table with an incredible suppleness in her heavy lines; and the beautiful Carrara breast heaves the Venetian lace and the black velvet up and down at each rapid movement. In the other room, under a lamp of draped lace, Othomar and General Ducardi and the Gothlandic equerries are attentively engaged in studying on an accurately detailed ordnance-map the route which they are to follow to-morrow on horseback to the inundated villages. The steward and a footman go round with coffee and liqueurs. When the game of billiards is over, the duchess comes into the next room with her gentlemen, laughing merrily. The prince and his officers look up, politely smiling, from their map, but she, bewitchingly: "Oh, don't let me disturb you, highness!..." She takes Dutri's arm for a stroll on the terrace outside. The doors are open, the weather is delicious: it is a little cool. The steward hangs a fur cloak over her bare shoulders. On the long terrace outside she walks with Dutri to and fro, to and fro, constantly passing the open doors and as constantly throwing a glance to the group under the lamp: bent heads and fingers that point with a pencil. Her step is light on the arm of the elegant equerry; her train rustles gaily behind her. She talks vivaciously, asks Dutri: "How are you enjoying your tour?" "Bored to death! Nothing and nobody amusing, except the primate's secretary!... Those Gothlanders are bores and so terribly provincial! And it's tiring too, all this toiling about! You see, I look upon it as war and so I manage to carry on; if I were to look upon it as times of peace, I should never pull through. Fortunately our reception has been tolerably decent everywhere. Oh, there is no doubt the crown-prince is making himself popular...." "A nice boy," she says, interrupting him. "I had hardly seen him for a long time since, when he was studying at Altara; after that I only remember seeing him once or twice at the Imperial, shot up from a child like an asparagus-stalk and yet a mere lad. I remember it still: he flushed when I curtseyed to him. Then again lately, at Myxila's...." Dutri is very familiar with the duchess: he calls her by her Christian name, he always flirts with her a little, to amuse himself, from swagger, without receiving any further favours; they know each other too well, they have been in each other's confidence too long and she looks upon him more as a _cavaliere servente_ for trifling services and little court intrigues than as one for whom she could ever feel any sort of "emotion." "_Ma chère Alexa_, take care!" says he, wagging his finger at her. "Why?" she retorts, defiantly. "As if I did not see...." She laughs aloud: "See what you please!" she exclaims, indifferently, with her voice of rough _sans-gêne_, which is in fashion. "No, my dear Dutri, you needn't warn me, I assure you! Why, my dear boy, I have two girls to bring out next year! In two years' time I may be a grandmamma. I have given up that sort of thing. I can't understand that there are women so mad as always to want that. And then it makes you grow old so quickly...." Dutri roars; he can't restrain himself, he chokes with laughing.... "What are you laughing at?" she asks. He looks at her, shakes his head, as though to say he knows all about it: "Really, there's no need for you to play hide-and-seek like that with me, Alexa. I know as well as you do ... that you yourself are one of those mad women!..." He bursts out laughing again; and this time she joins in: "I?" "Get out! You want that as much as you want food and sleep at regular intervals. You would have been dead long ago, if you had not had your periodical 'emotions'. And, as to growing old, you know you hate the very thought of it!" "Oh no! I do what I can to remain young, because that's a duty which one owes to one's self. But I don't fight against it. And you shall see, when the time comes, that I shall carry my old age very gracefully...." "As you carry everything." "Thanks. Look here: when I begin to go grey, I shall put something on my hair that will make me grey entirely and I will powder it, do you see? That's all!" "A good idea...." "Dutri...." He looked at her, understood that she wanted to ask him something. They walked on for an instant silently, in the dark; constantly walking to and fro, they each time passed twice through the light that fell in two wide patches through the doors on to the terrace. The park was full of black shadow and the great vases on the terrace shone vaguely white; above, the sky hung full of stars. "What did you want to ask me?" asked the equerry. She waited till they had passed through the light and were again walking in the darkness: "Do you ever hear of him now?" "Thesbia had a letter from him the other day, from Paris. Not much news. He's boring himself, I believe, and running through his money. It's the stupidest thing you can do, to run through your money in Paris. I think Paris a played-out hole. Of course it couldn't be anything else. A republic is nothing at all. So primitive and uncivilized. There were republics before the monarchies: Paradise, with Adam and Eve, was a republic of beasts and animals; Adam was president...." "Don't be an idiot. What did he write?" "Nothing particular. But what a mad notion of his, to send in his papers as captain of the guards! How did he come to do it? Tell me, what happened between you two?" They were walking through the light again and she did not answer; then, in the darkness: "Nothing," she said; and her voice no longer had that affected smartness of brutality and _sans-gêne_, but melted in a plaintive note of melancholy. "Nothing?" said Dutri. "Then why...?" "I don't know. We had talked a great deal together and so gradually began to feel that we could no longer make each other happy. I really can't remember the reason, really I can't." "A question of psychology therefore. This comes of all that sentiment. You're both very foolish. Meddling with psychology when you're in love is very imprudent, because then you start psychologizing on yourselves and cut up your love into little bits, like a tart of which you are afraid you won't be able to get enough to eat. Practise psychology on somebody else, that's better: as I do on you, Alexa." "Come, don't talk nonsense, Dutri. Don't you know anything more about him?" "Nothing more, except that he has made himself impossible for our set. And that perhaps through your fault, Alexa, and through your psychology." She walked silently, leaning on his arm; her mouth trembled, her Egyptian eyes grew moist: "Oh!" she said; and she suddenly made the equerry stand still, grasped his arm tightly and looked him straight in the face with her moist eyes. "I loved him, I loved him, as I have never loved any one! I ... I still love him! If he were to write me one word, I should forget who I was, my husband, my position, I should go to him, go to him.... Oh, Dutri, do you know what it means, in our artificial existence, in which everything is so false around you, to ... to ... to have really loved any one? And to know that you have that feeling as a sheer truth in your heart? Oh, I tell you, I adore him, I still adore him ... and one word from him, one word...." "Lucky that he's more sensible than you, Alexa, and will never say that word. Besides, he has no money: what would you do if you were with him? Go on the stage together? What a volcano you are, Alexa, what a volcano!" He shook his foppish, curly head disapprovingly, adjusted the heavy tassels of his uniform. She took his hand, still serious, not yet relapsing into her tone of persiflage: "Dutri, when you hear from him, will you promise to tell me about him? I sometimes hunger for news of him...." She looked at him with such intense, violent longing, with such hunger, that he was startled. He saw in her the woman prepared to do all things for her passion. Then he smiled, flippant as always: "What silly creatures you all are! Very well, I promise. But let us go in now, for the geographical studies seem to be finished and I am dying for a cup of tea...." They went indoors. Busying herself at the tea-table, letting her fingers move gracefully over the antique Chinese cups, she straightway asked the crown-prince which road his highness proposed to take, feeling great concern about the inundated villages, the poor peasants, agreeing entirely in all things with the Duke of Xara, bathing in the sympathy which she gathered from his sweet, black, melancholy eyes--eyes from which she felt tempted to kiss all the melancholy away--bathing in his youthful splendour of empire.... Dutri helped her to sugar the tea. He watched her with interest: he knew her fairly well, she retained very little enigma for him; yet she always amused him and he always found in her a fresh subject for study. 4 It was one of the historic apartments of Castel Vaza, an ancient, sombre room in which the emperors of Liparia who had been guests of the dukes of Yemena had always slept on an old, gilt bed of state, raised five steps from the floor, a bed around which the heavy curtains of dark-blue brocade and velvet hung from an imperial crown borne by cherubs. On the walls were portraits of all the emperors and empresses who had rested there: the dukes of Yemena had always been much loved by their sovereigns and the pride of the ducal family was that every Liparian emperor had been at least one night its guest. Historical memories were attached to every piece of furniture, to every ornament, to the gilt basin and the gilt ewer, to everything; and the legends of his house rose one by one in Othomar's mind as he stretched himself out to rest. He was very weary and yet not sleepy. He felt a leaden stiffness in his joints, as though he had caught cold, and a continuous shiver passed through his whole body, a mysterious quivering of the nerves, as if he were a tense string responding to a touch. The week spent at Altara, the subsequent five days at Vaza, the drives in the environs had tired him out. During the day he could not find a moment's time to yield to this fatigue, but at night, as he lay stretched for rest, it shattered him, without being followed by a healthy sleep. He was used to his little camp-bed, on which he slept in his austere bedroom at the Imperial, the bed on which he had slept since childhood. The state-beds, at the Episcopal, at Vaza and now here, made him feel strange, laid-out and uncomfortable. His eyes again remained open, following the folds of the tall curtains, seeking to penetrate the shadows which the faint light of a silver lamp drove creeping into the corners. He began to hear a loud buzzing in his ears. And he thought it curious to be lying here on this bed on which his ancestors had already lain before him. They all peered at him from the eight panels in the walls. What was he? An atom of life, a little stuff of sovereignty, born of them all; one of the last links of their long chain, which wound through the ages and led back to that mysterious, mystical origin, half-sacred, half-legendary, to St. Ladislas himself.... Would that same thing come after him also, a second chain which would wind into the future? Or...? And to what purpose was the ever-returning, endless, eternal renascence of life? What would be the end, the great end?... Suddenly, like a vision, the night on the Therezia Square recurred to his mind, the thundering salute from the fort, thrice repeated, and the mighty, roaring onslaught of an approaching blackness, resembling a sea. Was it only a humming in his ears, or ... or was it really roaring on again? Did the black future come roaring on, in reply to his question as to the end, the great end, with the same sound of threatening waters which nothing could withstand? It burst through dykes; it dragged with it all that was thrown up as a protection, inexorable, and--with its grim, black, fateful frown and the sombre pleats of its inundations, which resembled a shroud trailing over everything that was doomed--it marched to where they stood, his kin, on their high station of majesty by the grace of God and of St. Ladislas; to where his father sat, on their age-old throne, crowned and sceptred and bearing the orb of empire in his imperial palm; and it did not seem to know that they were divine and sacred and inviolate: it seemed to care for nothing in its rough, sombre, indifferent, unbelieving, roaring profanation; for suddenly, fiercely, it dragged its black waves over them, dragged them with it--his father, his mother, all of them--and they were things that had been, they of the blood imperial, they became a legend in the glory of the new day that rose over the black sea.... His ancestors stared at him and they seemed to him to be spectres, themselves legends, falsities against which tradition would no longer act as a protection. They seemed to him like ghosts, enemies.... He opened wider his burning eyes upon their stiff, trained and robed or harnessed figures, which seemed to step towards him from the eight panels of the walls, in order to stifle him in their midst, to oppress him in a narrow circle of nightmare on his panting breast, with iron knees forcing the breath out of his lungs, with iron hands crushing his head, from which the sweat trickled over his temples. Then he felt afraid, like a little child that has been told creepy stories, afraid of those ghosts of emperors, afraid of the glimpses of visions which again flashed pictures of the inundations before him: the meadow with the corpses, the men in the punt fishing up the woman. The corpses began suddenly to come to life, to burst out laughing, with slits of mouths and hollow eyes, as though they had been making a fool of him, as though there had been no inundations; and the dusk of the bed-chamber, filled with emperors, pressed down upon him as with atmospheres of nitrogen. "Andro! Andro!" he cried, in a smothered utterance and then louder, as though in mortal anguish, "Andro! Andro!..." The door at the end of the room was thrown open; the valet entered, alarmed, in his night-clothes. The reality of his presence broke through the enchantment of the night and exorcized the ghosts back into portraits. "Highness!..." "Andro, come here...." "Highness, what's the matter?... How you frightened me, highness! What is it?... I thought...." "What, Andro?" "Nothing, highness. Your voice sounded so terribly hoarse! What's the matter?..." "I don't know, Andro: I am ill, I think; I can't sleep...." The man wiped Othomar's clammy forehead with a handkerchief: "Will your highness have anything to drink? A glass of water?..." "No, thank you, thank you.... Andro, can you come and sleep in here?" "If you wish it, highness...." "Yes, here, at the foot of my bed. I believe I'm not very well, Andro.... Bring your pillow in here." The man looked at him. He was not much older than his prince. He had waited on him from childhood and worshipped him with the worship of a subject for majesty; he felt wholly bound to him, tied to him; he knew that the prince was not strong, but also that he never complained.... Growing suddenly angry, he turned to go to his room and fetch his pillow: "No wonder, when they fag and tire you like this!" he cried, unable any longer to restrain his fury. "General Ducardi no doubt thinks that you have the same tough hide as himself!" Muttering in his moustache, he went away, returned with his pillow and laid it on the step of the bed of state: "Are you feverish?" he asked. "No ... yes, perhaps a little. It will pass off, Andro. I ... I am...." He dared not say it. "I am a little nervous," he continued; and his eyes went anxiously round the room, where the emperors were once more standing quiet. "Would you like a doctor fetched from Vaza?" "No, no, Andro, by no means. What are you thinking of, to make such a disturbance in the middle of the night? Go to sleep now, down there...." "Will you try to sleep also then, my 'princie'?" he asked, with the endearing diminutive which in his language sounded like a caress. Othomar nodded with a smile and suffered him to shake up his pillows after the manner of a nurse. "What a bed!" muttered Andro. "It might be a monument in a cemetery!..." Then he lay down again, but did not sleep; he stayed awake. And, when Othomar asked, after an interval: "Are you asleep, Andro?" "Yes, your highness," he answered, "nearly." "Is there anything murmuring in the distance? Is it water or ... or is it my fancy?" The man listened: "I can hear nothing, highness.... You must be a little feverish." "Take a chair and come and sit by the head of the bed...." The man did as he was told. "And let me feel you near me: give me your hand, so...." At last Othomar closed his eyes. In his ears the buzzing continued, still continued.... But under the very buzzing, while the lightness in his head lifted like a mist, the Crown-prince of Liparia fell asleep, his clammy hand in the hard hand of his body-servant, who watched his master's restless sleep in the quivering round the mouth, the jerking of the body, until, to quiet him, he softly stroked the throbbing forehead with his other hand, muttering compassionately, with his strange, national voice of caress: "My poor princie!..." The dawn rose outside; the daylight seemed to push the window-curtains asunder. 5 The next morning the duchess was to preside at the breakfast-table: she was in the dining-room with all the gentlemen when Othomar entered, as the last, with Dutri. His uniform of blue, white and silver fitted him tightly; and he saluted, smilingly, but a little stiffly, while Herman shook hands with him and the others bowed, the duchess curtseying deeply. "How pale the prince looks!" Leoni said to Ducardi. It was true: the prince looked very pale; his eyes were dull, but he bore himself manfully, ate a little fish, trifled with a salmi of game. Yet the prince's fatigue was so evident that Ducardi asked him, softly, across the table: "Is your highness not feeling well?..." All eyes were raised to Othomar. He wished to give the lie to their sympathy: "I'm all right," he replied. "Did your highness have a bad night?" continued Ducardi. "Not very good," Othomar was compelled to acknowledge, with a smile. The conversation continued, the duchess gave it a new turn; but after breakfast, on the point of departure--the horses stood saddled in the courtyard--Ducardi said, bluntly: "We should do better not to go, highness." Othomar was astonished, refused to understand. "You look a little fatigued, highness," added Ducardi, shortly; and, more softly, deprecatingly, "And it's not surprising either, that the last few days have been too much for you. If your highness will permit me, I would recommend you to take a rest to-day." Already a soft feeling of relaxation overcame the prince; he felt too much delighted at this idea of rest to continue his resistance. Yet his conscience pricked him at the thought of his father: a feeling of shame in case the emperor should hear of his exhaustion, which seemed so clearly evident. And he absolutely insisted that the expedition should not be abandoned altogether. He yielded to Ducardi in so far as not to go himself and to take repose, provided that they thought he needed it; but he urgently begged Prince Herman and the others to follow the route planned out for that day and to go. And this he said with youthful haughtiness, already relieved at the thought of the day of repose before him--a whole day, unexpectedly!--but above all afraid of allowing his joy to be perceived and therefore sulking a little, as though he wished to go too, as though he thought General Ducardi foolish, with his advice.... The gentlemen went. The duchess herself conducted Othomar to the west wing, pressed him to rest in her own boudoir. Through the windows of the gallery Othomar saw Herman and the others riding away; he followed them for an instant with his eyes, then went on with the duchess and across the courtyard saw a groom lead back to the stables the horse that had been saddled for him, patting its neck. He was still disturbed by mingled emotions: the pleasant anticipation of resting, a little anxiety lest he should betray himself, a certain feeling of shame.... In the boudoir the duchess left him alone. It was quiet there; outside, the lordly fallow-deer grazed peacefully. The repose of the boudoir of a woman of the world, with the rich, silent drapery of silken stuffs, the inviting luxury of soft furniture, the calm brilliancy of ornaments each a costly object of art, surrounded him with a hushed breathlessness, like a haze of muslin, fragrant with an indefinable, gentle emanation, which was that woman's very perfume. The indolence of this present moment suddenly overwhelmed Othomar, a little strangely, and dissolved his thoughts in gentle bewilderment. He felt like a runaway horse that has suddenly been pulled up and stands still. He sat down for a minute and looked out at the deer. Then he rose, reflected whether he should ring and thought better to look round for himself. On the duchess' little writing-table--Japanese lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl landscapes and ivory storks--he found a sheet of paper, a pencil. And he wrote: "To HER MAJESTY ELIZABETH "EMPRESS OF LIPARIA. "CASTEL VAZA, "--_April_, 18--. "Pray do not be alarmed if the newspapers exaggerate and say that I am ill. I was a little fatigued and Ducardi advised me to rest to-day. Herman and the others have gone on; to-morrow I hope myself to lead our second expedition from here. The day after that we go to Lycilia. "OTHOMAR." Then he rang and, when the footman appeared: "My valet, Andro." In a few moments Andro appeared. "Ask for a horse, Andro," said Othomar, "ride to Vaza and dispatch this telegram as quickly as you can to her majesty the empress...." Andro went out and the strange, indolent vacancy overcame Othomar once more. The sun shone over the park, the deer gleamed with coats like cigar-coloured satin. The last fortnight passed once more before Othomar's eyes. And it was as though, in the vistas of that very short past, he saw spreading out like one great whole, one vast picture of human distress, the misery which he had beheld and endeavoured to soften. And the great affliction that filled the land made his heart beat full of pity. A slack feeling of melancholy, that there was so much affliction and that he was so impotent, once more rose within him, as it never failed to do when he was alone and able to reflect. Then he felt himself small, insignificant, fit for nothing; and something in his soul fell feebly, helplessly from a factitious height, without energy and without will. Then that something lay there in despair and upon it, heavy with all its sorrow, the whole empire, crushing it with its weight. Serious strikes had broken out in the eastern quicksilver-mines, beyond the Gigants. He remembered once making a journey there and suffering when he saw the strange, ashy-pale faces of the workmen, who stared at him with great, hollow eyes and who underwent a slow death through their own livelihood, in a poisonous atmosphere. And he knew that what he had then seen was a holiday sight, the most prosperous sight that they were able to show him; that he would never see the black depths of their wretchedness, because he was the crown-prince. And he could do nothing for them and, if they raised their heads still more fiercely than they were doing now, the troops, which had already started for the district, would shoot them down like dogs. He panted loudly, as though to pant away the weight upon his chest, but it fell back again. The image of his father came before his mind, high, certain, conscious of himself, unwavering, always knowing what to do, confident that majesty was infallible, writing signatures with big, firm letters, curtly: "Oscar." Everything signed like that, "Oscar," was immaculate in its righteousness as fate itself. How different was he, the son! Then did the old race of might and authority begin to yield with him, as with a sudden crack of the spine, an exhaustion of the marrow? Then he saw his mother, a Roumanian princess, loving her near ones so dearly; womanliness, motherliness personified, in their small circle; to the people, haughty, inaccessible, tactless as he was, unpopular, as he was, too, at least in Lipara and the southern part of the empire. He knew it: beneath that rigid inaccessibility she concealed her terror, terror when she sat in an open carriage, at the theatre, at ceremonial functions, or in church, or even at visits to charitable institutions. This terror had killed within her all her great love for humanity and had morbidly concentrated her soul, which was inclined by nature to take a wider outlook, upon love for that small circle of theirs. And beneath this terror hid her acquiescence, her expectation of the catastrophe, the upheaval in which she and hers were to perish!... He was their son, the heir to their throne: whence did he derive his impotent hesitation, which his father did not possess, and his love for their people, which his mother no longer possessed? His ancestors he knew only by what history had taught him: in the earlier middle-ages, barbarian, cruel; later, displaying a refined sensuality; one monarch, a weakling, ruled entirely by favourites, a _roi-fainéant_, under whom the empire had fallen a prey to intestinal divisions and foreign greed; afterwards, more civilized, a revival of strength, a reaction of progress after decline, followed by the glory and greatness of the empire to the present day.... To the present day: to him came this inheritance of greatness and glory. How would he handle it, how would he in his turn transmit it to his son? Then he felt himself so small, so timid that he could have run away somewhither, away from the gaping eyes of his future obligations.... 6 The luncheon had all the intimacy of a most charming _tête-à-tête_, served in the small dining-room, with only the steward waiting at table. The duchess enquired very sympathetically how Othomar was; the prince already felt really rested, showed a good appetite, was gay and talkative, praised the cook and the famous lycilian wine. When the duchess after luncheon proposed to him to go for a small excursion in the neighbourhood, he thought it an excellent idea. He himself wished to ride--he knew that the duchess was an excellent horsewoman--but Alexa dissuaded him, laughingly, said that she was afraid of General Ducardi, who had recommended the prince to rest, and thought that a little drive in an open carriage would be less tiring. She had remembered betimes that a riding-habit made her look old and heavy; and she was very glad when the prince gave way. The weather had remained delightful: a mild sun in a blue sky. The landscape stretched wide, the mountains stood shrill and steep, pointing their ice-laden crests into the ether. The drive had all the charm of an incognito free from etiquette, with the prince, in his undress uniform, seated beside the duchess, in a simple, dark gown of mauve corduroy velvet, in the elegant, light victoria, on which the coachman sat alone, without a footman, setting the two slender bays briskly about. The sun gleamed in patches over the horses' sleek hides and cast its reflections in the varnish of the carriage, in the facets of the cut-glass lamps, on the coachman's tall hat and in the buttons of Othomar's uniform. All this sparkle scintillated with short, bright flashes; and thus, lightly flickering, the carriage glided along the road, through a couple of villages, whose inhabitants saluted their duchess, but did not know who the simple young officer was, sitting beside her. A breeze had dried away the dampness of the preceding days and light clouds of dust blew up from under the quick-rolling wheels. The duchess talked fluently, of Lipara, the emperor, the empress. She possessed the tact of knowing intuitively what to say and what to speak about, when she was anxious to please. Her voice was a charm. She was sometimes capable of great simplicity and naturalness, generally when she was not thinking of making an impression. Intuitively she assumed towards the prince, to make him like her, that same simplicity which was her nature. It made her seem years younger: the smart brusqueness that was in fashion flattered her much less and made her appear older and even vulgar, whereas now she grew refined in the natural distinction of an ancient race. The little black veil on her hat hid the ugly wrinkles about her eyes, which gleamed through it like stars. The prince remembered stories told by his equerries--including Dutri--about the duchess; he remembered names mentioned in a whisper. He did not at this minute believe in these slanders, as he considered them to be. Sensible as he was to sympathy, he was won over by hers, which he read in her intuitively; and it made him think well and kindly of her, as he thought of all who liked him. The carriage had been going between terraces of vineyards, when suddenly, as though by surprise, it drove past a castle, half-visible through some very ancient chestnut-trees. "What estate is that?" asked the prince. "Who are your neighbours, duchess?" "No one less than Zanti, highness," replied the duchess: she shivered, but tried to jest. "Balthazar Zanti lives here, with his daughter." "Zanti! Balthazar Zanti!" cried Othomar, in a tone of astonishment. He stood up and looked curiously at the castle, which lay hidden behind the chestnut-trees: "But how is it, duchess, that last year, when I was hunting here with the emperor, with the duke, I never heard of Prince Zanti or that he lived here?" The duchess laughed: "Presumably, highness, because the duke's covers lie in the opposite direction"--she made a vague gesture--"and you never drove past this way and because his majesty will never suffer the name of Balthazar Zanti to be uttered in his presence." "But none of the equerries...." The duchess laughed still more merrily, looked at the prince, who was also chuckling, and said: "It is certainly unpardonable of them not to have informed you more fully of the curiosities in the province of Vaza. But ... now that I think of it, highness, it's quite natural. The castle was empty last year: Zanti was travelling about the country, making speeches. You remember, they were afterwards forbidden by law. His name, therefore, had no local significance here at the time...." The prince was still staring at the castle, which never came fully into view, when the carriage, in a turn of the road, almost touched a little group as it drove past them, against the slope of a vineyard: an old man, a young girl, a dog. The girl was frail, slender, pale, fair-haired, dressed in furs in spite of the sun and retaining beneath them a certain morbid elegance; she sat on the grass, wearing a dark fur toque on her silvery fair hair; her long, white hand, ungloved, soothingly and insistingly patted the curly head of the retriever, which barked at the carriage. Next to her stood a tall, erect old man, looking eccentric in a wide, grey smock-frock: a grey giant, with a heavy beard and sombre eyes, which shone with a dull light from under the brim of a soft felt hat. The dog barked; the girl bowed--she recognized the duchess as a neighbour--without knowing who the prince was; the old man, however, looked straight before him, frowning and making no sign. The carriage rattled past. "That was Zanti," whispered the duchess. "Zanti!" repeated the prince. "And how long has he been living here?" "Only a very short time: I believe the doctors think the air of Vaza good for his daughter." "Was that young girl his daughter?" "Yes, highness. I have seen her once before; she appears to be delicate." "Prince Zanti, is he not?" "Certainly, highness; but, by his own wish, Zanti quite plain.... Titles are all nonsense in the nineteenth century, highness." She jested and yet felt a silent shudder, she knew not why. She thought it ominous that Zanti had come to live so near to Castel Vaza. Shivering, she gave a quick side-glance at the prince. She perceived a strange pensiveness drawing over his face like a shadow. Then, to change the conversation and to think no longer of that horrid man: "You are looking much better, highness, than you did this morning. The air has done you good...." She suppressed her shiver. The prince, on the other hand, remained strange: a sudden emotion seemed to be stirring within him. When they were back at the castle, in the boudoir, the duchess offered herself to make the prince a cup of tea. He stood looking out of the window at the deer, but, while she busied herself with the crested, gilt array of her tea-table, she saw him turn pale, white as chalk--as he had looked that morning--his eyes dilating strangely: "What is the matter, highness?" she cried, in alarm, approaching him. He turned towards her, tried to laugh: "I beg your pardon, duchess; I am very discourteous ... to behave like this, but ... but that man took me by surprise." He laughed. "I did not know that he was here; and then the air ... that rarefied air...." He put his hand to his forehead; she saw him grow paler, his blood seemed to be running out of him, he staggered.... "Highness!" she cried. But Othomar, groping vaguely with his hand for a support, fell up against her; she caught him in her arm, against her bosom, mortally frightened, and saw that he had swooned. A thin sweat stood on his forehead; his eyes closed beneath their weary lids, as though they were dying away; his mouth was open without breathing. The duchess was violently alarmed; she was mortally frightened lest anything serious should happen to the Duke of Xara, alone with her in the castle; she suddenly felt that the future of Liparia was entrusted to the support of her arms; she already saw the prince lying dead, herself disgraced at the Imperial.... All this flashed across her brain at the first moment. But she looked at him long; and a gentle expression overspread her face: pride, that the Duke of Xara lay there half-fainting on her shoulder, and sudden passion, containing much motherliness and pity, blended into a strange feeling in her soul. She softly smoothed back his hair, wiped his perspiring forehead with her handkerchief.... And the strange sensation became still stranger within her, intenser in its two constituent parts: intenser in pride, intenser in compassionate love, that of a mistress and mother in one. Then, with a smile, she pressed the handkerchief, lightly moistened with the imperial sweat, to her trembling lips. The soft aroma of the moisture seemed to intoxicate her with a fragrance of virile youth.... She thought of the letters and photographs in the silver casket with the turquoises. A deep melancholy, because of life, smarted through her soul; yet more of her memories seemed to fly away like dust. Then, refusing to yield any longer to this melancholy, she bent her head and, serious now, giving herself to the present, which revived her with new happiness, she pressed her lips, trembling still more than before, on Othomar's mouth. For a moment she lingered there; her eyes closed; then she gave her kiss. They opened their eyes together, looked at each other. Earnestly sombre, almost tragically, she flashed her glance into his. He said nothing, remained gazing at her, still half in her arms. The colour came mantling back to his cheeks. Their eyes imbibed one another. He felt the unknown opening before him, he felt himself being initiated into the world of knowledge which he suspected in her and did not know of himself. But he felt no joy because of it; her eyes continued sombre. Then he merely took her hand, just pressed it in a solitary caress and said, his eyes still gazing into her deep, quiet, dark glances of passion, his features still rigid with surprise: "I was feeling a little giddy, I fear, just now? Please forgive me, duchess...." She too continued to look at him, at first sombrely, then in smiling humility. Her pride soared to its climax with one beat of its wings: the mouth of her future emperor was still sealed with her kiss! Her love touched her inner life as a wafting breeze skims over a lake, rippling its surface into utter silver with a single fresh gust and stirring it to its very depths; she worshipped him because of his youthful majesty, which so graciously accepted her kiss without further acknowledgment, because of his imperial candour, his boyish voice, his boyish eyes, the pressure of his hand: the only thing he had given her; and she experienced all this as a very strange, proud pleasure: the delight of assimilating that candid youth, that maiden manhood, as a magic potion that should restore her own youth to her. 7 They dined late that evening, as they had waited for Herman and the others. The conversation at table turned upon the condition of the lowlands, upon the peasants, who had lost their all. The duchess was silent; the conversation did not interest her, but her silence was smiling and tranquil. That evening Othomar again studied the map with Ducardi, under the lace-covered lamp. The evening had turned cold, the terrace-doors were closed. The duchess did not feel inclined for billiards, but sat talking softly with Dutri in the second drawing-room. She looked superb, serene as a statue, in her dress of old lace, pale-yellow, her white bosom rising evenly with her regular breathing; a single diamond star gleamed in her front hair. Othomar pointed with the pencil across the map: "Then we can go like this, along this road.... Look, General Ducardi; look here, Colonel von Fest: this is where I drove this afternoon with the duchess; and here, I believe, is where Zanti lives. Did you know that?" The officers looked up, looked down at the spot to which the crown-prince pointed, expressed surprise: "I thought that he lived in the south, in Thracyna," said the young Count of Thesbia. Othomar repeated what the duchess had told him. "Zanti!" cried Herman. "Balthazar Zanti? Why, but then it is he!... I was talking this afternoon to a party of peasants; they told me of the new huts which a new landlord was fitting up in the neighbourhood, but they spoke in dialect and I could not understand them clearly; I thought they said Xanti and I never suspected that it could be Balthazar Zanti. So he's the man!" "Huts?" asked Othomar. "Yes, a village of huts, it seems; they said he was so rich and so generous and was housing I don't know how many peasants, who had lost all that they possessed." "I now remember reading in the papers that Zanti had gone to live at Vaza," said Leoni. "I should like to see those huts: we can take them on our way to-morrow," said Othomar. General Ducardi compressed his bushy eyebrows: "You know, highness, that his majesty is anything but enamoured of Zanti and is even thinking of exiling him. It would perhaps be more in accordance with his majesty's views to ignore what Zanti is doing here for the moment." Othomar, however, was not disposed to yield to the general; a youthful combativeness welled in his breast. "But, general, to ignore anybody's good work in these times is neither gracious nor politic." "I am convinced that, if his majesty knew that Zanti was occupying his castle here, he would have specially requested your highness to hold no communication with the man," said Ducardi, with emphasis. "I am not so sure of that, general," said Othomar, drily. "I believe, on the contrary, that, if his majesty knew that Zanti was doing so much for the victims of the inundations, his majesty would overlook a good deal of his amateur communism." Ducardi gnawed his moustache with a wry smile: "Your highness speaks rather light-heartedly of that amateur communism. Zanti's theories and practice are more than mere dilettantism...." "But, general," rejoined Othomar, gently, "I really do not understand why Zanti's socialism need prevent us at this moment--I repeat, at this particular moment--from appreciating what he is doing, nor why it need interfere with our visiting his huts, considering that we have come to Vaza to inform ourselves of everything that concerns the inundations...." Ducardi looked at him angrily. He was not accustomed to being contradicted like this by his highness. The others listened. The duchess herself, attracted by the discussion, amid which she heard Othomar's voice ringing with youthful authority, had approached with Dutri, curiously. "To say the least of it, it could do no harm just to see those huts: I must grant my cousin as much as that, general," said Herman of Gothland, who was beginning to like Othomar. Von Fest also supported this view, convincingly, roundly, honestly, thought that they could do no less, having regard to the victims whom Zanti had housed. Every one now gave his opinion: Leoni thought it impossible that the crown-prince should visit Vaza and not those huts; it would look as though his highness were afraid of a bugbear like Zanti. The fact that Othomar was contradicting Ducardi gave them all grounds for thwarting the old general, who hitherto had conducted the expedition with a sort of military tyranny which had frequently annoyed them. Even Dutri, who as a rule was rather indifferent, joined forces with them, cynically, his eyes gleaming because Ducardi for once was being put in his place. He winked at the duchess. And only Siridsen and Thesbia took Ducardi's side, hesitating because the general declared with such conviction that the emperor's will would be different from his son's wish; especially Thesbia: "I can't understand why the prince insists so," he whispered to the duchess in alarm. "Ducardi's right: you yourself know how the emperor loathes Zanti...." The duchess shrugged her handsome shoulders with a smile, listening to Othomar, whom she heard defending himself, supported by ejaculations and nods from the others. "Well," she heard Ducardi answer, drily, "if your highness absolutely insists that we should go to Zanti's, we will go; I only hope that your highness will always remember that I did not agree with you in this matter...." The Duke of Xara now answered laughingly, was the first to make peace after this victory; and, as to the rest of the route to Lycilia, which they worked out on the map, he agreed with the general in everything, with little flattering intonations of approval and appreciation of his penetrating and practical judgement.... "He may not have the makings of a great commander," whispered Dutri to the duchess, "but he will turn out a first-rate little diplomatist...." But Ducardi was inwardly very angry. For a moment he thought of ascertaining the emperor's wishes by a secret telegram, but he rejected this idea, as it would make a bad impression at the Imperial if the Duke of Xara were not left free in such an apparent trifle. He therefore only attempted, next morning, once more to dissuade Othomar from the visit, but the prince held firm. "You seem very much opposed to this expedition, general," said Von Fest. "Isn't it really quite reasonable?" "You don't know the prejudice his majesty has against that man, colonel," replied the general. "As I have told you before, his majesty is thinking of exiling him and is sure to do so when he hears that he has now shut himself in his castle, doubtless with the object of stirring up the peasantry, as he has already stirred up the workmen in the towns. The man is a dangerous fanatic, colonel: dangerous especially because he has money with which to put his visions into practice. He instigates the lower orders not to fulfil their military duties because it is written: 'Thou shalt not kill.' He looks upon marriage as a useless sacrament; and I have heard that his followers simply come to him and that he marries them himself, with a sort of blessing, which in its turn is based upon a text, I forget which. He is always writing socialistic pamphlets, which are promptly seized and suppressed, and he makes seditious speeches. And the man is even standing for the house of deputies!" "One who abjures his title a member of the house of deputies!" smiled Von Fest. "Oh, his doctrine swarms with such inconsistencies!" growled Ducardi. "He will tell you of course that, so long as there is nothing better than the house of deputies, he is content to be a member of it. And the crown-prince wants to take notice of what a man like that does!" Von Fest shrugged his shoulders: "Let him be, general. The prince is young. He wants to know and see things. That's a good sign." "But ... the emperor will never approve of it, colonel!" thundered the general, with an oath. Again Von Fest shrugged his shoulders: "Nevertheless I should not dissuade him any longer, general. If the prince wants a thing, let him have it, it will do him good.... And, if he gets blown up by his father afterwards, that will do him good too, by way of reaction." Ducardi looked him straight in the face: "What do you think of our prince?" he asked, point-blank. Von Fest returned the general's glance, smilingly, looking straight into his searching eyes. He was honest by nature and upright, but enough of a courtier to be able to dissimulate when he thought necessary: "A most charming lad," he replied. "But life--or rather he himself--will have to change him very much if he is to hold his own ... later on." The officers understood each other. Ducardi heaved a deep sigh: "Yes, there are difficult times coming," he said, with an oath. "Yes," answered the Gothlandic colonel, simply. The princes mounted their horses in the courtyard; they took the same road along which Othomar had driven with the duchess the previous afternoon past Zanti's castle. Leoni had learnt where the huts lay; the mountains began to retreat, the road wound curve after curve beneath the trampling hoofs of the horses. Suddenly the Zanthos spread itself out on the horizon: the wide expanse of flooded water, one great lake under the broad, gleaming, vernal sky. "That must be they," said Leoni. His finger pointed to a hamlet of long wooden buildings, evidently newly built, smelling of fresh timber in the morning breeze. As they rode nearer, they saw carpenters and masons; a whole work-yard came into view, full of busy movement, with stacks of red bricks and piles of long planks. Singing was heard, with a pious intonation, as of psalms. Ducardi, whose custom was always to ride in front, to the left of the crown-prince, deliberately reined in his horse, allowed the others to come up with him; Othomar perceived that he did not wish to act on this occasion. He thought it petty of the general and said to Thesbia: "Ask if Zanti is here." The aide-de-camp turned and put the question to a sort of foreman. None of the workpeople had saluted; the equerries doubted whether they had recognized the crown-prince. Yes, Zanti was there. Plain "Zanti." Very well, he would fetch him. The man went. He was long away. Othomar, waiting with the others on horseback, already began to find his position difficult, lost his tact, assumed his stiff rigidity, talked in forced tones to Herman. He found it difficult to wait when one had never done so hitherto. It made him nervous and he made his horse, which was tugging at the reins with skittish movements of its head, nervous too and was already thinking whether it would not be better to ride on.... But just then Zanti, with the foreman who had called him, approached, slowly, making no effort to hurry. He looked under his hand from a distance at the group of officers on horseback, flashing in the sunlight; stood still; asked the foreman some question or other; looked again. "The unmannerly fellow!" muttered Thesbia. The aide-de-camp rode up to him angrily, spoke in a loud voice of his imperial highness the Duke of Xara; the duke wished to see the huts. "They are not huts," said Zanti, in peevish contradiction. "What then?" asked the aide, haughtily. "Dwellings," answered Zanti, curtly. Thesbia shrugged his shoulders with annoyance. But the crown-prince himself had ridden up and saluted Zanti before the latter had vouchsafed any greeting: "Will your excellency give us leave to look at what you are doing for the victims of the inundations?" he asked, politely, gently, graciously. "I'm not an excellency," muttered the grey-beard, "but, if you like to look, you can." "We should like to," replied Othomar, a little haughtily, "but not unless we have your entire approval. You are the master on your own estate; and, if our visit is unwelcome, we will not force our presence on you." Zanti looked him in the eyes: "I repeat, if you like to look round, you can. But there is not much to see. Everything is so simple. We make no secret of what we do. And the estate is not mine: it belongs to all of them." Othomar dismounted, the others followed; with difficulty Leoni and Thesbia found a couple of boys to hold the horses in return for a tip. Othomar and Herman had already walked ahead with the old man: "I hear that you are doing much good work to mitigate the disaster of the inundations," said Othomar. "The inundation is not a disaster." "Not a disaster!" asked Herman, surprised. "What then?" "A just punishment of heaven. And there will be more punishments. We live in sinful times." The princes exchanged a quick glance; they saw that the conversation would not go very easily. "But the sinners whom heaven punishes you assist for all that, Mr. Zanti," said Herman. "For all these huts...." "Are not huts. They are sheds, workshops or temporary dwellings. They will grow into a settlement, if such be God's will ... to enable men to live simply, by their work. Life is so simple, but man has made it so strange and complicated." "But you take in the peasants who have lost their all through the inundations?" Herman persisted. "I don't take them. When they feel their sins, they come to me and I save them from destruction." "And do they not come to you also without feeling their sins, because they feel that they will get food and lodging for nothing?" "They get no food and lodging for nothing: they have to work here, sir!" said the old man. "And perhaps more than you, who walk about in a uniform.... They are paid, according to the amount of work they do, out of the common fund. They are building here and I build with them. Do you see this tree here and this axe? I was employed in felling down this tree when you came and interrupted me." "A capital exercise," said Herman. "You look a vigorous man." "So you say you are forming a settlement here?" asked Othomar. "Yes, sir. The cities are corrupt; life in the country is purifying. Here they live; farther on lies arable land, which I give them, and pasture-land; I shall buy cattle for them." "So you are simply trying to recruit farmers here?" asked Herman. "No, sir!" answered the grey-beard gruffly. "I recruit no farmers; they are not my farmers. They are their own farmers. They work for themselves and I am a simple farmer like them. We are all equal...." "You are a simple farmer," Prince Herman echoed, "yet you live in a castle." "No, young man," replied Zanti, "I do not live in a castle; I live _here_; my daughter lives there by herself. She is ill.... She would not be able to stand an alteration in her mode of life, or any deprivation. But she will not live long...." He glanced up, looked at the Princes alternately, askance, almost anxiously: "She is my only weakness, I think," he said, in a faint, deprecating voice. "She is my sin; I have called in doctors for her and believe in what they say and prescribe. You see, she would not be able to do it ... to follow me in all things, for she has too much of the past in her poor blood. For her, a castle and comfort are necessities, vital necessities. Therefore I leave her there.... But she will not live long.... And then I shall sell it and divide the money, every penny of it, among them all.... You see, that is my weakness, my sin; I am only human...." The princes saw him display emotion; his hands trembled. Then he seemed to feel that he had already spoken to them too much and too long of what lay nearest to his heart, his sin. And he pointed to the buildings, explained their uses.... "I have read some of your pamphlets, Mr. Zanti," said the crown-prince. "Do you apply your ideas on matrimony here?" "I apply nothing," the grey-beard growled, resuming his tone of contradiction. "I leave them free to do as they please. If they wish to get married according to your law, they can; but, if they come to me, I bless them and let them go in peace, for it is written, 'Again I say to you, that if two of you shall consent upon earth, concerning any thing whatsoever they shall ask, it shall be done for them by my father who is in heaven. For where there are two or three gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'" "And how do you rule so many followers?" asked Herman. "I don't rule them, sir!" roared the old man, clenching his fists, his face red with fury. "I am no more than any of them. The father has authority in his own household and the old men give advice, because they have experience: that is all. Life is so simple...." "As you picture it, but not in reality," objected Herman. Zanti looked at him angrily, stopped still, to be able to talk with greater ease, and, passionately, violently, exclaimed: "And do you in reality find it better than I picture it? I do not, sir, and I hope to turn my picture into reality. You and yours once, ages ago, made your picture reality; now it is the turn of us others: your reality has lasted long enough...." Othomar, haughtily, tried to say something in opposition; the old man, however, suddenly turned to him and, gently though roughly, said, his penetrating, fanatical voice which made Othomar shudder: "For you, sir, I feel pity! I do not hate you, although you may think I do. I hate nobody. The older I have grown, the less I have learned to hate, the more softness has entered into me. See here: I hear something in your voice and see something in your eyes that ... that attracts me, sir. I tell you this straight out. It is very foolish of me, perhaps, to talk like this to my future emperor. But it is so: something in you attracts me. And I feel pity for you. Do you know why? Because the time will come!" He suddenly pointed upwards, with a strange impressiveness, and continued: "The hour will come. Perhaps it is very near. If it does not come in your father's reign, it will come in your reign or your son's. But come it will! And therefore I feel pity for you. For you will not have enough love for your people. Not enough love to say to them, 'I am as all of you and nothing more. I will possess no more than any of you, for I do not want abundance while you suffer need. I will not rule over you, for I am only a human being like yourselves and no more human than you.' Are you more human? If you were more, then you would be entitled to rule, yes, then, then ... See here, young man: you will never have so much love for your people as to do all this, oh, and more still and more! You will govern and possess abundance and wage war. But the time will come! Therefore I have pity for you ... although I oughtn't to!" Othomar had turned pale; even Herman gave a little shudder. It was more because of the oracular voice of the man who was prophesying the doom of their sovereignty than because of his words. But Herman shook off his shudder and, angrily, haughtily: "I cannot say that you are polite to your _guests_, Mr. Zanti," he said. "I do not speak of his imperial highness...." Zanti looked at Othomar: "Forgive me," he said. "I spoke like that for your sake. Your eyes are like my daughter's. That's why I spoke as I did." Herman burst out laughing: "A valid reason, no doubt, Mr. Zanti." Othomar, however, signed to him to cease his tone of persiflage and also with a glance restrained his equerries, who had listened to Zanti's oracular utterances in speechless indignation: the old man had addressed Othomar almost in a whisper. His last words, however, which resounded with emotion, changed this indignation into bewilderment, calmed their anger, made them regard the prophet as half a madman, whose treason the crown-prince was graciously pleased to excuse. And the officers looked at one another, raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders. Dutri grinned. Othomar asked Zanti coolly whether they had not better proceed. The settlement was very much in its first stage; yet a few farm-houses were beginning to rise up, chestnut-trees lay felled, hundreds of peasants were busily working. The group of officers excited great curiosity; the princes had been recognized. On almost every side the people stopped work, followed the uniforms with their eyes. The princes and their suite felt instinctively that a hostile feeling was passing through Zanti's peasants. When they asked a question here and there about the sufferings experienced, the answer sounded curt and rough, with a reference to the will of God, and was always like an echo of Zanti's own words. Pecuniary assistance seemed uncalled for. And Zanti had really nothing to show. The settlement made a poor impression on Othomar, perhaps because of a sort of mortified sovereignty. He was accustomed always to be approached with respect, as a future majesty; and his sensitiveness was more deeply wounded by Zanti's bluntness, by the surliness of Zanti's peasants, than he himself was willing to admit. He felt that at this spot they saw in him not the crown-prince who loved his people and wanted to learn how to succour them, but the son of a tyrant, who would act as a tyrant also when his turn came. He felt that, though Zanti called himself the apostle of peace, this peace was not in his disciples; and, when he looked into their rough, sullen faces, he saw hatred gleam luridly from deep, hollow eyes, as with sudden lightning-flashes.... The weight of it all fell heavily upon his chest; his impotence pressed with a world of inconsolable misery and unappeasable grief upon his shoulders, as though to bear him to the ground. It was the misery and grief not of one, but of thousands, millions. Vindictive eyes multiplied themselves around him in a ferment of hatred; each one of his people who asked happiness of him, demanding it and not receiving it, seemed to be there, staring at him with those wide eyes.... He felt himself turning giddy with an immense feeling of helplessness. He looked for nothing more, this was the end. And he was not surprised at what happened: the man with the brown, hairy, distorted face, who rushed upon him like a nightmare and laid hold of him, full of hatred. A foul, tobacco-laden breath swept over his face, a coarse knife in a coarse fist flashed towards his throat.... A cry arose. A shot rang out, sharp, determined, with no suspicion of hesitation. The man cursed out a hoarse yell, gnashing his teeth in revolt, and struggled, dying. His brains splashed over Othomar, soiling the prince's uniform. And the man plumped down at his feet on the ground, grown limp at once, with relaxed muscles, still clutching the knife in his hairy fingers. All this had happened in a single instant. It was Von Fest who had fired the shot from a revolver. The colonel drew up his broad figure, looked around him, still held the revolver raised at a threatening slant. The people stood staring, motionless, perplexed by the sudden reality before their eyes. Zanti, stupefied, gazed at the corpse; then he said, while the startled officers stood by in fussy confusion around the prince: "Now go and, if you can, go in peace!..." Full of bitterness, he pointed to the corpse. He shook his head, with the grey locks under the felt hat; tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. "Thou shalt not kill!" they heard him mutter. "They seem not to know that yet; nobody knows it yet!..." A strange, mad look troubled his normally clear, grey eyes; he seemed for a moment not to know what he should do. Then he went to a tree, caught up the axe and, without taking further notice of the princes, began to hew like a lunatic, blow upon blow.... The officers hurried to their horses. Dutri gave a last look back: near the corpse, now surrounded by peasants, he saw a woman standing; she sobbed, her desperate arms flung to heaven, she howled, she shook her fist at the equerry's turned face, screaming. Othomar had said nothing. He heard the woman howling behind him. He quivered in every nerve. On the road, preparing to mount, Ducardi asked him, agitatedly: "Shall we return to Castel Vaza, highness?" The prince looked at the general haughtily. Quickly the thought flashed through him that the general had strongly opposed his coming here. He shook his head. Then his eyes sought Von Fest: they glanced up at the colonel under their eyelids, deep-black, moist, almost reproachful. But he held out his hand: "Thank you, colonel," he said, in a husky voice. The colonel pressed the hand which the prince offered him: "Glad to be of service, highness!" he replied, with soldierly brusqueness. "And now let us go on to the Zanthos," said Othomar, walking up to his horse. But the old general could master himself no longer. In these last moments he had felt all his passionate love--seated hereditarily, firmly in his blood, of a piece with him, his very soul and all that soul--for the reigning house. His fathers had died for it in battle, without hesitation. And with the mad, wide embrace of his long, powerful old arms, he ran up to Othomar, grateful that he was alive, pressed him as if he would crush him against his breast, until the buttons of his uniform scratched Othomar's cheek, and cried, sobbing, under his trembling moustache: "My prince, my prince, my prince!..." 8 The attempt on Othomar's life was known at Castel Vaza before the princes returned, from peasants of the duke's, who had told the castle-servants long stories of how the prince had been severely wounded. The duchess had at first refused to believe it; then, in rising anxiety, in the greatest tension and uncertainty, she had walked about the corridors. She had first tried to persuade herself that the people were sure to exaggerate. When she reflected that, in the event of Othomar's being wounded, the princes and the equerries would have returned at once, she became more tranquil and waited patiently. But the chamberlain, who had been to Vaza, returned in dismay: people were very uneasy in the town, pressing round the doors of the newspaper-offices to read the bulletins, which mentioned the attempt briefly, with the provoking comment that further particulars were not yet to hand. The duchess realized that by this time the bulletin had also been telegraphed to Lipara; and she feared not only that Othomar had met with harm, but that she herself would lose favour with the empress.... When the duchess at last, after long watching from a window in the west corridor, saw the princes and their suite come trotting, very small, along a distant road, she could not restrain herself and went to meet them in the courtyard. But she saw that Othomar was unhurt. The Duke of Xara dismounted, smiled, gave her his hand; she kissed it, curtseying, ardently; her tears fell down upon it. The chamberlain approached, assured Othomar, in the name of all the duke's servants, of their heartfelt gratitude that the Duke of Xara had been spared, by the grace of God and the succour of St. Ladislas. Ducardi had not been able to telegraph from anywhere before, but he now sent in all haste to Vaza with a message for the emperor, mentioning at the same time that the prince had calmly resumed the expedition immediately after the attempt upon his life. Dinner took place amid a babel of voices; the duchess was greatly excited, asked for the smallest details and almost embraced Von Fest. The crown-prince drank to his preserver and every one paid him tribute. Afterwards Ducardi advised the crown-prince, in an aside, to retire early to rest. The general spoke in a gentle voice; it seemed as though the thought that he might have lost his crown-prince had made him fonder of him. Herman too pressed Othomar to go to bed. He himself had grown calm, but a vague feeling of lassitude had come over all his being: he had even drunk Von Fest's health in a strangely weary voice. He now took their advice, withdrew, undressed himself; his soiled uniform, which he had changed before dinner, still hung over a chair; he shuddered to think that he had worn it the whole afternoon: "Those things!" he said to Andro, who was still quite confused and, nervously weeping, was tidying up. "Burn them, or throw them away, throw them away." Othomar flung himself in his dressing-gown on a couch in the room adjoining his bedroom. This was also an historical apartment, with tapestry on the walls representing scenes from the history of Lipara: the Emperor Berengar I., triumphantly riding into Jerusalem, with his crusaders holding aloft their white banners; the Empress Xaveria, seated on horseback in her golden armour before the walls of Altara, falling backwards, struck dead by a Turkish arrow.... The prince lay staring at them. A deadly calm seemed to make him feel nothing, care about nothing. In his own mind he reviewed the whole historical period from Berengar to Xaveria. He knew the dates; the scenes passed cloudily before his eyes as though tapestries were being unrolled, kaleidoscopically, with the faded colours of old artwork. He saw himself again, a small boy, in the Imperial, in an austere room, diligently learning his lessons; he saw his masters, relieving one another: languages, history, political economy, international law, strategy; it had all heaped itself upon his young brain, piled itself up, built itself up like a tower. By way of change, his military education--drilling, riding, fencing--conducted by General Ducardi, who praised him or grumbled at him, or growled at the sergeants who instructed him. He had never been able to learn mathematics, had never understood a word of algebra; in many subjects he had always remained weak: natural philosophy and chemistry, for instance. For a time he had taken great pleasure in the study of mineralogy and zoology and botany; and afterwards he had shown some enthusiasm for astronomy. Then came the university and his legal studies.... He remembered his little vanities as a child and as a boy, when in his ninth year he had become a lieutenant in the throne-guards; when later he had received the Garter from the Queen of England and the Black Eagle from the German Emperor and the Golden Fleece from the Queen-regent of Spain. With such minor vanity there had always been mingled a certain dread of possible obligations which the Garter or the Eagle might imply: obligations which hovered vaguely before his eyes, which he dared not define and still less ask about of Ducardi, of his father. Gradually these threatening obligations had become so heavy and now, now they were the weights that bore upon his chest.... The weights.... But he did not stir, feeling strangely calm. Then he thought of Von Fest, of the duchess.... Yesterday, her kiss.... He had lain swooning on her shoulder and she had kissed him and long watched him with passionate looks. And all those stories of the equerries.... Then it came as with a fierce wave foaming over his absolute calmness.... Why had that man hated him, tried to murder him, tried to slay him like a beast?... Pride welled up in him, pride and despair. The man had touched him, soiled him with his breath, him, the crown-prince, the Duke of Xara! He gnashed his teeth with rage. That was a thing which Berengar I. would never have suffered! Off with his head! Off with his head!... Oh, that populace which did not know, which did not feel, which pressed up against him, seething and foaming against the throne, which terrified his mother, however haughtily she might look beyond it into the distance, with her imperial composure!... How he hated it, hated it, with all the hatred of his house for those who were now free and were yet once its slaves! How he would have them shot down, have them shot down when he came into power!... He looked at Xaveria: she herself was shot down, the haughty amazon; backwards she fell, wounded by the arrow of a Turkish soldier. And he, that morning, if Von Fest had not.... He threw himself back wildly, buried his face in his hands and sobbed. No, no, oh no! He would not shoot them down, not kill them, not hate them! He was not like that: he might be like that for a moment, but he was not like that! He was fond of his people; he was so grateful when they rejoiced, when he was able to help them. Surely he would never have them shot on! He was only growing excited now. What was there in his soul for all of them, for those millions, of whom he had perhaps seen only a few thousands and knew only a few hundreds, but one great love, which threw out arms to them in every direction, to embrace them? Had he not felt this in that black night on the Therezia Square? Were hatred and violence his? No, oh no! He was soft, perhaps too soft, too irresolute, but he would grow older, he would grow stronger; he would wish to and he would make all of them happy. Oh, if they only cared for him, if they only loved him with their great mass of surging, black, frothing humanity, a sable Milky Way of swarming souls, each soul a spark, like his own; oh, if they only loved him! But they must not hate him, not look at him with those bloodshot eyes of hatred, not aim at his throat with those coarse, hairy fingers, not try to murder him, O God, not try to slay him like a bullock, with a common knife, him, their future sovereign!... And he felt that they did not belong to him and did not know him and did not understand him and did not love him, all of them, and that they hated him merely out of instinct, because he was born upon the throne! And his despair because of all this spanned out, immense, a desert of black night, which he felt eternities wide around him; and he sobbed, sobbed, like an inconsolable child, because this was as it was and would become more desperate with each day that brought him nearer to his future as emperor and to their future: the mournful day which would rise upon the destruction of the old world.... Then there came a knock at a little door; and the door was softly opened.... "Who's there?" he asked, startled, feeling the breach of etiquette, not understanding why Andro had not come through the anteroom to announce whoever it might be. "If your highness permits me...." He recognized the duchess' soft voice, rose, went to the door: "Come in, duchess...." She entered, hesitatingly; she had thrown a long cloak over her bare shoulders to go through the chilly passages of the castle.... "Forgive me, highness, if I intrude ... if I disturb you...." He smiled, said no, apologized for his costume, feeling surprised and pleased.... She saw that his eyes were swimming with moisture: "I am indiscreet," she said, "but I couldn't help it; I felt I must find out how you were, highness.... Perhaps I wished to surprise you as well: I don't quite know. Something impelled me: I could not help coming to you. You are my guest and my crown-prince; I longed to see for myself how you were.... Your highness bore up well at dinner, but I felt...." Her voice flowed on, soft and monotonous, as though with drops of balsam. He asked her to sit down; she did so; he sat down by her side; the dark cloak slipped off and she was magnificent, with her white neck, siren-like in her opalescent, pale-green watered silk. He noticed that she had laid aside the jewels which she had worn at dinner. "I wanted to come to you quietly, through that door," she resumed, "in order to tell you once more, to tell you alone, how unspeakably thankful I am that your highness' life has been preserved...." Her voice trembled; her ebony glances grew moist; the light of the great candles in the silver candelabra shimmered over the silk of her dress, played with soft light and slumbering shadow in the modelling of her face, in the curve of her bosom. He pressed her hand; she retained his: "Was your highness crying when I came in?" she asked. His tears were still flowing, a last sob heaved through his body. "Why?" she asked again. "Or am I indiscreet?..." He looked at her; at this moment he could have told her everything. And, though he contained himself, yet he gave her the essence of his grief: "I was sad," he said, "because they seem to hate me. Nothing makes me so sad as their hatred." She looked at him long, felt his sorrow, understood him with her feminine tact, with her courtier-like swiftness of comprehension, which had ripened in the immediate contact of her sovereigns. She understood him: he was the crown-prince, he must suffer his special princely suffering; he must drink an imperial cup of bitterness to the dregs. She remembered that she herself had suffered, so often and so violently, for love, passionate woman that she was; she understood that his suffering was different from hers, but doubtless more terrible, as it seized him already at so young an age and as it depended not upon his own single soul, but upon the millions of souls of his empire. She too had suffered because she had not been loved; he also suffered like that. And so in one instant she understood him quite entirely, with all her strange woman's heart. A thrill of compassion welled up in her breast as a yet unknown delight and, like a fervent, gentle oracle, she uttered the words: "They do not all hate you...." He recognized her passionate glances of the day before. He remembered her kiss. He looked at her long, still hesitating a little in the presence of the unknown. Then he extended his arms and, with a dull cry of despair, hoarse with hunger for consolation, he called to her in his helplessness: "Oh, Alexa!..." She first smiled, with radiant eyes, then flung herself bodily into his young arms, crushing him against her bare breast. She felt like a maid and a mother in one. But, when he clung to her in a wild passion of despair, she felt herself to be nothing but a lover. She knew that he would be her last love. The knowledge made her proudly sad and diabolically happy. Her kisses clattered upon his eyes like hail.... And in their love, that night, they mingled the wormwood of what they both were suffering, each seeking consolation for life's sorrows in the other.... 9 "To HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "LYCILIA. "THE IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_April_, 18--. "MY DEAR BROTHER, "I want to tell you before you read it in those tedious papers that our respected father and emperor this morning, on my tenth birthday, dubbed me a knight of St. Ladislas in the knights' hall of the palace. You can understand how proud I feel. I shall not tell you about the ceremony, because you will remember that yourself. I was very much impressed as I walked up to our father between all those tall knights in their blue mantles and knelt before his throne. I wore my new uniform of a lieutenant in the guards. The king-at-arms, the Marquis of Ezzera, held up the rule of the order on a cushion, on which I took the oath. I must have looked rather small with my little mantle: the cross of St. Ladislas was just as big on it, however, as on those of all the others. I felt that they were all looking over my head; and that is not a pleasant feeling when you are the hero of the day. But of course I am the youngest of the knights, so there is no harm in my being a little shorter. The sword our father gave me is also a little smaller than that of the other knights, but the hilt is rather pretty and blazes with precious stones. Still, I think I prefer the chasing on the scabbard of yours, but when I am eighteen--so in eight years from now!--I am to have another sword and of course another mantle too. "Mamma was terribly alarmed and nervous when she heard of that man who attacked you and she wanted to have you recalled at once, because it did not seem safe where you are; and she simply could not understand that this could not be done. But safe: who is safe nowadays? One's not safe in war either and not even here in the Imperial. One shouldn't think so much of all that safety, that's what I say; but of course mamma is a woman and therefore she thinks differently from what we do. The riots and the martial law also upset her, but I think it rather jolly: everything's military now, you know. That Von Fest is a fine fellow. I should like to shake hands with him and to thank him myself; but, as I can't, I beg you _particularly_ to do so for me and _on no account_ to forget it. You have heard, no doubt, through General Ducardi, that papa is going to make Von Fest a commander of the Imperial Orb. What a pity that we can't create him a knight of St. Ladislas, but for that of course he would have to be a Liparian and not a Gothlander. "Now, dear brother, I must finish, because Colonel Fasti is expecting me for my fencing-lesson. Give my _very kindest_ regards to Herman and General Ducardi and remember me to the others; and accept for yourself the fond embrace of your affectionate brother, "BERENGAR, "Marquis of Thracyna "(Knight of St. Ladislas)." CHAPTER III 1 It was after the opening of the new parliament. The sun streamed as though with square patches of molten gold along the white palaces of the town, touching with blue what was shadow in the corners. Two regiments of grenadiers, red and blue, stood in two double lines, drawn up along the principal streets which led from the Parliament House to the Imperial. The crowd pressed and tossed and cheered; all the windows, open wide, swarmed with heads; people looked on from every balcony. A shot thundered from Fort Wenceslas on the sea; the emperor returned; the grenadiers presented arms in company after company.... * * * * * The lancers lead the van, blue and white, with streaming pennants at the points of their lances, six squadrons of them. The whole strength of the throne-guards, white, with breastplates of glittering gold flashing in the sunlight above the black satin skins of the stallions, ride halberd on thigh, surrounding the gently swaying state-carriages, scintillating with rich gilding and bright crystal and two of them crowned with the imperial crown, with teams of six and eight plumed greys. The horses foam over their bits, impatient, nervously pawing the ground, prancing because of the slow, ceremonious pace along the blinding, flagged roadway. In the first coach, the master of ceremonies, the Count of Threma; in the second, with the crown and the team of eight--and the roar of the cheering rises from behind the hedge of soldiers--the emperor, his uniform all gold, his robes of scarlet and ermine, his crown upon his head. It is the only time that the people have seen their emperor wear his crown. And they cheer. But the emperor makes no acknowledgment: through the glass of the coach he looks out, to left and right in turns, at the crowd, with a proud smile of self-consciousness and victory; and his face, full of race, full of force, cold with will, proud with authority, is inaccessible in its smile as that of a Roman emperor on his triumphal entry. It is a triumphal entry, this return from the Parliament House to his Imperial: a triumph over that which they denied him and upon which he has now laid his heavy hand, showing them all that his mere will can bend them to his word and purpose. And the cheers rise louder and louder from that capricious crowd, restrained like a woman by a ruler whom it now adores for his strength and admires for his imperial might, upon which he leans, as he passes from the Parliament House to his own palace, as though it were a whole army that lived upon his nod; and louder and louder, louder and louder the cheers ring out that sunny afternoon over the marble houses; and the emperor smiles continually, as though his smile meant: "Cheer away! What else can you do but cheer?..." In the next coach rides the Duke of Xara, robed, crowned; he stares rigidly over the vociferating crowd with the same glance that his mother reserves for the populace. In the next to that, the new governor-general of the capital, the head of the emperor's military household, the Duke of Mena-Doni, a rougher soldier than the Marquis of Dazzara and a less practised courtier, under whose military fist the white capital, like a beaten slave, crouched low during the martial law proclaimed after a single hour of disturbance that ventured to follow upon the emperor's decision to dissolve the house of deputies. His coarse, sensual mouth smiles with the same smile as that of the emperor, whose rude force he seems to impersonate; and he too seems to say: "Cheer away, shout hurrah!" Then the following carriages: the imperial chancellor, Count Myxila; the ministers: seven of them forming part of the twelve who wished to resign, the others chosen from among the most authoritative of the old nobility in the house of peers itself! Cheer away, shout hurrah! Behind the coaches of the higher court-officials, the Xara cuirassiers, the crown-prince's own regiment; behind them, a regiment of colonials: Africans, black as polished ebony, with eyes like beads, their thick mouths thrust forwards, clad in the muslin-like snow of their burnouses; behind them, two regiments of hussars on heavy horses, in their long, green, gold-frogged coats and their tall busbies. Was ever parliament opened thus before, with such a display of military force? And outside the town, on the high parade-grounds, do not the people know that there are troops drawn together from every province, camping there for the manoeuvres, the date of which has been accelerated? And the increased garrisons of the forts, the squadron in the harbour? Do the people themselves feel that they can do nothing else than cheer and is that why they are cheering now, happy once more in their cheering, with Roman docility and southern submission, enamoured of the emperor because of the weight of his crushing fist, loving the crown-prince for the attractive charm of his attitude in the north, or perhaps because they think him interesting after an unsuccessful attempt on his life? And they seem not to feel that, through the grenadiers presenting arms, they see neither the emperor nor the crown-prince saluting; they cheer away, loving them in spite, perhaps because, of their indifference; they cheer away like madmen.... Slowly the procession wends its way along the interminable main streets. The whole city, despite its marble, trembles with the clatter of the horses' hoofs upon the flagged pavement. Between the front escort and the endless escort in the rear, the state-carriages, with their glittering throne-guards, shimmer like a kind of jewel, small, rare, carefully guarded. The cavalry are at this moment the soul of Lipara, their echoing step its heart-beat; and between the grenadiers and the tall houses the massed and cheering populace seems to have hardly room to breathe. The procession approaches the Imperial. Along the immense marble fore-court the lancers and cuirassiers range themselves on three sides, before the wings and along the front. Outside them the guards are drawn up in line. The Africans close off the courtyard.... The carriages pull up; and the emperor alights. With the crown-prince by his side, he goes through the vestibule up the stairs. The corridors of the palace swarm with gold-laced uniforms; a packed suite crowds up behind Oscar and Othomar. The master of the robes, with twelve grooms of the bed-chamber, comes towards the emperor, who takes off his crown, as does the crown-prince; their robes are unfastened for them. They go to the great white hall, white with the Corinthian columns with gilt capitals. The empress and the Princess Thera are there, surrounded by their ladies. It is a great day: in this sun-apotheosis of the opening of parliament the monarchy is triumphing over the threats of the future and deferring that future itself. The empress, in her trailing pale-mauve velvet, steps towards her spouse and curtseys before him ceremoniously. The princess, the mistress of the robes, all the ladies curtsey.... Outside, in front, the square is now filled by the multitude; an excited popular clamour surges up against the immovable palace, as it were the sea against a rock. The doors of the centre balcony are opened. The emperor and the prince will show themselves.... "Only just salute once," whispers the emperor to his son, sternly. The sun outside rains down gold upon the swarming mass, tinging it with many-changing, chameleon, southern tints between the white, motionless wings of the Imperial, whose caryatids look down placidly. The imperial pair step on the balcony. Hats are thrown up towards them; the yelling bellows with a shout as from a single noisy, vulgar throat and echoes through the open doors against the gilt ceiling and columns of the white hall. The empress is frightened by it, turns pale; her breath catches.... On the balcony the Emperor of Liparia salutes his excited people with a solitary wave of the hand; the Duke of Xara bows his head slightly. 2 There was no more talk of a revision of the constitution and reform of the hereditary house of peers. The constitutional majority of three-fourths which is required in the house of deputies before such a proposal can be taken into consideration, though there at first, no longer existed after the new elections. Oscar, immediately after his return from Altara, had shown them his daring strength. Lipara was surrounded with troops: this was as well, for the manoeuvres, for the King of Syria, who was expected. The forts were strengthened, the fleet lay in the harbour; then came the imperial decree that the house of deputies should simply ... be dissolved. What an outcry, after the promulgation of that decree, in the newspapers and in the streets! For one moment, at night, there was an abortive riot. But the emperor, furious with the Marquis of Dazzara for his delay in taking prompt and energetic measures, had next day affirmed his august dissatisfaction. The marquis was shown that there were moments when the emperor was not to be trifled with; the emperor dismissed him personally, on the spot, and told him he could go. Crushed, his eyes full of despair, the marquis left the Imperial; in the fore-court his carriage crossed that of the Duke of Mena-Doni, lieutenant-general of the hussars; he saw the duke's sensual, Neronic head, covetous with ambition, staring up at the front of the palace. The marquis threw himself back in his carriage, wringing his hands and weeping like a child.... That same morning martial law was proclaimed at Lipara and the Duke of Mena-Doni appointed governor of the capital. With a great military display and a speech of three words the emperor dissolved the house of deputies. The people trembled, beaten off, thrashed, reduced to crouching at the imperial feet. The decree was issued for the general election. Must the people be chastised to make them attached to their emperor? Was it because of the innumerable articles in the newspapers of the northern provinces--Altara, Vaza and Lycilia--which bestowed all their sympathy upon their most charming, charitable crown-prince, indefatigable, omnipresent, mitigating what suffering he could? Was it because of the colossal, fabulous presents of millions contributed from the imperial privy purse to the fund for the victims of the disaster? The result of the elections became known: the new house of deputies contained a bare, impotent majority of constitutionals. What did it profit that the liberal papers shrieked of intrigue and undue pressure? Without and within the city lay the army; each day the emperor showed himself, with by his side the Duke of Mena-Doni.... The emperor invited the old ministry to remain in office, but dismissed those of the ministers who were not absolutely authoritative. The crisis was at an end. The great spring manoeuvres were to take place on the parade-ground so soon as the King and Queen of Syria arrived at Lipara. In Othomar there sprang up a vast admiration for his father. He did not love him with the fondness, the intimacy, the still almost childish dependence with which he loved the empress; he had always looked up to him; as a child he had been afraid of him. Now, after the personal courage which he had seen the emperor display, the sovereign power which he had watched him exercise, his majesty rose higher before Othomar's eyes, as it were the statue of a demi-god. He felt himself a lowly mortal beside him, when he thought: "What should _I_ have done, if I had had to act in this case? Should I have dared to take the prompt decision to dissolve the house of deputies and should I not have feared an immediate revolution in every corner of the country? Should I, after the disturbances, have dared to dismiss the Marquis of Dazzara at once, like a lackey, attached as he was to our house and descended from our most glorious nobility? Should I have dared to summon that duke, that swashbuckler, with his cruel face, even before I had dismissed the marquis, so that the one arrived as the other departed?" And he already saw himself hesitating in imagination, not knowing what would be best, above all not knowing what would be most just; he pictured himself advised by old Count Myxila, at last determined to dissolve the deputies, but not dismissing the marquis, not declaring martial law in Lipara and assembling the troops too late and seeing the revolution burst out at all points simultaneously, with bomb upon bomb.... To do what was most just, this seemed to him the most difficult thing for a sovereign. But the emperor's monarchic triumph had this result, that, clearly as Othomar saw his own weakness, a reflex of strength and determination was cast upon him from his father himself, by whose side he stood. Moreover, he had not much time for brooding. Each day brought its special duties. Scarcely was he able to allow himself one hour of solitary repose. He was accustomed to this life of constant movement, of constant public appearances, now here, now there, so thoroughly accustomed to it that he did not feel the fatigue which was already exhausting him before his tour in the north and which had now eaten into his nerves and marrow. He gave this fatigue no thought, regarded it perhaps as an organic languor, a transitory symptom, which was bound to pass. And each day brought its own fatigue. Thus he had grown accustomed to rise early, at seven every morning; Lipara then still lay white and peaceful in its rosy slumber of the dawn; he rode out on his thorough-bred Arab, black Emiro, with his favourite collie close behind him, galloping with him, its pointed nose poked out, its shaggy collar sticking up; unaccompanied by equerries, he rode through the park of the Imperial to the Elizabeth Parks, in the afternoon the resort of elegant carriages and horsemen, but in the morning peaceful, wide and deserted, with barely a solitary early rider, who made way respectfully for the prince and took his hat off low. Then he rode along the white quays with their villas and palm-trees, their terraces and aloes; and the incomparable harbour lay before him, always growing an intenser blue beneath the pink morning light, which became cruder. Higher up, the docks, the ships, the hum of industry already audible. Slowly he walked his horse along the harbour; in the porticoes of the villas he sometimes caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, saw her eyes following him through roses and clematis. He loved this ride because of the soft, fresh air, because of his horse, his dog, because of his solitude with these two, because of the long, silent quays, the wide, silent sky, the distant horizon still just enveloped in latest morning mist. The morning breeze blew against his forehead under his uniform cap; thoughts wandered at random through his brain. Then he shook himself free from this voluptuousness, rode back to the town and went to the Xaverius Barracks, occupied by the lancers; to the Wenceslas Barracks occupied by the grenadiers; or to the Berengar Barracks, occupied by the hussars. Here he enquired, investigated, inspected; and here he found his equerries, Dutri and Leoni; he rode back with them to the palace, and repaired to his father's room. This was the hour when Count Myxila came to the emperor and when affairs of state were discussed with the imperial chancellor; lately the crown-prince had assisted at these meetings. Next he visited the empress, who was expecting him: it was generally a most delightful moment, this which they spent confidentially together before lunch, a moment full of charm and intimacy. He sat close by her on a low chair, took her hand, poured out to her the burdens of his heart, communicated to her his anxiety about the future, about himself when later he himself would wear the crown. At such times his eyes peered up through their lashes, with their dark melancholy; his voice was querulous and begged for comfort. And she encouraged him: she told him that nothing happened but what had to happen; that everything was inevitable in the world's great chain of events, joined link by link; that he must wait for what might come, but at the same time do his duty; and that he must not unnerve himself with such endless pondering, which led to nothing. He told her how he feared his own hesitation and how he suspected that his decisions would always come too late; and she, gently laughing, replied that, if he knew his own faults so well, he should train himself to make his mind. He questioned her about justice--the one thing that seemed impossible to him on earth--and she referred him to his own feeling, as a human soul. But yet, intensely sweet as these hours were, he felt that he remained the same under their interchange of words and that, though words had been exchanged, nothing was changed within him. Wherefore he thought himself wicked and was afraid that he did not love his mother enough, with enough conviction. Then he looked at her, saw her smiling, divined beneath her smile the nervous dread which would never again relinquish its grasp of her and felt that she spoke like this only for his sake, to cheer him, and not from conviction. And his thoughts no longer wandered discursively about him, as on his morning ride along the quays: they fell like fine mists one upon the other in his imagination and formed his melancholy. Lunch was taken privately. After lunch he sat for an hour to Thera, who was painting his portrait. In the afternoon there were always different things to do: exhibitions, charities, institutions of all kinds to be visited, a foundation-stone to be laid, a man-of-war to be launched. Every minute was filled; and each day filled his minutes differently from the day before. Dinner was always a meal of great etiquette and splendour; every day there were numerous guests: diplomatists, high officials, officers. It lasted long; it was an emperor's daily ceremonial banquet. Then in the evening the parties at court, or at the houses of the ambassadors or dignitaries; the theatres and concerts. The prince, however, never stayed late. He then read or worked for a couple of hours in his own room; at twelve o'clock he went to bed. He was used to this life of monotonous variety, had grown up in it. So soon as he returned from Lycilia to Lipara--the city was then still under martial law--he found it waiting for him busier than ever; the opening of parliament had followed close upon his return. The emperor was pleased with the crown-prince's conduct in the north, perhaps because of the praise which the northern newspapers bestowed upon the Duke of Xara for his ready sympathy, because of his moment of popularity. He wanted to let his son take more and more part in affairs of state and discussed them with him more frequently either alone or in the company of the imperial chancellor. But the stern measures of drastic violence which the Duke of Mena-Doni had taken--he himself at Lipara, his officers at Thracyna: furious charges of hussars against the threatening crowds--these revolted Othomar; he had heard of them with anguish and despair, though he knew that there was nothing to be achieved by gentleness. And with his veneration for the emperor, as for a demi-god of will and force, there was mingled a certain antipathy and grudge, which divided him from his father and made any interchange of thought between them difficult. Now, after the opening of parliament, the town, the whole country had quieted down; the troops, however, remained on the parade-ground, for the approaching manoeuvres. The arrival of the King and Queen of Syria was fixed. Othomar's days succeeded one another as before. He was entertained at banquets by the officers of the throne-guards and of the other regiments to which he belonged. Yes, this was his hour of popularity. It was already said that his surname one day would be Othomar the Benevolent. It was at this time that he laid the foundation-stone of a great alms-house, to whose establishment the will of an immensely wealthy, childless duke--one of the oldest Liparian families, which had become extinct--had contributed millions. Othomar's gentleness was in amiable contrast with Oscar's justly exerted but rough force. He himself, however, was inwardly very much astonished at this talk of benevolence: he liked to do good, but did not feel the love of doing good as a leading feature in his character. After the dinner given to him by the staff-officers, Othomar was to go in the evening with Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni to the Duke of Yemena, to thank the court marshal officially for the hospitality shown him at Castel Vaza. The duke occupied at Lipara a large, new house; his old family-residence was at Altara. * * * * * It is nine o'clock; the crown-prince is not yet expected. The duke and duchess, however, are already receiving their guests; the duchess sent out numerous invitations when Othomar announced his visit. The spacious reception-rooms fill up: almost the whole of the diplomatic corps is present, as are some of the ministers and great court-officials with their wives, old Countess Myxila and her daughters and a number of officers. They form the intimate circle of the Imperial. A jaunty familiarity prevails among them, with the _sans-gêne_ in vogue. Near the duchess stands Lady Danbury, the wife of the British first secretary, and the Marquis of Xardi, the duke's son. They are talking busily about the Dazzaras: "I've seen them," says Lady Danbury. "It's shocking, shocking. They're living at Castel Dazzara, that old ruin in Thracyna, with their five daughters, poor things! The ceilings are falling in. Three crooked old men in livery; and the liveries even older than the servants. And debts, according to what I hear, debts! I was astonished to see how old the marchioness had grown; she has taken it terribly to heart, it seems." "Grown old?" asks the duchess. "I thought she looked quite young still, last time I saw her...." She detests Lady Danbury, who is tall, thin and sharp-featured, her appearance rather suggesting that of a graceful adder. And she continues: "She still looked so well; she is slender, but she has a splendid neck and shoulders.... I really cannot understand how she can have grown so old...." And, as though brooding over this puzzle, the duchess stares at the lean shoulders of Lady Danbury. Xardi's eyes glitter; he expects a skirmish. "They say that the marquis _used_ to be one of your intimates, don't they?" the Englishwoman insinuates. But that hateful "used to be" grates on Xardi's nerves. "I am very fond of the Dazzaras," says the duchess; "but"--and she laughs mysteriously and meaningly--"he was always an unlucky bird...." "His excellency the Duke of Mena-Doni," the butler announces. "The rising sun!" Xardi whispers to Lady Danbury. Mena-Doni bows before the duchess, who smiles upon him. Lady Danbury, standing by Xardi's side, continues: "And the lucky bird?" "Oh no!" says Xardi, with decision. "At least, not altogether...." They look at each other and laugh: "Imperial eagles are the finest birds, after all, don't you think?" says Lady Danbury, jestingly. "What do you know about it?" "Alas, I am too unimportant to know anything! Before I get so far in my zoological studies...." "But what have you heard?" "What everybody hears when Dutri can't hold his tongue." "What about?" "About a certain tender parting at Castel Vaza...." The Marquis of Xardi bursts out laughing. Lady Danbury suddenly clutches his arm: "I say, Xardi, I know less slender people than the Marchioness of Dazzara who would fall into a decline if they lost the imperial favour. _Et toi?_" The marquis laughs loudly and: "Even the crown-princely favour," he whispers, behind Lady Danbury's Watteau fan. And they chuckle with laughter together. "His imperial highness the Duke of Xara; their excellencies Count Ducardi, Prince Dutri and the Marquis of Leoni!" are announced, slowly and impressively. There is a slight movement in the groups. The room divides into two rows; a couple of ladies get entangled in their trains and laugh. Then they all wait. Othomar appears at the open door; Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni are behind him. The old duke hastens towards the prince; the Marquis of Xardi hurriedly thrusts Lady Danbury's fan into her hand and joins his father. The old duke is a well-knit, elegant man, full of racial refinement, with a clean-shaven face; he is dressed simply in evening-clothes, with the broad green riband of a commander of the Imperial Orb slanting across his breast and the grand cross of St. Ladislas round his neck. Othomar wears his full-dress uniform as colonel of the Xara Cuirassiers, silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with the Marquis of Xardi. Then the duchess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the Duchess of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the duchess, the prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows with the equerries. Othomar has seen the duchess once or twice at the Imperial since his return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases, with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at an intimate rout. The duchess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion. Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the consolation of her passion, while his eyes were still moist with tears. She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his gratitude has a reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi; and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul. And next to his gratitude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees how deliciously beautiful the duchess is in her ivory brocade, her train edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green, with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face, with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred darkness. He recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps that is what it is ... love. "And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers. The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of momentary solitude is so precious to the duchess that she cannot do otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence; and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies: "To-morrow I am dining with the French ambassador; after that I am going to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?" He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers, laughing disconcertedly: "For God's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!... But ... come to ... Dutri's...." She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this, because he answers, confusedly: "Very well...." They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All eyes are turned in their direction and observe the duchess' triumph.... And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a _liaison_, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that, or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an assignation with the duchess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry, something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of marble or alabaster might be from a frail column.... Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching manoeuvres. He now sees the duchess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni bending his Neronic head close to her face. His great antipathy for this man is mingled with jealousy. And, while he smiles and listens to the Duke of Yemena, he feels that he now knows for certain that his love after all _is_ love, because jealousy plays a part in it. 3 Next morning, when Othomar rode out alone, he was thinking the whole time of Dutri. The difficulty of broaching the subject to his equerry struck him as unsurmountable. His heart beat when he met Dutri waiting for him in the Xaverius Barracks. But the young officer had the tact to whisper to him, very calmly and courteously, as though it were the simplest matter in the world: "I was talking with the Duchess of Yemena, highness.... Her excellency told me that your highness wished to speak to her in private and did me the honour.... Will your highness take this key?..." Othomar mechanically accepted the key. His face remained rigid and serious, but inwardly he felt much annoyed with the duchess and did not understand how and why she could drag Dutri into their secret. The ease and simplicity with which she had evidently done so flashed across him as something alarming. A confusion seemed to whirl through his head, as though the duchess and Dutri had, with one breath, blasted all sorts of firm convictions of his youth. He thought of the old duke. He considered all this wrong. He knew that Dutri was a young profligate; he was in the habit of hearing the whole gazette of court scandal from him, but he had never believed one-half of what Dutri related and had often told the equerry bluntly that he did not like to hear ill spoken of people whom they saw daily, people attached to his house. Now it seemed to him that everything that Dutri had said might be true and that yet worse things might well take place. This key, offered with such simple politeness, with such libertine ease, appeared to him as an object of searing dishonour. He was already ashamed of having put the thing in his pocket.... He went on, however. The key burnt him while he spoke with General Ducardi and, on his return to the Imperial, with his father and Myxila. Before going to visit the empress, who was awaiting him, he locked it away in his writing-table; then slowly, his forehead overshadowed, step by step he went through the long galleries to the empress' apartments. In the anteroom the lady-in-waiting rose, curtseyed, knocked at the door and opened it: "His highness the Duke of Xara...." Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering a church: "May God and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips. Then he entered the empress' room. She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he came up slowly and kissed her hand. She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool, slim hands and kissed him. He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over his forehead: "What's the matter?" she asked. He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more: "I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said. He looked up at her. "He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions." This opinion of his father's surprised him. "And about what did you promise to talk to me?" "About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile. "About your marriage, Othomar." "My marriage?..." "Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his monastery. And we--papa and I--are not ever likely to have any more children, Othomar." She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered: "We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince, a Count of Lycilia...." His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her: "Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not that enough, mamma?" She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria. "Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social question, they deplore that so many children are born among the proletariate and they even hold the poor parents, who have nothing else but their love, responsible for the greater social misery which they cause through those children. Does not this reproach really affect us also? Or do you think an emperor so happy?" Her brow became overcast. "You are in one of your gloomy moods, Othomar. For God's sake, my boy, do not give way to them. Do not philosophize so much; accept life as it has been given to you. That is the only way in which to bear it. Do not reflect whether you will be happy, when you are emperor, but accept the fact that you must become emperor in your turn." "Very well, for myself: but why children, mamma?" "What sovereign allows his house to die out, Othomar? Do not be foolish. Cling to tradition: that is all in all to us. Don't have such strange ideas upon this question. They are not those of a future--I had almost said--autocrat; they are not those of a monarch. You understand, Othomar, do you not? You must, you must marry...." Her voice sounded more decided than usual, sounded almost hard. "And, dearest boy," she continued, "thank the circumstances and marry now, as quickly as possible. Our relations with foreign countries are at this moment such that there are no particular indications as to whom you ought to marry. You can more or less pick and choose. For you are the crown-prince of a great empire, my boy, of one of the greatest empires in Europe...." He tried to speak; she continued, hurriedly: "I repeat, you can--very nearly--choose. You don't know how much that means. Appreciate this, appreciate the circumstances. Travel to all the courts of Europe that are worth considering. Use your eyes, make your choice. There are pretty princesses in England, in Austria...." Othomar closed his eyes an instant, as though exhausted with weariness: "Later on, mamma," he whispered. "No, my boy," said the empress, "do not speak of later on, do not put off. Think it over. Think how you will order your journey and whom you will take with you and then talk it over with papa and Myxila. Will you promise?" He just pressed his head against her and promised, with a weary smile. "But what's the matter with you, my boy?" she asked. "What is it?" His eyes grew moist. "I don't know, mamma. I am so tired sometimes...." "Aren't you well?" "Yes, I'm all right, but I am so tired...." "But why, my child?" He began to sob softly: "Tired ... of everything ... mamma." She looked at him for a long time, shook her head slowly, disapprovingly. "Forgive me, mamma," he stammered, wiping his eyes. "I shan't give way like this again...." "You promised me that once before, Othomar dear." He leant his head against her once more, like a child: "No, really," he declared, caressingly, "I really will resist it. It is not right of me, mamma. I will employ myself more, I shall grow stronger. I swear to you I shall grow stronger for your sake...." She again looked long in his eyes, with her pure smile. Utter tenderness went out from her to him; he felt that he would never love any one so much as his mother. Then she took him in her arms and pressed him close against her: "I accept your promise and I thank you ... my poor boy!" she whispered through her kiss. At this moment there came a buzz of young voices, as though from birds set free, out of the park, through the open windows. The tripping of many little feet grated on the gravel. A high, shrill, childish voice suddenly rang with furious words from among the others; the others were silent.... The empress started with a shock that was electric. She drew herself up hastily, deadly pale: "Berengar!" she cried; and her voice died away. "And I shall tell his majesty what a scoundrel you are and then we'll see! Then we'll see, then we'll see!..." The empress trembled as she leant out of the window. She saw ten or eleven little boys; they looked perplexed. "Where is his highness?" she asked. "His highness is over there, ma'am!" shyly answered a little count, pointing to the back-court, which the empress could not see. "But what is happening? What a noise to make! Send his highness here at once! Berengar! Berengar!" His highness, Berengar, was called and came. He passed through the little dukes and counts and looked up at the window through which his mother was leaning. He was a small, sturdily built, vigorous little chap; his face was crimson with indignation, his two small, furious eyes were like two black sparks. "Berengar, come here!" cried the empress. "What is all this? Why can't you play without quarrelling?" "I'm not quarrelling, mamma, but ... but I shall tell papa ... and ... and then we'll see! Then we'll ..." "Berengar, come in here at once, through the palace, at once!" commanded the empress. Othomar looked out from behind the empress at the group of boys. He saw Berengar speak a word of apology to the biggest little duke and disappear through the back-court. A minute later, the boy entered the room. "Berengar," said the empress, "it's very bad manners to make such a noise in the park ... and just behind the palace too." The boy looked at her with his serious little crimson face: "Yes, mamma," he assented, gently. "What happened?" Berengar's lips began to tremble. "It was that beastly sentry ..." he began. "What about the sentry?" "He ... he didn't present arms to me!" "Didn't the sentry present arms to you? Why not?" "I don't know!" cried Berengar, indignantly. "But surely he always does?" "Yes, but this time he did not. He did the first time when we passed, but not the second time.... We were playing touch and, when we ran past him the second time, he didn't present arms!" Othomar began to scream with laughter. "There's nothing to laugh at!" cried Berengar, angrily. "And I shall tell papa and then you shall see." "But, Berengar," said the empress, "did you expect the man to present arms to you every time you ran past him while you were playing touch?" Berengar reflected: "He might at least have done it the second time. If it had been three, or four, or five times, I could have understood.... But only the second time!... What can the boys have thought of me?" "Listen, Berengar," said the empress, "whatever happens, it is not at all proper for you to call people names, whoever they may be, nor to make such a noise in the park, right behind the palace. An emperor's son never calls names, not even to a sentry. So now you must go straight to that sentry and tell him you are sorry you lost your temper so." "Mamma!" cried the child, in consternation. The empress' face was inflexible: "I insist, Berengar." The boy looked at her with the greatest astonishment: "But am I to say that ... to the sentry, mamma?" "Yes." Evidently Berengar at this moment failed to understand the order of the universe; he suspected for an instant that the revolution had broken out: "But, mamma, I can't do that!" "You must, Berengar, and at once." "But, mamma, will papa approve of it?" "Certainly, Berengar," said Othomar. "Whatever mamma tells you to do papa of course approves of." The boy looked up at Othomar helplessly; his little face grew long, his sturdy little fists quivered. Then he burst into a fit of desperate sobbing. "Come, Berengar, go," the empress repeated. The child was still more dismayed by her severity: that was how he always saw her stare at the crowd, but not at her children. And he threw himself with the small width of his helpless little arms into her skirts, embraced her and sobbed, with great, gulping sobs: "I can't do it, mamma, I can't do it!" "You must, Berengar...." "And ... and ... and I _shan't_, I _shan't!_" the boy screamed, in a sudden fury, stamping his foot. The empress did nothing but look at him, very long, very long. Her reproachful glance crushed the boy. He sobbed aloud and seemed to forget that his little friends outside would be sure to hear his highness sobbing. He saw that there was nothing to be done, that he must do it. He must! His imperial highness Berengar Marquis of Thracyna, knight of St. Ladislas, must say he was sorry to a sentry and one moreover who denied him, his highness, his rights. His medieval little childish soul was all upset by it. He understood nothing more. He only saw that he must do as he was told, because his mother looked at him with such a sad expression: "Othomar!" he sobbed, in his despair. "Othomar! Will ... you ... go with me ... then? But how am I to do it, how am I to do it?" Othomar smiled to him compassionately and held out his hand to him. The empress nodded to the princes to go. "How am I to do it? O God, how am I to do it?" she still heard Berengar's voice sobbing desperately in the lobby. Elizabeth had turned deadly pale. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a chair, with her head flung back. Hélène of Thesbia entered at this moment: "Madam!" cried the young countess. "What is it?" The empress put out her hand; Hélène felt that it was icy cold. "Nothing, Hélène," she replied. "But Berengar frightened me so terribly. I thought ... I thought they were murdering him!" And in an hysterical fit of spasmodic sobbing she threw herself into the countess' arms. 4 That night, before Othomar left with his equerries to dine at the French ambassador's, he drew Dutri aside: "I see, prince, that her excellency the duchess confides in you fully," he said, in curt tones. "I do not doubt that her confidence is well placed. But I assure you of this: if it should ever appear that it was misplaced, I shall never--now or at any later period--forget it...." Dutri looked up strangely; he heard his future emperor address him. Then he pouted like a sulky child and said: "I cannot say that your highness is very grateful for the hospitality which I have offered you...." Othomar smiled painfully and gave him his hand.... "Or that it is kind of your highness to threaten me to-day with your displeasure," Dutri continued. "I know you, Dutri," the prince said in his ear. "I know your tongue. That's my only reason for warning you.... And now, for God's sake, say no more about this, for it ... it all gives me pain...." Dutri was silent, thought him a child and a prince in one. He shrugged his shoulders silently at Othomar's incomparable innocence, but he shuddered when he thought of a possible disgrace. He had no fortune; his position with the crown-prince was his life, his ambition, his all, for now and for later, when the prince should be emperor!... How pleased he had been at first that Alexa had told him everything, that he knew a secret of his prince, who never seemed to have any secrets! A vague pleasure that this secret would give him a power over his future emperor had already flitted through his head, full of frivolous calculations. And now the prince was threatening him and that power was frustrated at its very inception! And Dutri was now almost sorry that he had learned this secret; he even feared that the emperor might come to hear of it, that he would be visited with the father's displeasure even before the son's.... "If only Alexa had not dragged me into it!" he complained to himself, with his shallow fickleness of thought. But, although Dutri was silent and even contradicted the rumour, the crown-prince's _liaison_ was discussed, possibly only because of Alexa's triumphant glances whenever Othomar addressed a word to her at a reception, at a ball. Nevertheless, Dutri's contradiction introduced a certain confusion--for he was known as a ready blabber--and people did not know what to think or what to believe. But Othomar did not feel happy in his love. The fierce passion of this woman with her fiery glances, who overpowered him one moment with her kisses and the next crept before him like a slave and crouched at his feet in humility before her future sovereign, at first astonished him and, in one or two of his fits of despair, carried him away, but in the long run aroused in him a feeling of disinclination and opposition. In the young equerry's scented flat where they met--it was as dainty as any young girl's sitting-room and padded like a jewel-case--he sometimes felt a wish to repulse this woman, for all that she loved him with her strange soul and did not feign her love; he felt a wish to kick her, to beat her. His temperament was not fit for so animal a passion. She seemed to harry his nerves. She revolted him at times. And yet ... one single word from him and she mastered her fierceness, sank down humbly by his side, softly stroked his hand, his head; and he could not doubt that she adored him, perhaps a little because he was the crown-prince, but also greatly for himself. And so April came; already it was almost summer; the King and Queen of Syria were expected. They had been first to the sultan and afterwards to the court of Athens. From Liparia they were to go on to the northern states of Europe. On the day of their arrival, Lipara fluttered with flags; the southern sun, already potent, rained down gold upon the white city; the harbour rippled a brilliant blue. A hum of people--tanned faces, many peasants from Thracyna still clad in their parti-coloured national dress--swarmed and crowded upon the quays. On the azure of the water, as on liquid metal, the ironclads, which were to welcome the king and queen and serve as their escort, steamed out to the mouth of the harbour. There, on the _Xaveria_, with their suite of admirals and rear-admirals, were the two princes, Othomar and Berengar, and their brother-in-law, the Archduke of Carinthia. Innumerable small boats glided rapidly over the sea, like water-spiders. A shot from Fort Wenceslas, tearing the vivid ether, announced the moment at which the little fleet met the Syrian yacht and the oriental potentates left her for the _Xaveria_. From the villas on the quays, from the little boats full of sight-seers, every glass was directed towards the blue horizon, tremulous with light, on which the ships were still visibly shimmering. Half an hour later there rose, as though coming from the Imperial, the cheers of the multitude, surging louder and louder towards the harbour. Through the rows of the grenadiers, who lined the streets from the palace to the pavilion where the august visitors were to land, came the landaus, driven by postillions, in which their majesties sat. These were followed by the carriages of the two sisters, the Archduchess of Carinthia and Thera, and of the suite. The fleet, with the Syrian yacht in its centre, had steamed back into the harbour. Across the guard-of-honour formed by the throne-guards, through the purple draperies and the flags, the crowd were able to see something of the meeting of the sovereigns in the pavilion. They shouted their hurrahs; and then the procession drove to the Imperial, the emperor with the King of Syria in the first carriage, the empress with the queen in the next; after these, the landaus with the princes and princesses and the suite. A series of festivals and displays followed. After the tragedies of the inundations and the parliamentary crisis, a mood of gaiety blew over the capital, as it glittered in the sun, and lasted till late in the lighted rooms and parks of the Imperial. This gaiety was because of the eastern queen. The King of Syria may have had a few drops of the blood of Solomon still flowing through his veins. But the queen was not of royal descent. She was the daughter of a Syrian magnate and her mother's name was not mentioned in the _Almanach de Gotha_. That mother was doubtless a favourite of dubious noble descent, but nobody knew who she had been exactly. A _demi-mondaine_ from Paris or Vienna, who had stranded in the east and made her fortune in the harem of some great Syrian? A half-European, half-Egyptian dancer from a Cairene or Alexandrian dancing-house? Whoever she was, her lucky daughter, the Queen of Syria, showed an unmistakable mixture of blood, something at once eastern and European. Next to the true Semitic type of the king, who possessed a certain nervous dignity in his half-European, half-oriental uniform glittering with diamonds, the queen, short, fat, chubby, pale-brown, had the exuberant smiles, the restless movements, the turning head and rolling eyes of a woman of colour. Her very first appearance, as she sat in the carriage, next to the delicate figure of the Empress Elizabeth, in a gaudy travelling-dress and a hat with great feathers, bowing and laughing on every side with profuse amiability, had affected the Liparians, accustomed to the calm haughtiness of their own rulers, with an apparently inextinguishable gaiety. The Queen of Syria became the universal topic of conversation; and every conversation referring to her was accented with a smile of wickedness. Withal she seemed so entirely good-natured that it was impossible to say a word against her; and people were only amused about her. They remembered that the Syrians had subscribed fabulous sums at the time of the inundations. And the merriment that blew over Lipara was a southern merriment, free from malice and vented in sheer jolly laughter and delight, because the Liparians had never seen so droll a queen. The great manoeuvres took place on the parade-ground. The king accompanied the emperor and the princes on horseback, with a bevy of European and oriental aides-de-camp. Their consorts with their suite watched the march-past from landaus. Berengar marched bravely with his company of grenadiers, in which he was a lieutenant, as well as he could march with his short little legs, and stiffened his small features, so as not to betray the difficulty it cost him to keep pace with his men's long step. The hussars astonished the Syrian monarch by their unity with their horses, when in wild career they threw themselves half off and in still more rapid rushes picked up a flag from the ground, swung themselves up again with a yell and waved the bunting. The Africans executed their showy fantasias, brandished their spears, which flashed like loosened sheaves of sunbeams, and came fluttering on in clouds of white burnouses and dust, amid which their negro heads clustered darkly in endless black patches and their eyes glistened. In addition there was a military tournament, followed by garden-parties, races, regattas, popular games and fireworks. Lipara was one city of pleasure. Every day it was traversed by royal processions, the array of uniforms glittered like live gold, the imperial landaus rattled in the sun, with the spokes of their wheels flashing through the light dust which flew up from the flagged pavements of the town. Most brilliant of all, like drops of white flame, were the diamonds which the Syrian pair wore even in the streets. At night, when the sun ceased shining, there shone over the white town, vague with evening light, and over its violet harbour, festoons of salamanders and gaudy bridges of fire, factitiously bright beneath the silent silver glances of the stars; rockets fell hissing into the water, on which the boats showed black, and left behind them a faint, oppressive savour of gunpowder in the night. In the great hall of pillars the ceremonial banquets followed one after the other, with a display of gold plate of incredible value. The Queen of Syria wore her curious, theatrical costumes, her broad bosom always crossed by the blue ribbon of an order covered with badges; her hair was dressed with tall plumes, hung with small diamonds. She talked with great vivacity, thankful for the kindness of her Liparian friends, for the enjoyment and for the cheering. Her profuse gestures enlivened everybody, introduced an element of fun into the stately Liparian etiquette. Elizabeth herself could not but laugh at them. The queen played her royal part with the self-possession of a bad but good-natured actress. She spoke to everybody, spread amiable little atoms of her small, chubby, brown majesty over one and all. Next her sat the king, looking dignified and wise as Solomon. The emperor praised him for a sensible, broad-minded sovereign: the king had already paid many visits to Europe. The Syrian aide-de-camps were dignified too, calm and composed, a little stiff in their ways, adapting themselves to western manners; the queen's ladies-in-waiting wore the trains of their Paris or London dresses a little strangely, but still looked slender in them, brown and attractive, with their curly little heads and long, almond-shaped eyes: still they would have been prettier in draped gold-gauze. The Syrians stayed twelve days before going on to Italy. It was the last evening but one: in the Imperial a suite of fourteen rooms had been lighted up around the great ballroom for a ball. Three thousand invitations had been sent out. In the fore-court and in the neighbouring main-streets stood the grenadiers. The ballroom was at the back of the palace; the tall, balconied windows were open and looked across their balustrades upon the shadows of the park of plane-trees. The band resounded from the groups of palms in the gallery. The imperial quadrille had been formed in the centre of the room: the emperor with the queen, the king and the empress, the Archduke of Carinthia and Thera, Othomar with the archduchess. The other official quadrilles formed their figures around them. Hundreds of guests looked on. From the coruscating rock-crystal of the chandeliers, the electric light flowed in white patches out of the high dome, glided along the inlaid-marble walls and porphyry pillars of the ballroom and poured in millions of scintillations on the smooth facets of the jewels, on the gold of the uniforms and court-dresses, on the shimmering white brocades of the trains; for white was prescribed: all the ladies were in white; and the snow of the velvets, the lily glow of the satins were silver-shrill. One blinding whirl of refulgence passed through the immense room with its changing glamours. For the light never stood still, continually changed its brightest spot, turned the ball into one glittering kaleidoscope. The light gilded each bit of gold-lace, was caught in every brilliant, hung in every pearl. The music seemed to be one with that light; the brass resounded like gold. The Duchess of Yemena stood among a group of diplomatists and equerries; she rose monumental in her beauty, which was statuesque and splendid in this wayward illumination. She seemed supernaturally tall, thanks to the heavy Watteau plait which trailed from her back in white brocade. She wore her tiara of emeralds and brilliants; and the same green stones sparkled in a great jewelled spray that blossomed over her bodice. The emperor came up to her; she drooped in her famous curtsey and Oscar jested with her for a moment. When the emperor had passed on, she saw the crown-prince approach. She curtseyed again; he bowed smilingly and offered her his arm. Slowly they went through the ballroom. "I have something important to say to you," he whispered, in a conversational tone. He could not move away with her; they would be missed. So they continued to walk through the rooms. "It is so long since I saw you ... alone!" she whispered, reproachfully, in the same voice. "And what did ... what did your highness wish to say to me?" They spoke cautiously, with the smile of cool conversation on their lips, deadening the sound of their voices, casting indifferent glances around them, to see whether they could be overheard. "Something ... that I have long wanted to tell you.... A decision I have to take...." The words came crumbling in fragments from his lips and not sounding with their true accent, from caution. She perceived that he was about to tell her some great piece of news. She trembled without knowing why.... He himself did not know whether what he was doing was cruel or not: he did not know this woman well enough for that. But he did know that he had purposely chosen this difficult moment for his interview, because he was uncertain how she would bear it ... how she would bear it in a _tête-à-tête_, when she would be able to give way to her passion. Here he knew how she would bear it: smilingly, as a woman of the world, although it turned to anguish for her. Perhaps after all he was cruel.... But it was too late now: he must go through with it. She looked up at him, moving the feathers of her fan. He continued: "A decision.... When our Syrian guests have left ... I ... I am going on a journey...." "Where to, highness?" "To ... to different European courts...." She asked nothing more; her smile died away; then she smiled again, like an automaton. She asked nothing more, because she well knew what it meant when a crown-prince went on a journey to different European courts. That meant a bridal progress. And she merely said, in a voice that could not but sound plaintively: "So soon?..." So soon!... Was her imperial romance to last so short a time? She had indeed known that this might be the end of it, for she knew him to be too pure to retain her by the side of a young consort. Also she had pictured an end like this after a year, two years perhaps, she withdrawing herself, and she had pictured to herself that she would do so without any feeling of spite against her young future empress. But now! So soon! Barely a few weeks! So short a time as that no romance of her life had ever lasted! She felt an aching melancholy; a mist hazed over her eyes; and the lights of the ballroom shimmered before her as if through water. She constantly forgot to smile, but, so soon as she remembered, she smiled again: "So soon?..." "It must be...." Yes, it must be, it could not be otherwise. For her, this was the end of her life. She felt no despair because of this ending; only a smarting sorrow. It was the end. After this imperial romance there would be no other. Oh no, never more! She would sacrifice her youth to it; she would launch her stepdaughters into society. She would be grateful that she had lived and would now grow old. But old: she was still so young, she still felt herself so young! She now first perceived how she loved her crown-prince. And she would have liked to be elsewhere, far from the brilliant ball, to embrace him once more alone, for the last time.... Oh, this sorrow because everything must end, as though nothing were more than a fleeting perfume!... "I am trusting you, duchess," he now said. "I hope you will say nothing about this journey. You understand, it is all still a secret; no choice has been made yet ... it has been discussed with no one except their majesties and Myxila. I can trust you, can't I?" She smilingly nodded yes. "But I wanted to tell you at once," he continued. She smiled again. At this moment a strange storm seemed to burst ... behind the palace, under the palace, where? Right through the blare of the music and the blaze of the light, a crash of thunder shook and rolled. It was as though the palace had been struck by lightning, for immediately afterwards, through the open windows, there came from one of the back-wings of the palace a rattling clatter of stones, which seemed tossed into the air, of great rafters, which fell noisily and roughly, of shivers of glass, which seemed to be splintering shrilly on every side.... The music was suddenly silenced. The uniforms, the court-trains rushed to the open balconies, which overlooked the park; but the night was dark, the park was hushed. A last couple of rafters seemed to be still falling, with a last crash of stones.... In the bright glare of the electric light, faces turned deathly pale, like the faces of corpses. Eyes stared at one another in terror. The duchess half-sank against Othomar when she saw Elizabeth tear past her with wild, vacant eyes and out at a door, her long, white velvet train trailing madly after her, round the corner. The mistress of the robes followed her; so did Hélène of Thesbia. The emperor appeared to give the chamberlains some hurried orders; then he also left the ballroom, accompanied by a few officers. Shortly afterwards the music again burst forth from the balcony in the gallery. Many equerries and aides-de-camp were seen bowing to their partners, the ladies trembling as they rose. The ball proceeded; the uniforms and trains glittered as before in the windings of the waltz. But the smiles seemed to have been obliterated from the dancers' features and their pallid faces turned the ball into a dance of death. Leoni, shivering, bowed before Othomar: "A dynamite explosion, low down in the cellars of the western back-wing. The anterooms of his majesty's private apartments are destroyed. His majesty requests your highness to make every effort to continue the ball. All officers and court-ladies are commanded to dance." The duchess clutched Othomar's arm, almost fainting. The rumour spread around them. The equerries dragged their partners along half-swooning. Two were seen carried away in a dead faint. The Queen of Syria stood vacantly beside the Archduke of Carinthia, who put his arm round her heavy waist to dance. She did not yet seem able to make up her mind. Othomar passed his arm round the duchess: "O God, I can't do it!" she stammered. "For God's sake, highness, don't ask me!..." "We must," he said. "His majesty wishes it...." "His majesty wishes...." she repeated. Her legs trembled beneath her as though with electric thrills. Then she let him take her and they danced. Every one danced. The empress had rushed up the stairs and along the galleries to the bedroom-floor. She did not see that two ladies were following her; she thrust back a door: "Berengar!" she screamed. The young prince's bedroom was lighted. The boy had half-risen, in his little shirt, from his camp-bed. His valet and a chambermaid stood in dismay in the middle of the room. "Berengar!" the empress gasped out, rejoicing when she saw him unharmed. She threw her arms around him, pressed him to her bosom. "Oh, mamma, you're hurting me!" cried the boy, indignantly. Her jewels had brought a drop of blood from his little bare chest. She now embraced him more gently, with nervous sobs that choked in her throat. A spray of diamond ostrich-feathers fell to the ground; the maid picked them up with awkward fingers. "Mamma, are they blowing up the palace?" "No, Berengar, no, it's nothing...." "Mamma, I want to go and look! I must see what's happening!" "Berengar...." The door had been left open; the emperor entered, calmly. The ladies stood in the corridor, waiting for the empress.... "Papa, may I go with you and look?" "No, Berengar, there's nothing to see. Go to sleep...." Then he offered his arm to Elizabeth: "Madam," he said, tranquilly. She threw him an imploring glance. He continued to hold out his arm to her. Then she kissed the boy once more, soothed him to sleep: "Wait a moment," she stammered to Oscar. She went to the glass; the maid, with her clumsy fingers, fastened the jewelled spray to the edge of the low-cut bodice, spread out the square train. "I'm ready," the empress said to Oscar, in a lifeless voice. She took his arm; the emperor just pressed her hand; and they nodded once more to Berengar and went. Arm-in-arm the imperial pair appeared for the second time at the ball. The empress was pale but smiling. She was magnificent, delicate with dainty majesty in the trailing white velvet, upon which, on the bodice and over the front of the skirt, flickered sprays of diamond ostrich-feathers, formed into fleurs-de-lys. An empress' crown of brilliants crowned her small, round head. It was two o'clock. Generally the sovereigns were accustomed to stay till one o'clock at the court balls. The Queen of Syria, however, in her exuberant love of life, had begged them to stay longer. They had consented. Had they left at one o'clock, the explosion would have taken place at the moment when Oscar would probably just have entered his apartments. They had first talked of the anterooms only: but it would now appear that great damage had also been done to the emperor's own room. Supper began. They supped in a large hall; from every table rose a palm-tree and the hall was thus turned into a forest of palms. The floor was strewn with gold sand, which powdered the trains as their wearers walked upon it. Electric light shone through the long leaves like moonlight. In this moonlight the faces remained deadly white, like patches of chalk, above the glittering crystal and all the gold plate. The music clattered with great cymbal-strokes of brass. 5 "To HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF GOTHLAND. "IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_May_, 18--. "MY DEAREST SISTER, "At last I can find time to write to you. The excitement of the visit of our good Syrians is over and Lipara has calmed down. But my reflections are nothing but sadness. And this is why, Olga. "I fear that Othomar is much more ill than the doctors perceive. He has become thinner and looks very bad. He never complains much, but yet he told me lately that he often felt tired. The doctors think that he needs a rest and recommend a long sea-voyage. His journey through Europe, about which I wrote to you in my last, will have to be postponed. And now I want to ask you a favour. "I know that Herman is soon going to take a long voyage on the _Viking_ to India, Japan and America; and it would be my fondest wish at this moment that Othomar might accompany him. When the doctors advised a sea-voyage, I discussed the matter to Oscar, but we came to no decision. My boy, you must know, Olga, has no friend of his own age; and this made me so sad and we did not know how nor with whom to send him on this voyage in a way which would be pleasant for him and which would not involve a solitary banishment from our home-circle. He is on excellent terms with his equerries, but yet that is not what I should desire: a cordial, mutual, confidential friendship with some one of his own age with whom he could spend a certain time, solely with a view to enjoyment and relaxation. "I know quite well that it is to some extent my boy's fault and due to his innate diffidence and reticence. Nevertheless he has qualities for which he could easily be loved, if they were known, if he allowed them to appear. Don't you agree, Olga? You are fond of him too: it is not only my own blind mother's love that finds my son lovable and sympathetic? And that is why I should be so very glad if Herman would take him with him and learn to know him better: who knows whether they would not then come to love each other! Othomar has already told me that, on their journey through the north of Liparia, they were drawn much closer together than they had thought they would be; but it was a busy time: every moment was filled with duties and business and they had no time to talk together and get to know each other. And yet, at such a difficult period of united labour, two young men can learn to know each other even without talking. At any rate, they have already become more friendly. At one time, Olga, they used to dislike each other, to my bitter sorrow; they would even not meet; even outwardly there was nothing but coolness between them: oh, how unhappy all this used to make me, when I saw our boys so hostile to each other and remembered how _we_ used to be, Olga, when we were girls together in our beautiful old castle near Bucharest! How we lived bound up in each other! Olga, Olga, how terribly long ago that all is! Our parents are dead, our brothers dispersed, the castle is deserted and we are separated: when do we see each other? Scarcely now and then, for a couple of days at a time, when we meet somewhere for a wedding of relations; and then these are always restless days, when we can see next to nothing of each other. Then, sometimes, not even every year, a fortnight either in Gothland or here. You sometimes reproach me that I, who am so fond of Gothland, come to you so seldom, but it is always for the same reason: Othomar does not care to leave Liparia and I can't leave my husband. I can be strong when I am at his side, but alone I am so weak, Olga. That anything might happen to _him_ which I should not share increases my dread unbearably. I felt that again quite lately, when I was with Thera at Altara: our visit was announced and binding; and, however unwilling I was to leave Oscar, I was obliged to go, was I not? It was just at that trying period; Lipara was under martial law. But Oscar wished me to go and I went. Oh, how I suffered at that time! "But I am becoming used to my fears, I do not complain and I accept life as it comes; I only hope that my boy will also learn to accept it thus. Perhaps he will learn. Indeed it is not so easy for him, for he will have to do more than his mother, who, as a woman, can be much more passive; and it is easier to learn to acquiesce passively than actively. But the Saints will surely give him strength later to bear his lot and his crown; this I rely upon. And yet, O Olga, it makes me so immensely sad that we are sovereigns! But let me not continue in this strain: it weakens one, it is not right, it is not right.... "There is also a secret reason why I should like to get Othomar away from Lipara, though it always grieves me so much to part from my darling. There seems after all to be some truth in those rumours about the Duchess of Yemena: Oscar asked Myxila about it and he could not deny it and even said that it was generally known. I do my best not to take it too much to heart, Olga, but I think it a terrible thing. O God, let me not think or write about it any more; otherwise it will go whirling so in my poor head! What can my son see in a woman who is older than his own mother! What a terrible world, this is, Olga, in which these things take place; and how can there be such women, whom you and I will never understand! For, after all, temperament is not everything: every woman has her own heart; and in that we ought all to see one another; but it would seem that we can't. In my sadness about this, I prefer to assume that the woman loves my boy and therefore deceives her husband. Oh, it is so wicked also of my boy: why need he be like this, he who is otherwise so good! I just assume that she loves him. Not long ago we had my last drawing-room, the function with which, as you know, our winter-season ends; and, when she came up to me and bowed before me and pressed her lips to my hand, she must have felt my disapproval and my sadness radiating from my fingers, for she rose out of her curtsey with a desperate look of anguish in her eyes and a sort of sob in her throat! I stared at her coldly, but all the same I pitied her, Olga, for, when a woman of our world is so little able to control herself at a ceremonial moment, in the presence of her empress, her soul must have sustained a severe shock: do you not think so too? "We are now quiet. In a week we are going to our summer-quarters in Xara, at Castel Xaveria; the weather is already very hot here. I should so much like to have your answer before we leave and to know how Herman takes my request. I know that he is very fond of me and will doubtless gladly grant it and that he will try to like Othomar for my sake; and let me hasten to add that it is also _Othomar's_ dearest wish that he should travel with Herman. The sea-voyage did not attract him in the least at first, because he knew of no one to take with him and he said he preferred to go with us to Castel Xaveria; but, when I mentioned Herman, he joined in my plan entirely. "Olga, what will the summer bring us, peace or not? I dare not hope. The winter has been horrible; our northern provinces have not yet recovered from the disasters. The misery there is irretrievable. There is an epidemic of typhoid and there have been many cases of cholera. The strikes in the east are now over, but I am so afraid of that rough, violent repression. Oh, if everything could only be done with gentleness! That attempt on Othomar's life and the explosion at the last ball have also made me so ill. How I should love to see you and take you in my arms: can you not come to Castel Xaveria and spend the summer with us? It would give me such intense, such intense pleasure! "Kiss Siegfried and the children for me. And answer me soon, will you not? I embrace you fervently. "Your affectionate sister, "ELIZABETH." CHAPTER IV 1 August, on the Baltic. The grey billows curl against the rocks with high, rounded crests of thick foam. The sky above is one wide cupola, through which drift great mountain-ranges of grey-white clouds. They come up slowly, filling the firmament with their changing, shadowy masses, like chains of rocks and Alps floating on the air, and slowly drift away again. The sea has a narrow beach, with many crumbling cliffs; quite close at hand loom sombre green pine-woods. With the gloom of the pine-woods for a background, as it were half out of the cliffs rises old Altseeborgen. It is a weather-beaten castle, at which the writhing waves seem to gnaw; its three tall, uneven towers soar round and massive into the sky. The broad road to the castle slants up from the woods terrace-wise and leads to the esplanade at the back, where the main entrance is. Round the castle the wide granite terraces are cut into stairs, with their rugged balustrades, whose freestone is worn away by the salt air. These terraces enjoy a more extensive view of the sea as they rise higher, higher; and, seen from the topmost terrace, the sea lies against the beach, to right and left, in one great, strangely mobile expanse, a living element. Across the sea the south-winds blow upon the castle; the pine-woods shelter it to some extent from the northernly gales. From the tallest tower an imposing standard flaps gaily in the air: two yellow stripes and a white stripe between, with the dark patch of the crenellated fortress which forms the arms of Gothland. It floats there on the sunless morning like a smile in the sky; it swells and falls limp again and then again lets itself be blown high up by the wind, which comes swinging lustily over the water. A young man and a girl are walking on the beach; they talk, smile, look at each other. She is taller than he, with a very fair complexion; under her little sailor-hat a few of her auburn tresses, tangled by the wind, blow across her face; she keeps on smoothing them away. She wears a simple blue serge skirt and a white blouse, with a broad leather belt around her waist. Her dainty little feet, in their black-silk stockings and yellow-leather shoes, are constantly uncovered by the wind. She carelessly swings a pair of gloves in her hand. The young man wears a light check summer suit and a straw hat. He is short and slender; his black eyes have a look of gentle melancholy. He appears to be telling the girl by his side a tale of travel; she listens, with her smile. Round about them, in spite of the wind, the atmosphere is full of peace. Walking along the beach, they go by the castle, pass round behind it and look up. From one of the windows somebody gaily waves a hand and calls out something. They try to hear, with their hands to their ears, but they shrug their shoulders: the wind has blown the words away. They wave their hands again and walk on. They do not go far, however, always along the beach. Yonder lies the fishing-village, lie a couple of small villas, almost cottages. One of them seems just to have been taken by a large family, for the holiday-month no doubt; a hum of voices issues from it, children chase one another along the beach; a tiny girl, in running, bumps against the young man. "Hullo there!" he says, pleasantly, with a laugh. Laughing they walk on. The children run along. A fisherman comes with his nets, grins cheerily and mutters a greeting. A fat lady in the verandah has been watching the young people inquisitively; she sees the fisherman touch his cap and beckons to him: "Who are that lady and gentleman?" The fisherman points cheerily to Altseeborgen: "From the castle." "But who are they?" asks the lady, alarmed. "Well, the gentleman is the Prince of Liparia and the young lady is an Austrian princess," says the fisherman, as if it could not well be anybody else. The lady looks in dismay after the princely pair and then in despair at her running children. The young couple are just turning back in their walk; they are now laughing even more gaily than before and are hastening a little towards the castle, as though they had delayed too long. The lady, still pale, does not dare to offer excuses, but makes a low bow; she receives a pleasant greeting in return. 2 The royal family of Gothland were in the habit of spending the whole summer at Altseeborgen. The beach was particularly well-suited for laying out a watering-place around the fishing-village, but King Siegfried would never hear of this: the beach and the village were royal domains; a few modest villas were all that he had granted permission to build. Generally these were visited in the summer by two or three middle-class families with their children. Altseeborgen should never become a modern bathing-place, however excellent the fashionable world might consider it as a means of summer display, lying as it did in the immediate neighbourhood of the royal castle. But the Gothlandic family made a point of guarding the freedom of their summer lives. They lived there for four months, without palace-etiquette, in the greatest simplicity. They formed a numerous family; and there were always many visitors. The king attended to state-affairs in homely fashion at the castle. His grandchildren would run into his room while he was discussing important business with the prime minister, who came down to Altseeborgen on certain days. He just patted their flaxen curls and sent them away to play, with a caress. Staying at the castle were the Crown-prince Gunther and the Crown-princess Sofie, a German princess--Duke and Duchess of Wendeholm--with their four children, a girl and three boys. Next to the duke came Prince Herman; next to him Princess Wanda, twenty years of age; next to her, the younger princes, Olaf and Christofel. In addition there were always two old princesses, sisters of the king, widows of German princes. From all the courts of Europe, which were as one great family, different members came from time to time to stay, bringing with them their respective _nuances_ of a different nationality, something exotic in voice and manner, so far as all this was not merged in their cosmopolitanism. Othomar had been three months at sea with Herman; they had touched shore in India, China, Japan and America. They had travelled incognito, so as to escape all official receptions, and Othomar had borne no other title than that of Prince Czykirski. The voyage had done Othomar much good: he was even feeling so well that he had written to the Empress Elizabeth that he would like to stay some time longer in the family-circle at Altseeborgen, but that he would afterwards undertake his long-contemplated journey to the European courts. Their easy life in each other's company had done much to bring the cousins closer together. Herman had learnt to see in Othomar, beneath his stiffness and lack of ease, a young crown-prince who was afraid of his future, but who possessed much reasonableness and was willing to learn to acquiesce in life and to fortify himself for his coming yoke of empire. He understood Othomar and felt sorry for him. He himself took a vital pleasure in life: merely to breathe was an enjoyment; his existence as a second son, with only his naval duties, which he loved by heredity, as a descendant of the old sea-kings might well love them, opened before him a prospect of nothing but continued, cloudless freedom from care; that he was a king's son gave him nothing but satisfaction and delight; and he appreciated his high estate with jovial pleasure, skimming the cream from a chalice out of which Othomar in due time would drink gall and wormwood. If at first he compared Othomar with his brother, the Duke of Wendeholm--a crown-prince too, of Gothland he--Herman now compared them no longer; his judgement had become more reasonable: he understood that no comparison was possible. Liparia was a tremendous, almost despotic empire; the people, especially in the south, always very fickle, always kept in check by force, on account of their childish uncertainty as to what, in their capriciousness, they would do next. The Gothlanders, on the other hand, calmly liberal in temperament, devoid of noisy vehemence, ranged themselves peacefully, with their long-established, ample constitution, round King Siegfried, whom they called the father of his country. That Gunther was not afraid of having to wear the crown one day, was this a reason why Othomar should be without his fear? Did Othomar not possess the gentler qualities, which are valued in the narrow circle of intimate surroundings and arouse esteem among a few sympathetic natures, rather than that fiercer brilliancy of character, which makes its possessor stand out in clear relief in high places and awakens admiration in the multitude? Was this boy, with his soul full of scruples, his nostalgia after justice, his yearning for love, his easily wounded sensitiveness, was he the son of his ancestors, the descendant of Berengar the Strong, Wenceslas the Cruel, son of the warlike Xaveria, or was he not rather the child of his gentle mother alone? It was not in Herman's way to reflect much and long on all this, but it came to him suddenly, abruptly, like a new view that is opened out in a brighter light. And what had been antipathy in him became compassion, friendship and astonishment at the disposition of the universe, which knew not what else to do with a soul like Othomar's but to crush it beneath a crown. The simple family-life at Altseeborgen worked on Othomar like a cure. He felt himself reviving amid natural surroundings, his humanity developing wide and untrammelled. Accustomed as he was to the ceremonial life of the Imperial, with its court-etiquette strictly maintained by the Emperor Oscar, he was at first surprised, but soon delighted by the almost homely simplicity of his Gothlandic relations. In former years, it is true, he had paid an occasional brief visit to Altseeborgen, but had never stayed long enough to be able to count himself, as now, quite one of themselves. Othomar was at this moment the only visitor from abroad, except the Archduchess Valérie, a niece of the Emperor of Austria. Did the young people suspect anything, or not? Were their names coupled together by the younger princes and princesses? Not so, to all outward seeming: only once or twice had Princess Sofie or Princess Wanda found it necessary to hush her young brothers with a glance. And yet it was with a serious intention that the Queen of Gothland, in concert with the Emperor of Liparia and Valérie's parents--the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess of Eudoxie, who lived at Sigismundingen Castle--had brought the young people together. The Emperor Oscar would certainly have preferred one of the young Russian grand-duchesses, a niece of the Czar, for his daughter-in-law; but the difference in religion remained an insurmountable obstacle; and the emperor, despite his preference, had no objection to the Austrian alliance. Perhaps Othomar and Valérie divined this intention, but the secret caused no constraint between them; they were both so accustomed to hearing the names of well-known princes or princesses connected with theirs and even to seeing them mentioned in the papers: announcements of betrothals which were immediately contradicted; they had even jested together about the number of times that public opinion had married them to this one or to that, each time to somebody else; sometimes even the news came as a surprise to themselves, which they found in the newspapers and laughed at. They paid no heed therefore to the rare mischievous remarks of Prince Olaf or Prince Christofel, sturdy lads of seventeen and fifteen, who thought it great fun to tease. And all this time Queen Olga, so sensible and reasonable, brought not the least influence to bear upon them. She had invited them together, but she did nothing more. Perhaps she observed silently how they behaved towards each other and wrote just one letter on the subject to her sister, but she kept quite outside the meshes which were weaving between their two crowned lives. Yet it was difficult for her to stand aloof. She was fond of Valérie and thought that this marriage would be in every way good. But added to that came urgent letters from Sigismundingen and even from Vienna, where they wished for nothing more eagerly than to see the young archduchess Duchess of Xara. For this, apart from the natural inclination of the Austrian court to set store by a renewed alliance with Liparia, there were other reasons of a more intimate character. 3 The sun had appeared through the clouds in the afternoon and made the grey of the sky and the water turn blue with the hazy blueness of a northern summer. The sea glowed and put on scales of gold; the weather-beaten castle stood blistering its broad granite pile in the sun, as an old man does his back. The striped canvas awning was lowered on the top terrace, which led into the great hall through three glass doors. Rugs lay scattered over the ground. Princess Sofie and the Archduchess Valérie sat in great wickerwork chairs, painting in water-colours. From the hall sounded, monotonously, the soft exercises of Princess Elizabeth, the crown-princess' eldest daughter, who was practising. Princess Wanda sat on the ground, romping a trifle boisterously with her youngest two nephews, Erik and Karl. On a long wicker chair lay Prince Herman, with both legs up; next to him was a little table heaped with newspapers and periodicals, some of which had fallen to the ground; a great tumbler of sherry-cobbler stood on the wicker ledge of his chair; the blue smoke rose from a cigarette between his fingers. Sofie and Valérie compared their sketches and laughed. They looked at the sky, which was bisected by the awning: the clouds, woolly white, surged one above the other; the sea was dazzling with its golden scales, like a giant cuirass. "What are you two painting there?" asked Herman, who was turning the pages of an illustrated paper. "Clouds," replied Valérie, "nothing but clouds. I have persuaded Sofie to make studies of clouds with me. Presently, if you're not too lazy, you must come and look at my album." She gave a little laugh. "It contains nothing but clouds!" "By Jove!" drawled Herman. "How very odd!..." "Yes," said Sofie, dreamily, "clouds are very nice, but you never know how to catch them: they change every instant." "Erik," said Herman, "just ask Aunt Valérie to lend me her album." "No, no," cried Wanda, "go and fetch it yourself, lazybones!..." But Erik wanted to go; and there came a great struggle. Wanda hugged the little fellow tight in her arms; Karl joined in: there was a general romp and Wanda, laughing, fell sideways to the ground. "But, Wanda!" said Sofie, reprovingly. Valérie stood up and went to Herman: "With all this, you're not seeing my clouds, you lazy boy. I suppose I must take pity on you. Look...." Herman now suddenly drew himself up and took the album: "How funny!" he said. "Yellow and white and violet and pink. All sunsets!" "And sunrises. I dare say I see more of them than you do!" "The things you see in clouds, Valérie! It's astonishing. How one person differs from another! I should never take it into my head to go and sketch clouds. You ought to come for a cruise with me one day; then you could make whole collections of clouds." "Why didn't you propose that earlier?" said Valérie, jestingly. "Then I might have joined you and Xara." "But where is Othomar?" said Herman. Valérie said that she did not know.... Herman sipped his sherry-cobbler. Wanda wanted a taste, but Herman refused and told her to ring for a glass for herself. Wanda insisted; he seized her by the wrists. "But Wanda!" Sofie repeated, reprovingly, languidly, drawing her hand over her forehead and laying down her brush. Wanda laughed gaily: "But Wanda!" she mimicked. And they all laughed at Sofie, including Sofie herself: "Did I speak like that?" she asked, with her languid voice. "I don't know: I get so sleepy here, so lazy...." They were all making fun of Sofie, when voices sounded from the hall, shrill, old voices. It was the two dowagers, with Othomar; the old ladies were talking in a courtly, mincing way to the young prince, who brought them chairs. The aunts had had a siesta after lunch; they now made their reappearance, with tapestrywork in large reticules. All greeted them with great respect, beneath which lurked a spark of mischief. "_Pardon, lieber Herzog_," murmured old Princess Elsa, the older of the two, "I would rather have that little chair...." Princess Marianne also wanted a small, straight chair; the old ladies thanked Othomar with an obeisance for his gallantry, sat down stiffly and began their embroidery: great coats-of-arms for chair-backs. They were very stately, with clear-cut but wrinkled faces, grey _tours_ and black lace caps; they wore crackling watered-silk gowns, of old-fashioned cut. Now and then they exchanged a quick, sharp word, with a sudden crackling movement of their sharp cockatoo-profiles; they gazed thoughtfully for a moment out to sea, as though they were bound to see something important arriving out of the distance; then they resumed their work. Their old-fashioned, stately, tight-laced, shrivelled figures formed a strange contrast with the easiness of the young people in their simple serge summer suits: they made Princess Wanda's tangled hair and rumpled blouse look perfectly disreputable. A third old lady came sailing up; she seemed as though she were related to the two dowagers, but was actually Countess von Altenburg, who used to be mistress of the household to Princess Elsa. Behind her were two footmen, carrying trays with coffee and pastry, the old princesses' _goûter_. The countess made a stately curtsey before the young princes. "The territory is occupied," whispered Herman to Valérie. They had all sat down again and among themselves were teasing Othomar with his three Fates, as they called them, unheard by the aunts or the countess, who was rather deaf. A noisy babel of tongues ensued: the aunts spoke German and screamed, to make themselves heard, something about the calmness of the sea into the poor old ears of the countess, who poured out the coffee and nodded that she understood. The younger princes talked English for the most part; Herman sometimes spoke a word or two of Liparian to Othomar; and the children, who had gone to play on a lower terrace, chattered noisily in Gothlandic and French indifferently. The footmen had brought out afternoon tea and placed it before Princess Sofie, when a lady-in-waiting appeared. She bowed to the young crown-princess and said, in Gothlandic: "Her majesty requests your royal highness to come to her in the small drawing-room." "Mamma has sent for me," said Princess Sofie, in English, rising from her chair. "Wanda, will you pour out the tea? Children, will you go upstairs and get dressed? Wanda, tell them again, will you?" The crown-princess went through the hall, a great, round, dome-shaped apartment, full of stags' antlers, elks' heads, hunting-trophies, and then up a staircase. In the queen's anteroom the footman opened the door for her. Queen Olga was sitting alone; she was some years older than her sister, the Empress of Liparia, taller and more heavily built; her features, however, had much in common with Elizabeth's, but were more filled out. "Sofie," she at once began, in German, "I have had a letter from Sigismundingen...." The Duchess of Wendeholm had sat down: "Anything to do with Valérie?" she asked, in alarm. "Yes," the queen said, with a reflective glance. "Poor child!..." "But what is it, Mamma?" "There, read for yourself...." The queen handed the letter to her daughter-in-law, who read it hurriedly. The letter was from the Archduchess Eudoxie, Valérie's mother, written with a feverish, excited hand, and said, in phrases which tried to seem indifferent but which betrayed a great satisfaction, that Prince Leopold of Lohe-Obkowitz was at Nice with Estelle Desvaux, the well-known actress, that he was proposing to resign his titular rights in favour of his younger brother and that he would then marry his mistress. The letter requested the queen or the crown-princess to tell this to Valérie, in the hope that it would not prove too great a shock to her. Further, the letter ended with violent attacks upon Prince Leopold, who had caused such a scandal, but at the same time with manifest expressions of delight that now perhaps Valérie would no longer dream of becoming the lady of a domain measuring six yards square! The archduke added a postscript to say that this was not a vague report but a certainty and that Prince Leopold himself had told it to their own relations at Nice, who had written to Sigismundingen. "Has Valérie ever spoken to you about Prince Lohe?" asked the queen. "Only once in a way, mamma," replied the Duchess of Wendeholm, handing back the letter. "But we all know well enough that this news will be a great blow to her. Is she not in the least prepared for it?" "Probably not: you see, we had none of us heard or read anything about it! Shall I tell her? Poor child!..." "Shall I do so, mamma? As I told you, Valérie _has_ spoken to me...." "Very well, you do it...." The duchess reflected, looked at the clock: "It is so late now: I'll tell her after dinner; we are none of us dressed yet.... What do you think?" "Very well then, after dinner...." The crown-princess went out: it was time to hurry and dress. At seven o'clock a loud, long bell sounded. They assembled in the hall; the dining-room looked out with its large bow-windows upon the pine-forest. It was a long table: King Siegfried, a hale old sovereign with a full, grey beard; Queen Olga; the Crown-prince Gunther, tall, fair, two-and-thirty; Princess Sofie and her children; Othomar, sitting between his aunt and Valérie; Herman and Wanda; Olaf and Christofel; the two dowagers with Countess von Altenburg; equerries, ladies-in-waiting, chamberlains, Princess Elizabeth's governess, the little princes' tutors.... The conversation was cheerful and unconstrained. The ladies wore simple evening-frocks; the king was in dress-clothes, the younger princes and equerries in dinner-jackets. The young princesses wore light summer dresses of white serge or pink _mousseline-de-laine_; they had stuck a flower or two from the conservatory into their waist-bands. Valérie talked merrily; Herman once more teased her about her cloud-sketches, but Othomar said that he admired them very much. Queen Olga and Princess Sofie exchanged a glance and were quieter than the others. The king also looked very thoughtfully at the young people. After dinner the family dispersed; the crown-prince and Herman went for a row on the sea, with the younger princes and the children, in two boats. Wanda and Valérie, their arms wound around each other's waists, strolled up and down along the front-terrace; the awning was already drawn up for the night. The sea was still blue, the sky pearl-grey and no longer so bright; above the horizon the sun still burnt ragged rents in the widely scattered clouds. The girls strolled about, laughed, looked at the two little boats on the sea and waved to them. Very far away, a steamer passed, finely outlined, with a dirty little ribbon of smoke. The young princes shouted, "Hurrah! Hurrah!" and hoisted their little flag. "Do look at those papers of Herman's!" said Valérie. "Aunt Olga hates that untidiness...." She pointed to all the magazines and newspapers which the servants had forgotten to clear away. They lay over the long wicker chair, on the table and on the ground. "Shall I ring to have them cleared away?" asked Wanda. "Oh, never mind!" said Valérie. She herself picked up one or two papers, folded them, put them together; Wanda again waved to the boats with her handkerchief. "My God!" she suddenly heard Valérie murmur, faintly. She looked round: the young archduchess had turned pale and sunk into a chair. She had dropped the papers again; one of them she held tight, crushing it convulsively; she looked down at it with eyes vacant with terror: "It's not true," she stammered. "They always lie.... They lie!" "What is it, Valérie?" cried Wanda, frightened. At this moment the Duchess of Wendeholm came out through the hall: "Valérie!" she called. The girl did not hear. The duchess came nearer: "Valérie!" she repeated. "Could I talk to you for a moment, alone?" The archduchess raised her pale little face. She seemed not to hear, not to understand. "My God!" whispered the duchess to Wanda. "Does she know?" "What?" asked Wanda. But a footman also came through the hall; he carried a silver tray with letters. There were a couple of letters for the duchess; he presented them to her first; then one to Valérie. In spite of her blurred eyes, the archduchess seemed to see the letter; she snatched at it greedily. The man withdrew. "O ... God!..." she stammered at last. She pulled the letter from the envelope, half-tearing it in her eagerness, and read with crazy eyes. Sofie and Wanda looked at her in dismay. "O ... God!" screamed the archduchess in agony. "It's true ... it's true ... it's true! ... Oh!..." She rose, trembling, looked about her with wild eyes and threw herself madly into the duchess' arms. A loud sob burst from her throat, as though a pistol-shot had gone through her heart. "He writes it to me himself!" she cried out. "Himself! It's true what the paper says.... Oh!..." And she broke down, with her head on Sofie's shoulder. Sofie led her back into the hall; Valérie allowed herself to be dragged along like a child. Wanda followed, crying, wringing her hands, without knowing why. From the boats, which were now very far away, the young princes waved once more; little Princess Elizabeth even tried to call out something; she could not understand why Wanda and Valérie were such muffs as not to wave back. The sun sank on the horizon; the glowing clouds were all masked in little frothy, gold-rose mists with shining edges; but evening fell, the sky grew dark: one by one the little pink clouds melted away; still one last cloud, as though with two wings formed of the last rays of the setting sun, flickered up softly, as if to fly, and then suddenly sank, with broken wings, into the violet dusk. The first stars twinkled, brightly visible. 4 Next morning, very early, at half-past five, the Archduchess Valérie climbed down the terraces of Altseeborgen. She had merely told her maid that she would be back in time for breakfast, which the family took together. Resolutely, as though impulsively, she descended terrace after terrace. She met nobody but a couple of servants and sentries. She walked along the bottom terrace to the sea; there was a little square harbour, cut out of the granite, where the rowing- and sailing-boats lay moored in a boat-house. She chose a long, narrow gig and unhooked it from its iron chain. She took her seat adroitly and grasped the sculls: a few short strokes took her clear of the little harbour and out to sea. A south-westerly wind was blowing over the sea. The water was strangely grey, as though it were mirroring in its oval the uncertain sky above: a dull-white sky in which hung dirty shreds of clouds blown asunder. The horizon was not visible; light mists floated over it, blotting out the division between sea and sky with smeared tints. The wind blew up strongly. Valérie removed her little sailor-hat; and her hair blew across her face. She had intended to row to the fishing-village, but she at once felt that it was beyond her strength to work up against the wind. So she let herself go with the wind. For a moment she thought of the weather, the wind, the sky; then she cast aside all thought. She pulled sturdily at the sculls. Though the sea was comparatively calm, the boat was constantly swinging over the smooth back of a wave and then sinking down again. Splashes of spray flew up. When Valérie, after a little while, looked round, she was a trifle startled to see Altseeborgen receding so far from her. She hesitated once more, but soon let herself go again.... On leaving the castle, she had had no thought, only an impulse to act. Now, with her very action, thought rose up again within her, as though roused from its lethargy by the wind. Valérie's eyes stared before her, wide and burning, without tears. It was true, it was real. This was the wheel continually revolving in her thoughts. It was true, it was real. It was in the papers which Herman had been skimming through for hours; Sofie had told her; his own letter informed her of it. She no longer had that letter, it was destroyed. But every word was still branded on her imagination. It was his letter, written in his own words, in his style. How she had once worshipped his every word! But these words, were they indeed his? Did he write like that? Could she picture to herself that he would ever speak thus to her? He would not like to make her unhappy by loving her against the wish of her parents, her imperial relations. It was true, of course, that he was not her equal in birth. His house was of old nobility, but nothing more. She was of the blood royal and imperial. He was grateful to her for stooping to him and wishing to raise him to her level. But it was not right to do this. The traditions of mankind should be inviolate: it was not right, especially for them, the great ones of the earth, to act against tradition. They should be grateful for the love which had brought happiness to their souls, but they must not expect more. It was not the wish of Vienna that they should love each other. Would he ever be able to make her entirely happy, would she, if they were married and retired with their love to a foreign country, never look back with yearning and feel homesick for the splendour from which he had dragged her down? For, if they married, he would be still less her equal than he was before, thanks to his emperor's disfavour. No, no, it could not be. They must part. They were not born for each other. For a short moment they had shared the glorious illusion that they were indeed born for each other; that was all. He would be grateful to her for that memory all his life long. With a breaking heart he took leave of her: farewell, farewell! It was all over: his proud career, his life, his all. He begged her to forgive him. He knew that he was too weak to love her against the will of his sovereign. And for that he begged her to forgive him. She would hear a woman's name mentioned in connection with his own: for this also he begged her pardon. He did not love that woman, but she was willing to console him in his grief.... The wind had suddenly increased in violence, with heavy, regular blasts. The sky was dark overhead. The waves rolled more wildly against the boat and swung it up on their backs as it were on the backs of sleek sea-monsters. The spray had wetted Valérie. She looked round. Altseeborgen lay very far away, scarcely within sight; she could just see the flag defined against the sky like a tiny ribbon. "I must be mad," she thought. "Where am I going to?... I must turn back...." But it was difficult to bring the boat round. Each time the wind beat it off again and drove it farther. Despair came upon Valérie, body and soul, moral and physical despair. "Well, let it be," she thought. She let the sculls drop, drifted farther away, away. And why not? Why should she not let herself drift away? Without him, without him ... she could not live! Her happiness was ruined; what was life without happiness? For she wanted happiness, it was essential to her.... She sat half-huddled in the boat. The sculls flapped against the sides. A wave broke over her. Her eyes stared burning before her, into the distance. A second wave broke; her feet were wet through. She slowly drew herself up, looked at the angry sea, at the lowering sky. Then she grasped the sculls again, with a sigh of pain: "Come on!" she thought. She rose higher and sank lower. But with a frantic effort she made the boat turn: "It _shall!_" she bit out between her teeth. She kept the boat's head to the wind and began to row. It _shall_. She wrinkled her forehead, gnashed her jaws, grated her teeth together. She felt her muscles straining. And she rowed on, up against the wind. With her whole body she struggled up against the stiff breeze. It _shall_. It _must_. And she grew accustomed to the exertion; she rowed on mechanically. So much accustomed did she grow to it that she began to sob as she rowed.... O God, how she had loved him, with all her soul! Why? Could she tell? Oh, if he had only been a little stronger, she would have been so too! What mattered to them the disfavour of her uncle the emperor, so long as they loved each other? What the fury of their parents, so long as they loved each other? What did they care for all Europe, so long as they cared for each other? Nothing, nothing at all.... If he had only dared to grasp happiness for them, when it fluttered before them, as it flutters only once before mortal men! But he had not dared, he felt himself too weak to risk that grasp, he acknowledged it himself.... And now ... now it was over, over, over.... As she sobbed she rowed on. Her arms seemed to swell, to burst asunder. A few thick drops of rain fell. What was she really rowing on for? The sea meant death, release from life, oblivion, the extinction of scorching pain. Then why did she row on? "O God, I don't know!" she answered herself aloud. "But I must! I must!..." And with successive jerks of her strong imperial body she worked herself back, towards life.... But at Altseeborgen they were in great alarm. It was three hours since Valérie had left the castle. The maid was unable to say more than that her highness had assured her she would be back to breakfast. The sentries had seen her go down the terraces, but had paid no further heed to the direction which her highness had taken. They thought it was towards the woods, but they were not sure.... Every minute the alarm increased; no suspicion was uttered, but they all read it in one another's eyes. King Siegfried ordered that they should themselves set out and search quietly, so as to attract no attention among the household and the people of the village. There could be no question of her having lost her way: the pine-woods were not extensive and Valérie knew Altseeborgen well. And there was nothing besides the woods, the beach and the village. The king and the crown-prince themselves went into the woods, with an equerry. Herman and his younger brother Olaf went into the village, to the left; Othomar and Christofel along the sea, to the right. The queen remained behind with the princesses, in palpitating uncertainty. For all their efforts to bear up and to eat their breakfasts, a sort of rumour had already spread through the castle. Othomar had gone with Christofel along the rocky shore; the rain began to come down, in hard, thick drops. "What are we really looking for here?" asked Othomar, helplessly. "Perhaps she has thrown herself into the sea!" answered the young prince. And for the first time of his life, he felt afraid of those depths, which meant death. Unconsciously they went on, on, on.... "Let's go back," said Othomar. Nevertheless they continued to go on; they could not give in.... Then a scream sounded over the water: they started, but at first saw nothing. "Did you hear?" asked Christofel, turning pale, thinking of ghostly legends of the sea. "A sea-mew, I expect," said Othomar, listening, however. The scream was repeated. "There, don't you see something?" asked Christofel, pointing. He pointed to a long streak that came surging over the water. Othomar shook his head: "No, that's impossible!" he said. "It's a fisher-lad." "No, no, it's a rowing-boat!" cried Christofel. They said nothing more, they ran along. The streak became plainer: a gig; the scream rang out again, piercingly. "My God!... Valérie!" shouted Othomar. She called back a few words; he only partly understood them. She was rowing not far from the shore towards the castle. Othomar took off his coat, his shoes, his socks, turned up his trousers, his shirt-sleeves. "Take those with you," he cried to Christofel, "and go back to the castle, tell them...." He ran on his bare feet over the rocks and into the sea, flung himself into the water, swam out to the boat. It was very difficult for him to climb into the little gig without capsizing it. It lurched madly to right and left; however, with a single, quick, light movement, Othomar managed to jump in. "I give up...." said Valérie, faintly. She let go the sculls; he seized them and rowed on. For an instant she fell against him, but then sat up straight, so as not to hamper him. 5 The young archduchess did not appear at luncheon; she was asleep. Not long before dinner--it was raining and the queen was taking tea in the hall with the princesses, the aunts, the children--she appeared. She looked rather pale; her face was a little drawn, her eyes strangely wide and burning. She was wearing a simple summer costume of some soft, pale-lilac material, with two white ribbons tied round her waist; the colour went well with her strange hair, which now looked brown and then again seemed auburn. The queen held out her hand to Valérie, shook her head and said: "You naughty girl! How you frightened us!" Valérie kissed the queen on the forehead: "Forgive me, aunt. The wind was so strong, I could hardly make way against it. I oughtn't to have gone. But I felt a need ... for movement." The queen looked at her anxiously: "How are you feeling now?" "Oh, very well, aunt! Rather stiff; and a little headache. It's nothing. Only my hands are terribly blistered: just look...." And she laughed. The old aunts asked for copious details of what had happened: it was difficult to make them understand. Wanda sat down between the two of them, told them the story; their sharp cockatoo-profiles kept on wagging up and down at Wanda, in astonishment. The aunts pressed their hands to their hearts and looked at Valérie with terror in their eyes; she smiled to them pleasantly. When Countess von Altenburg appeared, the aunts took the old mistress of the household between them and in their turn told her the story, screeching it into the countess' poor old ears. King Siegfried entered; he went up to Valérie, who rose, took her head in his hands, looked at her and shook his grey head; nevertheless he smiled. Then he looked at his sisters; he was always amused at them; they were still in the middle of their story to the countess and kept on taking the words out of each other's mouths. "Come, it was not so dreadful as all that!" said the king, interrupting them. "It's very nice to go rowing like that, once in a way, and an excellent remedy for a sick-headache. You ought to try it, Elsa, when you have one of yours." The old princess looked at him with a sugary smile; she never knew whether her brother meant a remark of this kind or not. She shook her stately head slowly from side to side: "No, _lieber Siegfried_, that is more than we can do. _Unsere liebe Erzherzogin_ is still a young thing!..." Othomar, Gunther and Herman entered: they had been playing billiards; the young princes followed them. Valérie gave a little shiver, rose and went up to Othomar: "I thank you, Xara," she said. "I thank you a thousand, thousand times!" "But what for?" replied Othomar, simply. "I did no more than row you a bit of the way back. There was no danger. For, if you had been too tired to go on rowing, you could always have jumped into the sea and swum ashore. You're a strong swimmer. You would only have lost the boat." She looked at him: "That's true," she said. "But I never thought of it. I was ... bewildered perhaps. I should not have done that; I had a fixed idea that I had to row back. If I hadn't been able to keep on rowing, I should certainly.... Don't refuse my thanks, I beg of you: accept them." She put out her hand; he pressed it. He looked up at her with quiet surprise and failed to understand her. He did not doubt but that she had that morning left the castle with the intention of committing suicide. Had she felt remorse on the water, or had she not dared? Did she want to live on and did she therefore turn back? Was she so shallow that she had already recovered from the great grief which had crushed her the night before? Did she realize that life rolls with indifferent chariot-wheels over everything, whether joy or pain, that is part of ourselves and that it is best to care for nothing and also to feel nothing? What of all this applied to her? He was unable to fathom it. And once more he saw himself standing perplexed before the question of love! What was this feeling worth, if it weighed so little in a woman's heart? How much did it weigh with him for Alexa? What was it then?... Or was it something ... something quite different? At dinner Valérie talked as usual and he continued not to understand her. It irritated him, his want of penetration of the human heart: how could he develop it? A future ruler ought to be able to see things at a glance.... And suddenly, perhaps merely because of his desire for human knowledge, the thought arose within him that she was concealing her emotions, that perhaps she was still suffering intensely, but that she was pretending and bearing up: was she not a princess of the blood? They all learnt that, they of the blood, to pretend, to bear up! It was bred in their bones. He looked at her askance, as he sat next to her: she was quietly talking across him to the queen. He did not know whether he had guessed right and he still hesitated between the two thoughts: was she bearing up, or was she shallow? But, yet he was happy at being able to hesitate about her and to refute that first suspicion of shallowness by his second thought. He was happy in this, not solely because of Valérie, that she should be better than he had thought at first; he was happy especially for the general conclusion which he was able to draw: that a person is mostly better, thinks more deeply, cherishes nobler feelings than he allows to appear in the everyday commonplaces of life, which compel him to occupy himself with momentary trifles and phrases. A delicate satisfaction took possession of him that he had thought this out so, a contentment that he had discovered something beautiful in life: a beautiful secret. Everybody knew it perhaps, but nobody let it be perceived. Oh yes, people were good; the world was good, in its essence! Only a strange mystery compelled it to seem different, a strange tyranny of the universal order of things. He glanced around the long table. Every face wore a look of kindness and sympathy. He was attached to his uncle so calm, gentle and strong, with the seeming dogged silence of his Norse character, with his tranquil smile and now and then a little gleam of fun, aimed especially at the old aunts, but also at the children and even at the equerries, the ladies-in-waiting. He knew that his uncle was a thinker, a philosopher; he would have liked to have a long discussion with him on points of philosophy. He was fond also of his aunt, a first-rate queen: what a lot she did for her country, what a number of charities she called into existence; a first-rate mother: how sensibly she performed her difficult task, the bringing up of royal children! She was more beloved in her country than was his mother, whom yet he adored, in hers; she had more tact, less fear, less haughtiness also towards the crowd. It should perhaps have been the other way about: his mother queen here, her sister empress yonder.... And the crown-prince, with his simple manliness; Herman, with his joviality; the younger brothers, with their vigorous, boyish chaff: how fond he was of them! Sofie, Wanda, the children: how he liked them all! He even liked the aunts and the devoted old mistress of the household. Oh, the world was good, people were good! And Valérie was not indifferent, but suffered in quiet silence, as a princess of the blood must suffer, with unclouded eyes and a smile! After dinner Queen Olga took Othomar's arm: "Come with me for a moment," she said. The rain had ceased; a footman opened the French windows. Behind the dining-room lay a long terrace looking upon the woods. The queen put her arm in Othomar's and began to walk up and down with him: "And so you are going to leave us?" she asked. He looked at her with a smile: "You know I am, aunt; with much regret. I shall often long for Altseeborgen, for all of you. I feel so much at home in your circle. But yet I am anxious to see mamma again: it's nearly four months since I saw her last." "And are you feeling better?" "How could I but feel better, aunt? The voyage with Herman made me ever so much stronger; and living here with you has been a delightful after-cure. A delightful holiday." "But your holiday will soon be over. Will you now be able to play your part again?" He smiled, while his sad eyes expressed calm resignation: "Certainly, aunt. Life can't be always holidays. I should think I had had my fill of them, doing nothing for six weeks except lie on the sand, or in the woods, or in that most comfortable wicker chair of Herman's!" "Have you done nothing besides?" she said, playfully. "How do you mean?" "Saved Valérie's life, for instance?" He gave a slight movement of gentle impatience: "But, aunt, I didn't really. I suppose the papers will go and say I did, but there was really no saving in the matter. Valérie knows how to swim and she was close to the shore." "I've had a letter from papa, Othomar." "From papa?" "Yes.... Have you never thought of ... Valérie?" He reflected for a second: "Perhaps," he laughed. "Do you feel no affection for her?" "Certainly, aunt.... I thought papa preferred the Grand-duchess Xenia?" The queen shrugged her shoulders: "There's the question of her religion, you know. And papa would be just as glad of an Austrian alliance.... How do you propose to make the journey? And when do you start?" "Ducardi and the others will be here this week. Towards the end of the week. First to Copenhagen, London, Brussels, Berlin and then to Vienna." "And to Sigismundingen." "Yes, Sigismundingen, if papa wishes." "But what do you wish, Othomar?" He looked at her gently, smiling, shrugged his shoulders: "But, aunt, what wish have I in the matter?" "Could you grow fond of Valérie?" "I think so, aunt; I think she is very sweet and very capable and thorough." "Yes, that she certainly is, Othomar! Would you not speak to her before you go?" "Aunt...." "Why shouldn't you?" "Aunt, I can't do that. I am only staying a few days longer, and ..." "Well?" "Valérie has had a great sorrow. She cannot but still be suffering under it. Think, aunt, it was yesterday. Good God, yesterday!... And to-day she was so calm, so natural.... But it must be so, mustn't it? She must still be suffering very severely. She went on the sea this morning, in this weather: we don't know, do we, aunt, but we all think the same thing! Perhaps we are quite mistaken. Things are often different from what they seem. But, however that may be, she is certainly in distress. And so I can't ask her, now...." "It's a pity, as you're here together. A thing of this sort is often settled at a distance. If it was arranged here, you would perhaps not need to make the journey." "But, aunt, papa was so bent upon it!" "That's true; but then nothing was yet decided." "No, aunt, let me make the journey. For in any case it's impossible to arrange things here. If papa himself asked me, I should tell him ... that it was impossible." "Papa does ask you, Othomar, in his letter to me." He seized her hands: "Aunt, in that case, write to him and say that it's impossible, at this moment ... oh, impossible, impossible! Let us spare her, aunt. If she becomes my wife, she will still become so while she loves another. Will that not be terrible enough for her, when it is decided months hence? Therefore let us spare her now. You feel that too, as a woman, don't you? There are no affairs of state that make it necessary for my marriage to take place in such a hurry." "Yet papa wishes you to marry as soon as possible. He wants a grandson...." He made no reply; a look of suffering passed over his face. The queen perceived it: "But you're right," she replied, giving way. "It would be too cruel. Valérie, I may tell you, is bearing up wonderfully. That's how a future Empress of Liparia ought to be...." He still made no reply and walked silently beside her; her arm lay in his; she felt his arm tremble: "Come," she said, gently, "let us go in; walking up and down like this is fatiguing...." 6 Ducardi, Dutri, Leoni and Thesbia arrived at Altseeborgen; they were to accompany Othomar on his official journey through Europe. It was one of the last days, in the morning, when Othomar was walking with Herman towards the woods. The sun was shining, the woods were fragrant, the foot slid over the smooth pine-needles. The princes sat down on the ground, near a great pool of water; around them rose the straight pine-trunks, with their knotty peaks of side-branches; the sky faded into the distance with blue chinks showing between the projecting foliage of needles. Herman leant against a tree-trunk; Othomar stretched himself flat on his back, with his hands beneath his head: "It will soon be over now," he said, softly. Herman made no reply, but mechanically swept the pine-needles together with his hand. Nor did Othomar speak again; he swallowed his last moments of relaxation and repose in careful draughts, each draught a pure joy that would never return. In the woods a stillness reigned as of death, as though the earth were uninhabited; the melancholy of things that are coming to an end hung about the trees. Suddenly Othomar took Herman's hand and pressed it: "Thank you," he said. "What for?" asked Herman. "For the pleasure we have had together. Mamma was right: I did not know you, Herman...." "Nor I you, dear fellow." "It has been a pleasant time. How delightfully we travelled together, like two tourists! How grand and glorious India was, don't you think? And Japan, how curious! I never cared much for hunting; but, when I was with you, I understood it and felt the excitement of it: I shall never forget our tiger-hunt! The eyes of the brute, the danger facing you: it's invigorating. At a moment like that, you feel yourself becoming primitive, like the first man. The look of one of those tigers drives away a lot of your hesitation. That's another danger, which mamma is always so afraid of: oh, how enervating it is; it eats up all your energy!... And the nights on the Indian Ocean, on board our _Viking_. That great wide circle around you, all those stars over your head. How often we sat looking at them, with our legs on the bulwarks!... Perhaps it's a mistake to sit dreaming so long, but it rests one so, it rests one so! I shall never forget it, never...." "Well, old chap, we must do it again." "No, one never does anything again. What's done is done. Nothing returns, not a single moment of our lives. Later on it is always different...." He looked round about him, as though some one might be listening; then he whispered: "Herman, I have something to tell you." "What is it?" "Something to confide to you. But first tell me: that time with the tiger, you didn't think me a great coward, did you?" "No, certainly not!" "Well, I'm a coward for all that. I'm frightened, always frightened. The doctors don't know it, because I never tell them. But I always am...." "But of what, my dear chap?" "Of something inside myself. Look here, Herman, I'm so afraid ... that I shall not be able to stick it out. That at a given moment of my life I shall be too weak. That suddenly I shall not be able to act and then, then ..." He shuddered; they look at each other. "It won't do," he continued, mechanically, as though strengthened by Herman's glance. "I shall fight against it, against that dread of mine.... Do you believe in presentiments?" "Yes, inversely: mine always turn out the opposite!" "Then I hope that my presentiment won't come true either." "But what is it?" "That within the year ... one of us ... at Lipara ... will be dead." Herman stared at him fixedly. For all his manliness and his muscular strength, there lay deep down within him a certain heritage of the superstition that comes murmuring from the sea as with voices of distant prophecy, a superstition lulled by the beautiful legends of their Gothlandic sea, which, syren-like, sings strange, mystic fairy-tales. Perhaps he had never until this moment felt that some of it flowed in his rich blood; and he tried to shake it off as nonsense: "But Othomar, do be rational!" he said. "I can do nothing to prevent it, Herman. I don't think about it, but I feel little sharp stings, like thoughts suddenly springing up. And lately ... oh, lately, it has been worse; it has become a dream, a nightmare! I was walking through the shopping-streets of Lipara and from all the shops came black people and they measured out bales of black crape, with yard-measures, till the streets were filled with it and the crape lay in the town as though in clouds and surged over the town like a mass of black muslin. It made everything dark: the sun could not shine through it and everything lay in shadow. The people did not seem to recognize me and, when I asked what all that crape was for, they whispered in my ears, 'Hush, hush, it's ... it's for the Imperial!' ... O Herman, then I woke and I was damp with perspiration and it was as though I still heard it echoing after me: 'For the Imperial, it's for the Imperial!'" Herman got up; he was a little nervous: "Come," said he, "shall we go?... Dreams: don't pay any attention to dreams, Othomar!" Othomar also rose: "No, I oughtn't to pay attention to them," he repeated, in a strange tone. "I never used to." "Othomar," Herman began, decidedly, as though he wished to say something. "Don't talk to me for a minute; let me be for a moment," Othomar interrupted, quickly, anxiously. They walked through the woods in silence. Othomar looked about him, strangely, looked at the ground. Herman compressed his lips tightly and puckered up his forehead: he was annoyed. But he said nothing. In a few minutes Othomar's strange glances grew calmer and quieted down into their usual gentle melancholy. Then he gave a little sigh, as if he were catching his breath: "Don't be angry," he said, putting his arm through Herman's. His voice had resumed its usual tone. "Perhaps it's as well that I have told you; now perhaps it will leave me. So don't be angry, Herman.... I promise you I shan't talk like that again and I shall do my best also not to think like that any more. But, when I have anything on my mind, I must tell it to somebody. And surely that's much better than for ever keeping silent about it! And then, you see, soon I shall have no more time to think of such things: to-morrow we shall be at Copenhagen and then life will resume its normal course. How can I have talked so queerly? How did I take it into my head? Even I can't remember. It seems very silly now, even to myself." He gave a little laugh and then, earnestly: "After all, I'm glad that we have had a talk by ourselves, that I have been able to thank you. We're friends now, aren't we?" "Yes, of course we're friends," replied Herman, laughing in the midst of his annoyance. "But all the same I shall never know you thoroughly!" "Don't say that just because of a single presentiment, which I think foolish myself. What else is there in me that's puzzling?..." "No, there's nothing else!" Herman assented. "You're a good chap. I don't know how it has come about, but I like you very much...." They left the woods; the sea lay before them. Like life itself, it lay before them, with all the mystery of its depths, wherein a multiple soul seemed to move, rounding wave upon wave. Nameless and innumerable were its changes of colour, its moods of incessant movement; and it spewed a foam of passion on its fiercely towering crests. But this passion was merely its superficial manifestation, the exuberance of its endless vitality: from its depths there murmured, in the inimitable melodies of its millions of voices, the mystery of its soul, as it were a glory which the sky above alone knew. 7 "TO HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "OSBORNE HOUSE, ISLE OF WIGHT. "IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_September_, 18--. "DEAR SON, "It was a great pleasure to receive your letter, telling us of the cordial welcome which you met with first at Copenhagen and now in England. We must however express our surprise at what Aunt Olga wrote to us and our regret that you did not act according to our wishes; the Emperor of Austria and the Archduke Albrecht express the same regret in their letters to us. We presume that we did not express ourselves definitely enough in our letter to Aunt Olga: otherwise we cannot imagine why she did not urge you more strongly to ask the Archduchess Valérie for an interview and to speak to her of the important matter which we all at this moment have so much at heart. You would then have been able to announce your engagement _sous cachet_ at the courts which you are now visiting; and the betrothal could have been celebrated, at the conclusion of journey, at Sigismundingen. Whereas now you have probably placed yourself in a false position towards our friends Their Majesties of Denmark and of England, as all the newspapers are speaking of a possible betrothal to the Archduchess Valérie and the press is already so kind as to discuss the _pros_ and _cons_ of this alliance in a loud voice. Your journey, however, would have had to take place _in any case_, as it had already been so long announced--your illness intervened to postpone it--and as it is therefore nothing more than an act of courtesy towards our friends. "Once again, your neglect to act in accordance with our wishes causes us great regret. We perceive in you, Othomar, a certain tendency towards _bourgeois_ hypersensitiveness, which we hope you will learn to master with all the strength you possess. Few of us have in this life escaped a sorrow such as Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz has caused your future bride, but it remains an entirely personal and subordinate feeling and should not be allowed to interfere _in the least_ with affairs of such great political importance as the marriage of a future emperor of Liparia. The archduchess will doubtless, when she is older, learn to look at this in the same light; and we hope that she will very soon realize that her affection for Prince Lohe could never have brought her happiness, as it would have caused a rupture with his imperial majesty her uncle and with all her relations. "Master yourself, Othomar, we ask and urge. You sometimes have ideas and entertain proposals which are not those of a ruler. We have noticed this more than once or twice: among other occasions, when you visited Zanti at Vaza. We did not like to reproach you with this at the time, as we were otherwise very well pleased with you. Your dearest wish will no doubt be that we shall always remain so. "We hope therefore to see you three weeks hence at Sigismundingen, where the Archduchess Valérie will by then have returned from Altseeborgen to meet you and where we shall also meet the Emperor of Austria. "It is our fervent hope that the long voyage with Herman will have done you much good and that your wedding will take place at Altara _as soon as possible_. This glad prospect affords us a pleasant diversion from our difficulties with the army bill, which is encountering such stubborn opposition in the house of deputies, though we hope for all that to succeed in carrying it, as it is essential that our army should be increased. "We cordially embrace you. "OSCAR." CHAPTER V 1 It was after the state banquet in the castle at Sigismundingen, where the imperial families of Liparia and Austria were assembled to celebrate the betrothal of the Duke of Xara and the Archduchess Valérie. It was in September: the day had been sultry and in the evening the oppressive heat still hung brooding in the air. Dinner was just over and the imperial procession returned through a long corridor to the reception-rooms. All the balcony-windows of the brightly-lighted gallery stood open; beneath, as in an abyss of river landscape, flowed the Danube, rolling against the rocks, while above it towered the castle with its innumerable little pointed turrets. The mountain-tops were defined in a sombre, violet amphitheatre against the paler sky, which was incessantly lit with electric flashes, as of noiseless lightning. The wood stood gloomy and black, shadowy, sloping up with the peaked tops of its fir-trees against the mountains; in the distance lay small houses, huddled in the dusk of the evening, like some straggling hamlet, with here and there a yellow light. The Emperor of Liparia gave his arm to the mother of the bride, the Archduchess Eudoxie; then followed the Emperor of Austria with the Empress of Liparia, the Archduke Albrecht with the Empress of Austria, Othomar with Valérie.... Valérie, lightly pressing Othomar's arm, withdrew with him from the procession: "It was so warm in the dining-room; you will excuse me," she said to Othomar's sister, the Archduchess of Carinthia, who was following with one of her Austrian cousins. Valérie's smile requested the archduchess to go on. The others followed: the august guests, the equerries, the ladies-in-waiting; they smiled to the betrothed imperial couple, who stood in one of the open window-recesses to let them pass. They remained alone in the gallery, before the open window: "I need air," said Valérie, with a sigh. He made no reply. They stood together in silence, gazing at the evening landscape. He was wearing the uhlan uniform of the Austrian regiment which he commanded; and a new order glittered amongst the others on his breast: the Golden Fleece of Austria. She seemed to have grown older than she was at Altseeborgen, in her pink-silk evening-dress, with wide, puffed sleeves of very pale-green velvet, a tight-curled border of white ostrich-feathers edging the low-cut bodice and the train. "Shall I leave you alone for a little, Valérie?" he asked, gently. She shook her head, smiling sadly. Her bosom seemed to heave with uncontrollable emotion. "Why, Othomar?" she asked. "I am lonely enough at nights, with my thoughts. Leave me alone with them as little as you can...." She suddenly held out her hand to him: "Will you forgive your future empress her broken heart?" she asked, suddenly, with a great sob. And her pale, shrunken face turned full towards him, with two eyes like those of a stricken doe. An irrepressible feeling of pity caused something to well up unexpectedly in his soul; he squeezed her hand and turned away, so as not to weep. He looked out of the window. Some of the pointed towers, visible from here, rose with an air of sombre romance against the sky, which was luminous with electricity. Below them, romantically, murmured the Danube. The mountains were like the landscape in a ballad. But no ballad, no romance echoed between their two hearts. The prose of the inevitable necessity was the only harmony that united them. But this harmony also united them in reality, brought them together, made them understand each other, feel and live at one with each other. They were now for a minute alone and their eyes frankly sought the depths of each other's souls. There was no need for pretence between these two: each saw the other's sorrow lying shivering and naked in the other's heart. It was not the riotous passion of despair that they beheld. They saw a gentle, tremulous sadness; they looked at it with wide, staring eyes of anguish, as children look who think they see a ghost. For them that ghost issued from life itself: life itself became for them a ghostly existence. They themselves were spectres, though they know that they were tangible, with bodies. What were they? Dream-beings, with crowns; they lived and bowed and acted and smiled as in a dream, because of their crowns. They did not exist: a vagueness did indeed suggest in their dream-brains that something might exist, in other laws of nature than those of their sphere, but in their sphere they did not exist.... His hand was toying mechanically with some papers that lay near him, on the mirror-bracket between two of the window-recesses; they were illustrated periodicals, doubtless left there by some chamberlain. He took one up, to while their sad silence, and opened it. The first thing that he saw was their own portraits: "Look," he said. He showed them to her. They now turned over the pages together, saw the portraits also of their parents, a drawing of the castle, a corner of Sigismundingen Park. Then together they read the announcement of their engagement. They were first each described separately: he, an accomplished prince, doing a great deal of good, very popular in his own country and cordially loved by the Emperor of Austria; she, every inch a princess, born to be the empress of a great empire, with likewise her special accomplishments. The eyes of all Europe were fixed upon them at the moment. For their marriage would not only be an imperial alliance of great political importance, but would also tie a knot of real harmony: their marriage was a love-match. There had been attempts to make it seem otherwise, but this was not correct. In Gothland, in the home circle at Altseeborgen, the young couple had learnt to know each other well; their love had sprung like an idyll from the sea and the Duke of Xara had once even saved the archduchess' life, when she had ventured out too far, in stormy weather, in a rowing-boat. Their love was like a novel with a happy ending. The Emperor Oscar would rather have seen the Grand-duchess Xenia crown-princess of Liparia and attached great value to an alliance with Russia, but he had yielded before his son's love.... And the article ended by saying that the wedding would take place in October in the old palace at Altara. They read it together, with their mournful faces, their wide, fixed eyes, which still smarted with staring into each other's souls. Not a single remark came from their lips after reading the article; they only just smiled their two heartrending smiles; then they laid the paper down again. And she asked, with that strange calm with which this betrothed pair were trying to get to know each other: "Othomar ... do you care for nobody?" A flush suffused his cheeks. Did she know of Alexa? "I did once think that I ... that I was in love," he confessed; "but I do not believe that it was really love. I now believe that I do not possess the capacity to concentrate my whole soul upon a feeling for one other soul alone; I should not know how to find it, that one soul, and I should fear to make a mistake, or to deceive myself.... No, I do not believe that I shall ever know that exclusive feeling. I rather feel within me a great, wide, general love, an immense compassion, for our people. It is strange of me perhaps...." He said it almost shyly, as though it were something abnormal, that general love, of which he ought to be ashamed before her. "A great love," he explained once more, when she continued to look at him in silence; and he made an embracing gesture with his arms, "for our people...." "Do you really feel that?" she asked, in surprise. "Yes...." A sort of vista opened out before her, as though an horizon of light were dawning right at the end of her dark melancholy; but that horizon was so far, so very far away.... "But, Othomar," she said, "that is very good. It is very beautiful to feel like that!" He shrugged his shoulders: "Beautiful? How do you mean? I cannot but feel it when I see all the misery that exists ... among our people, the lower orders, the very lowest especially. If they were all happy and enjoying abundance, there would be no need for me to feel it. So what is there beautiful about it?" She gave a little laugh: "I can't argue against that, it's too deep for me. I can't say that I have ever thought over those social questions; they have always existed as they are and ... and I have not thought about them. But I can feel, with my feminine instinct, that it is beautiful of you to feel like that, Othomar." She took his hand and pressed it; her face lit up with a smile. Then she looked, pensively, into the dark landscape beneath them and she shivered. "It's turning chilly," he said. "We had better go in, Valérie; you'll catch cold here." She just felt at her bare neck: "Presently," she said. They glanced down, at the murmuring Danube. A mist began to rise from the river and filled the valley as it were with light strips of muslin. "Come," he urged. "Look," she said. "How deep that is, is it not?" He looked down: "Yes," he replied. "Don't you feel giddy?" she asked. He looked at her anxiously: "No, not giddy; at least, not at once...." "Othomar," she said, in a whisper, "I once sat here for a whole evening. I kept on looking down; it was darker than now and I saw nothing but blackness and it kept on roaring through those black depths. It was the evening after our engagement was decided. I felt such pain, I suffered so! I thought that I had won a victory over myself, but they left me no peace and the only use of my victory was to give me strength to do battle again. The news that I was to be your wife came as unexpectedly ... as my great sorrow came! Then I felt so weak because it overwhelmed me so, because they left me no peace. Oh, they were so cruel, they did not leave me a moment to recover my breath! I had to go on again, on! Then I felt weak. I thought that I should never overcome my weakness. I sat here for hours, looking at the Danube. It made me giddy.... At last I thought that I had made up my mind ... to throw myself down.... I already saw myself floating away, there, there, down there, right round the castle.... Why did I not do it? I believe because of ... of him, Othomar. I loved him, I love him _now_, though I ought to have more pride. I would not punish him by committing suicide. He is so weak. I know him: it would have haunted him all his life long!... Then ... then, Othomar, I ran away and I prayed! I no longer knew what to do!" She hid her face full of anguish in her hands, with a great sob. His eyes had filled with tears; he saw how she trembled. He threw a terrified side-glance at the deep stream below, which roared as though calling.... "Valérie," he stammered, in alarm; "for God's sake let us go in. It's too cold here and ... and...." She looked at him anxiously too, with haggard eyes: "Yes, let us go, Othomar!" she whispered. "I am getting frightened here: we have that in our family; there is still so much romance flowing in our veins...." She took his arm; they went indoors together. But, before entering the suite of anterooms that led to the reception-rooms, she detained him for yet a moment: "I don't know whether we shall see each other alone again before you return to Lipara. And I still wanted to thank you for something...." "For what?" he asked. "For ... something that Aunt Olga told me. For ... sparing me at Altseeborgen. Thank you, Othomar, thank you...." She put her arm around his neck and gave him a kiss. He kissed her in return. And they exchanged their first caress. 2 The next day the imperial family of Liparia travelled back from Sigismundingen to Lipara. The reception at the central station was most hearty; the town was covered with bunting; in the evening there were popular rejoicings. The officers of the various army-corps gave the crown-prince banquets in honour of his betrothal. The Archduchess Valérie's portraits were exposed in the windows of all the picture-shops; the papers contained long articles full of jubilation. It was a few hours before the dinner given by the officers of the throne-guards to their imperial colonel when Othomar was, as it were suddenly, overcome by a strange sensation. He was in his writing-room, felt rather giddy and had to sit down. The giddiness was slight, but lasted a long time; for a long time the room seemed to be slowly trying to turn round him and not to succeed; and this gave a painful impression of resistance on the part of its lifeless furniture. One of Othomar's hands rested on his thigh, the other on the ruff of the collie which had laid its head upon his knee. He remained sitting, bending forward. When the giddiness had passed, he retained a strange lightness in his head, as though something had been taken out of it. He leant back cautiously; the collie, half-asleep, dreamily opened its eyes and then dozed off again, its head upon Othomar's knee, under his hand. An irresistible fatigue crept up Othomar's limbs, as though they were sinking in soft mud. It surprised him greatly, this feeling; and, looking sideways at the clock, without moving his head, lest he should bring on the giddiness again, he calculated that he had an hour and a half before dinner. This prospective interval relieved him and he remained sitting, as though calculating his fatigue: whether it would pass, whether it would leave his body. It lasted a long time, so long indeed that he doubted whether he would be able to go. When three-quarters of an hour had passed, he pressed the bell which stood near him on the table. Andro entered. "Andro...." he began, without continuing. "Does your highness wish to dress? Everything is put out...." Othomar just patted the dog's head, as it still lay dozing motionless against his knee. "Is your highness unwell?" "A little giddy, Andro; it is passing off already." "But is your highness right in going? Had I not better send for Prince Dutri?" Othomar shook his head decidedly and rose: "No, I'm late as it is, Andro. Come, help me with my things...." And he entered his dressing-room. He appeared at the dinner, but made excuses to the officers for his evident languor. He just joined in the toasts by raising his glass, with a smile. It struck them all that he looked very ill, emaciated, hollow-eyed and white as chalk in his white-and-gold uniform. Immediately after dinner he returned to the Imperial, without accompanying them to the Imperial Jockey Club, the club of the _jeunesse dorée_. He slept heavily; a misty dream hovered through his night. The man who had tried to murder him at Zanti's grinned at him with clenched fists; then the scene changed to the Gothlandic sea and he rowed Valérie along, but, however hard he rowed, the three towers of the castle always drew farther away, unapproachable.... When he awoke, it was already past eight. He reflected that it was too late for his usual morning ride and remained lying where he was. He rang for Andro: "Why didn't you wake me at seven o'clock?" "Your highness was sleeping so soundly, I dared not; your highness was not well yesterday...." "And so you just let me sleep? Very well.... Send word to her majesty ... that I am not well." The man looked at him anxiously: "What is the matter with your highness?" "I don't know, Andro ... I am a little tired. Where's Djalo?" "Here, highness...." The collie ran in noisily, put its great paws on the camp-bed, wriggled its haunches wildly to and fro as it wagged its tail.... Then, suddenly, it lay down quietly beside the bed. The empress sent back to say that she would come at once; she was not yet dressed.... With calm, open eyes Othomar lay waiting for her. She entered at last, a little agitated with anxiety. She questioned him, but learnt nothing from his vague, smiling replies. She laid her hand on his forehead, felt his pulse and could not make up her mind whether he had any fever. There was typhoid about: she was afraid of it.... The physicians-in-ordinary were called and relieved her mind: there was no fever. The prince seemed generally tired; he had doubtless over-exerted himself lately. He must rest.... The emperor was astonished: the prince had just been resting and had stayed on for weeks at Altseeborgen. What had been the use of it then! The rumour ran through the palace, the town, the country, through Europe, that the Duke of Xara was keeping his room because of a slight indisposition. The physicians issued a simple and very reassuring bulletin. However, in the afternoon Othomar got up and even dressed himself, but not in uniform. He had had some lunch in his bedroom and now went to Princess Thera's apartments. She sat drawing; with her was a lady-in-waiting, the young Marchioness of Ezzera. The princess was surprised to see her brother: "What! Is that you? I thought you were in bed!..." "No, I'm a little better...." He bowed to the marchioness, who had risen and curtseyed. "Won't you go on with the portrait?" asked Othomar. Thera looked at him: "You're looking so pale, poor boy. Perhaps I'd better not. It tires you so, that sitting, doesn't it?" "Yes, sometimes, a little...." They were now standing before the portrait; the marchioness had retired, as she always did when the brother and sister were together. The painting was half-covered with a silk cloth, which Thera pulled aside: it was already a young head full of expression, in which life began to gleam behind the black, melancholy eyes, and painted with broad, firm brushwork, with much reflection of outside light, which fell upon one side of the face and brought it into relief, throwing it forward out of the shadow in the background. "Is it almost finished?" asked Othomar. "Yes, but you've kept me waiting awfully long for the final touches: just think, you've been away for four months. I haven't been able to work at it all that time. But, you know ... you've changed. If only I shan't have to leave it like this. It's no longer like you...." "It'll begin to be like me again, when I'm looking a little better!" answered Othomar. But the princess became rather nervous; she suddenly drew the silk cloth over it again.... Othomar did not appear at dinner; he went to bed early. The next day the doctors found him very listless. He was up but not dressed; he lay in his dressing-gown on the sofa in his room, with the collie at his feet. He complained to the empress that he had such a queer feeling in his head, as though it were about to open and pour out all its contents. For days this condition remained unchanged: a total listlessness, a total loss of appetite, a visible exhaustion.... The empress sat by his side as he lay on his sofa staring through the open windows into the green depths of the park of plane-trees. The birds chirped outside; sometimes Berengar's small, shrill voice sounded among them, as he played with a couple of his little friends. The empress read aloud, but it tired Othomar, it made his head ache.... After a long conversation between the three doctors and the emperor and empress, Professor Barzia was summoned from Altara for a consultation: the professor was a nerve-specialist of European fame. In the emperor's room the emperor, the empress and Count Myxila sat waiting for the result of the examination and the subsequent consultation. It lasted long. They did not speak while they waited: the empress sat staring before her with her quiet expression of acquiescence; the emperor walked irritably to and fro. The old chancellor, with his stern, proud face and bald head, stood pensively near the window. Then the doctors were announced. They appeared, Professor Barzia leading the way, the others following. The empress fancied that she read the worst on the professor's pale, rigid features; one of the physicians, however, nodded his big, kind head compassionately from behind his colleague, to reassure her. "Well?" asked the emperor. "We have carefully examined his imperial highness, sir," the professor began. "The prince is quite free from organic disease, though his constitution is generally delicate." "What's wrong with him then?" asked Oscar. "The prince's nervous system seems to us, sir, to have undergone an alarming strain." "His nerves? But he's never nervous, he's always calm," exclaimed the emperor, stubbornly. "All the more reason, sir, to appreciate the prince's self-restraint. His highness has evidently kept himself going for a long time; and the effort has been too much for him at last. He is calm now, as your majesty says. But his calmness does not alter the fact that his nerves are completely run down. His highness has clearly been overtaxing his strength." "And in what way?" asked the emperor, haughtily. "That, sir, would no doubt be better known to those at court than to me, who come fresh from my study and my hospitals. Your majesty will be able to answer that question yourself. I can only give you a few indications. His highness told me that he remembered sometimes feeling those fits of giddiness and exhaustion even before the great floods in the north. That was in March. It is now September. I imagine that his highness has been leading a very active life in the meantime?" The emperor made movements with his eyebrows as if he could not understand: tremulous motions of his powerful head, with its fleece of silvering hair. "The journey to the north may in fact have affected his highness, professor," the empress began. She was sitting haughtily upright, in her plain dark dress. Her face was expressionless, her eyes were cold. She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though she were not a mother. "His highness is very sensitive to impressions," she continued, "and he received a good many at Altara that were likely to shock him." The professor made a slight movement of the head: "I remember, ma'am, seeing his highness at the identification of the corpses in the fields," he said. "His highness _was_ very much affected...." "But to what does all this tend?" asked the emperor, still recalcitrant. "It tends to this, sir, that his highness has presumably allowed himself no rest since that time...." "His highness has allowed himself months of rest!" exclaimed the emperor. "Will your majesty permit us to cast our eyes backwards for a moment? After the very fatiguing journey in the north, the prince returned straight to conditions of political excitement--Lipara was then under martial law--and afterwards came the bustle of a festival time, when the King and Queen of Syria were here...." The emperor shrugged his shoulders. "After that, the prince, acting on the advice of my respected colleagues, went on a sea-voyage to restore his health. No doubt his highness then enjoyed some days of rest; but the great hunting-trips in which he took part with Prince Herman were beyond a doubt too much for his highness' strength. Now, quite recently, his highness has been betrothed: this may have caused him some excitement. I am casually mentioning a few of the main facts, sir. I know nothing of the prince's inner life: if I knew something of that, it would certainly make many things much easier for me. But this is certain: his highness has from day to day led a too highly agitated existence, whatever the agitations may have been, great or small. That his highness did not collapse earlier is no doubt due to an uncommon power of self-control, of which I believe the prince himself to be unconscious, and an uncommon sense of duty, which is also quite spontaneous in his highness. These are high qualities, sir, in a future ruler...." A faint flush dyed the empress' cheeks; a milder expression suffused the coldness of her features. "And what is your advice, professor?" she asked. "That his highness should take an indefinite rest, ma'am." "His highness' marriage was fixed for next month," remarked the empress, in an enquiring tone. Professor Barzia's face became quite white and rigid. "It would be simply inexcusable, if his highness' marriage were to take place next month," he said, with his even, oracular voice. "Postponed, then?" asked the emperor, with suppressed rage. "Without doubt, sir," replied the professor, with cool determination. "My dear professor," the emperor growled between his teeth, with a pretence of geniality, "you speak of rest and of rest and of rest. Good God, I tell you, the prince has _had_ rest, months and months of it!... Do I ever rest so long? Life is movement; and government is movement. We can't allow ourselves to rest. Why should a young man like the prince be always resting? I never remember resting like that, when I was crown-prince! He may not be as strong as I am, but yet he is of our race! Excitement, you say! Good God, what excitement? Political excitement? That fell to _my_ share, not the prince's! And I had no need of rest after it. And has a prince to go and rest when he gets engaged to be married? Really, professor, this is carrying hygiene beyond all limits!" "Sir, your majesty has done me the honour to ask my opinion of the prince's condition. I have given that opinion to the best of my knowledge." "It's rest, then?" "Undoubtedly, sir." "But how long do you want him to rest?" "I am not able to fix a date, sir." "How long do you want his marriage postponed?" "Indefinitely, sir." The emperor paced the room; something unusual passed over his powerful features, a look of anguish.... "That's impossible," he muttered, curtly. All were silent. "It's impossible," he, repeated, dully. "Then his highness will marry, sir," said Barzia. The emperor stood still: "What do you mean?" he asked, gruffly. "That nothing can prevail with your majesty in this most important matter ... except your own sense of what is right and reasonable." The emperor's breath came in short gasps between his full, sensual lips; his veins swelled thick on his low, Roman forehead; his strong fists were clenched. No one had ever seen Oscar like this before; nor had any one ever dared so to address him.... "Explain yourself more clearly," he thundered into the professor's rigid face. Barzia did not move a muscle: "If his highness is married next month ... it means his death." The empress remained sitting stiff and upright, but she turned very pale, shuddered and closed her eyes as though she felt giddy. "His death?" echoed the emperor, in consternation. "Or worse," rejoined Barzia. "Worse?" "The extinction of your majesty's posterity." The emperor rapped out a furious oath and struck his fist on the huge writing-table. The bronze ornaments on it rang. Myxila drew a step nearer: "Sir," he said, "there is nothing lost. If I understand Professor Barzia, his highness' illness is only temporary and is curable." "Certainly, excellency," replied Barzia. "So long as it is not forced to become incurable and chronic." Oscar bit his lips convulsively. His glittering eyes stood out small and cruel. It struck Myxila how much, at this moment, he resembled a portrait of Wenceslas the Cruel. "Professor," he hissed, "we thank you. Stay at Lipara till to-morrow, so as to observe his highness once more." "I will obey your majesty's commands," said Barzia. He bowed, the physicians bowed; they withdrew. Left alone with the empress and the imperial chancellor, Oscar no longer restrained his rage. Like a beast foaming at the mouth, he walked fiercely up and down with heavy steps, gurgling as though the breath refused to come through his constricted throat: "Oh!" he gnashed between his teeth, bursting out at last. "That boy, that boy!... He's not even fit to get married! His duchess: he was able to get married to her! And that boy, oh, that boy is to succeed me, _me!_..." A furious laugh of contempt grated from between his large, white teeth, with biting irony. The empress rose: "Count Myxila," she said, trembling, "may I beg your excellency to come with me?" She turned to leave the room. Myxila, hesitating, was already following her to the door. "What for?" roared the emperor. "What's the reason of that? I have something more to say to Myxila." The empress gave the emperor a look as cold as ice: "It is my express wish, sir, that Count Myxila should go with me," she said, in the same trembling voice. "I think your majesty needs solitude. Your majesty is saying things which a father must not even think and which a sovereign must certainly not say in the presence of a subject, not even in that of one of his highest subjects...." The emperor tried to interrupt her. "Your majesty," continued the empress, with a haughty tremor, cutting the words from him with her icy-cold, trembling voice as though with a knife, "is saying these things of the future Emperor of Lipara ... and I wish _no_ subject, not even Count Myxila, to hear such things; and, moreover, your majesty is saying these things of _my son_: therefore I do not wish to hear them myself, sir! Excellency, I request you once more to come with me." "Go then!" shouted the emperor, like a madman. "Go, both of you: yes, leave me alone, leave me alone!" He walked furiously up and down, flung the chairs one against the other, roared like an angry caged lion. He took a bronze statue from a bracket in front of a tall mirror that rose to the ceiling in gilt arabesques: "There then!" he lashed out, while his passion seemed to seethe mistily in his bewildered brain, to shoot red lightning-flashes from his bloodshot eyes, to drive him mad because of his impotence against the senseless fate and logic of circumstance. Like an athlete he brandished the heavy statue through the air; like a child he hurled it at the great mirror, which fell clattering in a flicker of shreds. The empress and Myxila had left the room. 3 The ordinary court-life continued; the empress' first drawing-room took place. The reception-rooms leading to the great presence-chamber were lit up, though it was day-time; the ladies entered, handed their cards to the grand chamberlain, signed their names and waited until their titles were called out by the masters of ceremonies. They stood in low-necked dresses; the long white veils fell in misty folds of gauze from the feathers and jewelled tiaras. It was the first display of the new costumes of the season, the fashion which had sprung into life and now moved and had its being; but the crowded rooms seemed but the antechambers of that display and the upgathered trains gave an impression of preparation for the solemn second, the momentary appearance before her majesty. The Duchess of Yemena was waiting, her train also thrown over her arm, with the two marchionesses her stepdaughters, whom she was about to present to the empress, when she saw Dutri, bowing, apologizing, twisting through the expectant ladies, to make way for himself through the crowded room: "Dutri," she beckoned, as he did not seem to perceive her. He reached her after some difficulty, bowed, paid his compliments to the little marchionesses. They stood with stiff little faces, frightened, round eyes and tight-closed mouths; and the lines of their girlish figures displayed the shyness of novices. With an awkward grace, they kept arranging their heavy court-trains over their arms. They just smiled at Dutri's words; then they looked stiff again, compared the other ladies' dresses with their own. "Dutri," whispered the duchess, "how is the prince?" "Just the same," the equerry whispered in reply. "Terribly melancholy...." "Dutri," she murmured, sinking her voice still lower, "would there be no chance for me to see him?" Dutri started in dismay: "How do you mean, Alexa? When?" "Presently, after the drawing-room...." "But that is impossible, Alexa! The prince sees no one but their majesties and the princess; he talks to nobody, not even to his chamberlains, not even to us...." "Dutri," she insisted, with her hand on his arm, "do your best. Help me. Ask for an interview for me. If you help me ... I will help you too...." He looked at her expectantly. "What do you think of Hélène?" she asked. "I think Eleonore prettier," he smiled. "Well, come to us oftener, to my special days; we never see anything of you. I will prepare the duke...." She dangled the rich match before his eyes: he blinked them, as he continued to look at her and smile. "But then you must help me!" she continued, with a gentle threat. "I will do my best, Alexa, but I can promise nothing," he just had time to reply. "Wait for me after the drawing-room, in one of the other rooms," he whispered, accompanying her for a few steps. All this time the titles were being cried, ceremoniously, slowly; the ladies moved on, dropped their trains, blossomed out. "Her excellency the Duchess of Yemena, Countess of Vaza; their excellencies the Marchionesses of Yemena...." The duchess moved on, the girls followed her, crimson, with beating hearts. They passed through a long gallery, dropping their trains; at the door of the presence-room, before they entered, stood flunkeys who spread out the heavy court-mantles. "Her excellency the Duchess of ..." The titles rang out for the second time, this time through the presence-chamber and with a sound of greater reverence, because they echoed in the listening ears of welcoming majesty. The duchess and the marchionesses entered. Between the wide hangings of dark-blue velvet, on which glittered the cross of St. Ladislas, and under the canopy supported by gilt pillars, sat the empress, like an idol, glittering in the shadow in her watered-silver brocade, the ermine imperial mantle falling in heavy folds to her feet, a small diadem sparkling upon her head. To the right of the throne, on a low stool, sat the Princess Thera, on the left stood the mistress of the robes, the Countess of Threma; round about, on either side, a crowd of ladies-in-waiting, court-officials, equerries, maids of honour, grooms of the bed-chamber.... The duchess made her curtsey, approached the throne and with great reverence, as though with diffident lips, touched the jewelled finger-tips, which the empress held out like a live relic. Then the duchess took two steps backwards; the marchionesses, one after the other, followed her example, surprising everybody by the attractive freshness of their first court-movements, in which the touch of awkwardness became a charm. Then the bows, in a long ritual of withdrawal, backwards. They disappeared through other doors, found themselves in a long gallery, entered other reception-rooms, where people stood waiting for their carriages. And the two girls looked at each other, seeking each other's impressions, still crimson with the excitement in their vain little hearts and strangely surprised at the incomprehensible briefness of this first and all-important moment of their lives as grown-up people, as ladies accompanying their mamma to the Imperial, where they would thenceforth lead their existence. For how many months beforehand they had thought and dreamed of this moment; now, suddenly, with surprising quickness, it was over.... The duchess chucked Hélène under the chin, put Eleonore's veil straight, said that they had curtseyed beautifully, that she had herself even noticed how pleased the Countess of Threma had been with them. Then she chatted busily with the other ladies, introduced the little marchionesses, promised visits. Then she turned to a flunkey: "Go and see where my carriage is and tell it to leave the rank and drive up last. Here...." She gave him a gold coin; the flunkey disappeared. A nervous impatience seized the duchess; she looked out anxiously for Dutri. At last her eyes caught sight of him; he came up with his fatuous fussiness: "Alexa, it's impossible...." "Have you asked the prince?" "No, not yet; there's the question, to begin with, whether he'll see _me_. But then ... how am I to take you to him? There are always servants hanging about in the doorways, to say nothing of the guards and halberdiers; in the anterooms you run up against a chamberlain at any moment. Really, it is impossible." She grew angry: "Begin by asking him. We'll see later how we're to get to him." Dutri made graceful gestures of despair: "But, Alexa, can't you really understand ... that it is impossible?..." She made no reply, not wishing to reflect, her head filled with her stubborn fixed idea to see the prince, to insist on seeing him. And, suddenly, turning to him: "Very well, if you don't care to do anything for me, you needn't think I shall help you in _any_ way." Her nervous, angry voice sounded louder than her first whispered words: the two girls heard her. "Alexa," he besought her, gently. "No, no," she resisted, curtly. He thought of his debts and of Eleonore: "I'll try," he whispered, in despair. She promptly rewarded him with a smile; he went, hurried away again, with his eternal air of fussy importance, because of his young imperial master, who was so sadly ill. In the anteroom he found the chamberlain on duty: "Would the prince be willing to see me?" The chamberlain shrugged his shoulders: "I'll ask," he said. He speedily returned: the prince had sent word that Dutri could come in. Dutri entered. Othomar lay on a couch covered with tiger-skins, in front of his writing-table. He had grown thinner; his eyes were hollow, his complexion was wan; his neck protruded frail and wasted from the loose turn-down collar of his silk shirt, over which he wore a velvet jacket. In his hand he held an open book. Djalo, the collie, lay on the floor. Dutri the voluble began to press his request in rapid sentences following close upon one another's heels.... "The duchess?" repeated Othomar, faintly. "No, no...." Dutri galloped on, simulated melancholy, employed words of gentle, insinuating sadness. Othomar's face assumed an expression which was strange to it and quite new: it was as though the melancholy of his features were crystallizing into a stubborn obstinacy, a silent doggedness. "No," he said once more, while his voice, too, sounded dogged and obstinate. "Make my apologies to the duchess, Dutri. And where ... where would she wish to see me?" "I did not fail to point out this difficulty to her excellency; but perhaps, if your highness would be so gracious ... one might nevertheless...." Othomar closed his eyes and threw his head back; his hand fell loosely upon the collie's head. He made no further reply and his lips were tightly compressed. Dutri still hesitated: what could he do, what should he tell Alexa?... But the door opened and the empress entered. The drawing-room was over; she had put off her robes and the crown, but she still wore her stiff, heavy dress of silver brocade. She looked coldly at Dutri and bowed her head slightly, as a sign for him to go: the equerry beat a confused retreat, without his usual tact. Othomar half-rose from his couch: "Mamma!..." She sat down beside him, stroked his forehead with her hand: "How do you feel?" He smiled and blinked with his eyes, without replying. "What was Dutri doing here?" "He wanted ... Oh, mamma, never mind, don't ask me!... How beautiful you look! May I, too, kiss your hand?" Winningly, jestingly he took her hand and kissed it. She took his book from his fingers, read the treasonable title: "Are you reading again, Othomar?... You know you mustn't read so much. And why all these strange books?..." On the table lay Lassalle, Marx, works by Russian nihilists, a pamphlet by Bakounine, pamphlets by Zanti.... The little work which he was reading was by a well-known Liparian anarchist and entitled, _Injustice by the Grace of God;_ it overthrew everything: religion and the state; it addressed itself directly to the crowned tyrants in power; it addressed itself directly to Oscar. "Is it to get back your health, Othomar, that you read this sort of thing?" she asked, in a tone of pained reproach. "But, mamma, I must see what it is that they want...." "And what do they want?" He looked pensively before him: "I don't know what they want, I can't understand them. They employ very long sentences, the same sentences over and over again, with the same words over and over again. I can just make out that they disapprove of everything that exists and want something different. But yet sometimes...." "Sometimes what?" "Sometimes they say terrible things, terrible because they sound so true, mamma. When they speak of God and prove that He does not exist, when they describe our whole system of government as a monstrosity and reject all authority, including our own.... They sometimes speak like children who have suddenly learnt to talk and to judge; and then sometimes they suddenly speak clearly; and then very primitive thoughts arise in me: if God exists, why is there any injustice and misery; and our authority: on what right is that founded? O God, mamma, what right have we to reign over others, over millions? Tell me--but argue from the beginning: don't argue backwards; don't begin with us: begin with our first rulers, our usurpers--what right had they? And does ours merely spring from theirs? Oh, these problems, these simple problems: who can solve them, my God, who can solve them?..." Elizabeth suddenly turned pale. She stared at him as though he had gone mad: "Who gives you these books?" she asked, harshly, hoarsely, anxiously. "Dutri, Leoni; Andro has also fetched me some." "They're mad!" exclaimed the empress, rising. "Why do you ask for them?" "I want to know, mamma...." "Othomar," she cried, "will you do what I ask?" "Yes, mamma," he replied, gently, "but sit down again and ... and don't be angry. And ... and don't say 'Othomar.' And ... and go and change your dress: oh, I can't see you in that dress; you are so far from me; your voice doesn't reach me and I daren't kiss you: you are not my mother, you are the empress! Mamma, O mamma!..." His voice appealed to her. A powerful emotion awoke in her. "O my boy!" she cried, with a half-sob breaking in her throat. "Yes, yes, call me that.... Mamma, let's be quick and find each other again, let us not lose each other. What is your request?" "Give me all those books." "I will give them to you; they make me no happier, when all is said!" "But then why are you unhappy, my boy, my boy?" "Mamma, look at the world, look at our people, see how they suffer, see how they are oppressed! What shall I ever be able to do for them! I shall always be powerless, in spite of all our power! Oh, it grows so dark in front of me, I can see nothing more, I have no hope; only Utopians have any hope left, but I ... I no longer hope, for I can do nothing, nothing!... O my God, mamma, the whole country is falling upon me and crushing me and I can do nothing, nothing!... I shall have to reign and I shall not be able to, mamma. What am I? A poor sickly boy: how can I become emperor? I don't know why it is, mamma, nor what it comes from, but I don't feel like a future emperor, I feel like a feeble child! I feel like your child, your boy, and nothing more...." He seemed about to throw himself into her arms, but on the contrary he flung himself backwards, as though he were frightened by her brilliant attire; his head dropped nervelessly on his chest, his arms fell loosely down. She saw his movement: her first feeling was one of regret that she had come to him in court-dress, longing as she did to see him, not allowing herself the time to change. But this regret passed through her as a transient emotion, for it was followed by an intense dizziness, as though a yawning abyss opened at her feet, as though the earth retreated and black nothingness gaped before her. A despair as of utter impotence enveloped her soul. Vaguely she stretched out her arms and threw them round his neck, as though she were groping in the dark, with wandering eyes: "My boy, don't talk like that any more, because ... when you talk like that, you take away my strength too!" she whispered, in alarm. "For how can it be helped? You must, we all must...." "Forgive me, mamma, but I ... I shall not be able to. Oh, I see it clearly now! I am not excited, I am calm. I see it, I prophesy it, it can never be...." "But papa is still so young and so strong, my boy; and, when you grow older...." "The older I grow, the more impossible it will be, mamma. I was always frightened of it as a child, but I never realized it so desperately as now. No, mamma, it cannot be. Now that I am ill, I have plenty of time to reflect; and I now see before me what the end of all our trouble is bound to be...." His eyes gazed at the floor in despair; she still half-clung to him, helplessly; a menacing shiver seemed to float through the room. "Mamma...." She made no response. "I must tell you of my resolve...." "What resolve?..." "Will you tell it to papa?" "What, what, Othomar ... my boy?" "That I can't marry ... Valérie, because...." "Later, later: you needn't marry yet...." "No, mamma, I never can, because I...." She looked at him beseechingly, enquiringly. "Because I want to abdicate ... my rights ... in favour of ... Berengar...." She made no reply; feebly she drooped against him, not knowing how to console and cheer him, and softly and plaintively began to sob. It was as though her soul was being flooded with anguish, slowly but persistently, until it brimmed over. She reproached herself with it all. He was her child: the future Emperor of Liparia had derived this weakness from her. And the manifestation of this agonizing mystery of heredity before her despairing eyes deprived her of all her strength, of all her courage, of all her power of acquiescence and resignation. "Mamma," he repeated. She sobbed on. "Don't be so disconsolate.... Berengar will be better than I.... You'll tell papa, won't you?... Or no, never mind, if it costs you too great an effort: I'll tell him myself...." She started up nervously from her despair: "O my God, no! Othomar, no! Don't talk to him about it: he is so passionate, he would ... he would murder you! Promise me that you will not talk to him about it! _I_ will tell him--O my God!--_I_ will tell him...." But a tremor of hope revived within her. "But, Othomar, I ask you, why do you do this? You are ill now, but you will get better and then ... then you will think differently!" He gazed out before him: his presentiment quivered through him; he saw his dream again: the streets of Lipara filled with crape, right up to the sky, where it veiled the sunlight. And over his features there passed again that new air of hardness, of dogged obstinacy which made him unrecognizable; he shook his head slowly from side to side, from side to side: "No, mamma, I shall never think differently. Believe me, it will be better so." When she saw him like that, her new hope collapsed again and she sobbed once more. Sobbing, she rose; amid her sorrow yawned a void; she was losing something: her son. "Are you going?" he asked. She nodded yes, sobbing. "Do you forgive me?" She nodded yes again. Then she gave him a smile, a smile full of despair; lacking the strength to kiss him, she went out, still sobbing. He remained alone and rose from his couch. He stood in the middle of the room; his eyes stared at the collie: "Why need I give her pain!" he thought. Everything in his soul hurt him. "Why did I go on that voyage with Herman?" he asked himself again. "It was in those first days of rest that I began to think so much. And yet Professor Barzia says, 'Rest!' ... What does he know about me? What does one person know about another?... Djalo!" he cried. The collie ran up, wriggling, joyfully. "Djalo, what is right? How ought the world to be? Must there be kings and emperors, Djalo, or had we better all disappear?" The dog looked at him, wagging its tail violently; suddenly it jumped up and licked his face. "And why, Djalo, need one man always make the other unhappy? Why need princes make their people unhappy? Will life always remain the same, for ages and ages?..." Othomar sank into a heap on the couch; his hand fell on the dog, which licked it passionately. "Oh!" he sobbed. "My people, my people!..." * * * * * At this moment the last carriages were driving away in the fore-court of the Imperial; the staring crowd, behind the grenadiers, peeped curiously at the pretty ladies glistening through the glass of the state-coaches. The Duchess of Yemena's carriage came last of all. 4 A spirit of gloom seemed to haunt the ringing marble halls of the Imperial, a dim melancholy to stifle the cadences of the voices and their echoes and to hang from the tall ceilings as it had been a heavy web of atmosphere. It was autumn; the first parties were to take place; the first court-ball was given. But it seemed to be given because there was no help for it: it was a slow, official, tedious function. The more intimate circles of the Imperial, those of the Duchess of Yemena and the diplomatic body, regretted the more select assemblies in the smaller rooms of the empress. They looked upon those great balls as necessary inflictions. The empress' smaller dances, however, were always favoured as most charming entertainments. But the empress had decided that they should not take place, because of the illness of the crown-prince. At this first great ball their majesties appeared only for a brief moment, to take part in the imperial quadrille.... Grey ashes fell over the glittering mood of imperial festivity which so short a time ago had been the usual atmosphere of the palace. The dinners, once the glories of day after day, were shortened; only the most necessary invitations were given. The emperor himself maintained a constant mood of sullenness: the army bill for the augmentation of the active forces was still attacked in principle in the house of deputies; and the emperor was resolved at all costs to uphold his minister of war. Moreover, thanks to the dash of childishness that showed through all his energy, he had not recovered from his disappointment at the postponement of the Duke of Xara's marriage. He seemed in a continual state of irritation because his Liparian world would not go as he wanted it to go. Neither the empress nor the prince himself thought it a favourable moment to communicate the mournful resolution to the emperor. But for this very reason the empress began silently to cherish fresh hope. Nothing had been said yet: the humiliating secret existed only between her son and herself. Humiliating, because what public reason could he allege for resigning the succession? What pretext would sound plausible enough to conceal the true motive of weakness and impotence? And yet he was her child and Oscar's! It seemed to the empress unfeasible to communicate Othomar's wish to his father and to tell the emperor that his own son had no capacity for government. Oh, what sacrifice would she not be prepared to make, if only she could spare her child this humiliation! But was he really so powerless to master himself and to draw himself up, proudly, under the weight of what was as yet no more than a prince's coronet? Had she but known how to counteract his discouragement; but she had merely sobbed, merely given way before his despair; in vain had she sought in his soul the secret spring that should cause him to rise from the impotence into which the languor of his reflections had made him sink.... And yet she felt that there must be a secret spring, because she instinctively divined its presence in the souls of all her equals: it was the mystery of their sovereignty, the reason why they were sovereigns, the reason of their prerogative. She possessed the adorable, child-like faith that in them, the crowned heads, there exists a common essence of distinction which raises them above the crowd: that single drop of sacred blood in their veins, that single atom of inherited divinity, which sheds lustre through their souls. She believed in their high exclusive right of majesty. Because she believed in that even as she believed in her sinfulness as a human being and in the absolution of her confessor, the Archbishop of Lipara, she could never for one instant doubt their right divine as rulers. Whatever people might think, or write, or want different, theirs was the right: of this she was certain, as certain as of the Trinity. That Othomar had doubted the existence of God had struck her as impious, but it had not shattered her so much as his disbelief in their right. Was he alone then lacking in that essence of distinction, that sacred golden drop of blood, that divine atom? And, if he lacked it, if he, the crown-prince, lacked majesty, was this monstrous lack her fault, the fault of the mother who bore him? The suspicion of this guilt crushed her; and before she even dared to speak to Othomar she humbled herself before the archbishop. The prelate, alarmed at these portents in the mysterious melancholy of the Imperial, had scarcely known how to comfort her. After that, she remained prostrate for hours before her crucifix. She prayed with all her soul, prayed for light for herself and for her son, prayed for strength and that the spark might descend upon Othomar. When she had prayed thus, so long and with such conviction, there came over her, like an afflatus of the Holy Ghost, a sense of peace. She became herself again, she awaited events, regained her credulous fatalism, her conviction that nothing happens but what must happen and is right. What was wrong did not happen. If it were fated that Othomar must receive that spark, that would be right; if it were fated that he must abdicate, that would be right too, O God, right with a strange, inscrutable rightness!... Because the days had passed without her having yet spoken to the emperor, she hoped anew; she hoped that Othomar would be his old self again and no longer seek his own degradation. But it was as though she hoped in spite of everything; for, each time that she now saw Othomar, she found him duller and more exhausted, more helpless beneath the certainty of his weakness. Professor Barzia, who treated the prince personally and twice a day gave him his cold-water douche in the palace, seemed to be least uneasy about Othomar's physical weakness. The prince was not robust, but the professor divined in his delicate constitution the presence of the element that had sprung from the first rough, sensual strength of the Czyrkiski race: the Slavonic element, which had become enervated through its Latin admixtures, but had lingered on; a secret toughness, an indestructible factor of unsuspected firmness, which lay deep down, like a foundation, and upon which much seemed to be built that was very slender and fragile. What had once been rude strength the professor believed he had discovered in a certain toughness; what had been cruelty and lust, in a certain enervation, which had hitherto been held in check by self-restraint and a spontaneous sense of duty, but which now suddenly revealed itself in this excessive lassitude. Barzia distinctly perceived in Othomar the scion of his ancestors; and he considered that, though the rich physical vigour of the original sovereign blood had become refined, as if it were now flowing more thinly through feebler veins, yet that blood was not so impoverished that the delicacy of this future emperor need be ascribed to racial exhaustion. Possibly Barzia's sudden affection for the prince tinged this physiological diagnosis with excessive optimism; at any rate, the professor had not the least fear of this fragility, or even of this nervous weakness. What he did fear was lest those mental qualities which had so suddenly endeared the prince to him should not be able to maintain themselves during this period of fatigue and exhaustion. Spontaneous, unreflected, uncalculated he knew those virtues to be in the prince, as it were a treasure unknown to himself: would they be lost, now, in these mournful days, or would they remain, perhaps develop, become more and more refined, make up to Othomar in moral strength for what he lacked in physical strength and in this way cure him? For the professor knew it: these qualities alone could effect a cure.... Othomar himself thought neither of his virtues nor of his blood: he thought of his future and thought of it with an hourly-increasing dread. When the empress asked Barzia whether this rest would be good for the prince and whether distraction would not be better, the professor declared that the prince had had plenty of distraction lately. He must first get over his fatigue, get over it entirely; it mattered less with what the prince kept his brain occupied for the moment.... But Barzia did not mean this altogether and would doubtless have been very far from meaning it at all, had he known of what the prince was thinking, or been fully able to judge his utter lack of mental elasticity. And the days passed by. Othomar did not mention his resolution to the empress again, desiring to give her as little pain as possible; neither did the empress allude to it: she hoped on. But in Othomar's meditations it revolved incessantly, like a wheel: he was able to do nothing for his people and yet he loved them; he did not know how to govern them, he would abdicate his rights and his title of crown-prince: Berengar should become Duke of Xara.... The small prince came and paid his brother a short visit every morning; he always wore his little uniform, looking like a sturdy little general in miniature, and Othomar watched him with a smile. Was there no wish to rule in the boy's medieval little brain, was there no jealousy in his passionate little heart? Othomar remembered the history of Liparia, in the cruel times of their early middle-ages, that terrible drama--they still showed at St. Ladislas the chamber where it had been enacted--that second son stabbing his elder brother in his lust for the crown and hurling the corpse from an oriel window into the Zanthos, which flowed beneath the fortress. What had the boy inherited of this rivalry? And, though this rivalry had been wholly refined into less salient feelings, would not an immense happiness enter Berengar's small princely soul if he were to learn that he might be crown-prince now and that one day he would be ... emperor? But what would the boy think of him, Othomar, for giving away all this magnificence of his own free will? Would he despise him, while yet feeling grateful to him, or would he cherish mistrust, suspecting a lurking mystery behind all this greatness, which Othomar cast from him?... At such times Othomar would draw the little fellow to him with silent compassion, but would take pleasure in feeling the firm muscles of his sturdy little arms and listening to his short, crisp little speeches. Then Berengar rode away and Djalo was allowed to run with him through the park: in an hour he would bring the dog back to Othomar and talk with great importance of his lessons, which were just beginning. And, when Berengar had gone, Othomar lay thinking about him in his long hours of reverie, already looked upon his brother as actually crown-prince, erased his own name from the list of future sovereigns, thought of what he would do when he was cured and had shaken off the last remnant of his purple, remembered his uncle Xaverius, who was the abbot of a monastery, and pictured himself studying, compiling works on history and sociology.... 5 These were autumn days. The sunny blue of the sky was often clouded with grey; in the morning the winds blew from the north, blew over the sea till it became the colour of steel; then the sun broke through and shone very warmly for a couple of hours, with an occasional cold blast, suddenly and treacherously rushing round the corners of the streets; then, at four or half-past four o'clock, the sun was extinguished and the pale sky was left exhaling its icy chillness on the open harbour, between the white palaces, in the streets and squares. It was a treacherous time of year: the empress and Berengar had caught cold driving in an open carriage; they both kept their rooms and Othomar in his turn went to visit them; the empress was coughing, the little prince had a temperature; there was never so much illness about as now, the doctors declared. And a melancholy continued to brood through the halls of the Imperial, through the whole town, where the imperial family were no longer seen at the opera and at parties. Never had the daily dinners at the Imperial been so short, with so few guests; and it made an insurmountably sad impression not to see the empress seated next to the emperor, delicate, distinguished, august, but in her stead the Princess Thera, who seemed quite incapable of bringing a smile to Oscar's grim and peevish features. Othomar did not even know that those about the empress were anxious on her behalf: she always received him with all the cheerfulness that she could muster, in spite of the pain on her chest; the doctors told him nothing, no one gave him the bulletins, every one tried to spare him; and besides there was really less anxiety in the Imperial than in the town and throughout the country. But the little prince received Othomar with less meekness than did the empress; and every day there were silent rages, sulking displays against the doctors for keeping him in bed. Once, when the crown-prince came to see Berengar, the doctors were with him; the fever had increased, but the little prince wanted to get out of bed; he was naughty, used ugly names, had even struck the good-natured, big-headed doctor and pummelled him with his little clenched fist. "As soon as you're better, Berengar," said Othomar, after first reproving him, "I shall make you a present." "What of?" asked the boy, eagerly. "But I am better now!" "No, no, you must do what the doctors tell you and not vex them." "And what will you give me then?" Othomar looked at him long and firmly. "What shall I have then?" repeated the child. "I mustn't tell you yet, Berengar; it's really rather big for you still." "What is it then? A horse?" "No, it's not as big as a horse, but heavier. Don't ask any more about it and also don't try and guess what it is, but be obedient: then you'll get better and then you shall have it." "Heavier than a horse and not so big!..." Berengar pondered, with glowing cheeks. With his head bowed on his breast, dragging his footsteps, Othomar returned to his room. He stayed there for hours, sitting silently, gloomily, in the same attitude; as usual, he did not appear at dinner and hardly ate what Andro brought him. Then he went to lie down on his couch, took up a book to read, but put it down again and raised himself up, as though with a sudden impulse: "Why not now?" he thought. "Why keep on postponing it?..." Night fell, but the upper corridors of the palace were not yet lighted; dragging his fatigue through this dusky shadow, Othomar went to the emperor's anterooms. The chamberlain announced him. Oscar sat at his writing-table, pen in hand. "Am I disturbing you, papa? Or can I speak to you?" "No, you're not disturbing me.... Have you been to see mamma?" "Yes, this afternoon; she was pretty well, but Berengar's temperature was higher." The emperor glanced up at him: "Worse than this morning?" "I don't know: he was rather feverish." The emperor rose: "Do you want to talk to me?" "Yes, papa." "Wait a moment, then. I've not been to Berengar yet to-day." He went out, leaving the door ajar. Othomar remained alone. He sat down. He looked round the great work-room, which he knew so well from their morning consultations with the chancellor. Lately, however, he had not attended these. He thought over what he should say; meanwhile his eyes wandered around; they fell upon the great mirror with its gilt arabesques; something seemed strange to him. Then he rose and walked up to the glass: "I was under the impression there was a flaw near the top of it," he thought. "I can't well be mistaken. Has it been renewed?" He was still standing by the looking-glass, when Oscar returned: "Berengar is not at all well; the fever is increasing," he said; and the tone of his voice hesitated. "Mamma is with him...." Absorbed as he was in his own meditations, it did not strike Othomar that the little prince must have become worse for the empress, who was herself ill, to go to him. "And about what did you want to speak to me?" asked the emperor, as the prince remained silent. "About Berengar, papa." "About Berengar?" "About Berengar and myself. I have been contrasting myself with him, papa. We are brothers, we are both your sons. Which of us, do you think, takes most after you ... and ... our ancestors?" "What are you driving at, Othomar?" "At what is right, papa: right and just. Nature is sometimes unjust and blind; she ought to have let Berengar be born first and me next ... or even left me out altogether." "Once more, what are you driving at, Othomar?" "Can't you see, papa? I will tell you. Is Berengar not more of a monarch than I am? Is that not why he's your favourite? And ought I to deprive him of his natural rights for the sake of my traditional rights? I want to abdicate in his favour, papa. I want to abdicate everything, all my rights." "The boy's mad," muttered Oscar. "All my rights," repeated Othomar, dreamily, as though he foresaw the future: his little brother crowned. "Othomar, are you raving?" asked the emperor. "Papa, I am not raving. What I am now telling you I have thought over for days, perhaps weeks; I don't know: time passes so quickly.... What I am telling you I have discussed with mamma: it made her cry, but she did not oppose me. She looks at it as I do.... And what I tell you holds good; I have made up my mind and nothing can make me change it.... I am fond of Berengar; I am glad to give up everything to him; and I shall pray that he may become happy through my gift. I am convinced--and so are you--that Berengar will make a better emperor than I. What talent do I possess for ruling?..." He shrugged his shoulders in helplessness, with a nervous shudder that jolted them: "None," he answered himself. "I have no talent, I can do nothing. I do not know how to decide--as now--nor how to act; I shall always be a dreamer. Why then should I be emperor and he nothing more than the commander-in-chief of my army or my fleet? Surely that can't be right; that can't have been what nature intended.... Papa, I give it him, my birthright, and I ... I shall know how to live, if I must...." The emperor had listened to him with his elbows on the table and his hands under his chin and now sat staring at him with his small, pinched eyes: "Do you mean all this?" he asked. "Yes, papa." "You're not delirious?" "No, papa, I'm not delirious." "Then you're mad." The emperor rose: "Then you're mad, I tell you. Othomar, realize that you're mad and return to your senses; don't become quite insane." "Why do you call me insane, papa? _Can't_ you agree with me that Berengar would be better than I?" His father's cruel glances stabbed Othomar through and through: "No, you're not insane in that; you're right there...." "And why, then, am I insane because I wish, for that reason, to abdicate in his favour?" "Because it's impossible, Othomar." "What law prevents me?" "My will, Othomar." The prince drew himself up proudly: "Your will?" he cried. "Your will? You acknowledge that I am nothing of a prince except by birth? You acknowledge that Berengar does possess your capacity for ruling and you will not, you _will_ not have me abdicate? And you think that I shall fall in with that will?..." He uttered a hoarse laugh: "No, papa, I shall pay no heed to that will. You can carry through your will in everything, but not in this. Though you called out your whole army, you could not prevail against me here. There is a limit to the power of human will, papa, and nothing, nothing, nothing can prevent me from considering myself unfit to reign and from _refusing_ to wear a crown!" The emperor seized Othomar's wrists; his hot breath hissed in Othomar's face: "You damned cub!" he snarled between his large, white teeth. "You wretched nincompoop! You're right: there's nothing of the emperor in you; there never will be. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were the son of a footman. You're right, you're incompetent. You're nothing: our crown doesn't fit you. And yet, though I had to lock you up in a prison, so that no one might hear of your baseness, you shall _not_ abdicate your rights. My will extends farther than you can see. Do you hear? You shan't do it, you shan't resign, though from this moment onwards I have to hide you, as a disgrace, from the world. Your slack brain can't understand that, can it? You can't understand that I'm fonder of Berengar than of a poltroon like you and that nevertheless I won't have him as my successor in your stead? Then I shall have to tell you. I won't have it, so as not to let the world see the degeneration of our race. I will not have the world know how pitiably we have deteriorated in you; and I would rather ... I would rather murder you than allow you to abdicate!" Fiercely Oscar took the prince by his shoulders, pushed him backwards on a couch, on which Othomar sank in a huddled attitude, while his father continued to hold him like a prey in the grip of his strong hands: "But I tell you," continued the emperor, "I tell you, you are _not_ the son of a footman, you are my son; and I shall not murder you, because I am your father. I will only say this to you, Othomar: you might have spared me this. I believe you have a high opinion of your own delicacy of feeling, but you have not the very least feeling. You do not even feel that you have been contemplating a villainy, the villainy of a proletarian, a slave, a pariah, a wretch. You have not felt even for an instant the pain you would cause me by such an infamy. You saw that I was fonder of your brother; you thought that I should approve of your cowardly proposal. Not for a moment did the thought occur to you that, with that cowardice of yours, you would give _me_ the greatest pain that I could ever experience!..." Othomar, utterly crushed, had fallen back upon the couch. He was no longer able to distinguish what was just and what was true; he no longer knew himself at that minute; his father's words lashed his soul like whips. And he felt no strength within him to resist them: the insulting reproaches kept him down, as though he had been thrashed. Infamy and disgrace, insanity and degeneration: he collapsed beneath them; he gulped down the mud of them, till he felt like suffocating. And that he did not suffocate and continued to breathe, continued to live, that the light was bright around him, that things remained unchanged, that the outside world knew nothing: all this was despair to him. For a moment he thought of his mother. But he wished for darkness, for death, to hide himself, himself and his shame, his degeneration, the leprosy of his pariah-temperament.... It flashed through him in the second after that last lash of reproach, flashed across his despondent soul. He knew that Oscar always kept a loaded revolver in an open pigeon-hole of his writing-table. His brain grew tense in the effort of thinking how to reach it. He rose, approached the pigeon-hole; suddenly he sprang towards it, stretched out his hand and seized the pistol.... Did Oscar believe that his son had been driven mad by his last words and now wanted his father's life? Did he perceive this ecstasy of suicide in his offspring, was his quivering brain penetrated by the horrible thought that self-destruction would be the pariah's last refuge? Be this as it might, he rushed at Othomar. But the prince lightly leapt out of his reach, pointed the revolver, with wild eyes, with distorted features, in senseless despair, upon himself, upon his own forehead, on which the veins swelled blue.... "Othomar!" roared the emperor. At this moment hurried footsteps were heard outside, confused words sounded in the anteroom and the Marquis of Xardi, the emperor's aide-de-camp, alarmed and flurried, threw the door wide open.... "Sir!" he exclaimed. "The empress asks if your majesty will come to Prince Berengar this instant...." The shot had gone off, into the wall. Blood dripped from Othomar's ear. The emperor had caught hold of the crown-prince and torn the revolver, still loaded in five chambers, from him; a second shot went off in that brief moment of struggle, into the ceiling, Othomar remained standing vacantly. "Marquis!" the emperor hissed out at Xardi. "I don't know what you think, but I tell you this: you've seen nothing, you think nothing. What happened here before you came in ... did not happen." He pointed his finger, threateningly at Xardi: "Should you ever forget, marquis, that it did not happen, then I shall forget who you are, though your pedigree dates back farther than ours!" Xardi stood deathly pale before his emperor: "My God, sir!..." "What do you mean by entering your sovereign's room in this unmannerly fashion? Even the Duke of Xara has himself announced, marquis!" "Sir...." "What? Speak up!..." "Her majesty...." "Well, her majesty?" "Prince Berengar ... the fever has increased ... he is delirious, sir, and the doctors ..." The emperor turned pale: "Is he dead?" he asked, fiercely. "Tell me at once." "Not dead, sir, but...." "But what?" "But the doctors ... have no hope...." With an oath of anguish the emperor pushed the aide aside and darted out of the room. The prince remained standing. Life returned to him: a reality full of anguish, born of nightmare. His eyes swam with tears: "Xardi," he implored, "Xardi ... your house has always been loyal to our house; swear to me that you will be silent." The marquis looked at the crown-prince in consternation: "Highness...." "Swear to me, Xardi." "I swear to you, highness," said the aide, subdued; and he stretched out his fingers to the crucifix hanging on the wall. Othomar pressed his hand: "Did Prince Berengar...." He could scarcely speak. "Did Prince Berengar become so ill suddenly?..." "The fever is increasing every moment, highness, and he is delirious...." "I will go to him," said Othomar. He wiped the blood from his ear with his handkerchief and held the cambric, which was at once soaked through, against it. In the last anteroom he passed the chamberlain and looked at him askance. Xardi stopped for a moment: "The Duke of Xara has hurt himself slightly," he said. "He was examining the emperor's revolver when I went in and he started: two shots went off." "I heard them," whispered the chamberlain, pale as death. "There might have been an accident...." They were silent for a moment; their glances were full of understanding; a shudder crept down their backs. The chill night seemed to be descending over the palace as with clouds of evil omen. "And ... the little prince?..." asked the chamberlain, shivering. Xardi shrugged his shoulders; his eyes grew moist, through innate, immemorial love for his sovereigns: "Dying," he answered, faintly. 6 The crown-prince passed through the anteroom: one of the doctors stood dipping poultices into a basin of ice; a valet was bringing in a pail of fresh ice. The door of the bedroom was open and Othomar remained standing at the door. The little prince lay on his camp-bed, talking in a low, sing-song tone; the empress, pale, suffering, bearing up in spite of everything, sat beside him with Princess Thera. The emperor exchanged brief words with the two other doctors, whose features were overcast with a stark hopelessness; a mordant anguish distorted Oscar's face, which became furrowed with deep wrinkles: "My God, he doesn't know me, he doesn't know me!" Othomar heard the emperor complain. "Nor me," murmured the empress. "What can it be? What, what, what can it be?" sang the little prince; and his usually shrill little voice sounded soft as a bird's melody: it was as though he were playing by himself. "I'm to have a present from my brother, from my brother, something nice!" he sang on. The empress could distinguish his words, but she did not understand; and when he went on to sing the name of the crown-prince, with his title: "Othomar, O Othomar of Xara, of Xara!..." she turned to the door and gently implored: "Othomar, he's calling your name; come, perhaps he will know you!" Othomar approached; he went past the emperor and knelt down by the bed; a smile lit up Berengar's little face. "He is becoming calmer," said the kind doctor, whose tears were running down his cheeks, to Oscar. "Does your majesty see? The prince recognizes his highness the duke...." A note of gladness sounded in his voice. But a violent jealousy distorted the emperor's features: "No, no," he said. "Certainly, sir, only look," the doctor insisted, his hope reviving. "O Othomar, O Othomar of Xara!" sang the little prince: he had recognized his brother, but did not see him in the flesh, saw him only in his waking dream, through the mist of his fever. "What do you bring me that's nice? Smaller than a horse, but heavier? Heavier? Oh, how heavy it is, how heavy, heavy, heavy!..." His little voice came as though with an effort, as though he were lifting something; his convulsive, small, broad hands made a gesture of laborious lifting. "Berengar," said the crown-prince; and his voice broke, his heart sank within him.... "Othomar," replied the child. A cry of anguish escaped the emperor. "Yes, you're always so good to me," continued the little prince in his sing-song. "You always give me such nice things. You know, those lovely guns on my last birthday? And that pistol? But mamma's afraid of that!... Are you dying, Othomar? Look, there's blood on your ear.... But when people bleed they die! Are you dying, Othomar? Look, blood on your coat...." The empress remained sitting straight upright; she glared from Berengar at the bleeding wound of her eldest son.... "Blood, blood, blood!" sang Berengar. "Othomar is dying! Yes, he always gives me so many nice things, does Othomar. I have so many already, many more than all the other children of Liparia put together! And what am I to have now?... Still more?... That nice thing: what is it? I can feel it: it's so heavy; but I can't see it...." The doctor had come from the anteroom and approached with the poultices. "I can't see it!... I can't see it!..." the boy sang out, painfully and faintly. When the doctor applied the poultices, Berengar struggled, began to cry, as though a great sorrow was springing up in his little heart: "I can't see it!" he sobbed. "I shall never see it!..." A violent paroxysm succeeded the sobbing: he struck out wildly with his arms, pulled off the poultices, threw the ice off his head, stood up mad-eyed in his bed, flung away the sheets.... Othomar rose, the empress also. The emperor sat in a chair, his face covered with his hands, and sobbed by Princess Thera's side. The doctors approached the bed, endeavoured to calm Berengar, but he struck them: the fever mounted into his little brain in madness. At this moment Professor Barzia entered: he was not staying in the palace; he had been sent for at his hotel. "What is your highness doing here?" he said, point-blank, to Othomar. The crown-prince made no reply. "Your highness will retire to your own rooms at once," the professor commanded. "Save my boy!" exclaimed the emperor, broken, sobbing. "I am saving the crown-prince first, sir: he is killing himself here!" "Very well, but next save _him!_" shouted Oscar, fiercely. The other doctors had given orders: a tub was brought in, filled with lukewarm water, regulated by a thermometer.... But Othomar saw no more: he rushed away, driven out by Barzia's stern glances. He rushed along the corridors, through a group of officers and chamberlains, who stood anxiously whispering and made way for him. He plunged into his own room, which was not lighted. In the dark, he thought he was flinging himself upon a couch, but bumped upon the ground. There he remained lying. Then, as though crushed by the darkness, he began to croon, to moan, to sob aloud, with sharp, hysterical cries. Andro entered; his foot struck against the prince. He lit the gas, tried to lift his master. But Othomar lay heavy as lead; fierce and prolonged, his nervous cries came jolting from his throat. Andro rang, once, twice, three times; he went on ringing for a long time; at last a footman and a chamberlain appeared together, at different doors. "Call Professor Barzia!" cried Andro to the footman. "Excellency, will you help me lift his highness?" he begged the chamberlain. But, when the footman turned round, he ran against the professor, who could do nothing for the little prince and had followed the crown-prince. He saw Othomar lying on the floor, moaning, screaming.... "Leave me alone with his highness," he ordered, with a glance around him. The chamberlain, Andro, the footman obeyed his order. The professor was a tall old man, heavily-built and strong; he approached the prince and lifted him in his arms, notwithstanding the leaden heaviness of hysteria. Thus he held him, merely with his arms around him, upon the couch and looked deep into his eyes, with hypnotic glances. Suddenly Othomar ceased his cries; his voice was hushed. His head fell feebly upon Barzia's shoulder. The professor continued to hold him in his arms. The prince became calm, like a quieted child, without Barzia's having uttered a word. "May I request your highness to go to bed?" said the professor, with a gentle voice of command. He assisted Othomar to get up and himself lit the light in the bedroom and helped the prince off with his coat. "What has made your highness' ear bleed?" asked Barzia, whose fingers were soiled with clotted blood. "A revolver-shot," Othomar began, faintly; his closed and averted eyes told the rest. The professor said nothing more. As though Othomar were a child, he went on helping him, washed his ear, his neck, his hands, with a mother's gentleness. Then he made him lie down in bed, covered him over, tidying the room like a servant. Then he went and sat by the bed, where Othomar lay staring with strange, wide-open eyes: he took the prince's hand and sat thus for a long time, looking softly down upon him. The light behind, turned down low, threw Barzia's large head into the shadow and just glanced upon his bald cranium, from which a few grey locks hung down his neck. At last he said, gently: "Your highness wishes to get well, do you not?" "Yes," said Othomar, in spite of himself. "How does your highness propose to do so?" asked the professor. The prince did not answer. "Doesn't your highness know? Then you must think it over. But you must keep very calm, will you not, very calm...." And he stroked Othomar's hand with a gentle, regular motion, as though anointing it with balsam. "For your highness must never again give way to nervous attacks. Your highness must study how to prevent them. I am giving your highness much to think about," continued Barzia, with a smile. "I am doing this because I want to let your highness think of other things than of what you are thinking. I want to clear your brain for you. Are you tired and do you want to go to sleep, or shall I go on talking?" "Yes, go on," whispered the prince. "There are days of great grief in store for the Imperial," the doctor resumed, gently. "Your highness must think of those days without permitting yourself to be overcome by the grief of them.... The little prince will probably not recover, highness. Will you think of that ... and think of your parents, their poor majesties? There are days like these for a nation, or for a single family, in which grief seems to pile itself up. For does not this day, this night seem to mark the end of your race, my prince?... Lie still, lie still, don't move: let me talk on, like a garrulous old man.... Does your highness know that the emperor to-day, for the first time in his whole life, cried, sobbed? His younger son is dying. Between this boy and the father is a first-born son, who is very, very ill.... Is not all this the end?" "Yet, if God wills it so," whispered Othomar. "It is our duty to be resigned," said Barzia. "But does God will it so?" "Who can tell?..." "Ask yourself, but not now, highness: to-morrow, to-morrow.... After the saddest nights ... the mornings come again...." The professor rose and mixed a powder in a glass of water: "Drink this, highness...." Othomar drank. "And now lie quiet and close those wide eyes." "I shall not be able to sleep though...." "That is not necessary, only close those eyes...." Barzia stroked them with his hand; the prince kept them closed. His hand again lay in the hand of the professor. A hush descended upon the room. Outside, in the corridors and galleries, perplexed steps approached at times, from the distance, in futile haste; then they sounded away, far away, in despair. A world of sorrow seemed to fill the palace, there, outside that room, until it held every hall of it with its dark, tenebrous woe. But in this one room nothing stirred. The professor sat still and stared before him, absorbed in thought; the crown-prince had fallen asleep like a child. 7 Next morning the day rose upon an empire in mourning. Prince Berengar had passed away in the night. Othomar had slept long and woke late, as in a strange calm. When Professor Barzia told him of the young prince's end--the apathy of the last moments, after a raging fever--it seemed to him as if he already knew it. The great sorrow which he felt was singularly peaceful, without rebellion in his heart, and surprised himself. He remained lying calmly when the professor forbade him to get up. He pictured to himself without emotion the little prince, motionless, with his eyes closed, on his camp-bed. Mechanically he folded his hands and prayed for his brother's little soul. He was not allowed to leave his room that day and saw only the empress, who came to him for an instant. He was not at all surprised that she too was calm, dry-eyed: she had not yet shed tears. Even when he raised himself from his pillows and embraced her, she did not cry. Nor did he cry, but only his own calmness astonished him: not hers. She stayed for but a moment; then she went away, as though with mechanical steps, and he was left alone. He saw nobody else that day except Barzia: not even Andro entered his room. Outside the chamber, the prince, judging from certain steps in the corridors, certain sounds of voices--the little that penetrated to him--could divine the sorrow of the palace; he pictured sad tidings spreading through the land, through Europe and causing people to stand in consternation in the presence of death, which had taken them by surprise. Life was not secure: who could tell that he would be alive to-morrow! Vain were the plans of men: who could tell what the hour would bring forth! And he lay thinking of this calmly, in the singular peacefulness of his soul, in which he saw the futility of struggling against life or against death. Not till next day did Barzia give him leave to get up, late in the afternoon. After his shower-bath, he dressed calmly, in his lancer's uniform, with crape round the sleeve. When he saw himself in the glass, he was surprised at his resemblance to his mother, at seeing how he now walked with the same mechanical step. Barzia allowed him to go to the empress' sitting-room. He there found her, the emperor, Thera and the Archduke and Archduchess of Carinthia, who had arrived at Lipara the evening before. They sat close together, now and then softly exchanging a word. Othomar went up to the emperor and would have embraced him; Oscar, however, only pressed his hand. After that Othomar embraced his sisters and his brother-in-law. Then he sank down by the empress, took her hand in his and sat still. She looked attenuated and white as chalk in her black gown. She did not weep: only the two princesses sobbed, persistently, again and again. The family dined alone in the small dining-room, unattended by any of the suite. A depression had descended upon the palace, which seemed wholly silent at this hour, with but now and then the soft footsteps through the galleries of an aide-de-camp carrying a funeral-wreath, or a flunkey bringing a tray full of telegrams. After the short dinner, the family retired once more to the empress' drawing-room. The hours dragged on. Night had fallen. Then the Archbishop of Lipara was announced. The imperial family rose; they went through the galleries, unattended, to the great knights' hall. Halberdiers stood at the door, in mourning. They entered. The emperor gave his hand to the empress and led her to the throne, whose crown and draperies were covered with crape. On either side were seats for Othomar, the princesses, the archduke. In the middle of the hall, in front of the throne, rose the catafalque, under a canopy of black and ermine. On it lay the little prince in uniform. Over his feet hung a small blue knight's mantle with a great white cross; a boy's sword lay on his breast; and his little hands were folded over the jewelled hilt. By his little head, somewhat higher up, shone, on a cushion, a small marquis' coronet. Six gilt candelabra with many tall candles shone peacefully down upon the lad's corpse and left the great hall still deeper in shadow: only, outside, the moon rose in the distant blue, nocturnal sky; here and there it tinged with a white glamour the trophies and suits of armour that hung or stood like iron spectres in niches and against the walls. At the foot of the catafalque, on a table like an altar, with a white velvet cloth, a great gilt crucifix spread out its two arms, between two candelabra, in commiseration. With drawn swords, motionless as the armour on the walls, stood four blue-mantled knights of St. Ladislas, two at either side of the catafalque. A soft scent of flowers was wafted through the hall. All round the catafalque wreaths of every kind of white blossom were stacked in great heaps; the fragrance of violets outscented all the others. They sat down: the emperor, the empress and their four children. Slowly the archbishop entered with his priests and choir-boys. Then the imperial party knelt on cushions placed before their seats. The prelate read the prayers for the dead; and the chanted _Kyrie Eleison_ and _Agnus Dei_ besought mercy for Berengar's little soul amongst the souls in purgatory, quivered softly through the vast hall, were wafted with the scent of the flowers over the motionless, sleeping face of the imperial child.... The rite came to an end; the prelate sprinkled the holy water, went sprinkling around the catafalque. The princes left the hall, but Othomar stayed on: "I want to lay my wreath," he whispered to the empress. The priests also departed, slowly; the crown-prince expressed to the four knights, who were waiting to be relieved by others, his wish to be left alone for a moment. They too withdrew. Then he saw Thesbia appear at the door, with a large white wreath in his hand. He went to the aide-de-camp and took the wreath from him. Othomar remained alone. The hall stretched long and broad, with darkness at either end. The moon had risen higher, seemed whiter, cast a ghostly glamour over the suits of armour. In the centre, as though in sanctity, between the pious light of the tall candles, rose the catafalque, lay the prince. The crown-prince mounted two steps of the catafalque and placed his wreath. Then he looked at Berengar's face: no fever distorted it now; it lay peaceful-pale, as though sleeping. All sounds had died away in the hall; a deadly silence reigned. Here the world of sorrow which had filled the palace and the country seemed to have become sanctified in an ecstasy of calm. And Othomar saw himself alone with his soul. The uncertainty of life, the vanity of human intentions were again revealed to him, but more clearly; they were no longer black mystery, they became harmony. It was as though he saw the whole harmony of the past: in all Liparia's historic past, in the whole past of the world there sounded not one false note. All sorrow was sacred and harmonious, tending more closely to the lofty end, which would be in its turn a beginning and never anything but harmony. Resignation descended upon his mood like a spirit of holiness; his strange calmness became resignation. It was as though his nerves were relaxed in one great assuagement. And his resignation contained only the sadness that never again would he hear the high-pitched little commanding voice of the boy whom he had loved, that this little life had run its course, so soon and for ever. His resignation contained only the surprise that all this was ordered thus and not as he had imagined it. He himself would have to wear the crown which he had wished to relinquish to Berengar. And it now seemed to him as though he himself were receiving it back from the dead boy's hands. This no doubt was why he felt no touch of rebellion in his soul, why he felt this peace, this sense of harmony. His gift was returning to him as a legacy. Long he stood thus, thinking, staring at his motionless little brother; and his thoughts became simplified within him: he saw lying straight before him the road which he should follow.... Then he heard his name: "Othomar..." He looked up and saw the empress at the door. She approached: "Barzia was asking where you were," she whispered. "He was uneasy about you...." He smiled to her and shook his head to say no, that he was calm. She came close, climbed the steps of the catafalque and leant against his arm: "How peaceful his little face is!" she murmured. "Oh, Othomar, I have not yet given him my last kiss! And to-morrow he will no longer belong to me: all those people will then be filing past." "But now, mamma, he still belongs to us ... to you...." "Othomar ..." "Mamma ..." "Shall I not have ... to lose you also?" "No, mamma, not me.... I shall go on living ... for you...." He embraced her; she looked up at him, surprised at his voice. Then she looked again at her dead child. She released herself from her son's arms, raised herself still higher, bent over the little white face and kissed the forehead. But, when the stony coldness of the dead flesh met her lips, she drew back and stared stupidly at the corpse, as though she understood for the first time. Her arms grew stiff with cramp; she wrung her fingers; she fell straight back upon Othomar. And her eyes became moist with the first tears that she had shed for Berengar's death and she hid her head in Othomar's arms and sobbed and sobbed.... Then he led her carefully, slowly, down the steps of the catafalque, led her out of the hall. In the corridor they came across Barzia; the prince's calm and quiet face, as he supported his mother, eased the professor's mind.... So soon as the empress and crown-prince had left the knights' hall, four knights of St. Ladislas entered in their blue robes. They took up their positions on either side of the catafalque and stood motionless in the candle-light, staring before them, watching in the night of mourning over the little imperial corpse, on which the blue light of the moon now descended.... The priests too entered and prayed.... The palace was silent. When Othomar had consigned his mother, at the door of her apartments, to the care of Hélène of Thesbia, he went through the galleries to his own rooms. But, on turning a corridor, he started. The great state-staircase yawned, faintly lighted, at his feet, with beneath it the hollow space of the colossal entrance-hall. Upholsterers were occupied in draping the banisters of the staircase with crape gauze, for the time when the coffin should be carried downstairs. With wide arms they measured out the mists of black, threw black cloud upon cloud; the clouds of crape heaped themselves up with a dreary flimsiness, up and up and up, seeming to fill the whole staircase and to rise stair upon stair as though about to conquer the whole palace with their gloom.... The upholsterers did not see the crown-prince and worked on, silently, in the faint light. But a cold thrill passed through Othomar. In deathly pallor he stared at the men there, at his feet, measuring out the crape and sending clouds of it up to him. He recalled his dream: the streets of Lipara overflowing with crape till the very sun reeled.... His blood seemed to freeze in his veins.... Then he made the sign of the Cross: "O God, give me strength!" he prayed in consternation.... 8 Next day, through the guard of honour of the grenadiers, the people filed past the little prince's body. The following morning, it was removed to Altara and interred in the imperial vault in St. Ladislas' Cathedral. Princes Gunther and Herman of Gothland had come over for the ceremony, but the Duke of Xara was forbidden by Professor Barzia to take part in it: he remained at Lipara. The Gothlandic princes and their suite returned with the Emperor Oscar to the capital, where, at her sister's pressing request, Queen Olga had also come, with Princess Wanda. And, in the mourning stillness of the Imperial, the family drew together in a narrow circle of intimacy. After her first tears, the Empress Elizabeth had lost her unnatural calm and constantly gave way to violent fits of sorrow, which Queen Olga or Othomar had difficulty in allaying. The emperor was inconsolable, indulging his grief with childish vehemence. Nobody had ever seen him like that before, nobody recognized him. The fact that he had lost his favourite child aroused his soul to rebellion against God. In addition to this, he had very much taken to heart his last conversation with Othomar, in which the prince had spoken to him of abdicating. The emperor had not returned to the subject, but it was never out of his thoughts. He feared that he would have to discuss it with Othomar again. He was furious when he felt how powerless he was to prevent the crown-prince from taking this desperate resolution. And he pictured the legal results if the prince maintained his purpose: the Archduchess of Carinthia empress, the archduke prince-consort and the house of Czyrkiski no longer reigning in the male line on the throne of Liparia. The possibility of this contingency, taken in conjunction with his sorrow at Berengar's death, made the Emperor Oscar suffer with that very special suffering of a monarch in whose veins still flows all the hereditary attachment to the greatness of his ancestors and who hopes to see this endure for all time. And he was also inconsolable for the loss of the child whom he loved best, more profoundly but also more silently, in greater secrecy, since he did not speak of it; and this probably made him feel more bitterly the thought of the future which he saw imaged before him. He had not even mentioned it to the empress, because of a certain superstitious dread. And with this mental sorrow--that his robust soul, which had always retained a touch of childishness, was allowing itself to feel weak, as though it were the soul of any other mortal instead of his, a monarch's--there was mingled his substantial annoyance about the army bill. There would be three hundred millions needed: one hundred millions had already been voted for the increase of the infantry; the other two hundred, for the artillery, Count Marcella, the minister for war, had not yet succeeded in obtaining. The majority of the army committee was against this colossal arming of the frontier-forts; the minister already expected a violent opposition in the house of deputies and was fully prepared for his fall. None of the three--Oscar, Myxila or Marcella--was willing to make the least compromise. And Oscar moreover was prepared to support his minister to the point of impossibility. It was at this time that Othomar made General Ducardi teach him the question, thoroughly, that he studied the staff-charts and military statistics and reports of the committee, that he followed the parliamentary discussions from out of his solitude. He held long deliberations with the general. He had, however, not for months attended the morning conferences in his father's room. But one morning he dressed himself--as was now no longer his regular habit--in uniform and sent a chamberlain to ask Oscar whether the emperor would permit him to be present at Count Marcella's audience. The emperor shrugged his shoulders in surprise, but combated his antipathy and sent word to his son that he might come. So soon as the minister and the imperial chancellor were with the emperor, Othomar joined them. He had grown still more slender and the silver frogs of his lancer's uniform barely sufficed to lend a slight breadth to his slimness; he was pale and a little sunken in the cheeks; but the glance of his eyes had lost its former feverish restlessness and recovered its melancholy calm, together with a certain stiffness and haughtiness. He refrained at first from taking part in the discussion, let the emperor curse, the chancellor shrug his shoulders and rely on the impossible, the minister declared that he would never give in. Then, however, he asked Oscar for leave to interpose a word. He took a pencil; with a few short, decided lines of demonstration on the maps, with a few simple, accurate indications on the registers, with a few figures which he quoted, correctly, by heart, he showed that he was quite conversant with the subject. He expressed the opinion that, in so far as he could gather from the reports of the committee, from the mood of the house of deputies, it remained an undoubted fact that the two hundred millions would be refused ... and that the minister would fall. He repeated these last words with emphasis and then looked firmly first at his father and then at Count Marcella. Then, in his soft voice, which rose and fell in logical tones, with serene words of conviction, he asked why they should not submit to circumstances and make the best of them. Why not accept the one hundred millions for the infantry as so much gained and--for this after all would be possible without immediate danger--endeavour to distribute the other two hundred over a period of four or five years. He felt certain that an increase of twenty millions or so a year would not meet with such violent opposition. By this arrangement Count Marcella would be able to maintain himself in office and to be supported by the emperor.... When he had ceased, his words were succeeded by a pause. His advice, if not distinguished by genius, was at least practical and made the most of this critical situation. Count Myxila slowly nodded his head in approval. The emperor and Count Marcella could not at once adhere to Othomar's idea and were obstinate, as though they still hoped to force the army bill through, unchanged as conceived at first. But the chancellor took the same view as the crown-prince, proved still more clearly that an arrangement of this sort would be the only one by which his majesty would be able to retain Count Marcella's services. And the end of the matter was that the Duke of Xara's proposal should be taken into consideration. When Myxila and Marcella had gone, the emperor asked the prince to wait a moment longer: "Othomar," he said, "it gives me great pleasure to see you once more occupying yourself with the affairs of our country...." He hesitated an instant, almost anxiously: "What conclusion may I draw from this ... for the future?" he continued at last, slowly. The crown-prince understood him: "Papa," he said, gently, "I have had my moments of discouragement. I shall perhaps have them again. But forget ... what we were discussing just before Berengar's death. I have given up all thought of abdicating...." The emperor drew a deep breath. "I am religious, papa, and I have faith," continued the prince. "Perhaps an almost superstitious faith. I plainly see, in what has happened, the hand of God...." He passed his hand over his forehead, with a meditative gaze: "The hand of God," he repeated. "I had a presentiment that one of us would die within this year. I thought that I myself should be the one to die. That is perhaps why, papa, I did not see how monstrous it was of me to take the resolution which I did. I was not thinking of myself, who was bound to die in any event; I thought only of Berengar. But now he is dead and I am alive; and I shall now think of myself. For I feel that I do not belong to myself. And I feel that it is this that should support us through life: this feeling that we do belong not to ourselves but to others. I have always loved our people and I have wished to help them vaguely, in the abstract; I threw out my hands, without knowing why, and when I did not make good, it drove me to despair...." He suddenly stopped and looked timidly at his father, as though he had gone too far in delivering his thoughts. But Oscar sat calmly listening to him; and he continued: "And I now know that this despair is not right, because with this despair we keep ourselves for ourselves and cannot give ourselves to others. You see--" he rose and smiled--"I cannot manage to cure myself of my philosophy, but I hope now that it will tend to strengthen me instead of enervating me, as it now flows from quite a different principle." The emperor gave a little shrug of the shoulders: "Every one must work out his own theory of life, Othomar. I can only give you this advice: do not be carried away by enthusiasm and keep your point of view high. Do not analyse yourself out of all existence, for such abnegation does not last and inevitably harks back to the old rights. I do not reflect so much as you do; I am more spontaneous and impulsive. But I will not condemn you for being different: you can't help it. Perhaps you belong to this age more than I do. I only wish to look at the result of your reflections; and this result is that you're giving yourself back to ordinary life and to the interests of your country. And this rejoices me, Othomar. Nor do I wish to look too far into the future; I dare say that later too you will not have my ideas, I dare say that later you will reign with a brand-new constitution, with an elected upper house. I expect you will encounter much opposition from the authoritative party among the nobles.... But, as I say, I do not wish to go into that too far and I am content to rejoice at your moral convalescence. And I am very grateful to you for the advice you gave us just now. It was quite simple, but we should never have thought of it by ourselves. We are too conservative for that. I think now that what you propose will be the best thing to be done and that it can't be done otherwise...." He held out his hand; Othomar grasped it. "And," he continued with the great magnanimity which, for all his despotic haughtiness, lay at the very root of his soul, "do not bear any malice because of ... of the words I used to you, Othomar. I am violent and passionate, as you know. I was fonder of Berengar than of you. But you yourself loved the boy. Bear me no malice, for his sake.... You are my son too and I love you, if only because of the fact that you are my son and the last of my race.... Forgive my candour." Then he pressed Othomar in his arms. It struck him painfully to feel the frailty of the prince in his firm embrace, so immediately upon his words: "the last of my race...." A strange, bitter despair shot through his soul; yet he clearly divined the mystery of this frailty: an unknown moral spring, which he himself lacked, in the direct simplicity of his nature, but which, to his great surprise, he felt in his son. When the prince was gone and Oscar, left alone, thought of this and sought that spring in what he knew of his son, he did not find it, yet felt that, whatever it might be, it was something to be envied, a strength tougher than muscular strength. He looked about him; his eyes fell upon a portrait of the empress on his writing-table. How often had he not stared at it in irritation because of their successor, who was so wholly her son! But, as though a gleam of light passed before his eyes, he now looked at the delicate features without the old annoyance; and a grateful warmth began to glow within him. Whatever it were, Othomar had derived this mysterious strength from his mother. It saved him and spared him for his country, for his race. And--who knew?--perhaps this mystery was just the element which their race needed, a necessary constituent of its new lease of life.... He did not seek to penetrate any farther; the future--even though it was now emerging more clearly out of its first dimness--had no attraction for him. He loved the past, those iron centuries with their heroes of emperors. But he felt that everything was not lost. In his pious belief in the Almighty, he thought, as did his son, of the hand of God. If it must be so, it was right. God's will was inscrutable. And grateful to the empress, grateful for the light that shone before him, he bent his knees to the crucifix on the wall and prayed for his two sons. He prayed long for the son who was to bear his crown, but longer for the soul of the child of his own blood, whose loss would be the grief that would always be as wormwood in the depths of his soul, which was now outpoured in gratitude.... 9 _From the Diary of Alexa Duchess of Yemena, Countess of Vaza._ "--_November_, 18--. "The crown-prince has not come with the emperor. Professor Barzia forbade it, because he considered that the big hunting-parties with which the emperor wishes to divert his thoughts from his grief for our little prince would be too fatiguing for my sweet invalid. Still, I hear from Dutri that he is making distinct progress and has already resumed his daily morning rides. "It is all over with me. Poor sinful heart within me, die! For, after this last flower of passion that blossomed in you, I wish you to die to the world. For the sake of the purity of my imperial flower, I wish you now to die. Nothing after this, nothing but the new life which I see lifting before me.... "And yet I am still young; I look no older in my glass than I did a year ago. I have no need to abdicate my feminine powers unless I wish to. And that is how every one looks at it, for I know that they whisper of the Duke of Mena-Doni, as though he would be happy to replace my adored crown-prince in my affections. But it's not true, it's not true. And I'm so glad of it, that they do not realize me and do not know anything, that they do not understand that I want to let my imperial love fade away in purity and wish to cherish no earthly love after it. "Dear love of my heart, you have raised me to my new life! You were still a sin, but yet you purified me, because you yourself were purified by the contact of that sacred something which is in majesty. Oh, you were the last sin, but already you were purer than the one before! For I have been a great sinner: I have immolated up all my sinful woman's life to consuming passion; and it has left nothing but ashes in my heart! Great scorching love of my life for him who is now dead--may his soul rest in peace!--I will not deny you, because you have been my most intense earthly pleasure, because through you I first learnt to know that I possessed a soul and because you thus brought me nearer to what I now see before me; but yet, what were you but earthliness? And my chaster imperial love, what were you too but earthliness? Gentle sovereign of my soul, what will God have you be but earthly? An empire awaits you, a crown, a sceptre, an empress. God wills it and therefore it is good, that you are earthly, while your earthliness is at the same time consecrated by your pious faith. But I, I have been less than merely earthly: I was sinful. And now I wish that my heart should wholly die within me, because it is nothing than sin. Then shall my heart be born again, in new life.... "I have prayed. For hours I lay on the cold marble in the chapel, till my knees pained me and my limbs were stiff. I have confessed my sinful life to my sainted confessor, his lordship of Vaza. Oh, the sweetness of absolution and the ecstasy of prayer! Why do we not earlier feel the blessed consolation that lies in the performance of our religious duties! Oh, if I could lose myself utterly in that sweet mystery, in God; if I could go into a convent! But I have my two stepdaughters. I must bring them into society; it is my duty. And the bishop thinks that that is my penance and my punishment: never to be able to withdraw into a hallowed seclusion, but to continue breathing the sinful atmosphere of the world. "I will give my castle in Lycilia, where we never go--my own castle and estate--to our Holy Church for a convent for Ursulines of gentle birth. I went there with the bishop the other day. Oh, the great gloomy rooms, the shadowy frescoes, the sombre park! And the chapel, when the new windows are added, through which the light will fall in a mystic medley of colour! My dearest wish is to be allowed to grow old there, and to die far away from the world: but shall I ever be permitted? Holy Mother of God, shall I ever be permitted? * * * * * "Am I sincere? Who knows? What do I myself know? Do I truly feel this purification of my soul, or do I remain the woman I am? A dreadful doubt rises in me; it is Satan entering into me! I will pray: Blessed Virgin, pray for me! * * * * * "I have become calmer; prayer has strengthened me. Oh, full of anguish are the doubts which tear me from my conviction! Then Satan says that I am deluding myself into this conviction, to console myself in my destitution, and that I have become religious for want of occupation. At such times I see myself in the glass, young, a young woman. But, when I pray, the doubts retire from my sinful mood and I look back shuddering upon my wicked past. And then the new life of my future once more shines up before me.... "Beloved prince, sovereign of my soul, here in these pages which none shall ever read I take leave of you, because it was not vouchsafed me to bid you farewell at a moment of tangible reality. Oh, I shall often, perhaps from day to day, still see you in the crush of the world, in the ceremonial of palaces; but you will never again belong to me and so I take leave of you! Whatever I may be--a twofold sinner perhaps, longing only for Heaven because the earth has lost its charm for me--I have been true to you, as I always have been, in love. I have seen you bowed down, you so frail, beneath your heavy yoke of empire; and I have felt my heart brimming over with pity for you. I have tried to give you my poor sinful consolation as best I could. May Heaven forgive me! I met you at a moment when the tears were flowing from your dear eyes with bitterness because people hated you and had dared with sacrilegious hands to strike at your imperial body; and I tried to give you what I could of sweetness, so as to make you forget that bitterness. Ah, perhaps I was even then not quite sincere; perhaps I am even not so now! But that would be too terrible; that would make me despise myself as I cannot do! And I will at least retain this illusion, that I was sincere, that I did wish to comfort you, that, sinful though it was, I did comfort you, that I did, in very truth, love you, that I still love you now, that I shall no longer love you--because I must not--as your mistress, but that I shall do so as your subject. The blood in my veins loves yours, your golden blood! And, when I myself have found peace and no longer doubt and hesitate, my last days shall be spent only in prayer for you, that you also may receive peace and strength for your coming task of government. I feel no jealousy of her who will be my future empress. I know that she is beautiful and that she is younger than I. But I do not compare myself with her. I shall be her subject as I am yours. For I love you for yourself and I love everything that will be yours. You are my emperor; you are already my emperor, more than Oscar! Farewell, my prince, my crown-prince, my emperor! When I see you again, you will be nothing more to me than my emperor and my emperor alone! * * * * * "To HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "LIPARA. "CASTEL VAZA, "--_November_, 18--. "MY BELOVED PRINCE, "Pardon me if I venture to send you the accompanying pages. I meant at first to send you a long letter, a letter of farewell. And I did write you many, but did not send them to you and destroyed them. Then I wrote to you only for myself, took leave of you for myself. But can I trace what goes on within me, what I think from one moment to the other? I did miss it so: my sweet farewell, which would still bind me in some intimate way to you! And so I could not refrain--at last, after much vacillation of mind--from sending you these pages, which I had written only for myself. At your feet I implore you graciously to accept them, graciously to read them. Then destroy them. Through them you will learn the last thoughts that I have dared to consecrate to the mystery that was our love.... "I press my lips to your adored hands. "ALEXA." CHAPTER VI 1 The Empress Elizabeth rode with Hélène of Thesbia in a victoria, preceded by an outrider, from St. Ladislas to the Old Palace, which, together with the cathedral and the Episcopal, formed one gigantic building. Here, at Altara, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie, with the imperial bride, had taken up their abode on the previous day. From the tall fortress--a broad mass of granite with crenulated plateaus and squat towers, overlooking Altara--the road wandered downwards, indistinguishable beneath the old chestnut-trees, in tortuous zig-zags. The dust flew up under the wheels; on both sides lay villas, with terraces gay with vases and flowers and statues, sloping lower and lower towards the town. The villas blazed with bunting; the blue-and-white flags with the white crosses revelled in all their gaudy newness among the dusty foliage of the old trees and acacias. It was June, six months after the death of the little prince; but the mourning had been lightened because of the approaching nuptials of the Duke of Xara, which the emperor wished to see celebrated as early as possible. The empress, however, still wore heavy mourning, which she would not lay aside before the day of the wedding; Hélène was in grey; the liveries were grey. Many pedestrians, horsemen, carriages passed along the road and stopped respectfully; the empress bowed to left and right; she received cheers and salutations from the balconies of the villas. In this warm summer weather a mellow welcome, a soft gaiety reigned all along the road; the road, with its villas where the people sat in groups, emitted a friendliness which affected the empress pleasantly and made her heart swell in her breast with a gentle melancholy. Children ran about and played in white summer suits; they stopped suddenly and, like well-bred children, accustomed to seeing members of the imperial family pass daily, they bowed low, the boys awkwardly, the girls with new-learnt curtseys. Then they went on playing again.... And the empress smiled at a large family, old and young people together, who sat on a terrace, doubtless celebrating a birthday, and laughed and drank, with many glasses and decanters before them, the children with their mouths full of cake. So soon as they saw the outrider, they all stood up and waved, some with their glasses still in their hands, and the empress, laying aside her usual stiffness, bowed back with a winning smile. And it was as though she were driving through a huge, luxurious village; for a moment she forgot the light obsession that depressed her, forgot why she was this day going to Valérie and allowed herself to be lulled by her delight in the love that she divined all round her. It was the love of the old Liparian patrician families--noble or not noble--for their sovereigns. It was a caress which she never felt at Lipara. And she remembered Othomar's letter, at the time of last year's inundations: "Why are we not oftener at Altara?" She could not for a moment desist from bowing. But she was now approaching the town: the old houses shifted like the wings at a theatre; the whole town shifted nearer, gay with flags, which threw an air of youth over its old stonework. The streets were full: thousands of visitors, native and foreign, were at Altara; there was not a room to be had in the hotels. And the empress could scarcely speak a word to Hélène; she could do nothing but bow and bow, perpetually.... In the fore-court of the Old Palace, the infantry composing the guard of honour of the Austrian bride were drawn up and presented arms as the empress drove in. The Archduchess Eudoxie was awaiting the empress. "How is Valérie?" Elizabeth at once asked. "Better, calmer," replied the archduchess. "Much better than I dared hope. But she will receive no one...." "Do send to ask whether I can see her...." The archduchess' lady-in-waiting left the room: she returned with the message that her imperial highness was expecting the empress. Elizabeth found Valérie lying on a sofa, wearing a white lace tea-gown, looking very pale, with great, dark, dull eyes; she rose, however: "Forgive me, ma'am," she said, in apology. Elizabeth embraced her with great tenderness; the archduchess added: "I was not well, I felt so tired...." But then her eyes met Elizabeth's and she saw that the empress did not expect her to exhibit superhuman endurance. She nestled up against her and cried softly, as one cries who has already wept long and passionately and is now exhausted with weeping and has not the strength to weep except very, very softly. The empress made her sit down, sat down beside her and caressed her with a soothing movement of her hand. Neither of the two spoke; neither of the two found words in the difficult relation which at that moment they bore one to the other. Two days ago, the day before that fixed for the bride's journey to Altara, the news had arrived that Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz had shot himself in Paris. The actual reason of this suicide was not known. Some thought that the prince had taken much to heart the disfavour of the Emperor of Austria and the quarrel with his own family; others that he had lost a fortune at baccarat and that his ruin was completed by the bohemian extravagance of his wife, the notorious Estelle Desvaux, who herself had been ruined more than once in her life, but had always retrieved her position by means of a theatrical tour and the sale of a few diamonds. Others again maintained that Prince Lohe had never been able to forget his love for the future Duchess of Xara. But, whatever might be suggested in Viennese court-circles, nothing was known for certain. Valérie had by accident read the report, which they had tried to conceal from her, in the same newspaper in which, now almost a year ago, she had, also by accident, on the terrace at Altseeborgen, read the news of Prince Lohe's proposed marriage and surrender of his rights. Her soul, which had no tendency to mysticism, nevertheless, in the shock of despair that now passed through it, became almost superstitious because of this repetition of cruelty. But when, months ago, she had combated and worn out her sorrow, it had been followed by an indifference to any further suffering that she might yet have to experience in life. The death of her illusions was a final death; after her betrothal she had as it were found herself with a new soul, hardened and girt about with indifference. It was strange that in this indifference the only thing to which she continued sensible was that exquisiteness in Othomar's character: his delicacy in sparing her at Altseeborgen, against Oscar's desire; his wide feeling of universal love for his people; all his gentle nature and simple sense of duty.... But, however indifferent she might generally think herself to be, this second incident struck her cruelly, as though a refinement of fate had chosen the moment for it. The official journey from Sigismundingen to Altara had been a martyrdom. Valérie had endured like an automaton the receptions on the frontiers, the welcome at the Central Station at Altara, with the greeting of her imperial bridegroom, who had there kissed her, and the addresses of the authorities, the offering of bread and salt by the canons of the chapter of St. Ladislas. She had swallowed it, their bread and salt. And then the drive through the town, gay with bunting and with triumphal arches erected from street to street, to the Old Palace, in the open landau with the emperor and her bridegroom, amid the cheering of the populace which cut her ears and her overexcited nerves as though with sharp-edged knives! Then, at the palace, it had struck Othomar how like a hunted fawn she looked, with her frightened eyes. Prince Lohe's death was known at Altara; and, though the people had cheered, cheered from true affection for the future crown-princess, they had stared at her because of that tragedy, curious and eager to see an august anguish shuddering in the midst of their festivities, hunted through arches of green and bunting. They had seen nothing. Valérie had bowed, smiled, waved her hand to them from the balcony of the Old Palace, standing by Othomar's side! They had seen nothing, nothing, for all their tense expectation. But then Valérie's strength had come to an end. Her part was played: let the curtain fall. Othomar left her alone, with a pressure of the hand. For hours she sat lifelessly; then night came; she could not sleep, but she was able to sob. Now it was next day; she was lying down exhausted, but really she had shed her last tear, fought her last fight, recovered her indifference: no sorrows that were still in store for her could ever hurt her now! Yet the fond embrace of Othomar's mother softened her; and she again found her tears. They exchanged barely a few words and yet they felt a mutual sympathy passing between them. And through the midst of her sorrow Valérie could see her duty, which would at the same time be her strength: no bitter indifference, but an acquiescence in what her life might be. Oh, she had imagined it differently in her dreams as a young girl: she had pictured it to herself as more agreeable and smiling and as finding its expression more naturally, more spontaneously and without so much calculation! But she had awakened from her dreams; and where else should she seek her strength but in her duty?... And she conquered herself, whatever might be destroyed in her soul, by an unsuspected vitality--her real nature--even more than by her thoughts. She dried her eyes, mentioned that it was near the time when a deputation of young Liparian ladies was to come and offer her a wedding-present; and the empress left her alone, that she might dress. She appeared presently, in a white costume embroidered with dull gold, in the drawing-room where her parents sat with the empress and with Hélène of Thesbia and the Austrian ladies-in-waiting. Shortly after, Othomar came too, with his sisters and the Archduke of Carinthia. And, when the deputation of young ladies of rank was announced and appeared, with Eleonore of Yemena in its midst, Valérie listened with her usual smile to the address recited by the little marchioness, with a gracious gesture accepted from the hands of two other girls the great case which they caused to fly open, showing, upon light velvet, a triple necklace of great pearls. And she was able to find a few pretty phrases of thanks: she uttered them in a clear voice; and no one who heard her would have suspected that she had passed a sleepless night, bathed in tears, with before her eyes the lifeless body of a young man with shattered temples. The young ladies of the deputation were permitted to see the wedding-presents, which were displayed in a large room; Princess Thera and the ladies-in-waiting accompanied them. There, in that room, it was like a sudden gleam of brilliancy, flashing in the daylight from the long tables on which the presents stood surrounded by flowers: the heavily-gilt candelabra, gilt and crystal table- and tea-services, gilt and silver caskets from various towns, an Altara Cathedral in silver, silver ships with delicate, swelling sails from naval institutions and jewelled gifts from all the royal friends and relations in Europe. On a satin cushion lay, like a fairy trinket, a sparkling duchess' diadem of big sapphires and brilliants, one of the presents of the bride's future parents-in-law. And very striking was Princess Thera's present: the Duke of Xara's portrait, a work of art that had already been seen at exhibitions in both capitals. But it had little likeness to the original left and was therefore the despair of the princess. It was younger, more indecisive, feebler than the prince looked now: a little thinner than of old, but with a fuller moustache and a lightly curling beard on his cheeks. The melancholy eyes had acquired more of the Empress Elizabeth's cold glance; in other respects too Othomar resembled his mother more than before. But what was still noticeable in the young prince, in his nervous refinement, was the look of race, his trenchant distinction, his air of lawful haughtiness. He had lost much of his rigidity, his stiff tactlessness, and had gained something more resolute and assured; and, in spite of his colder look, this inspired more confidence in a crown-prince than his always winning but somewhat feeble presence of former days. The thoughts seemed to be more sharply outlined on his features, the words to come more pointedly from between his lips; he seemed to have more self-reliance, to care less for what others might think of him. It was, although not yet quite consciously, that unique princely feeling awakening within him: his simple, proud, innate confidence in the single drop of golden blood which ran through his veins and gave him his rights.... It was Professor Barzia especially who, attached as he was to Othomar and treating him personally every day, had aroused this self-confidence with his words, which were prompted both by his knowledge of mankind and by his love for the dynasty, as well as by a personal affection for the crown-prince. The cold-water douches had braced the prince up, but the suggestions of the professor, who had aroused Othomar's latent practical qualities as it were from their subconscious hiding-place, had probably been a still more efficacious remedy. The prince had learnt to govern himself and had become dearer to the professor than ever.... This devotion, born of a discovery of what others did not know to exist--high qualities of temperament--was enhanced by Barzia's fostering of those same qualities; and, when the prince's marriage could be fixed, the professor looked with as much pride as affection upon his patient, whom he declared to be physically cured and considered, in his own mind, to be morally cured as well.... 2 Two days later was the day of the imperial wedding. The town swarmed from early morning with the people who had streamed in from the environs and who noisily thronged the narrower streets. For already at an early hour the main thoroughfares had been closed by the infantry, from the fortress to the Old Palace and the cathedral. And Altara, usually grey, old, weather-beaten, was unrecognizable, gaudy with flags, fresh with festoons of greenery, decked with draperies and tapestries hanging from its balconies. A warm, southern May sun shed patches of light over the town; and the red and blue and white and green of the waiting uniforms, with the even flash of the bayonets above them, drew broad lines of colour through the city, with a gaiety almost floral, right up to the Castle of St. Ladislas. Through the streets, closed to public traffic, court-carriages drove to and fro, filled with glittering uniforms: royal guests who were being carried to St. Ladislas or the Old Palace. There were Russian, German, British, Austrian, Gothlandic uniforms; briskly, as though preparing for the ceremonial moment, they flashed through Altara, through its long, empty streets lined with soldiers. Beneath the chestnuts on the Castle Road the villas also teemed with spectators, sitting or moving in the gardens and terraces; and, in the sunbeams that filtered through the foliage of the trees, the ladies' light summer costumes and coloured sun-shades cast variegated patches: it was as though garden-parties were taking place from villa to villa, while people waited for the procession of the bridegroom, who, in accordance with Liparian etiquette, was to drive from St. Ladislas to fetch his bride from the Old Palace. * * * * * Eleven o'clock. From the Fort of St. Ladislas booms the first gun; other guns boom after it minute by minute. A buzz of excitement passes along the whole of the Castle Road. On the almost imperceptible incline appear trumpets and kettle-drums, preceding heralds on horseback. Behind them come the slashing throne-guards, round the gilt and crystal gala-carriages. The court chamberlain, the Count of Threma, in the first; in the second, with the imperial crown and the plumed team of eight greys caparisoned in scarlet--and the cheering from the villas rises higher and higher--the emperor with the Duke of Xara by his side; in the following coaches the assembled majesties and highnesses of Europe: the Empress of Liparia, the German Emperor and Empress, the King and Queen of Gothland, Russian grand-dukes, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the robed members of the house of peers.... And the endless procession passes slowly amid the roar of the cannon down the Castle Road, through the main streets and into the heart of the city. There, in the Old Palace, the bride is waiting with all her Austrian relations: the emperor and empress, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie.... It is here that the marriage-treaty is signed, on the gilt table, covered with gold brocade, upon which the emperors and empresses of Liparia have written their signatures since centuries, upon which, after the imperial bride and bridegroom, the august witnesses sign the contract.... Now the whole procession goes through gallery after gallery to the New Sacristy. It is a ceremonious parade of some minutes' duration: the trumpeters, the heralds, the masters of ceremonies; the blue-robed knights of St. Ladislas: the white-and-gold throne-guards; the Emperor Oscar with the Duke of Xara, the Emperor of Austria with the bride.... Slowly she walks by her uncle's side, her head a little bent, as though beneath the weight of her princess' coronet, from which the lace veil floats, lightly shading her bare neck, which is studded with drops of brilliants. Her gown is of stiff, heavy satin brocade, embroidered with silver-thread in front and smothered in emblematic patterns of pearls; great, white velvet puffed sleeves burgeon at her shoulders; the train of silver brocade and white velvet is so long that six maids-of-honour bear it after her, swaying from its silver loops. Behind the maids-of-honour follow the bridesmaids, dressed all alike, carrying similar bouquets: they are Princess Thera, Princess Wanda, German, English and Austrian princesses. And the majesties and highnesses follow; the procession flows into the New Sacristy; here the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with all his mitred clergy, receives the bridegroom and the bride.... In the cathedral waits the crowd of invited guests. Despite the beams of the summer sun, a mystic twilight of shadow hovers through the tall and stately arches of the cathedral and the daylight blossoms only on the motley windows of the side-chapels; in the vaultings it is even dark. But the high altar is one blaze of innumerable candles.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the ambassadors, the whole diplomatic body, the members of both houses of parliament, the judges of the high court have entered; they fill the tiers that have been erected to right and left. And the whole cathedral is filled: one great swarm of heavy, rustling silks--the low-necked dresses of the ladies, whose jewels twinkle and flash--and one blaze of gold on the glittering military and diplomatic uniforms, which like great sparks light up the twilight of the cathedral. Then the trumpets sound, the organ peals its jubilant tones in the solemn festival-march; the first procession enters through the sacristy: the German Emperor with the Empress Elizabeth of Liparia, the Archduchess Eudoxie and a long retinue.... Now the trumpets sound, the organ peals unceasingly; and the invited majesties with their suites and the representatives of the foreign powers enter in group after group. The canopied spaces to right and left of the choir begin to fill up. Soon the second procession follows: the dignitaries in front, with the insignia of state; the Emperor Oscar, leading the Duke of Xara: both wear over their golden uniforms the long draped blue robes of St. Ladislas, with the large white cross gleaming on the left arm; four crown-princes follow as the bridegroom's four witnesses: the Duke of Wendeholm, the Czarevitch, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples; the knights of St. Ladislas, the officers of the throne-guards, equerries and pages follow after.... And suddenly a choir of high voices vibrates crystal-clear and proclaims a blessing on the bride, who cometh in the name of the Lord.... The third procession has entered the cathedral: the Emperor of Austria and the Archduke Albrecht, leading the bride, with her maids of honour and her bridesmaids; and she seems to be one white wealth of illustrious maidenhood among her white and floral-fragrant retinue. And the anthem scatters its notes as with handfuls of silver lilies before her feet; her solemn advent arouses an emotion that quivers through all that whirl of splendour, through the whole cathedral. Now, at last, appears the fourth procession: the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with his bishops and canons and chaplains; the high ecclesiastics take their seats in the tall carved choir-stalls; the rite begins.... The sun seems to have waited till this moment to come shooting down, through the tall, party-coloured, pointed windows, in which the life of St. Ladislas glitters with its small, square, gem-like pictures, shooting down in a slanting sheaf of rays upon the choir, upon the priests, upon the canopies under which the majesties are sitting, upon the bride-groom and bride.... And all the colours--the old gold of the altar, the new gold of the uniforms, the brocades, the crown-jewels--flame up as though the sun were setting them ablaze: one fire of changing sparks which, together with the numberless candles on the altar, suddenly irradiates the church. The diadems of the princesses are like crowns of flame, the orders of the princes like a firmament of stars. The acolytes swing incense which is wafted misty blue, delicate, transparent in the sunshine; the sunshine filters through the blonde lace veil of the kneeling bride, lights a glowing fire over her white-and-silver train, illuminates her as with an apotheosis of light that reflects a maidenly pallor upon her. Her bridegroom kneels beside her, wholly enfolded in his blue robe, with on his arm the sheen of the white cross. Both now hold long tapers in their hands. And the primate, with his jewelled mitre and his stiff gold dalmatic covered with jewelled scrolls, raises his eyes, spreads his hands on high and stretches them in benediction above the bent imperial heads.... The chant swells high again: the _Te Deum laudamus_, as though the waves of the voices were rising upon the waves of the organ, higher and higher, up through the cathedral to the sky in one ecstasy of sacred music. The old, granite, giant fabric seems to quiver with emotion, as though the music became its soul, and sends forth over Altara from all its bells a swelling sea of sound, bronze in the depths and molten out of every metal into gold of crystal purity in the highest height of audible sound.... An hour later. On the closed Cathedral Square movement begins again, among the waiting gala-carriages. Now the procession returns to St. Ladislas, but behind the Emperor Oscar's carriage Othomar and Valérie now ride together. And the city cheers and shouts its hurrahs; the houses groan with the clamour among all the flags and trophies. The guards present arms; and amid this festive uproar it passes unperceived how yonder in the smaller streets fighting goes on, arrests are made, a well-known anarchist is almost murdered by the imperialistic populace.... With its costly pageant, now heightened by the white presence of the young Duchess of Xara and her own retinue, the endless and endless procession returns, through the town, up the Castle Road; and there too the villas now obtain a sight of Valérie and cheer and cheer and cheer.... It is in the white throne-room that Othomar and Valérie hold their court; one and all defile before them: the ministers and ambassadors, the members of both houses, of the courts of justice, corporations and deputations. After the court, the breakfast, at which the table glitters with the ceremonial gold and jewelled plate, used only at imperial weddings. After the breakfast, the last observance: in the gold hall--a vast low hall, Byzantine in architecture and decoration, ages old and unchanged--the torch-dance; the procession of the ministers, who carry long, lighted links in gilt handles, while Othomar and Valérie keep on inviting the highnesses according to rank, invite all the highnesses in turns and march round behind the ministers.... It is a monotonous ceremony, continually repeated: the ministers with the torches, Othomar with a princess and surrounded by the Knights of St. Ladislas, Valérie with a prince and all her white suite; and it is a relief when the function is finished and the newly-married couple have withdrawn to change their dress. Then they appear: Othomar as commanding officer of the Xara Cuirassiers, Valérie in her white cloth travelling-dress and hat with white feathers; and they make their adieus. An open landau awaits them; and with a compact escort of Xara Cuirassiers they drive anew through the town, drive in every direction, showing themselves everywhere, bowing to one and all, and at last drive out to the castle where they will spend the first days of the honeymoon: Castle Zanthos, quite near the town, on the broad river.... And the old weather-beaten capital, which remains full of majesties, which still flutters with pennants, which in the evening is one yellow flame and red glow of fireworks and illumination, seems all the same, without the newly-married couple, to have lost the attraction which turned it into a centre of festivity and splendour and imperial ceremony; and in the evening, despite the illuminations and fireworks and gala-performances, the Central Station is besieged by thousands who are leaving.... 3 It was months after the wedding of the Duke of Xara that the Emperor Oscar, entering his work-room very early in the morning and moving towards his writing-table, caught sight of a piece of cardboard, with large, black letters pasted on it, lying on the floor by the window. He did not pick it up; though he was alone, he did not turn pale, but on his low forehead the thick veins swelled with rage to feel that he was not safe from their treason even in his own room. He rang and asked for his valet, a trusted man: "Pick up that thing!" he commanded. And he roared, through the silence, "How did it get here?" The valet turned pale. He read the threatening words of abuse, with their big, fat letters, on the ground before stooping and taking the card in his trembling hand. "How did it get here?" repeated the emperor, stamping his foot. The valet swore that he did not know. In the morning no one was allowed to enter the room except himself; he had come half an hour ago to open the windows and then had seen nothing: "The only explanation, sir, is that some one must have stolen into the park and flung it through the window...." This doubtless was the only explanation, but it was an explanation that irritated the emperor greatly. It was not the first time that the emperor had found such notices in the intimacy of his writing-room. The result was the sudden arrest of servants, of soldiers belonging to the various guards in the Imperial; but arrests and enquiries had brought nothing to light and therefore made an all the more painful impression. The guards of the palaces, the guards at the gilt railings of the park, where this merged into the Elizabeth Parks--the public gardens of the capital--were already increased; the secret police, the emperor's own police, even kept a sharp watch on the guards themselves. The Emperor Oscar looked fixedly at the valet; for a moment the thought rose in him to have the man himself examined, but he at once realized the absurdity of any such suspicion: the man had been his personal servant for years and years, was entirely devoted to him and stood answering Oscar's long stare with calm, respectful eyes, evidently pondering the mystery of the strange riddle. "Burn that thing," commanded the emperor, "and don't talk about it." Subsequently Oscar had a long interview with the head of his secret police, with whom he had lately had every reason to be satisfied: secret printing-presses of anarchist papers, which were continually being distributed, had been ferreted out; a plot to wreck the imperial train on its way from Castel Xaveria, the summer-palace in Xara, to Lipara had been frustrated; suspicion of being connected with anarchist committees had fallen upon a clerk in one of the government-offices and even upon a young officer and it was proved that the suspicion was correct in both cases. Quite recently the police had discovered a workshop in which men were taught how to manufacture dynamite-bombs and infernal machines. But who the insolent miscreants were who succeeded in flinging their threatening letters into the emperor's own room: this they had not been able to discover. For a whole week the windows had been watched from the park and all that time nothing had been seen; it was now a couple of days since that secret watch had been given up. The head of the secret police felt convinced that the culprits were lurking in the Imperial itself and acquainted with the emperor's private habits. Sudden visits were paid to the rooms of any servants at the Imperial of whom there was the least doubt; and, when a groom was found to be in possession of an anarchist leaflet containing words of insult directed against the emperor, the man was banished to one of the convict sections of the eastern quick-silver-mines. This banishment was the introduction to numberless other banishments; they followed one another in quick succession; the victims were soldiers, sailors, many minor provincial officials: the press had even ceased to report all the banishments. The censorship was rendered more severe; newspapers were continually being suspended, their editors fined and imprisoned; the imperialist papers, Count Myxila's organs, almost despotically indicated the required tone. A socialist meeting was dispersed by hussars with drawn swords; serious disturbances followed in the capital and infected the other large towns, Thracyna, Xara, even Altara. A strike of dock-labourers filled Lipara for weeks with rising insubordination; policemen were cruelly murdered at the docks in broad daylight. The Duke of Mena-Doni was the Emperor Oscar's right hand during this period; and his rough displays of force kept the capital so far in subjection that no riot burst out, that the everyday life of sunny, laughing luxury went on, that the elegant carriages continued every afternoon at five o'clock to stream to the Elizabeth Parks, where the Empress or the Duchess of Xara still showed themselves daily for a moment. But thousands of protecting eyes were secretly supervising this apparent carelessness; the troops were confined to barracks; gleaming escorts of cuirassiers accompanied the imperial landaus. The empress also had asked Othomar to abandon his solitary morning rides and never to show himself unattended. The Duke and Duchess of Xara inhabited the Crown Palace, a comparatively new building on the quays, where they kept up an extensive court; and in this palace the emperor also caused domiciliary visits to be made and it appeared that there were anarchists lurking among the staff. This treason within their very palaces kept the empress in a constant shudder of terror: she lived in these days an unceasing life of dread whenever she was separated from the emperor. For she was least terrified when she showed herself by Oscar's side, at exhibitions, at public ceremonies, at the Opera; and this was strange: she did not at such times think of him, but, if they were not with her, thought rather of her children, as though the catastrophe could happen only at some place where she would not be present. The empress saw in Othomar so very much her own son that, in the intimacy of their morning conversations--for the crown-prince still paid his mother a short visit every morning--she was surprised not to find in him her own dread, but on the contrary all her own resignation, which was the reverse side of it. But since his marriage she had found him altogether changed, no longer, in these short moments of their private intercourse, complaining, hesitating, searching, but speaking calmly of what he must do, filled with an evident harmony that gave a restful assurance to his words, his gestures and even his actions. With this assurance he retained a quiet, dignified modesty: he did not put his views forward at all violently; he continued to possess that receptiveness for the views of others which had always been one of his most prominent and attractive qualities. He was undoubtedly old for his young years: any one who did not know better would have given him more than his twenty-three years, now that he was allowing his crisp beard to grow.... And yet, yet, especially in these troubled days, his old fears would often well up within him and he would remain sitting alone for minutes at a time, staring at a vague point in his room, listening to the murmurs of the future, as he had listened in that haunting night among his forefathers at Castel Vaza. He then felt that, suddenly, as with a garment, all his new resignation in life was slipping from him, falling from his shoulders. But he had learnt so to govern himself that nobody, not his father, not his mother, not even the crown-princess, noticed anything of this mental dizziness, which left him ice-cold in his short periods of solitude, doubting his right, full of strange, soft compassion for his people.... It was, actually, the old illness which thus, periodically, seethed in him again like an evil sap, flowing through his veins, enfeebling his nerves, crushing him internally, as though he would never be cured of it. But he grew accustomed to it, no longer felt despair because of it, even knew, during the few minutes that the malady lasted, that it would pass and afterwards regained that sense of harmony which above all constituted his resignation. It was in these days of silent fermentation that there was talk of a marriage between Princess Thera and the Prince of Naples; nothing was yet decided between the two families, but the young prince was invited to Lipara to attend the great autumn manoeuvres. Shoots were arranged; different festivities followed one upon the other. Othomar had in these days to combat those sudden weaknesses more than ever: a strange feeling, a shivering, a mysterious terror remained with him and no longer left him, a terror which he dared not analyse, for fear of discovering motives which would cause him to lose his calmness entirely. There revived within him the recollection of the fact that shortly after his marriage he had dreamt a dream more or less similar to his former dream: the sinister capital filling with crape. It happened while he was still residing with his young wife at Castel Zanthos and he had attached no importance to it, because he considered that this second dream was only a shadow of the former one, only the remembrance of what had already happened and nothing more. But now, in these days of busy celebrations in honour of the prince who was visiting their court, with the ferment of popular discontent like a turbid, gloomy element beneath the surface brilliancy of all their imperial display, the memory of it revived and the terrors and shudders became more and more plainly defined in his imagination and at one moment he felt his former nervous weakness come over him to such an extent that he found an excuse to summon Professor Barzia from Altara and had a long interview with the specialist of which he did not even speak to the Duchess of Xara. When the professor had gone, Othomar felt relieved and strengthened; only the thought lingered within him that it was not right for a future sovereign to be so much under the influence of a stronger mind as he was under that of Barzia; and he proposed next time not to call in the professor's power of suggestion, but to cure himself, in the privacy of his own soul. This plan, to rely on his own strength in future, made him find himself again for good and all.... The day after his interview with Barzia, he spent the whole morning and afternoon in the company of the Prince of Naples, with whom he visited different places and, in so doing, displayed a gaiety and liveliness which were rarely witnessed in the Duke of Xara. The members of their suite were astonished at this radiant cheerfulness of the crown-prince, in whom they had grown used to perceiving always a strain of melancholy. That evening there was a great state-banquet at the Imperial. After dinner, the imperial family were to accompany their guest to the Opera, where a gala-performance was to take place and a famous tenor was to sing. In these days, whenever the imperial family appeared in public, severe precautionary measures were taken under the guise of glittering display. A strong and close-packed escort of cuirassiers pranced round the carriages which drove that night to the great opera-house. The street at the side of the building containing the emperor's private entrance was closed off; a guard of honour lined the staircase; the secret police mingled with the expectant audience, which included all the smart society of the capital.... The imperial box, with its dark-violet draperies and gold tassels, was just over the stage of the colossal theatre. The first act was finished--they were playing _Aïda_--when the trumpet-blasts clanged out from the orchestra and the august personages appeared: the emperor, the empress, the Prince of Naples, the Duke and Duchess of Xara, Princess Thera. And their entry seemed to electrify the hitherto dull, waiting, nervously indifferent mood of the crowded house, as though, upon their appearance, the light in the lustres shone more brilliantly, the house blazed out with all the changeful flickerings of its jewels, all its flashing gilt, all the curiosity of the bright eyes that gazed at the imperial centre-group; as though the ladies' costumes suddenly blossomed out with one rustle of heavy silken fabrics, while the unfurled fans fluttered to and fro as though a breeze were blowing through many flowers in unstinted light.... Then the curtain rising on the second act, with all its melodrama of royal Egyptian state: the victory after the war and the consequent dances; the hero's love for the Ethiopian slave; and the Pharaoh's jealous daughter and the procession of the gods with the sackbuts: all sung, orchestrated, swelling symphonically in a square frame against a painted background; a stirring picture of royal Egyptian antiquity chanted before the eyes of modern royalty, of a modern audience, indifferent to the rest so long as they met wherever society decided that they should meet at the moment, under the eyes of the emperor and his family and his illustrious young guest.... The passions on the stage unbridling themselves in swelling bursts of music, a world of music, of love and despair, of war and triumph and priestly ambition in music, all music, as though life were music, music the soul and essence of the world.... And, beneath the glamour of this music and of this factitious life, the visible acting of the players, the glory of the famous tenor, with his too-modern head, his dress marked by unreal because unwarlike splendour, his bows and his smile aimed at the real world outside his small, framed world of make-believe, aimed at the audience that applauded after the emperor had deigned to clap his hands.... It was at this moment, this moment of ovation, this moment of lustrous triumph for the tenor, of applause led by the imperial hands. It was at this moment: the Emperor Oscar turning to his aide-de-camp, the Marquis of Xardi, behind him ... the aide listening respectfully to his majesty's command that he should summon the singer to the withdrawing-room of the imperial box ... the Empress Elizabeth and the Duchess of Xara, glittering in their gala, their jewels, in smiling conversation with the young foreign crown-prince who was their guest ... Othomar still with his gaiety of the afternoon, jesting with Thera and the ladies-in-waiting ... the whole house gazing, when the curtain had fallen for the last time, at all of them, in their blaze of luxury and light.... At this moment, in the topmost gallery a sudden tumult, a struggle of soldiers and police with one man.... A sudden rough scrimmage up there in the midst of the most mundane expansion of aristocratic pageantry. And all eyes no longer directed to the imperial box, but upwards.... Then, the man, struggling, releasing himself with superhuman strength from the grasp of his assailants, surging forwards, from out of their throng, like a black lightning-flash of fate: dark, curly head, eyes flashing hatred, fixed and fanatical, one arm suddenly outstretched towards the imperial grandeur below, as though at a target, with inexorable aim. The whole house one tumult, one shout, one shriek; wide gestures of helpless arms: all this very quick, lasting barely a second.... A shot ... and yet another shot.... * * * * * The emperor is hit in the breast; he falls against the empress, whose bare, jewelled bosom he suddenly soils with blood, which at once soaks his gold uniform through and through ... not golden blood: rich red blood.... But the empress throws up her arms in despair; her strident scream rings through the house. She falls back into the embrace of the Duchess of Xara. The emperor has sunk into the arms of Xardi and of Othomar; a furious oath forces its way through his tight-clenched teeth, while he tears open his gory uniform so fiercely that the buttons fly around him.... 4 Outside, the Opera Square, brightly lighted with many-armed, monumental lamp-posts, had at once become dark and swarming, filled with a vast mob; the whole town poured into it from every street; the alarm drew everybody thither, as though with a magnet. Detachments of hussars were already moving through the town, keeping order among the excited populace; the Duke of Mena-Doni was everywhere at once, trampling down the revolution with the military at his command in whatsoever corner it seemed to lift its head. The sky above was dark and frowning. It began to rain.... The rumour sped that the emperor had died. It was not true. Wrestling for breath, the sovereign lay in the crush-room of the opera-house, amidst the panic of his family, of his suite, of the hurrying doctors. He must not be moved, they said. He insisted. He refused to die here. He was set on returning to his Imperial. And, straining the springs of his energy, he commanded, he drew himself up, with the blood spurting from his throat; Othomar and the aides supported him.... Outside, in the square, the mob grew in numbers, the panic increased, riot seethed up from among those black clusters of people. Continual fights burst out between groups of men, dock-labourers, and the guard in front of the building, the police. The court-carriages returned empty, under escort, to the palace. Other carriages, cabs, tried here and there to force a way through the people; they were surrounded by cuirassiers, who protected them with drawn swords. Volumes of curses and abuse spattered up against them, against the vaguely transparent windows, behind which were patches of light colours, flashing sparks of jewels. Women's scared eyes peered out fixedly, askance, without moving. In the corridors, on the huge, monumental staircase of the opera-house, people hustled one another, fought to get through; then suddenly all eyes, staring wide, looked up above: the emperor was passing, bleeding, panting for breath, surrounded by his kin.... A feeling of awe stopped the crush for a moment; then they pressed on again.... Ladies fled till they found themselves behind the scenes, where they mingled their aristocracy with the bohemianism of the actors and actresses, all mixed up, confused, amidst the terrified, humming crowd of ballet-girls, priestesses of Isis. Gratuities were lavished: anything for a carriage, a cab.... The Duchess of Yemena stood there with her daughters; they were looking out for their carriage, which they had sent for at least ten times.... A stage-carpenter shrugged his shoulders indifferently: he did not know where to get a carriage from. "I won't wait any longer," said the duchess, shuddering. The girls clung to her, sobbing hysterically. She obtained a leather bag from an actress; she hastily took off her jewels, ordered the girls to do the same. They crammed them into the bag. She slipped a gold coin into a dresser's hand, asked her to pin up their trains, to pin them high, asked her to find them some black shoes. Other ladies, waiting and half-swooning with fright, looked at her, saw her thus, strangely practical. She succeeded in buying three long black cloaks and three black hats from a group of chorus-girls, flung one cloak over herself, flung the others over the sobbing little marchionesses. "I'm frightened, mamma!" sobbed Eleonore. The duchess was determined to get home somehow: "Come, come along!" she urged, driving the two girls before her. The other ladies, in alarm, watched them disappear through a back-door into a side-street.... The duchess pressed the bag with the jewels to her: "For God's sake, don't cry; keep your heads!" she ordered her daughters. "Walk on quietly and not too fast. Wrap your cloaks well round you." She walked on, tall and erect between the two little trembling marchionesses, in those chorus-girls' clothes; rain poured down. Clusters of people ran up against them; they mingled with them; for a moment she lost Hélène: "Wait a moment!" she said to Eleonore. And they remained standing amid the press of people; troops came jogging on; socialistic songs of triumph carolled up coarsely.... Then she went back with Eleonore, pushing, shoving, giving Hélène an opportunity to get back to her: "Now both give me an arm: here!..." They did as they were told; thus, seemingly calm, slowly, slowly, as though they were sight-seers who had also come to look, they reached the Opera Square, where the mob was swarming up against the guards. Carriages passed, at a walking-pace, escorted by soldiers. A wretched old hired growler, with a gaunt hack, pushed a muddy wheel right up against her, grazing her knees; a cuirassier of the escort raised his sword threateningly against her.... "My God!" she cried, awe-struck, clutching the children. She had first recognized the driver, in a dirty coat: a footman from the Imperial, whose face she remembered. Then, with a swift glance into the cab, she recognized--just close to a lamp-post with a number of ornamental branches--the emperor leaning against Othomar and her own stepson, Xardi. But the marquis did not recognize her, for, startled by the great light, he quickly turned his face away and bent, sombrely, protectingly, over the emperor and the crown-prince.... The girls had seen nothing; the duchess said nothing, afraid of betraying them.... She felt all her pluck and assurance forsake her; she shuddered from head to foot. She could not restrain her tears for her poor emperor, who was dying, who was returning to his palace in such a guise. A great, dark terror took possession of her. The rain trickled over her bosom.... "Keep your cloaks round you!" she again admonished her daughters. Then she went on, dragging herself along and the girls as well, beside her, stumbling on their feet... But a whirl of people swept across the Opera Square; there seemed to be a fight in progress: a heap of men, surrounding a group of police-constables and soldiers, in whose midst a madman wrestled with forcible gestures; a coarse clamour rose on high. At the lighted, open windows of the opera-house, above the perystile, still decked in its bright, festal illumination, face after face, appeared, actors still in costume looked on.... "Mamma, we shall never get through!" sobbed Eleonore, softly. The duchess thought in despair of the great Empress Avenue in which their town-house stood; it was so far away: how would they ever reach it, how would they ever get home?... "They're murdering him, they're murdering him, they shan't murder him!" bleated the people round them. Then the duchess understood, then she saw and the girls also saw: the mob, furious, foaming at the mouth--avengers now, though at first malcontents, perhaps even anarchists: such were the Liparians!--the mob pressing against the soldiers and constables, in the midst of whom the emperor's murderer still made fight with his large, frenzied gestures. And the avengers stormed this circle of protecting police; they dragged the man out.... They dragged him right under the eyes of the duchess, of her daughters.... "Ugh, ugh, ugh!" they roared brutally, men and women alike. They tore the clothes from his body, they beat him; and he howled back. They struck him to the ground with cudgels and trampled on him with coarse shoes; his blood flowed; his brains spattered from his crushed skull.... Then, at the sight of blood, they became like wild beasts; they grinned and smacked their lips with delight. Eleonore fell back fainting against the duchess, but Alexa shook her by the arm: "Keep up, keep up, for God's sake keep up, can't you?" she cried out aloud. "I can do nothing with you if you faint!" Her strong hands goaded the little marchioness back into life and again she dragged them on, staggering.... 5 The emperor, who refused to die, lived by sheer energy for two days longer, with his perforated lungs, panting for breath. And such were the Liparians: the man, the murderer, seized in the opera-house, despite the police and the guard, had been battered into a shapeless mass by the malcontents themselves.... And such is life: the emperor of a great country was shot dead by a fanatic in the midst of his kith and kin and life went on.... The country was as extensive as before: a rich, naturally beautiful, southern empire; tall, snow-clad mountains in the north; medieval and modern towns, lying in broad provinces; the residential capital itself, white in its golden autumn sunshine, with its Imperial, beneath a blue sky, close to the blue sea, round which circled the quays.... And such is the life of rulers: the emperor lay dead, killed by a simple pistol-shot; and the court chamberlain was very busy, the masters of ceremonies unable to agree; the pomp of an imperial funeral was prepared in all its intricacy; through all Europe sped the after-shudder of fright; every newspaper was filled with telegrams and long articles.... All this was because of one shot from a fanatic, a martyr for the people's rights. The Empress Elizabeth stared with wide-open eyes at the fate that had overtaken her. Not thus had she ever pictured to herself that it would come, thus, so rudely, in the midst of that festivity and in the presence of their royal guest; thus, glancing past her, striking only her husband and not crushing them all, at one blow, all their imperial pride! It had come to pass and ... she still feared, she still went on fearing, more now than before: for her son!... It seemed to her as if she were fearing for the first time.... It was the day before the funeral of the Emperor Oscar, when the Duchess of Xara, now the young empress, was seized with indisposition and the doctors declared that she was _enceinte_. The emperor's remains had already been removed in great pomp to Altara. At St. Ladislas the Altarians were to see him lying in state between thousands of flaming candles, with the brilliant insignia of the supreme power at his feet; after that he was to be removed to the imperial vault in the cathedral.... On that day too at Lipara, whose whiteness took tones of sombre twilight beneath mourning decorations and flags flown at half-mast, the salutes from Fort Wenceslas echoed over the town, thundering in dull tones their regular, heavy, monotonous bombardment of farewell. Lonely, majestically, in the town resounding with the salutes, stood the Imperial, empty, with its caryatids staring with gloomy, downcast eyes. The young emperor, Othomar XII., was at Altara, leading the solemn procession. The empress-mother was at the Crown Palace, with the young Empress Valérie.... Over their glamour, still shining, shone new glamours, in life which had continued, which was continuing still.... The two empresses sat side by side. Valérie held Elizabeth gently in her arms; at regular intervals the guns boomed from the fort, through the palace... Then Elizabeth drew herself up painfully from her daughter-in-law's arms and spoke in low, oracular tones: "If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara.... He would so much have liked to see a Count of Lycilia...." The guns boomed; the two empresses, in deep mourning, wept and sobbed. And now for the first time after a long interval--as there had also been a long interval at Berengar's death--Elizabeth realized all her loss, her sorrow, her misery, her despair; and she felt that that emperor, to whom, as a very young princess, now four-and-twenty years ago, she had been given in marriage, without love, she had come to love in this quarter of a century of their life in common on his high pinnacle of sovereignty.... That evening Othomar returned and, alone with his wife, with his mother, he sobbed with them, the young emperor, whom no one had seen weeping in the cathedral at Altara. For the Empress Elizabeth had repeated yet once more: "If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara...." And then the Emperor of Liparia had lost his self-restraint. In one lightning-flash, one zig-zag of terror, he saw again his life as crown-prince, he thought of his unborn son. What would become of this child of fate? Would it be a repetition of himself, of his hesitation, his melancholy and his despair? And then with irrepressible sobs, suddenly overwhelmed by the menace of the future, he sobbed out his grief for his father who had been and his son who was to be! He sobbed, with his head in the arms of his young empress, who, suddenly realizing that she must comfort him, had grown calm and looked calmly down upon him, taking their life of majesty upon her shoulders as though it were an oppressive, heavy mantle of purple and ermine and nothing more, taking it up so valiantly because there flowed in her veins as in his one single drop of sacred golden blood, common to all of their order, their might upon earth and their right before God.... 6 "To HER IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESS EUDOXIE "ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA, "SIGISMUNDINGEN. "ST. LADISLAS, "ALTARA, "--_May_, 18--. "MY DEAR MOTHER, "I cannot tell you how your letter pained me. For God's sake, do not excite yourself so and say such terrible things. We too regretted intensely that you could not be present at our coronation and that your rheumatic fever obliged you to remain at Sigismundingen; but why need you, dear mother, look upon that fever as a punishment from God? And why need you look upon it as a punishment from God that you did not see your fondest illusion fulfilled and were not able to be present in our old cathedral when Othomar, after being crowned by the primate, with his own hands crowned me Empress of Liparia? You were not there, but yet it came about: your illusion is truth, after all. And I tell you this without the least, oh, believe me, without the _least_ bitterness!... A punishment for forcing me, against my will? You must be ill indeed, ill in body and mind, poor mother, to be able to write like that: it makes me smile a little, I no longer recognize you. And let my smile bear witness that I am not unhappy: oh, far from it! Our happiness is hardly ever what we ourselves intend it to be and what we regret that it is not.... "If you were to see me, you would see that I am not unhappy. It is May, the sun is shining, the oriel-windows are open. In the distance, when I look out, I can see the Zanthos winding away in a broad, gleaming expanse of water. Close by my writing-table stands your beautiful big silver cradle; and through the closed lace curtains I can see my little Duke of Xara slumbering.... I don't know how to write all this to you, I have no command of words in which to express it fully to you; but what I feel, with this wide river landscape before me and this precious little child by my side: oh, mamma, it is not unhappiness! It is a feeling which hides a great deal of melancholy, but which hides nothing more sombre than that. And really why should it, in spite of that melancholy, not be even happiness? I am young, I am empress and I see life before me! Round about me, I see my country, I see my people: I want it to become the people of my heart, of my soul, entirely. I don't yet know how, but I want to live for this people, I want to live together with Othomar. Oh, I grant you, how I am to do that I don't yet know, but I shall find a way, together with him! And, having a husband and a child and a people, an emperor, a crown-prince and an empire, have I then no aim in life? And, having an aim in life--and such a tremendous aim!--have I not then also happiness? Is happiness anything other than to have found a lofty, a noble aim in life? "I am so anxious to convince you. And, if you saw me here, at our quiet St. Ladislas, now that all the agitation of the coronation-festivities is past, you would believe me. Othomar loves St. Ladislas and proposes to come here every year for a month in the spring. It is considered a good omen that my child was born here, for you know the feeling of the Liparians, their wish to see the crown-prince of their country born at St. Ladislas, under the immediate protection of the patron saint. "Othomar, however, is not here at the moment: he has gone for a few days to Lipara--of course, you know this from the papers--and writes to me twice a day. I asked him to do this so that I might be fully informed as to his state of mind. The tragedy of his father's death, the Emperor Oscar's two days' death-agony affected Othomar so violently, so violently: my God, how can I find words to describe that terror to you! How can I still live in hope, after all that I have already suffered in my short life and seen around me in the way of terror! And yet, yet it is like that, for youth is so strong and I, I am strong, I _must_ be strong.... "I admired my young emperor, in those terrible days, for his outward calm, through which the storm-flood of all his emotions never burst loose before the eyes of the world. Directly after the funeral, the ceremony of signing the five sacred deeds; the immediate agitation of the accumulated affairs of state.... A month later, the new elections, the constitutional majority in the house of deputies, the resignation of the ministry.... All this you will have seen in the papers.... After that, the birth of our son and then our coronation, at the moment when Liparia seemed shaken to its foundations! And now Othomar is at Lipara, because of the new constitutional ministry.... Then Count Myxila, who does not agree with Othomar's modern ideas and who has even ventured to reproach him with some vehemence for abandoning all his father's views upon government so shortly after his violent death and who is now tendering his resignation.... Othomar will make an effort to keep him, though he himself realizes that it will not be possible.... And the revision of the constitution in the immediate future, with so many drastic changes, probably with the inauguration of the upper and lower chambers, while the house of peers will continue its outward existence, but will be actually nothing more than an honorary consulting body. These are concessions, if you will have it so, but then, you know, Othomar has quite different ideas from his father's and, when he makes these concessions, he undoubtedly makes them to the past and not to the future nor to himself.... "Life is cruel, cruel in its changes and cruel even in its renascences; and for us rulers all this is perhaps even more cruel; but the world belongs to the future.... "The Empress Elizabeth is still here: she has suddenly grown so old, so grey and very dull and depressed; and she does not know what to do: whether to remain with her household at the Imperial, to stay on here at St. Ladislas, or to retire to Castel Xaveria.... All the imperial palaces and castles are whirling through her poor head: her private properties and the crown domains; she does not know where she wants to go; we of course continue to urge her not to leave the Imperial: it is large enough to enable her to retain almost all her own military and civil household.... "Dearest mother, I will write to you again soon: my head is still too much in a whirl; I have touched on too many topics; my woman's brains are not capable of thinking that all out logically and coherently and writing it down.... And I have only been empress for such a short time and I am only twenty-two, though I no longer feel so young.... This letter is but a hurriedly-written reply to your doleful self-reproach, which I now beseech you in Heaven's name to put aside _entirely_. Now that I write this to you, the evening of my betrothal-dinner at Sigismundingen rises before my mind. We were such a strange engaged couple, Othomar and I! I asked him--smile at this, mamma, and don't cry about it--whether he loved anybody. He said no. He told me he loved his people and he stretched out his arms, as though he would have embraced them. His people! The dawn of a new idea--old no doubt to thousands and ages old, but new to me, as a new day is new--shone out before me, threw light over my gloomy sufferings, brightened a road before me.... "That road, mamma, I now see stretching before me clearer and clearer every day; and I mean to follow it with my husband and my child, with my emperor and my crown-prince ... my crown-prince, who is waking and crying for me! "May God grant me strength, mamma! "VALÉRIE." 
9077	----	Charles Franks, and The Distributed Proofreaders [Transcriber's note: This aims to be an accurate transcription of the original text. To achieve this, we deviate from the standard Project Gutenberg guidelines in the following respects: * the original line breaks are preserved; * hyphenated words are not rejoined; * page breaks are noted (in the right margin); * printing errors are not corrected. Typographically, effort has been made to change the text as little as possible. The 'long s' has been converted, but none of the original spelling has been modified. Text which was centred has been indented eight spaces from the left margin. Right justified text is indifferently aligned in the original text; here all right justified text is aligned to the right-hand margin. The horizontal and vertical indentation of lines reflects the original text. Italics are indicated by underscores, and punctuation has not been included inside the italics except for periods which indicate an abbreviation, or when an entire sentence is italicised. There is a macron over an 'e' on the last line of E3v, which has been rendered as 'ê' in this transcription.] THE [TP] Tragicall Historie of HAMLET _Prince of Denmarke_ By William Shake-speare. As it hath beene diuerse times acted by his Highnesse ser- uants in the Cittie of London: as also in the two V- niuersities of Cambridge and Oxford, and else-where [Illustration] At London printed for N.L. and Iohn Trundell. 1603. [TPv] [Illustration] [B1] The Tragicall Historie of HAMLET Prince of Denmarke. _Enter two Centinels._ 1. Stand: who is that? 2. T'is I. 1. O you come most carefully vpon your watch, 2. And if you meet _Marcellus_ and _Horatio_, The partners of my watch, bid them make haste. 1. I will: See who goes there. _Enter Horatio and Marcellus._ _Hor._ Friends to this ground. _Mar._ And leegemen to the Dane, O farewell honest souldier, who hath releeued you? 1. _Barnardo_ hath my place, giue you goodnight. _Mar._ Holla, _Barnardo_. 2. Say, is _Horatio_ there? _Hor._ A peece of him. 2. Welcome _Horatio_, welcome good _Marcellus_. _Mar._ What hath this thing appear'd againe to night. 2. I haue seene nothing. _Mar._ _Horatio_ says tis but our fantasie, And wil not let beliefe take hold of him, Touching this dreaded sight twice seene by vs, Therefore I haue intreated him a long with vs [B1v] To watch the minutes of this night, That if againe this apparition come, He may approoue our eyes, and speake to it. _Hor._ Tut, t'will not appeare. 2. Sit downe I pray, and let vs once againe Assaile your eares that are so fortified, What we haue two nights seene. _Hor._ Wel, sit we downe, and let vs heare _Bernardo_ speake of this. 2. Last night of al, when yonder starre that's west- ward from the pole, had made his course to Illumine that part of heauen. Where now it burnes, The bell then towling one. _Enter Ghost._ _Mar._ Breake off your talke, see where it comes againe. 2. In the same figure like the King that's dead, _Mar._ Thou art a scholler, speake to it H_oratio_. 2. Lookes it not like the king? _Hor._ Most like, it horrors mee with feare and wonder. 2. It would be spoke to. _Mar._ Question it H_oratio_. _Hor._ What art thou that thus vsurps the state, in Which the Maiestie of buried _Denmarke_ did sometimes Walke? By heauen I charge thee speake. _Mar._ It is offended. _exit Ghost._ 2. See, it stalkes away. _Hor._ Stay, speake, speake, by heauen I charge thee speake. _Mar._ Tis gone and makes no answer. 2. How now H_oratio_, you tremble and looke pale, Is not this something more than fantasie? What thinke you on't? _Hor._ Afore my God, I might not this beleeue, without the sensible and true auouch of my owne eyes. _Mar._ Is it not like the King? [B2] _Hor._ As thou art to thy selfe, Such was the very armor he had on, When he the ambitious _Norway_ combated. So frownd he once, when in an angry parle He smot the sleaded pollax on the yce, Tis strange. _Mar._ Thus twice before, and iump at this dead hower, With Marshall stalke he passed through our watch. _Hor._ In what particular to worke, I know not, But in the thought and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to the state. _Mar._ Good, now sit downe, and tell me he that knowes Why this same strikt and most obseruant watch, So nightly toyles the subiect of the land, And why such dayly cost of brazen Cannon And forraine marte, for implements of warre, Why such impresse of ship-writes, whose sore taske Does not diuide the sunday from the weeke: What might be toward that this sweaty march Doth make the night ioynt labourer with the day, Who is't that can informe me? _Hor._ Mary that can I, at least the whisper goes so, Our late King, who as you know was by Forten- Brasse of _Norway_, Thereto prickt on by a most emulous cause, dared to The combate, in which our valiant H_amlet_, For so this side of our knowne world esteemed him, Did slay this Fortenbrasse, Who by a seale compact well ratified, by law And heraldrie, did forfeit with his life all those His lands which he stoode seazed of by the conqueror, Against the which a moity competent, Was gaged by our King: Now sir, yong Fortenbrasse, Of inapproued mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of _Norway_ here and there, [B2v] Sharkt vp a sight of lawlesse Resolutes For food and diet to some enterprise, That hath a stomacke in't: and this (I take it) is the Chiefe head and ground of this our watch. _Enter the Ghost._ But loe, behold, see where it comes againe, Ile crosse it, though it blast me: stay illusion, If there be any good thing to be done, That may doe ease to thee, and grace to mee. Speake to mee. If thou art priuy to thy countries fate, Which happly foreknowing may preuent, O speake to me, Or if thou hast extorted in thy life, Or hoorded treasure in the wombe of earth, For which they say you Spirites oft walke in death, speake to me, stay and speake, speake, stoppe it _Marcellus_. 2. Tis heere. _exit Ghost._ H_or._ Tis heere. _Marc._ Tis gone, O we doe it wrong, being so maiesti- call, to offer it the shew of violence, For it is as the ayre invelmorable, And our vaine blowes malitious mockery. 2. It was about to speake when the Cocke crew. H_or._ And then it faded like a guilty thing, Vpon a fearefull summons: I haue heard The Cocke, that is the trumpet to the morning, Doth with his earely and shrill crowing throate, Awake the god of day, and at his sound, Whether in earth or ayre, in sea or fire, The strauagant and erring spirite hies To his confines, and of the trueth heereof This present obiect made probation. _Marc._ It faded on the crowing of the Cocke, Some say, that euer gainst that season comes, Wherein our Sauiours birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long, [B3] And then they say, no spirite dare walke abroade, The nights are wholesome, then no planet frikes, No Fairie takes, nor Witch hath powre to charme, So gratious, and so hallowed is that time. H_or._ So haue I heard, and doe in parte beleeue it: But see the Sunne in russet mantle clad, Walkes ore the deaw of yon hie mountaine top, Breake we our watch vp, and by my aduise, Let vs impart what wee haue seene to night Vnto yong H_amlet_: for vpon my life This Spirite dumbe to vs will speake to him: Do you consent, wee shall acquaint him with it, As needefull in our loue, fitting our duetie? _Marc._ Lets doo't I pray, and I this morning know, Where we shall finde him most conueniently. _Enter King, Queene,_ H_amlet, Leartes, Corambis, and the two Ambassadors, with Attendants._ _King_ Lordes, we here haue writ to _Fortenbrasse_, Nephew to olde _Norway_, who impudent And bed-rid, scarely heares of this his Nephews purpose: and Wee heere dispatch Yong good _Cornelia_, and you _Voltemar_ For bearers of these greetings to olde _Norway_, giuing to you no further personall power To businesse with the King, Then those related articles do shew: Farewell, and let your haste commend your dutie. _Gent._ In this and all things will wee shew our dutie. _King._ Wee doubt nothing, hartily farewel: And now _Leartes_; what's the news with you? You said you had a sute what i'st _Leartes_? _Lea._ My gratious Lord, your fauorable licence, Now that the funerall rites are all performed, I may haue leaue to go againe to _France_, [B3v] For though the fauour of your grace might stay mee, Yet something is there whispers in my hart, Which makes my minde and spirits bend all for _France_. _King_ Haue you your fathers leaue, _Leartes_? _Cor._ He hath, my lord, wrung from me a forced graunt, And I beseech you grant your Highnesse leaue. _King_ With all our heart, _Leartes_ fare thee well. _Lear._ I in all loue and dutie take my leaue. _King._ And now princely Sonne _Hamlet_, _Exit._ What meanes these sad and melancholy moodes? For your intent going to _Wittenberg_, Wee hold it most vnmeet and vnconuenient, Being the Ioy and halfe heart of your mother. Therefore let mee intreat you stay in Court, All _Denmarkes_ hope our coosin and dearest Sonne. _Ham._ My lord, ti's not the sable sute I weare: No nor the teares that still stand in my eyes, Nor the distracted hauiour in the visage, Nor all together mixt with outward semblance, Is equall to the sorrow of my heart, Him haue I lost I must of force forgoe, These but the ornaments and sutes of woe. _King_ This shewes a louing care in you, Sonne _Hamlet_, But you must thinke your father lost a father, That father dead, lost his, and so shalbe vntill the Generall ending. Therefore cease laments, It is a fault gainst heauen, fault gainst the dead, A fault gainst nature, and in reasons Common course most certaine, None liues on earth, but hee is borne to die. _Que._ Let not thy mother loose her praiers H_amlet_, Stay here with vs, go not to _Wittenberg_. _Ham._ I shall in all my best obay you madam. _King_ Spoke like a kinde and a most louing Sonne, And there's no health the King shall drinke to day, But the great Canon to the clowdes shall tell [B4] The rowse the King shall drinke vnto Prince H_amlet_ _Exeunt all but_ H_amlet._ _Ham._ O that this too much grieu'd and sallied flesh Would melt to nothing, or that the vniuersall Globe of heauen would turne al to a Chaos! O God, within two months; no not two: married, Mine vncle: O let me not thinke of it, My fathers brother: but no more like My father, then I to _Hercules_. Within two months, ere yet the salt of most Vnrighteous teares had left their flushing In her galled eyes: she married, O God, a beast Deuoyd of reason would not haue made Such speede: Frailtie, thy name is Woman, Why she would hang on him, as if increase Of appetite had growne by what it looked on. O wicked wicked speede, to make such Dexteritie to incestuous sheetes, Ere yet the shooes were olde, The which she followed my dead fathers corse Like _Nyobe_, all teares: married, well it is not, Nor it cannot come to good: But breake my heart, for I must holde my tongue. _Enter_ Horatio _and_ Marcellus. _Hor._ Health to your Lordship. _Ham._ I am very glad to see you, (Horatio) or I much forget my selfe. _Hor._ The same my Lord, and your poore seruant euer. _Ham._ O my good friend, I change that name with you: but what make you from _Wittenberg_ H_oratio_? _Marcellus_. _Marc._ My good Lord. _Ham._ I am very glad to see you, good euen sirs; But what is your affaire in _Elsenoure_? Weele teach you to drinke deepe ere you depart. _Hor._ A trowant disposition, my good Lord. [B4v] _Ham._ Nor shall you make mee truster Of your owne report against your selfe: Sir, I know you are no trowant: But what is your affaire in _Elsenoure_? _Hor._ My good Lord, I came to see your fathers funerall. _Ham._ O I pre thee do not mocke mee fellow studient, I thinke it was to see my mothers wedding. _Hor._ Indeede my Lord, it followed hard vpon. _Ham._ Thrift, thrift, H_oratio_, the funerall bak't meates Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables, Would I had met my deerest foe in heauen Ere euer I had seene that day _Horatio_; O my father, my father, me thinks I see my father. _Hor._ Where my Lord? _Ham._ Why, in my mindes eye H_oratio_. _Hor._ I saw him once, he was a gallant King. _Ham._ He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not looke vpon his like againe. _Hor._ My Lord, I thinke I saw him yesternight, _Ham._ Saw, who? _Hor._ My Lord, the King your father. _Ham._ Ha, ha, the King my father ke you. _Hor._ Ceasen your admiration for a while With an attentiue eare, till I may deliuer, Vpon the witnesse of these Gentlemen This wonder to you. _Ham._ For Gods loue let me heare it. _Hor._ Two nights together had these Gentlemen, _Marcellus_ and _Bernardo_, on their watch In the dead vast and middle of the night. Beene thus incountered by a figure like your father, Armed to poynt, exactly _Capapea_ Appeeres before them thrise, he walkes Before their weake and feare oppressed eies Within his tronchions length, While they distilled almost to gelly. [C1] With the act of feare stands dumbe, And speake not to him: this to mee In dreadfull secresie impart they did. And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where as they had delivered forme of the thing. Each part made true and good, The Apparition comes: I knew your father, These handes are not more like. _Ham._ Tis very strange. _Hor._ As I do liue, my honord lord, tis true, And wee did thinke it right done, In our dutie to let you know it. _Ham._ Where was this? _Mar._ My Lord, vpon the platforme where we watched. _Ham._ Did you not speake to it? _Hor._ My Lord we did, but answere made it none, Yet once me thought it was about to speake, And lifted vp his head to motion, Like as he would speake, but euen then The morning cocke crew lowd, and in all haste, It shruncke in haste away, and vanished Our sight. _Ham._ Indeed, indeed sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to night? _All_ We do my Lord. _Ham._ Armed say ye? _All_ Armed my good Lord. _Ham._ From top to toe? _All._ My good Lord, from head to foote. _Ham._ Why then saw you not his face? _Hor._ O yes my Lord, he wore his beuer vp. _Ham._ How look't he, frowningly? _Hor._ A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. _Ham._ Pale, or red? _Hor._ Nay, verie pal _Ham._ And fixt his eies vpon you. [C1v] _Hor._ Most constantly. _Ham._ I would I had beene there. _Hor._ It would a much amazed you. _Ham._ Yea very like, very like, staid it long? _Hor._ While one with moderate pace Might tell a hundred. _Mar._ O longer, longer. _Ham._ His beard was grisleld, no. _Hor._ It was as I haue seene it in his life, A sable siluer. _Ham._ I wil watch to night, perchance t'wil walke againe. _Hor._ I warrant it will. _Ham._ If it assume my noble fathers person, Ile speake to it, if hell it selfe should gape, And bid me hold my peace, Gentlemen, If you haue hither consealed this sight, Let it be tenible in your silence still, And whatsoeuer else shall chance to night, Giue it an vnderstanding, but no tongue, I will requit your loues, so fare you well, Vpon the platforme, twixt eleuen and twelue, Ile visit you. _All._ Our duties to your honor. _exeunt_. _Ham._ O your loues, your loues, as mine to you. Farewell, my fathers spirit in Armes, Well, all's not well. I doubt some foule play, Would the night were come, Till then, sit still my soule, foule deeds will rise Though all the world orewhelme them to mens eies. _Exit_. _Enter Leartes_ and _Ofelia_. _Leart._ My necessaries are inbarkt, I must aboord, But ere I part, marke what I say to thee: I see Prince _Hamlet_ makes a shew of loue Beware _Ofelia_, do not trust his vowes, Perhaps he loues you now, and now his tongue, Speakes from his heart, but yet take heed my sister, [C2] The Chariest maide is prodigall enough, If she vnmaske hir beautie to the Moone. Vertue it selfe scapes not calumnious thoughts, Belieu't _Ofelia_, therefore keepe a loofe Lest that he trip thy honor and thy fame. _Ofel._ Brother, to this I haue lent attentiue care, And doubt not but to keepe my honour firme, But my deere brother, do not you Like to a cunning Sophister, Teach me the path and ready way to heauen, While you forgetting what is said to me, Your selfe, like to a carelesse libertine Doth giue his heart, his appetite at ful, And little recks how that his honour dies. _Lear._ No, feare it not my deere _Ofelia_, Here comes my father, occasion smiles vpon a second leaue. _Enter Corambis._ _Cor._ Yet here _Leartes_? aboord, aboord, for shame, The winde sits in the shoulder of your saile, And you are staid for, there my blessing with thee And these few precepts in thy memory. "Be thou familiar, but by no meanes vulgare; "Those friends thou hast, and their adoptions tried, "Graple them to thee with a hoope of steele, "But do not dull the palme with entertaine, "Of euery new vnfleg'd courage, "Beware of entrance into a quarrell; but being in, "Beare it that the opposed may beware of thee, "Costly thy apparrell, as thy purse can buy. "But not exprest in fashion, "For the apparell oft proclaimes the man. And they of _France_ of the chiefe rancke and station Are of a most select and generall chiefe in that: "This aboue all, to thy owne selfe be true, And it must follow as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any one, [C2v] Farewel, my blessing with thee. _Lear._ I humbly take my leaue, farewell _Ofelia_, And remember well what I haue said to you. _exit._ _Ofel._ It is already lock't within my hart, And you your selfe shall keepe the key of it. _Cor._ What i'st _Ofelia_ he hath saide to you? _Ofel._ Somthing touching the prince _Hamlet_. _Cor._ Mary wel thought on, t'is giuen me to vnderstand, That you haue bin too prodigall of your maiden presence Vnto Prince Hamlet, if it be so, As so tis giuen to mee, and that in waie of caution I must tell you; you do not vnderstand your selfe So well as befits my honor, and your credite. _Ofel._ My lord, he hath made many tenders of his loue to me. _Cor._ Tenders, I, I, tenders you may call them. _Ofel._ And withall, such earnest vowes. _Cor._ Springes to catch woodcocks, What, do not I know when the blood doth burne, How prodigall the tongue lends the heart vowes, In briefe, be more scanter of your maiden presence, Or tendring thus you'l tender mee a foole. _Ofel._ I shall obay my lord in all I may. _Cor._ _Ofelia_, receiue none of his letters, "For louers lines are snares to intrap the heart; "Refuse his tokens, both of them are keyes To vnlocke Chastitie vnto Desire; Come in _Ofelia_, such men often proue, "Great in their wordes, but little in their loue. _Ofel._ I will my lord. _exeunt._ _Enter_ Hamlet, Horatio, _and_ Marcellus. _Ham._ The ayre bites shrewd; it is an eager and An nipping winde, what houre i'st? _Hor._ I think it lacks of twelue, _Sound Trumpets._ _Mar._ No, t'is strucke. _Hor._ Indeed I heard it not, what doth this mean my lord? [C3] _Ham._ O the king doth wake to night, & takes his rowse, Keepe wassel, and the swaggering vp-spring reeles, And as he dreames, big draughts of renish downe, The kettle, drumme, and trumpet, thus bray out, The triumphes of his pledge. _Hor._ Is it a custome here? _Ham._ I mary i'st and though I am Natiue here, and to the maner borne, It is a custome, more honourd in the breach, Then in the obseruance. _Enter the Ghost._ _Hor._ Looke my Lord, it comes. _Ham._ Angels and Ministers of grace defend vs, Be thou a spirite of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee ayres from heanen, or blasts from hell: Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou commest in such questionable shape, That I will speake to thee, Ile call thee _Hamlet_, King, Father, Royall Dane, O answere mee, let mee not burst in ignorance, But say why thy canonizd bones hearsed in death Haue burst their ceremonies: why thy Sepulcher, In which wee saw thee quietly interr'd, Hath burst his ponderous and marble Iawes, To cast thee vp againe: what may this meane, That thou, dead corse, againe in compleate steele, Reuissets thus the glimses of the Moone, Making night hideous, and we fooles of nature, So horridely to shake our disposition, With thoughts beyond the reaches of our soules? Say, speake, wherefore, what may this meane? _Hor._ It beckons you, as though it had something To impart to you alone. _Mar._ Looke with what courteous action It waues you to a more remoued ground, But do not go with it. [C3v] _Hor._ No, by no meanes my Lord. _Ham._ It will not speake, then will I follow it. _Hor._ What if it tempt you toward the flood my Lord. That beckles ore his bace, into the sea, And there assume some other horrible shape, Which might depriue your soueraigntie of reason, And driue you into madnesse: thinke of it. _Ham._ Still am I called, go on, ile follow thee. _Hor._ My Lord, you shall not go. _Ham._ Why what should be the feare? I do not set my life at a pinnes fee, And for my soule, what can it do to that? Being a thing immortall, like it selfe, Go on, ile follow thee. _Mar._ My Lord be rulde, you shall not goe. _Ham._ My fate cries out, and makes each pety Artiue As hardy as the Nemeon Lyons nerue, Still am I cald, vnhand me gentlemen; By heauen ile make a ghost of him that lets me, Away I say, go on, ile follow thee. _Hor._ He waxeth desperate with imagination. _Mar._ Something is rotten in the state of _Denmarke_. _Hor._ Haue after; to what issue will this sort? _Mar._ Lets follow, tis not fit thus to obey him. _exit._ _Enter Ghost and Hamlet._ _Ham._ Ile go no farther, whither wilt thou leade me? _Ghost_ Marke me. _Ham._ I will. _Ghost_ I am thy fathers spirit, doomd for a time To walke the night, and all the day Confinde in flaming fire, Till the foule crimes done in my dayes of Nature Are purged and burnt away. _Ham._ Alas poore Ghost. _Ghost_ Nay pitty me not, but to my vnfolding Lend thy listning eare, but that I am forbid [C4] To tell the secrets of my prison house I would a tale vnfold, whose lightest word Would harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy yong blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular haire to stand on end Like quils vpon the fretfull Porpentine, But this same blazon must not be, to eares of flesh and blood Hamlet, if euer thou didst thy deere father loue. _Ham._ O God. _Gho._ Reuenge his foule, and most vnnaturall murder: _Ham._ Murder. _Ghost_ Yea, murder in the highest degree, As in the least tis bad, But mine most foule, beastly, and vnnaturall. _Ham._ Haste me to knowe it, that with wings as swift as meditation, or the thought of it, may sweepe to my reuenge. _Ghost_ O I finde thee apt, and duller shouldst thou be Then the fat weede which rootes it selfe in ease On _Lethe_ wharffe: briefe let me be. Tis giuen out, that sleeping in my orchard, A Serpent stung me; so the whole eare of _Denmarke_ Is with a forged Prosses of my death rankely abusde: But know thou noble Youth: he that did sting Thy fathers heart, now weares his Crowne. _Ham._ O my prophetike soule, my vncle! my vncle! _Ghost_ Yea he, that incestuous wretch, wonne to his will O wicked will, and gifts! that haue the power (with gifts, So to seduce my most seeming vertuous Queene, But vertne, as it neuer will be moued, Though Lewdnesse court it in a shape of heauen, So Lust, though to a radiant angle linckt, Would fate it selfe from a celestiall bedde, And prey on garbage: but soft, me thinkes I sent the mornings ayre, briefe let me be, Sleeping within my Orchard, my custome alwayes [C4v] In the after noone, vpon my secure houre Thy vncle came, with iuyce of Hebona In a viall, and through the porches of my eares Did powre the leaprous distilment, whose effect Hold such an enmitie with blood of man, That swift as quickesilner, it posteth through The naturall gates and allies of the body, And turnes the thinne and wholesome blood Like eager dropings into milke. And all my smoothe body, barked, and tetterd ouer. Thus was I sleeping by a brothers hand Of Crowne, of Queene, of life, of dignitie At once depriued, no reckoning made of, But sent vnto my graue, With all my accompts and sinnes vpon my head, O horrible, most horrible! _Ham._ O God! _ghost_ If thou hast nature in thee, beare it not, But howsoeuer, let not thy heart Conspire against thy mother aught, Leaue her to heauen, And to the burthen that her conscience beares. I must be gone, the Glo-worme shewes the Martin To be neere, and gin's to pale his vneffectuall fire: Hamlet adue, adue, adue: remember me. _Exit_ _Ham._ O all you hoste of heauen! O earth, what else? And shall I couple hell; remember thee? Yes thou poore Ghost; from the tables Of my memorie, ile wipe away all sawes of Bookes, All triuiall fond conceites That euer youth, or else obseruance noted, And thy remembrance, all alone shall sit. Yes, yes, by heauen, a damnd pernitious villaine, Murderons, bawdy, smiling damned villaine, (My tables) meet it is I set it downe, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villayne; [D1] At least I am sure, it may be so in _Denmarke_. So vncle, there you are, there you are. Now to the words; it is adue adue: remember me, Soe t'is enough I haue sworne. _Hor._ My lord, my lord. _Enter. Horatio,_ _Mar._ Lord Hamlet. _and Marcellus._ _Hor._ Ill, lo, lo, ho, ho. _Mar._ Ill, lo, lo, so, ho, so, come boy, come. _Hor._ Heauens secure him. _Mar._ How i'st my noble lord? _Hor._ What news my lord? _Ham._ O wonderfull, wonderful. _Hor._ Good my lord tel it. _Ham._ No not I, you'l reueale it. _Hor._ Not I my Lord by heauen. _Mar._ Nor I my Lord. _Ham._ How say you then? would hart of man Once thinke it? but you'l be secret. _Both_. I by heauen, my lord. _Ham._ There's neuer a villaine dwelling in all _Denmarke_, But hee's an arrant knaue. _Hor._ There need no Ghost come from the graue to tell you this. _Ham._ Right, you are in the right, and therefore I holde it meet without more circumstance at all, Wee shake hands and part; you as your busines And desiers shall leade you: for looke you, Euery man hath busines, and desires, such As it is; and for my owne poore parte, ile go pray. _Hor._ These are but wild and wherling words, my Lord. _Ham._. I am sory they offend you; hartely, yes faith hartily. _Hor._ Ther's no offence my Lord. _Ham._ Yes by Saint _Patrike_ but there is H_oratio_, And much offence too, touching this vision, It is an honest ghost, that let mee tell you, For your desires to know what is betweene vs, [D1v] Or emaister it as you may: And now kind frends, as yon are frends, Schollers and gentlmen, Grant mee one poore request. _Both_. What i'st my Lord? _Ham._ Neuer make known what you haue seene to night. _Both_. My lord, we will not. _Ham._ Nay but sweare. _Hor._ In faith my Lord not I. _Mar._ Nor I my Lord in faith. _Ham._ Nay vpon my sword, indeed vpon my sword. _Gho._ Sweare. _The Gost under the stage_. _Ham._ Ha, ha, come you here, this fellow in the sellerige, Here consent to sweare. _Hor._ Propose the oth my Lord. _Ham._ Neuer to speake what you haue seene to night, Sweare by my sword. _Gost_. Sweare. _Ham._ _Hic & vbique_; nay then weele shift our ground: Come hither Gentlemen, and lay your handes Againe vpon this sword, neuer to speake Of that which you haue seene, sweare by my sword. _Ghost_ Sweare. _Ham._ Well said old Mole, can'st worke in the earth? so fast, a worthy Pioner, once more remoue. _Hor._ Day and night, but this is wondrous strange. _Ham._ And therefore as a stranger giue it welcome, There are more things in heauen and earth _Horatio_, Then are Dream't of, in your philosophie, But come here, as before you neuer shall How strange or odde soere I beare my selfe, As I perchance hereafter shall thinke meet, To put an Anticke disposition on, That you at such times seeing me, neuer shall With Armes; incombred thus, or this head shake, [D2] Or by pronouncing some vndoubtfull phrase, As well well, wee know, or wee could and if we would, Or there be, and if they might, or such ambiguous. Giuing out to note, that you know aught of mee, This not to doe, so grace, and mercie At your most need helpe you, sweare. _Ghost_. sweare. _Ham._ Rest, rest, perturbed spirit: so gentlemen, In all my loue I do commend mee to you, And what so poore a man as _Hamlet_ may, To pleasure you, God willing shall not want, Nay come lett's go together, But stil your fingers on your lippes I pray, The time is out of ioynt, O cursed spite, That euer I was borne to set it right, Nay come lett's go together. _Exeunt._ _Enter Corambis, and Montano._ _Cor._ _Montano_, here, these letters to my sonne, And this same mony with my blessing to him, And bid him ply his learning good _Montano_. _Mon._ I will my lord. _Cor._ You shall do very well _Montano_, to say thus, I knew the gentleman, or know his father, To inquire the manner of his life, As thus; being amongst his acquaintance, You may say, you saw him at such a time, marke you mee, At game, or drincking, swearing, or drabbing, You may go so farre. _Mon._ My lord, that will impeach his reputation. _Cor._ I faith not a whit, no not a whit, Now happely hee closeth with you in the consequence, As you may bridle it not disparage him a iote. What was I a bout to say, _Mon._ He closeth with him in the consequence. _Cor._ I, you say right, he closeth with him thus, This will hee say, let mee see what hee will say, [D2v] Mary this, I saw him yesterday, or tother day, Or then, or at such a time, a dicing, Or at Tennis, I or drincking drunke, or entring Of a howse of lightnes viz. brothell, Thus sir do wee that know the world, being men of reach, By indirections, finde directions forth, And so shall you my sonne; you ha me, ha you not? _Mon._ I haue my lord. _Cor._ Wel, fare you well, commend mee to him. _Mon._ I will my lord, _Cor._ And bid him ply his musicke _Mon._ My lord I wil. _exit._ _Enter, Ofelia_. _Cor._ Farewel, how now _Ofelia_, what's the news with you? _Ofe._ O my deare father, such a change in nature, So great an alteration in a Prince, So pitifull to him, fearefull to mee, A maidens eye ne're looked on. _Cor._ Why what's the matter my _Ofelia_? _Of._ O yong Prince _Hamlet_, the only floure of _Denmark_, Hee is bereft of all the wealth he had, The Iewell that ador'nd his feature most Is filcht and stolne away, his wit's bereft him, Hee found mee walking in the gallery all alone, There comes hee to mee, with a distracted looke, His garters lagging downe, his shooes vntide, And fixt his eyes so stedfast on my face, As if they had vow'd, this is their latest obiect. Small while he stoode, but gripes me by the wrist, And there he holdes my pulse till with a sigh He doth vnclaspe his holde, and parts away Silent, as is the mid time of the night: And as he went, his eie was still on mee, For thus his head ouer his shoulder looked, He seemed to finde the way without his eies: For out of doores he went without their helpe, [D3] And so did leaue me. _Cor._ Madde for thy loue, What haue you giuen him any crosse wordes of late? _Ofelia_ I did repell his letters, deny his gifts, As you did charge me. _Cor._ Why that hath made him madde: By heau'n t'is as proper for our age to cast Beyond ourselues, as t'is for the yonger sort To leaue their wantonnesse. Well, I am sory That I was so rash: but what remedy? Lets to the King, this madnesse may prooue, Though wilde a while, yet more true to thy loue. _exeunt._ _Enter King and Queene, Rossencraft, and Gilderstone._ _King_ Right noble friends, that our deere cosin Hamlet Hath lost the very heart of all his sence, It is most right, and we most sory for him: Therefore we doe desire, euen as you tender Our care to him, and our great loue to you, That you will labour but to wring from him The cause and ground of his distemperancie. Doe this, the king of _Denmarke_ shal be thankefull. _Ros._ My Lord, whatsoeuer lies within our power Your maiestie may more commaund in wordes Then vse perswasions to your liege men, bound By loue, by duetie, and obedience. _Guil._ What we may doe for both your Maiesties To know the griefe troubles the Prince your sonne, We will indeuour all the best we may, So in all duetie doe we take our leaue. _King_ Thankes Guilderstone, and gentle Rossencraft. _Que._ Thankes Rossencraft, and gentle Gilderstone. _Enter Corambis and Ofelia._ _Cor._ My Lord, the Ambassadors are ioyfully Return'd from _Norway_. _King_ Thou still hast beene the father of good news. _Cor._ Haue I my Lord? I assure your grace, [D3v] I holde my duetie as I holde my life, Both to my God, and to my soueraigne King: And I beleeue, or else this braine of mine Hunts not the traine of policie so well As it had wont to doe, but I haue found The very depth of Hamlets lunacie. _Queene_ God graunt he hath. _Enter the Ambassadors._ _King_ Now _Voltemar_, what from our brother _Norway_? _Volt._ Most faire returnes of greetings and desires, Vpon our first he sent forth to suppresse His nephews leuies, which to him appear'd To be a preparation gainst the Polacke: But better look't into, he truely found It was against your Highnesse, whereat grieued, That so his sickenesse, age, and impotence, Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On _Fortenbrasse_, which he in briefe obays, Receiues rebuke from _Norway_: and in fine, Makes vow before his vncle, neuer more To giue the assay of Armes against your Maiestie, Whereon olde _Norway_ ouercome with ioy, Giues him three thousand crownes in annuall fee, And his Commission to employ those souldiers, So leuied as before, against the Polacke, With an intreaty heerein further shewne, That it would please you to giue quiet passe Through your dominions, for that enterprise On such regardes of safety and allowances As therein are set downe. _King_ It likes vs well, and at fit time and leasure Weele reade and answere these his Articles, Meane time we thanke you for your well Tooke labour: go to your rest, at night weele feast togither: Right welcome home. _exeunt Ambassadors._ _Cor._ This busines is very well dispatched. [D4] Now my Lord, touching the yong Prince Hamlet, Certaine it is that hee is madde: mad let vs grant him then: Now to know the cause of this effect, Or else to say the cause of this defect, For this effect defectiue comes by cause. _Queene_ Good my Lord be briefe. _Cor._ Madam I will: my Lord, I haue a daughter, Haue while shee's mine: for that we thinke Is surest, we often loose: now to the Prince. My Lord, but note this letter, The which my daughter in obedience Deliuer'd to my handes. _King_ Reade it my Lord. _Cor._ Marke my Lord. Doubt that in earth is fire, Doubt that the starres doe moue, Doubt trueth to be a liar, But doe not doubt I loue. To the beautifull _Ofelia_: Thine euer the most vnhappy Prince _Hamlet_. My Lord, what doe you thinke of me? I, or what might you thinke when I sawe this? _King_ As of a true friend and a most louing subiect. _Cor._ I would be glad to prooue so. Now when I saw this letter, thus I bespake my maiden: Lord _Hamlet_ is a Prince out of your starre, And one that is vnequall for your loue: Therefore I did commaund her refuse his letters, Deny his tokens, and to absent her selfe. Shee as my childe obediently obey'd me. Now since which time, seeing his loue thus cross'd, Which I tooke to be idle, and but sport, He straitway grew into a melancholy, From that vnto a fast, then vnto distraction, Then into a sadnesse, from that vnto a madnesse, And so by continuance, and weakenesse of the braine [D4v] Into this frensie, which now possesseth him: And if this be not true, take this from this. _King_ Thinke you t'is so? _Cor._ How? so my Lord, I would very faine know That thing that I haue saide t'is so, positiuely, And it hath fallen out otherwise. Nay, if circumstances leade me on, Ile finde it out, if it were hid As deepe as the centre of the earth. _King_. how should wee trie this same? _Cor._ Mary my good lord thus, The Princes walke is here in the galery, There let _Ofelia_, walke vntill hee comes: Your selfe and I will stand close in the study, There shall you heare the effect of all his hart, And if it proue any otherwise then loue, Then let my censure faile an other time. _King_. See where hee comes poring vppon a booke. _Enter Hamlet._ _Cor._ Madame, will it please your grace To leaue vs here? _Que._ With all my hart. _exit._ _Cor._ And here _Ofelia_, reade you on this booke, And walke aloofe, the King shal be vnseene. _Ham._ To be, or not to be, I there's the point, To Die, to sleepe, is that all? I all: No, to sleepe, to dreame, I mary there it goes, For in that dreame of death, when wee awake, And borne before an euerlasting Iudge, From whence no passenger euer retur'nd, The vndiscouered country, at whose sight The happy smile, and the accursed damn'd. But for this, the ioyfull hope of this, Whol'd beare the scornes and flattery of the world, Scorned by the right rich, the rich curssed of the poore? The widow being oppressd, the orphan wrong'd; [E1] The taste of hunger, or a tirants raigne, And thousand more calamities besides, To grunt and sweate vnder this weary life, When that he may his full _Quietus_ make, With a bare bodkin, who would this indure, But for a hope of something after death? Which pusles the braine, and doth confound the sence, Which makes vs rather beare those euilles we haue, Than flie to others that we know not of. I that, O this conscience makes cowardes of vs all, Lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembred. _Ofel._ My Lord, I haue sought opportunitie, which now I haue, to redeliuer to your worthy handes, a small remem- brance, such tokens which I haue receiued of you. _Ham._ Are you faire? _Ofel._ My Lord. _Ham._ Are you honest? _Ofel._ What meanes my Lord? _Ham._ That if you be faire and honest, Your beauty should admit no discourse to your honesty. _Ofel._ My Lord, can beauty haue better priuiledge than with honesty? _Ham._ Yea mary may it; for Beauty may transforme Honesty, from what she was into a bawd: Then Honesty can transforme Beauty: This was sometimes a Paradox, But now the time giues it scope. I neuer gaue you nothing. _Ofel._ My Lord, you know right well you did, And with them such earnest vowes of loue, As would haue moou'd the stoniest breast aliue, But now too true I finde, Rich giftes waxe poore, when giuers grow vnkinde. _Ham._ I neuer loued you. _Ofel._ You made me beleeue you did. _Ham._ O thou shouldst not a beleeued me! [E1v] Go to a Nunnery goe, why shouldst thou Be a breeder of sinners? I am my selfe indifferent honest, But I could accuse my selfe of such crimes It had beene better my mother had ne're borne me, O I am very prowde, ambitious, disdainefull, With more sinnes at my becke, then I haue thoughts To put them in, what should such fellowes as I Do, crawling between heauen and earth? To a Nunnery goe, we are arrant knaues all, Beleeue none of vs, to a Nunnery goe. _Ofel._ O heauens secure him! _Ham._ Wher's thy father? _Ofel._ At home my lord. _Ham._ For Gods sake let the doores be shut on him, He may play the foole no where but in his Owne house: to a Nunnery goe. _Ofel._ Help him good God. _Ham._ If thou dost marry, Ile giue thee This plague to thy dowry: Be thou as chaste as yce, as pure as snowe, Thou shalt not scape calumny, to a Nunnery goe. _Ofel._ Alas, what change is this? _Ham._ But if thou wilt needes marry, marry a foole, For wisemen know well enough, What monsters you make of them, to a Nunnery goe. _Ofel._ Pray God restore him. _Ham._ Nay, I haue heard of your paintings too, God hath giuen you one face, And you make your selues another, You fig, and you amble, and you nickname Gods creatures, Making your wantonnesse, your ignorance, A pox, t'is scuruy, Ile no more of it, It hath made me madde: Ile no more marriages, All that are married but one, shall liue, The rest shall keepe as they are, to a Nunnery goe, To a Nunnery goe. _exit._[E2] _Ofe._ Great God of heauen, what a quicke change is this? The Courtier, Scholler, Souldier, all in him, All dasht and splinterd thence, O woe is me, To a seene what I haue seene, see what I see. _exit._ _King_ Loue? No, no, that's not the cause, _Enter King and_ Some deeper thing it is that troubles him. _Corambis._ _Cor._ Wel, something it is: my Lord, content you a while, I will my selfe goe feele him; let me worke, Ile try him euery way: see where he comes, Send you those Gentlemen, let me alone To finde the depth of this, away, be gone. _exit King._ Now my good Lord, do you know me? _Enter Hamlet._ _Ham._ Yea very well, y'are a fishmonger. _Cor._ Not I my Lord. _Ham._ Then sir, I would you were so honest a man, For to be honest, as this age goes, Is one man to be pickt out of tenne thousand. _Cor._ What doe you reade my Lord? _Ham._ Wordes, wordes. _Cor._ What's the matter my Lord? _Ham._ Betweene who? _Car._ I meane the matter you reade my Lord. _Ham._ Mary most vile heresie: For here the Satyricall Satyre writes, That olde men haue hollow eyes, weake backes, Grey beardes, pittifull weake hammes, gowty legges, All which sir, I most potently beleeue not: For sir, your selfe shalbe olde as I am, If like a Crabbe, you could goe backeward. _Cor._ How pregnant his replies are, and full of wit: Yet at first he tooke me for a fishmonger: All this comes by loue, the vemencie of loue, And when I was yong, I was very idle, And suffered much extasie in loue, very neere this: Will you walke out of the aire my Lord? _Ham._ Into my graue. [E2v] _Cor._ By the masse that's out of the aire indeed, Very shrewd answers, My lord I will take my leaue of you. _Enter Gilderstone, and Rossencraft._ _Ham._ You can take nothing from me sir, I will more willingly part with all, Olde doating foole. _Cor,_ You seeke Prince Hamlet, see, there he is. _exit._ _Gil._ Health to your Lordship. _Ham._ What, Gilderstone, and Rossencraft, Welcome kinde Schoole-fellowes to _Elsanoure_. _Gil._ We thanke your Grace, and would be very glad You were as when we were at _Wittenberg_. _Ham._ I thanke you, but is this visitation free of Your selues, or were you not sent for? Tell me true, come, I know the good King and Queene Sent for you, there is a kinde of confession in your eye: Come, I know you were sent for. _Gil._ What say you? _Ham._ Nay then I see how the winde sits, Come, you were sent for. _Ross._ My lord, we were, and willingly if we might, Know the cause and ground of your discontent. _Ham._ Why I want preferment. _Ross._ I thinke not so my lord. _Ham._ Yes faith, this great world you see contents me not, No nor the spangled heauens, nor earth, nor sea, No nor Man that is so glorious a creature, Contents not me, no nor woman too, though you laugh. _Gil._ My lord, we laugh not at that. _Ham._ Why did you laugh then, When I said, Man did not content mee? _Gil._ My Lord, we laughed when you said, Man did not content you. What entertainment the Players shall haue, We boorded them a the way: they are comming to you. [E3] _Ham._ Players, what Players be they? _Ross._ My Lord, the Tragedians of the Citty, Those that you tooke delight to see so often. (stie? _Ham._ How comes it that they trauell? Do they grow re- _Gil._ No my Lord, their reputation holds as it was wont. _Ham._ How then? _Gil._ Yfaith my Lord, noueltie carries it away, For the principall publike audience that Came to them, are turned to priuate playes, And to the humour of children. _Ham._ I doe not greatly wonder of it, For those that would make mops and moes At my vncle, when my father liued, Now giue a hundred, two hundred pounds For his picture: but they shall be welcome, He that playes the King shall haue tribute of me, The ventrous Knight shall vse his foyle and target, The louer shall sigh gratis, The clowne shall make them laugh (for't, That are tickled in the lungs, or the blanke verse shall halt And the Lady shall haue leaue to speake her minde freely. _The Trumpets sound, Enter Corambis._ Do you see yonder great baby? He is not yet out of his swadling clowts. _Gil._ That may be, for they say an olde man Is twice a childe. (Players, _Ham._ Ile prophecie to you, hee comes to tell mee a the You say true, a monday last, t'was so indeede. _Cor._ My lord, I haue news to tell you. _Ham._ My Lord, I haue news to tell you: When _Rossios_ was an Actor in _Rome_. _Cor._ The Actors are come hither, my lord. _Ham._ Buz, buz. _Cor._ The best Actors in Christendome, Either for Comedy, Tragedy, Historie, Pastorall, Pastorall, Historicall, Historicall, Comicall, [E3v] Comicall historicall, Pastorall, Tragedy historicall: _Seneca_ cannot be too heauy, nor _Plato_ too light: For the law hath writ those are the onely men. _Ha._ O _Iepha_ Iudge of _Israel_! what a treasure hadst thou? _Cor._ Why what a treasure had he my lord? _Ham._ Why one faire daughter, and no more, The which he loued passing well. _Cor._ A, stil harping a my daughter! well my Lord, If you call me _Iepha_, I hane a daughter that I loue passing well. _Ham._ Nay that followes not. _Cor._ What followes then my Lord? _Ham._ Why by lot, or God wot, or as it came to passe, And so it was, the first verse of the godly Ballet Wil tel you all: for look you where my abridgement comes: Welcome maisters, welcome all, _Enter players._ What my olde friend, thy face is vallanced Since I saw thee last, com'st thou to beard me in _Denmarke_? My yong lady and mistris, burlady but your (you were: Ladiship is growne by the altitude of a chopine higher than Pray God sir your voyce, like a peece of vncurrant Golde, be not crack't in the ring: come on maisters, Weele euen too't, like French Falconers, Flie at any thing we see, come, a taste of your Quallitie, a speech, a passionate speech. _Players_ What speech my good lord? _Ham._ I heard thee speake a speech once, But it was neuer acted: or if it were, Neuer aboue twice, for as I remember, It pleased not the vulgar, it was cauiary To the million: but to me And others, that receiued it in the like kinde, Cried in the toppe of their iudgements, an excellent play, Set downe with as great modestie as cunning: One said there was no sallets in the lines to make thê sauory, But called it an honest methode, as wholesome as sweete. [E4] Come, a speech in it I chiefly remember Was _Æneas_ tale to _Dido_, And then especially where he talkes of Princes slaughter, If it liue in thy memory beginne at this line, Let me see. The rugged _Pyrrus_, like th'arganian beast: No t'is not so, it begins with _Pirrus_: O I haue it. The rugged _Pirrus_, he whose sable armes, Blacke as his purpose did the night resemble, When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now his blacke and grimme complexion smeered With Heraldry more dismall, head to foote, Now is he totall guise, horridely tricked With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sonnes, Back't and imparched in calagulate gore, Rifted in earth and fire, olde grandsire _Pryam_ seekes: So goe on. (accent. _Cor._ Afore God, my Lord, well spoke, and with good _Play._ Anone he finds him striking too short at Greeks, His antike sword rebellious to this Arme, Lies where it falles, vnable to resist. _Pyrrus_ at _Pryam_ driues, but all in rage, Strikes wide, but with the whiffe and winde Of his fell sword, th' unnerued father falles. _Cor._ Enough my friend, t'is too long. _Ham._ It shall to the Barbers with your beard: A pox, hee's for a Iigge, or a tale of bawdry, Or else he sleepes, come on to _Hecuba_, come. _Play._ But who O who had seene the mobled Queene? _Cor._ Mobled Queene is good, faith very good. _Play._ All in the alarum and feare of death rose vp, And o're her weake and all ore-teeming loynes, a blancket And a kercher on that head, where late the diademe stoode, Who this had seene with tongue inuenom'd speech, Would treason haue pronounced, [E4v] For if the gods themselues had seene her then, When she saw _Pirrus_ with malitious strokes, Mincing her husbandes limbs, It would haue made milch the burning eyes of heauen, And passion in the gods. _Cor._ Looke my lord if he hath not changde his colour, And hath teares in his eyes: no more good heart, no more. _Ham._ T'is well, t'is very well, I pray my lord, Will you see the Players well bestowed, I tell you they are the Chronicles And briefe abstracts of the time, After your death I can tell you, You were better haue a bad Epiteeth, Then their ill report while you liue. _Cor._ My lord, I will vse them according to their deserts. _Ham._ O farre better man, vse euery man after his deserts, Then who should scape whipping? Vse them after your owne honor and dignitie, The lesse they deserue, the greater credit's yours. _Cor._ Welcome my good fellowes. _exit._ _Ham._ Come hither maisters, can you not play the mur- der of _Gonsago_? _players_ Yes my Lord. _Ham._ And could'st not thou for a neede study me Some dozen or sixteene lines, Which I would set downe and insert? _players_ Yes very easily my good Lord. _Ham._ T'is well, I thanke you: follow that lord: And doe you heare sirs? take heede you mocke him not. Gentlemen, for your kindnes I thanke you, And for a time I would desire you leaue me. _Gil._ Our loue and duetie is at your commaund. _Exeunt all but Hamlet._ _Ham._ Why what a dunghill idiote slaue am I? Why these Players here draw water from eyes: For Hecuba, why what is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? [F1] What would he do and if he had my losse? His father murdred, and a Crowne bereft him, He would turne all his teares to droppes of blood, Amaze the standers by with his laments, Strike more then wonder in the iudiciall eares, Confound the ignorant, and make mute the wise, Indeede his passion would be generall. Yet I like to an asse and Iohn a Dreames, Hauing my father murdred by a villaine, Stand still, and let it passe, why sure I am a coward: Who pluckes me by the beard, or twites my nose, Giue's me the lie i'th throate downe to the lungs, Sure I should take it, or else I haue no gall, Or by this I should a fatted all the region kites With this slaues offell, this damned villaine, Treachcrous, bawdy, murderous villaine: Why this is braue, that I the sonne of my deare father, Should like a scalion, like a very drabbe Thus raile in wordes. About my braine, I haue heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play, Hath, by the very cunning of the scene, confest a murder Committed long before. This spirit that I haue seene may be the Diuell, And out of my weakenesse and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such men, Doth seeke to damne me, I will haue sounder proofes, The play's the thing, Wherein I'le catch the conscience of the King. _exit._ _Enter the King, Queene, and Lordes._ _King_ Lordes, can you by no meanes finde The cause of our sonne Hamlets lunacie? You being so neere in loue, euen from his youth, Me thinkes should gaine more than a stranger should. _Gil._ My lord, we haue done all the best we could, [F1v] To wring from him the cause of all his griefe, But still he puts vs off, and by no meanes Would make an answere to that we exposde. _Ross._ Yet was he something more inclin'd to mirth Before we left him, and I take it, He hath giuen order for a play to night, At which he craues your highnesse company. _King_ With all our heart, it likes vs very well: Gentlemen, seeke still to increase his mirth, Spare for no cost, our coffers shall be open, And we vnto your selues will still be thankefull. _Both_ In all wee can, be sure you shall commaund. _Queene_ Thankes gentlemen, and what the Queene of May pleasure you, be sure you shall not want. (_Denmarke_ _Gil._ Weele once againe vnto the noble Prince. _King_ Thanks to you both; Gertred you'l see this play. _Queene_ My lord I will, and it ioyes me at the soule He is incln'd to any kinde of mirth. _Cor._ Madame, I pray be ruled by me: And my good Soueraigne, giue me leaue to speake, We cannot yet finde out the very ground Of his distemperance, therefore I holde it meete, if so it please you, Else they shall not meete, and thus it is. _King_ What i'st _Corambis_? (done, _Cor._ Mary my good lord this, soone when the sports are Madam, send you in haste to speake with him, And I my selfe will stand behind the Arras, There question you the cause of all his griefe, And then in loue and nature vnto you, hee'le tell you all: My Lord, how thinke you on't? _King_ It likes vs well, Gerterd, what say you? _Queene_ With all my heart, soone will I send for him. _Cor._ My selfe will be that happy messenger, Who hopes his griefe will be reueal'd to her. _exeunt omnes_ _Enter Hamlet and the Players_. [F2] _Ham._ Pronounce me this spcech trippingly a the tongue as I taught thee, Mary and you mouth it, as a many of your players do I'de rather heare a towne bull bellow, Then such a fellow speake my lines. Nor do not saw the aire thus with your hands, But giue euerything his action with temperance. (fellow, O it offends mee to the soule, to heare a rebellious periwig To teare a passion in totters, into very ragges, To split the eares of the ignorant, who for the (noises, Most parte are capable or nothing but dumbe shewes and I would haue such a fellow whipt, or o're doing, tarmagant It out, Herodes Herod. _players_ My Lorde, wee haue indifferently reformed that among vs. _Ham._ The better, the better, mend it all together: There be fellowes that I haue seene play, And heard others commend them, and that highly too, That hauing neither the gate or Christian, Pagan, Nor Turke, haue so strutted and bellowed, That you would a thought, some of Natures journeymen Had made men, and not made them well, They imitated humanitie, so abhominable: Take heede, auoyde it. _players_ I warrant you my Lord. _Ham._ And doe you heare? let not your Clowne speake More then is set downe, there be of them I can tell you That will laugh themselues, to set on some Quantitie of barren spectators to laugh with them, Albeit there is some necessary point in the Play Then to be obserued: O t'is vile, and shewes A pittifull ambition in the foole that vseth it. And then you haue some agen, that keepes one sute Of ieasts, as a man is knowne by one sute of Apparell, and Gentlemen quotes his ieasts downe In their tables, before they come to the play, as thus: [F2v] Cannot you stay till I eate my porrige? and, you owe me A quarters wages: and, my coate wants a cullison: And, your beere is sowre: and, blabbering with his lips, And thus keeping in his cinkapase of ieasts, When, God knows, the warme Clowne cannot make a iest Vnlesse by chance, as the blinde man catcheth a hare: Maisters tell him of it. _players_ We will my Lord. _Ham._ Well, goe make you ready. _exeunt players._ _Horatio_. Heere my Lord. _Ham._ _Horatio_, thou art euen as iust a man, As e're my conuersation cop'd withall. _Hor._ O my lord! _Ham._ Nay why should I flatter thee? Why should the poore be flattered? What gaine should I receiue by flattering thee, That nothing hath but thy good minde? Let flattery sit on those time-pleasing tongs, To glose with them that loues to heare their praise, And not with such as thou _Horatio_. There is a play to night, wherein one Sceane they haue Comes very neere the murder of my father, When thou shalt see that Act afoote, Marke thou the King, doe but obserue his lookes, For I mine eies will riuet to his face: And if he doe not bleach, and change at that, It is a dammed ghost that we haue seene. _Horatio_, haue a care, obserue him well. _Hor._ My lord, mine eies shall still be on his face, And not the smallest alteration That shall appeare in him, but I shall note it. _Ham._ Harke, they come. _Enter King, Queene, Corambis, and other Lords._ (a play? _King_. How now son _Hamlet_, how fare you, shall we haue _Ham_. Yfaith the Camelions dish, not capon cramm'd, feede a the ayre. [F3] I father: My lord, you playd in the Vniuersitie. _Cor._ That I did my L: and I was counted a good actor. _Ham_. What did you enact there? _Cor._ My lord, I did act _Iulius Cæsar_, I was killed in the Capitol, _Brutus_ killed me. _Ham_. It was a brute parte of him, To kill so capitall a calfe. Come, be these Players ready? _Queene_ Hamlet come sit downe by me. _Ham._ No by my faith mother, heere's a mettle more at- Lady will you giue me leaue, and so forth: (tractiue: To lay my head in your lappe? _Ofel._ No my Lord. (trary matters? _Ham._ Vpon your lap, what do you thinke I meant con- _Enter in Dumbe Shew, the King and the Queene, he sits downe in an Arbor, she leaues him: Then enters Luci- anus with poyson in a Viall, and powres it in his eares, and goes away: Then the Queene commmeth and findes him dead: and goes away with the other._ _Ofel._ What meanes this my Lord? _Enter the Prologue._ _Ham._ This is myching Mallico, that meanes my chiefe. _Ofel._ What doth this meane my lord? _Ham._ You shall heare anone, this fellow will tell you all. _Ofel._ Will he tell vs what this shew meanes? _Ham._ I, or any shew you'le shew him, Be not afeard to shew, hee'le not be afeard to tell: O, these Players cannot keepe counsell, thei'le tell all. _Prol._ For vs, and for our Tragedie, Here stowpiug to your clemencie, We begge your hearing patiently. _Ham._ Is't a prologue, or a poesie for a ring? _Ofel._ T'is short, my Lord. _Ham._ As womens loue. _Enter the Duke and Dutchesse._ _Duke_ Full fortie yeares are past, their date is gone, Since happy time ioyn'd both our hearts as one: [F3v] And now the blood that fill'd my youthfull veines, Runnes weakely in their pipes, and all the straines Of musicke, which whilome pleasde mine eare, Is now a burthen that Age cannot beare: And therefore sweete Nature must pay his due, To heauen must I, and leaue the earth with you. _Dutchesse_ O say not so, lest that you kill my heart, When death takes you, let life from me depart. _Duke_ Content thy selfe, when ended is my date, Thon maist (perchance) haue a more noble mate, More wise, more youthfull, and one. _Dutchesse_ O speake no more for then I am accurst, None weds the second, but she kils the first: A second time I kill my Lord that's dead, When second husband kisses me in bed. _Ham._ O wormewood, wormewood! _Duke_ I doe beleeue you sweete, what now you speake, But what we doe determine oft we breake, For our demises stil are ouerthrowne, Our thoughts are ours, their end's none of our owne: So thinke you will no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts, when thy first Lord is dead. _Dutchesse_ Both here and there pursue me lasting strife, If once a widdow, euer I be wife. _Ham._ If she should breake now. _Duke_ T'is deepely sworne, sweete leaue me here a while, My spirites growe dull, and faine I would beguile the tedi- ous time with sleepe. _Dutchesse_ Sleepe rocke thy braine, And neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine. _exit Lady_ _Ham._ Madam, how do you like this play? _Queene_ The Lady protests too much. _Ham._ O but shee'le keepe her word. _King_ Haue you heard the argument, is there no offence in it? _Ham._ No offence in the world, poyson in iest, poison in [F4] _King_ What do you call the name of the play? (iest. _Ham._ Mouse-trap: mary how trapically: this play is The image of a murder done in _guyana_, _Albertus_ Was the Dukes name, his wife _Baptista_, Father, it is a knauish peece a worke: but what A that, it toucheth not vs, you and I that haue free Soules, let the galld iade wince, this is one _Lucianus_ nephew to the King. _Ofel._ Ya're as good as a _Chorus_ my lord. _Ham._ I could interpret the loue you beare, if I sawe the poopies dallying. _Ofel._ Y'are very pleasant my lord. _Ham._ Who I, your onlie jig-maker, why what shoulde a man do but be merry? for looke how cheerefully my mother lookes, my father died within these two houres. _Ofel._ Nay, t'is twice two months, my Lord. _Ham._ Two months, nay then let the diuell weare blacke, For i'le haue a sute of Sables: Iesus, two months dead, And not forgotten yet? nay then there's some Likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie, But by my faith hee must build churches then, Or els hee must follow the olde Epitithe, With hoh, with ho, the hobi-horse is forgot. _Ofel._ Your iests are keene my Lord. _Ham._ It would cost you a groning to take them off. _Ofel._ Still better and worse. _Ham._ So you must take your husband, begin. Murdred Begin, a poxe, leaue thy damnable faces and begin, Come, the croking rauen doth bellow for reuenge. _Murd._ Thoughts blacke, hands apt, drugs fit, and time Confederate season, else no creature seeing: (agreeing. Thou mixture rancke, of midnight weedes collected, With _Hecates_ bane thrise blasted, thrise infected, Thy naturall magicke, and dire propertie, One wholesome life vsurps immediately. _exit._ _Ham._ He poysons him for his estate. [F4v] _King_ Lights, I will to bed. _Cor._ The king rises, lights hoe. _Exeunt King and Lordes._ _Ham._ What, frighted with false fires? Then let the stricken deere goe weepe, The Hart vngalled play, For some must laugh, while some must weepe, Thus runnes the world away. _Hor._ The king is mooued my lord. _Hor._ I _Horatio_, i'le take the Ghosts word For more then all the coyne in _Denmarke_. _Enter Rossencraft and Gilderstone._ _Ross._ Now my lord, how i'st with you? _Ham._ And if the king like not the tragedy, Why then belike he likes it not perdy. _Ross._ We are very glad to see your grace so pleasant, My good lord, let vs againe intreate (ture To know of you the ground and cause of your distempera- _Gil._ My lord, your mother craues to speake with you. _Ham._ We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. _Ross._ But my good Lord, shall I intreate thus much? _Ham._ I pray will you play vpon this pipe? _Ross._ Alas my lord I cannot. _Ham._ Pray will you. _Gil._ I haue no skill my Lord. _Ham._ Why looke, it is a thing of nothing, T'is but stopping of these holes, And with a little breath from your lips, It will giue most delicate musick. _Gil._ But this cannot wee do my Lord. _Ham._ Pray now, pray hartily, I beseech you. _Ros._ My lord wee cannot. (me? _Ham._ Why how vnworthy a thing would you make of You would seeme to know my stops, you would play vpon [G1] You would search the very inward part of my hart, mee, And diue into the secreet of my soule. Zownds do you thinke I am easier to be pla'yd On, then a pipe? call mee what Instrument You will, though you can frett mee, yet you can not Play vpon mee, besides, to be demanded by a spunge. _Ros._ How a spunge my Lord? _Ham._ I sir, a spunge, that sokes vp the kings Countenance, fauours, and rewardes, that makes His liberalitie your store house: but such as you, Do the king, in the end, best seruise; For hee doth keep you as an Ape doth nuttes, In the corner of his Iaw, first mouthes you, Then swallowes you: so when hee hath need Of you, t'is but squeesing of you, And spunge, you shall be dry againe, you shall. _Ros._ Wel my Lord wee'le take our leaue. _Ham_ Farewell, farewell, God blesse you. _Exit Rossencraft and Gilderstone._ _Enter Corambis_ _Cor._ My lord, the Queene would speake with you. _Ham._ Do you see yonder clowd in the shape of a camell? _Cor._ T'is like a camell in deed. _Ham._ Now me thinkes it's like a weasel. _Cor._ T'is back't like a weasell. _Ham._ Or like a whale. _Cor._ Very like a whale. _exit Coram._ _Ham._ Why then tell my mother i'le come by and by. Good night Horatio. _Hor._ Good night vnto your Lordship. _exit Horatio._ _Ham._ My mother she hath sent to speake with me: O God, let ne're the heart of _Nero_ enter This soft bosome. Let me be cruell, not vnnaturall. I will speake daggers, those sharpe wordes being spent, [G1v] To doe her wrong my soule shall ne're consent. _exit._ _Enter the King_. _King_. O that this wet that falles vpon my face Would wash the crime cleere from my conscience! When I looke vp to heauen, I see my trespasse, The earth doth still crie out vpon my fact, Pay me the murder of a brother and a king, And the adulterous fault I haue committed: O these are sinnes that art vnpardonable: Why say thy sinnes were blacker then is ieat, Yet may contrition make them as white as snowe: I but still to perseuer in a sinne, It is an act gainst the vniuerfall power, Most wretched man, stoope, bend thee to thy prayer, Aske grace of heauen to keepe thee from despaire. _hee kneeles._ _enters Hamlet_ _Ham._ I so, come forth and worke thy last, And thus hee dies: and so, am I reuenged: No, not so: he tooke my father sleeping, his sins brim full, And how his soule floode to the state of heauen Who knowes, saue the immortall powres, And shall I kill him now When he is purging of his soule? Making his way for heauen, this is a benefit, And not reuenge: no, get thee vp agen, (drunke, When hee's at game swaring, taking his carowse, drinking Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed, Or at some act that hath no relish Of saluation in't, then trip him That his heeles may kicke at heauen, And fall as lowe as hel: my mother stayes, This phisicke but prolongs they weary dayes. _exit Ham._ _King_. My wordes fly vp, my sinnes remaine below. No King on earth is safe, if Gods his foe. _exit King._[G2] _Enter Queene and Corambis._ _Cor._ Madame, I heare yong Hamlet comming, I'le shrowde my selfe behinde the Arras. _exit Cor._ _Queene_ Do so my Lord. _Ham._ Mother, mother, O are you here? How i'st with you mother? _Queene_ How i'st with you? _Ham,_ I'le tell you, but first weele make all safe. _Queene_ Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. _Ham._ Mother, you haue my father much offended. _Queene_ How now boy? _Ham._ How now mother! come here, sit downe, for you shall heare me speake. _Queene_ What wilt thou doe? thou wilt not murder me: Helpe hoe. _Cor._ Helpe for the Queene. _Ham._ I a Rat, dead for a Duckat. Rash intruding foole, farewell, I tooke thee for thy better. _Queene_ Hamlet, what hast thou done? _Ham._ Not so much harme, good mother, As to kill a king, and marry with his brother. _Queene_ How! kill a king! _Ham._ I a King: nay sit you downe, and ere you part, If you be made of penitrable stuffe, I'le make your eyes looke downe into your heart, And see how horride there and blacke it shews. (words? _Queene_ Hamlet, what mean'st thou by these killing _Ham._ Why this I meane, see here, behold this picture, It is the portraiture, of your deceased husband, See here a face, to outface _Mars_ himselfe, An eye, at which his foes did tremble at, A front wherin all vertues are set downe For to adorne a king, and guild his crowne, Whose heart went hand in hand euen with that vow, He made to you in marriage, and he is dead. [G2v] Murdred, damnably murdred, this was your husband, Looke you now, here is your husband, With a face like _Vulcan_. A looke fit for a murder and a rape, A dull dead hanging looke, and a hell-bred eie, To affright children and amaze the world: And this same haue you left to change with this. What Diuell thus hath cosoned you at hob-man blinde? A! haue you eyes and can you looke on him That slew my father, and your deere husband, To liue in the incestuous pleasure of his bed? _Queene_ O Hamlet, speake no more. _Ham._ To leaue him that bare a Monarkes minde, For a king of clowts, of very shreads. _Queene_ Sweete Hamlet cease. _Ham._ Nay but still to persist and dwell in sinne, To sweate vnder the yoke of infamie, To make increase of shame, to seale damnation. _Queene_ Hamlet, no more. _Ham._ Why appetite with you is in the waine, Your blood runnes backeward now from whence it came, Who'le chide hote blood within a Virgins heart, When lust shall dwell within a matrons breast? _Queene_ Hamlet, thou cleaues my heart in twaine. _Ham._ O throw away the worser part of it, and keepe the better. _Enter the ghost in his night gowne._ Saue me, saue me, you gratious Powers aboue, and houer ouer mee, With your celestiall wings. Doe you not come your tardy sonne to chide, That I thus long haue let reuenge slippe by? O do not glare with lookes so pittifull! Lest that my heart of stone yeelde to compassion, And euery part that should assist reuenge, [G3] Forgoe their proper powers, and fall to pitty. _Ghost_ Hamlet, I once againe appeare to thee, To put thee in remembrance of my death: Doe not neglect, nor long time put it off. But I perceiue by thy distracted lookes, Thy mother's fearefull, and she stands amazde: Speake to her Hamlet, for her sex is weake, Comfort thy mother, Hamlet, thinke on me. _Ham._ How i'st with you Lady? _Queene_ Nay, how i'st with you That thus you bend your eyes on vacancie, And holde discourse with nothing but with ayre? _Ham._ Why doe you nothing heare? _Queene_ Not I. _Ham._ Nor doe you nothing see? _Queene_ No neither. (habite _Ham._ No, why see the king my father, my father, in the As he liued, looke you how pale he lookes, See how he steales away out of the Portall, Looke, there he goes. _exit ghost._ _Queene_ Alas, it is the weakeness of thy braine, Which makes thy tongue to blazon thy hearts griefe: But as I haue a soule, I sweare by heauen, I neuer knew of this most horride murder: But Hamlet, this is only fantasie, And for my loue forget these idle fits. _Ham._ Idle, no mother, my pulse doth beate like yours, It is not madnesse that possesseth Hamlet. O mother, if euer you did my deare father loue, Forbeare the adulterous bed to night, And win your selfe by little as you may, In time it may be you wil lothe him quite: And mother, but assist mee in reuenge, And in his death your infamy shall die. _Queene_ _Hamlet_, I vow by that maiesty, That knowes our thoughts, and lookes into our hearts, [G3v] I will conceale, consent, and doe my best, What stratagem soe're thou shalt deuise. _Ham._ It is enough, mother good night: Come sir, I'le provide for you a graue, Who was in life a foolish prating knaue. _Exit Hamlet with the dead body._ _Enter the King and Lordes._ _King_ Now Gertred, what sayes our sonne, how doe you finde him? _Queene_ Alas my lord, as raging as the sea: Whenas he came, I first bespake him faire, But then he throwes and tosses me about, As one forgetting that I was his mother: At last I call'd for help: and as I cried, _Corambis_ Call'd, which Hamlet no sooner heard, but whips me Out his rapier, and cries, a Rat, a Rat, and in his rage The good olde man he killes. _King_ Why this his madnesse will vndoe our state. Lordes goe to him, inquire the body out. _Gil._ We will my Lord. _Exeunt Lordes._ _King_ Gertred, your sonne shall presently to England, His shipping is already furnished, And we have sent by _Rossencraft_ and _Gilderstone_, Our letters to our deare brother of England, For Hamlets welfare and his happinesse: Happly the aire and climate of the Country May please him better than his natiue home: See where he comes. _Enter Hamlet and the Lordes._ _Gil._ My lord, we can by no meanes Know of him where the body is. _King_ Now sonne Hamlet, where is this dead body? _Ham._ At supper, not where he is eating, but Where he is eaten, a certaine company of politicke wormes [G4] are euen now at him. Father, your fatte King, and your leane Beggar Are but variable seruices, two dishes to one messe: Looke you, a man may fish with that worme That hath eaten of a King, And a Beggar eate that fish, Which that worme hath caught. _King_ What of this? _Ham._ Nothing father, but to tell you, how a King May go a progresse through the guttes of a Beggar. _King_ But sonne _Hamlet_, where is this body? _Ham._ In heau'n, if you chance to misse him there, Father, you had best looke in the other partes below For him, aud if you cannot finde him there, You may chance to nose him as you go vp the lobby. _King_ Make haste and finde him out. _Ham._ Nay doe you heare? do not make too much haste, I'le warrant you hee'le stay till you come. _King_ Well sonne _Hamlet_, we in care of you: but specially in tender preseruation of your health, The which we price euen as our proper selfe, It is our minde you forthwith goe for _England_, The winde sits faire, you shall aboorde to night, Lord _Rossencraft_ and _Gilderstone_ shall goe along with you. _Ham._ O with all my heart: farewel mother. _King_ Your louing father, _Hamlet_. _Ham._ My mother I say: you married my mother, My mother is your wife, man and wife is one flesh, And so (my mother) farewel: for England hoe. _exeunt all but the king._ _king_ Gertred, leaue me, And take your leaue of _Hamlet_, To England is he gone, ne're to returne: Our Letters are vnto the King of England, That on the sight of them, on his allegeance, He presently without demaunding why, [G4v] That _Hamlet_ loose his head, for he must die, There's more in him than shallow eyes can see: He once being dead, why then our state is free. _exit._ _Enter Fortenbrasse, Drumme and Souldiers._ _Fort._ Captaine, from vs goe greete The king of Denmarke: Tell him that _Fortenbrasse_ nephew to old _Norway_, Craues a free passe and conduct ouer his land. According to the Articles agreed on: You know our Randevous, goe march away. _exeunt all._ _enter King and Queene._ _King_ _Hamlet_ is ship't for England, fare him well, I hope to heare good newes from thence ere long, If euery thing fall out to our content, As I doe make no doubt but so it shall. _Queene_ God grant it may, heau'ns keep my _Hamlet_ safe: But this mischance of olde _Corambis_ death, Hath piersed so the yong _Ofeliaes_ heart, That she, poore maide, is quite bereft her wittes. _King_ Alas deere heart! And on the other side, We vnderstand her brother's come from _France_, And he hath halfe the heart of all our Land, And hardly hee'le forget his fathers death, Vnlesse by some meanes he be pacified. _Qu._ O see where the yong _Ofelia_ is! _Enter Ofelia playing on a Lute, and her haire downe singing_. _Ofelia_ How should I your true loue know From another man? By his cockle hatte, and his staffe, And his sandall shoone. [H1] White his shrowde as mountaine snowe, Larded with sweete flowers, That bewept to the graue did not goe With true louers showers: He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone, At his head a grasse greene turffe, At his heeles a stone. _king_ How i'st with you sweete _Ofelia_? _Ofelia_ Well God yeeld you, It grieues me to see how they laid him in the cold ground, I could not chuse but weepe: And will he not come againe? And will he not come againe? No, no, hee's gone, and we cast away mone, And he neuer will come againe. His beard as white as snowe: All flaxen was his pole, He is dead, he is gone, And we cast away moane: God a mercy on his soule. And of all christen soules I pray God. God be with you Ladies, God be with you. _exit Ofelia._ _king_ A pretty wretch! this is a change indeede: O Time, how swiftly runnes our ioyes away! Content on earth was neuer certaine bred, To day we laugh and liue, tomorrow dead. How now, what noyse is that? _A noyse within._ _enter Leartes._ _Lear._ Stay there vntill I come, O thou vilde king, give me my father: Speake, say, where's my father? _king_ Dead. _Lear._ Who hath murdred him? speake, i'le not Be juggled with, for he is murdred. _Queene_ True, but not by him. _Lear._ By whome, by heau'n I'll be resolued. [H1v] _king_ Let him goe _Gertred_, away, I feare him not, There's such diuinitie doth wall a king, That treason dares not looke on. Let him goe _Gertred_, that your father is murdred, T'is true, and we most sory for it, Being the chiefest piller of our state: Therefore will you like a most desperate gamster, Swoop-stake-like, draw at friend, and foe, and all? _Lear._ To his good friends thus wide I'le ope mine arms, And locke them in my hart, but to his foes, I will no reconcilement but by bloud. _king_ Why now you speake like a most louing sonne: And that in soule we sorrow for for his death, Yourselfe ere long shall be a witnesse, Meane while be patient, and content your selfe. _Enter Ofelia as before._ _Lear._ Who's this, _Ofelia?_ O my deere sister! I'st possible a yong maides life, Should be as mortall as an olde mans sawe? O heau'ns themselues! how now _Ofelia_? _Ofel._ Wel God a mercy, I a bin gathering of floures: Here, here is rew for you, You may call it hearb a grace a Sundayes, Heere's some for me too: you must weare your rew With a difference, there's a dazie. Here Loue, there's rosemary for you For remembrance: I pray Loue remember, And there's pansey for thoughts. _Lear._ A document in madnes, thoughts, remembrance: O God, O God! _Ofelia_ There is fennell for you, I would a giu'n you Some violets, but they all withered, when My father died: alas, they say the owle was A Bakers daughter, we see what we are, But can not tell what we shall be. For bonny sweete Robin is all my ioy. [H2] _Lear._ Thoughts & afflictions, torments worse than hell. _Ofel._ Nay Loue, I pray you make no words of this now: I pray now, you shall sing a downe, And you a downe a, t'is a the Kings daughter And the false steward, and if any body Aske you of any thing, say you this. Tomorrow is saint Valentines day, All in the morning betime, And a maide at your window, To be your Valentine: The yong man rose, and dan'd his clothes, And dupt the chamber doore, Let in the maide, that out a maide Neuer departed more. Nay I pray marke now, By gisse, and by saint Charitie, Away, and fie for shame: Yong men will doo't when they come too't: By cocke they are too blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promised me to wed. So would I a done, by yonder Sunne, If thou hadst not come to my bed. So God be with you all, God bwy Ladies. God bwy you Loue. _exit Ofelia._ _Lear._ Griefe vpon griefe, my father murdered, My sister thus distracted: Cursed be his soule that wrought this wicked act. _king_ Content you good Leartes for a time, Although I know your griefe is as a floud, Brimme full of sorrow, but forbeare a while, And thinke already the reuenge is done On him that makes you such a haplesse sonne. _Lear._ You haue preuail'd my Lord, a while I'le striue, To bury griefe within a tombe of wrath, Which once vnhearsed, then the world shall heare [H2v] Leartes had a father he held deere. _king_ No more of that, ere many days be done, You shall heare that you do not dreame vpon. _exeunt om._ _Enter Horatio and the Queene._ _Hor._ Madame, your sonne is safe arriv'de in _Denmarke_, This letter I euen now receiv'd of him, Whereas he writes how he escap't the danger, And subtle treason that the king had plotted, Being crossed by the contention of the windes, He found the Packet sent to the king of _England_, Wherein he saw himselfe betray'd to death, As at his next conuersion with your grace, He will relate the circumstance at full. _Queene_ Then I perceiue there's treason in his lookes That seem'd to sugar o're his villanie: But I will soothe and please him for a time, For murderous mindes are always jealous, But know not you _Horatio_ where he is? _Hor._ Yes Madame, and he hath appoyntd me To meete him on the east side of the Cittie To morrow morning. _Queene_ O faile not, good _Horatio_, and withall, com- A mothers care to him, bid him a while (mend me Be wary of his presence, lest that he Faile in that he goes about. _Hor._ Madam, neuer make doubt of that: I thinke by this the news be come to court: He is arriv'de, obserue the king, and you shall Quickely finde, _Hamlet_ being here, Things fell not to his minde. _Queene_ But what became of _Gilderstone_ and _Rossencraft_? _Hor._ He being set ashore, they went for _England_, And in the Packet there writ down that doome To be perform'd on them poynted for him: And by great chance he had his fathers Seale, So all was done without discouerie. [H3] _Queene_ Thankes be to heauen for blessing of the prince, _Horatio_ once againe I take my leaue, With thowsand mothers blessings to my sonne. _Horat._ Madam adue. _Enter King and Leartes._ _King._ Hamlet from _England_! is it possible? What chance is this? they are gone, and he come home. _Lear._ O he is welcome, by my soule he is: At it my iocund heart doth leape for ioy, That I shall liue to tell him, thus he dies. _king_ Leartes, content your selfe, be rulde by me, And you shall haue no let for your reuenge. _Lear._ My will, not all the world. _King_ Nay but Leartes, marke the plot I haue layde, I haue heard him often with a greedy wish, Vpon some praise that he hath heard of you Touching your weapon, which with all his heart, He might be once tasked for to try your cunning. _Lea._ And how for this? _King_ Mary Leartes thus: I'le lay a wager, Shalbe on _Hamlets_ side, and you shall giue the oddes, The which will draw him with a more desire, To try the maistry, that in twelue venies You gaine not three of him: now this being granted, When you are hot in midst of all your play, Among the foyles shall a keene rapier lie, Steeped in a mixture of deadly poyson, That if it drawes but the least dramme of blood, In any part of him, he cannot liue: This being done will free you from suspition, And not the deerest friend that _Hamlet_ lov'de Will euer haue Leartes in suspect. _Lear._ My lord, I like it well: But say lord _Hamlet_ should refuse this match. _King_ I'le warrant you, wee'le put on you Such a report of singularitie, [H3v] Will bring him on, although against his will. And lest that all should misse, I'le haue a potion that shall ready stand, In all his heate when that he calles for drinke, Shall be his period and our happinesse. _Lear._ T'is excellent, O would the time were come! Here comes the Queene. _enter the Queene._ _king_ How now Gertred, why looke you heauily? _Queene_ O my Lord, the yong _Ofelia_ Hauing made a garland of sundry sortes of floures, Sitting vpon a willow by a brooke, The enuious sprig broke, into the brooke she fell, And for a while her clothes spread wide abroade, Bore the yong Lady vp: and there she sate smiling, Euen Mermaide-like, twixt heauen and earth, Chaunting olde sundry tunes vncapable As it were of her distresse, but long it could not be, Till that her clothes, being heauy with their drinke, Dragg'd the sweete wretch to death. _Lear._ So, she is drownde: Too much of water hast thou _Ofelia_, Therefore I will not drowne thee in my teares, Reuenge it is must yeeld this heart releese, For woe begets woe, and griefe hangs on griefe. _exeunt._ _enter Clowne and an other_ _Clowne_ I say no, she ought not to be buried In christian buriall. 2. Why sir? _Clowne_ Mary because shee's drownd. 2. But she did not drowne her selfe. _Clowne_ No, that's certaine, the water drown'd her. 2. Yea but it was against her will. _Clowne_ No, I deny that, for looke you sir, I stand here, If the water come to me, I drowne not my selfe: But if I goe to the water, and am there drown'd, _Ergo_ I am guiltie of my owne death: [H4] Y'are gone, goe y'are gone sir. 2. I but see, she hath christian buriall, Because she is a great woman. _Clowne_ Mary more's the pitty, that great folke Should haue more authoritie to hang or drowne Themselues, more than other people: Goe fetch me a stope of drinke, but before thou Goest, tell me one thing, who buildes strongest, Of a Mason, a Shipwright, or a Carpenter? 2. Why a Mason, for he buildes all of stone, And will indure long. _Clowne_ That's prety, too't agen, too't agen. 2. Why then a Carpenter, for he buildes the gallowes, And that brings many a one to his long home. _Clowne_ Prety agen, the gallowes doth well, mary howe dooes it well? the gallowes dooes well to them that doe ill, goe get thee gone: And if any one aske thee hereafter, say, A Graue-maker, for the houses he buildes Last till Doomes-day. Fetch me a stope of beere, goe. _Enter Hamlet and Horatio._ _Clowne_ A picke-axe and a spade, A spade for and a winding sheete, Most fit it is, for t'will be made, _he throwes vp a shouel._ For such a ghest most meete. _Ham._ Hath this fellow any feeling of himselfe, That is thus merry in making of a graue? See how the slaue joles their heads against the earth. _Hor._ My lord, Custome hath made it in him seeme no- _Clowne_ A pick-axe and a spade, a spade, (thing. For and a winding sheete, Most fit it is for to be made, For such a ghest most meet. _Ham._ Looke you, there's another _Horatio_. Why mai't not be the soull of some Lawyer? [H4v] Me thinkes he should indite that fellow Of an action of Batterie, for knocking Him about the pate with's shouel: now where is your Quirkes and quillets now, your vouchers and Double vouchers, your leases and free-holde, And tenements? why that same boxe there will scarce Holde the conueiance of his land, and must The honor lie there? O pittifull transformance! I prethee tell me _Horatio_, Is parchment made of sheep-skinnes? _Hor._ I my Lorde, and of calues-skinnes too. _Ham._ Ifaith they prooue themselues sheepe and calues That deale with them, or put their trust in them. There's another, why may not that be such a ones Scull, that praised my Lord such a ones horse, When he meant to beg him? _Horatio_, I prethee Lets question yonder fellow. Now my friend, whose graue is this? _Clowne_ Mine sir. _Ham._ But who must lie in it? (sir. _Clowne_ If I should say, I should, I should lie in my throat _Ham._ What man must be buried here? _Clowne_ No man sir. _Ham._ What woman? _Clowne_. No woman neither sir, but indeede One that was a woman. _Ham._ An excellent fellow by the Lord _Horatio_, This seauen yeares haue I noted it: the toe of the pesant, Comes so neere the heele of the courtier, That hee gawles his kibe, I prethee tell mee one thing, How long will a man lie in the ground before hee rots? _Clowne_ I faith sir, if hee be not rotten before He be laide in, as we haue many pocky corses, He will last you, eight yeares, a tanner Will last you eight yeares full out, or nine. _Ham._ And why a tanner? [I1] _Clowne_ Why his hide is so tanned with his trade, That it will holde out water, that's a parlous Deuourer of your dead body, a great soaker. Looke you, heres a scull hath bin here this dozen yeare, Let me see, I euer since our last king _Hamlet_ Slew _Fortenbrasse_ in combat, yong _Hamlets_ father, Hee that's mad. _Ham._ I mary, how came he madde? _Clowne_ Ifaith very strangely, by loosing of his wittes. _Ham._ Vpon what ground? _Clowne_ A this ground, in _Denmarke_. _Ham._ Where is he now? _Clowne_ Why now they sent him to _England_. _Ham._ To _England_! wherefore? _Clowne_ Why they say he shall haue his wittes there, Or if he haue not, t'is no great matter there, It will not be seene there. _Ham._ Why not there? _Clowne_ Why there they say the men are as mad as he. _Ham._ Whose scull was this? _Clowne_ This, a plague on him, a madde rogues it was, He powred once a whole flagon of Rhenish of my head, Why do not you know him? this was one _Yorickes_ scull. _Ham._ Was this? I prethee let me see it, alas poore _Yoricke_ I knew him _Horatio_, A fellow of infinite mirth, he hath caried mee twenty times vpon his backe, here hung those lippes that I haue Kissed a hundred times, and to see, now they abhorre me: Wheres your iefts now _Yoricke_? your flashes of meriment: now go to my Ladies chamber, and bid her paint her selfe an inch thicke, to this she must come _Yoricke_. _Horatio_, I prethee tell me one thing, doost thou thinke that _Alexander_ looked thus? _Hor._ Euen so my Lord. _Ham._ And smelt thus? _Hor._ I my lord, no otherwise. [I1v] _Ham._ No, why might not imagination worke, as thus of _Alexander_, _Alexander_ died, _Alexander_ was buried, _Alexander_ became earth, of earth we make clay, and _Alexander_ being but clay, why might not time bring to passe, that he might stoppe the boung hole of a beere barrell? Imperious Cæsar dead and turnd to clay, Might stoppe a hole, to keepe the winde away. _Enter King and Queene, Leartes, and other lordes, with a Priest after the coffin._ _Ham._ What funerall's this that all the Court laments? It shews to be some noble parentage: Stand by a while. _Lear._ What ceremony else? say, what ceremony else? _Priest_ My Lord, we haue done all that lies in vs, And more than well the church can tolerate, She hath had a Dirge sung for her maiden soule: And but for fauour of the king, and you, She had beene buried in the open fieldes, Where now she is allowed christian buriall. _Lear._ So, I tell thee churlish Priest, a ministring Angell shall my sister be, when thou liest howling. _Ham._ The faire _Ofelia_ dead! _Queene_ Sweetes to the sweete, farewell: I had thought to adorne thy bridale bed, faire maide, And not to follow thee vnto thy graue. _Lear._ Forbeare the earth a while: sister farewell: L_eartes leapes into the graue._ Now powre your earth on, _Olympus_ hie, And make a hill to o're top olde _Pellon_: _Hamlet leapes_ Whats he that coniures so? _in after _L_eartes_ _Ham._ Beholde tis I, _Hamlet_ the Dane. _Lear._ The diuell take thy soule. _Ham._ O thou praiest not well, I prethee take thy hand from off my throate, For there is something in me dangerous, Which let thy wisedome feare, holde off thy hand: [I2] I lou'de _Ofelia_ as deere as twenty brothers could: Shew me what thou wilt doe for her: Wilt fight, wilt fast, wilt pray, Wilt drinke vp vessels, eate a crocadile? Ile doot: Com'st thou here to whine? And where thou talk'st of burying thee a liue, Here let vs stand: and let them throw on vs, Whole hills of earth, till with the heighth therof, Make Oosell as a Wart. _King_. Forbeare _Leartes_, now is hee mad, as is the sea, Anone as milde and gentle as a Doue: Therfore a while giue his wilde humour scope. _Ham._ What is the reason sir that you wrong mee thus? I neuer gaue you cause: but stand away, A Cat will meaw, a Dog will haue a day. _Exit Hamlet and Horatio._ _Queene_. Alas, it is his madnes makes him thus, And not his heart, _Leartes_. _King_. My lord, t'is so: but wee'le no longer trifle, This very day shall _Hamlet_ drinke his last, For presently we meane to send to him, Therfore _Leartes_ be in readynes. _Lear._ My lord, till then my soule will not bee quiet. _King_. Come _Gertred_, wee'l haue _Leartes_, and our sonne, Made friends and Louers, as befittes them both, Even as they tender vs, and loue their countrie. _Queene_ God grant they may. _exeunt omnes._ _Enter Hamlet and Horatio_ _Ham._ beleeue mee, it greeues mee much _Horatio_, That to _Leartes_ I forgot my selfe: For by my selfe me thinkes I feele his griefe, Though there's a difference in each others wrong. _Enter a Bragart Gentleman._ _Horatio_, but marke yon water-flie, The Court knowes him, but hee knowes not the Court. _Gent._ Now God saue thee, sweete prince _Hamlet_. [I2v] _Ham._ And you sir: soh, how the muske-cod smels! _Gen._ I come with an embassage from his maiesty to you _Ham._ I shall sir giue you attention: By my troth me thinkes t'is very colde. _Gent._ It is indeede very rawish colde. _Ham._ T'is hot me thinkes. _Gent._ Very swoltery hote: The King, sweete Prince, hath layd a wager on your side, Six Barbary horse, against six french rapiers, With all their acoutrements too, a the carriages: In good faith they are curiously wrought. _Ham._ The cariages sir, I do not know what you meane. _Gent._ The girdles, and hangers sir, and such like. _Ham._ The worde had beene more cosin german to the phrase, if he could haue carried the canon by his side, And howe's the wager? I vnderstand you now. _Gent._ Mary sir, that yong Leartes in twelue venies At Rapier and Dagger do not get three oddes of you, And on your side the King hath laide, And desires you to be in readinesse. _Ham._ Very well, if the King dare venture his wager, I dare venture my skull: when must this be? _Gent._ My Lord, presently, the king, and her maiesty, With the rest of the best iudgement in the Court, Are comming downe into the outward pallace. _Ham._ Goe tell his maiestie, I will attend him. _Gent._ I shall deliuer your most sweet answer. _exit._ _Ham._ You may sir, none better, for y'are spiced, Else he had a bad nose could not smell a foole. _Hor._ He will disclose himself without inquirie. _Ham._ Beleeue me _Horatio_, my hart is on the sodaine Very sore, all here about. _Hor._ My lord, forebeare the challenge then. _Ham._ No _Horatio_, not I, if danger be now, Why then it is not to come, theres a predestinate prouidence in the fall of a sparrow: heere comes the King. [I3] _Enter King, Queene, Leartes, Lordes._ _King_ Now sonne _Hamlet,_ we hane laid vpon your head, And make no question but to haue the best. _Ham._ Your maiestie hath laide a the weaker side. _King_ We doubt it not, deliuer them the foiles. _Ham._ First Leartes, heere's my hand and loue, Protesting that I neuer wrongd _Leartes_. If _Hamlet_ in his madnesse did amisse, That was not _Hamlet_, but his madnes did it, And all the wrong I e're did to _Leartes_, I here proclaime was madnes, therefore lets be at peace, And thinke I haue shot mine arrow o're the house, And hurt my brother. _Lear._ Sir I am satisfied in nature, But in termes of honor I'le stand aloofe, And will no reconcilement, Till by some elder maisters of our time I may be satisfied. _King_ Giue them the foyles. _Ham._ I'le be your foyle _Leartes_, these foyles, Haue all a laught, come on sir: _a hit._ _Lear._ No none. _Heere they play:_ _Ham._ Iudgement. _Gent._ A hit, a most palpable hit. _Lear._ Well, come againe. _They play againe._ _Ham._ Another. Iudgement. _Lear._ I, I grant, a tuch, a tuch. _King_ Here _Hamlet_, the king doth drinke a health to thee _Queene_ Here _Hamlet_, take my napkin, wipe thy face. _King_ Giue him the wine. _Ham._ Set it by, I'le haue another bowt first, I'le drinke anone. _Queene_ Here _Hamlet_, thy mother drinkes to thee. _Shee drinkes._ _King_ Do not drinke _Gertred_: O t'is the poysned cup! _Ham_. _Leartes_ come, you dally with me, [I3v] I pray you passe with your most cunningst play. _Lear_. I! say you so? haue at you, Ile hit you now my Lord: And yet it goes almost against my conscience. _Ham._ Come on sir. _They catch one anothers Rapiers, and both are wounded, Leartes falles downe, the Queene falles downe and dies._ _King_ Looke to the Queene. _Queene_ O the drinke, the drinke, H_amlet_, the drinke. _Ham_. Treason, ho, keepe the gates. _Lords_ How ist my Lord _Leartes_? _Lear._ Euen as a coxcombe should, Foolishly slaine with my owne weapon: _Hamlet_, thou hast not in thee halfe an houre of life, The fatall Instrument is in thy hand. Vnbated and invenomed: thy mother's poysned That drinke was made for thee. _Ham._ The poysned Instrument within my hand? Then venome to thy venome, die damn'd villaine: Come drinke, here lies thy vnion here. _The king dies._ _Lear._ O he is iustly serued: _Hamlet_, before I die, here take my hand, And withall, my loue: I doe forgiue thee. _Leartes dies._ _Ham._ And I thee, O I am dead _Horatio_, fare thee well. _Hor._ No, I am more an antike Roman, Then a Dane, here is some poison left. _Ham._ Vpon my loue I charge thee let it goe, O fie _Horatio_, and if thou shouldst die, What a scandale wouldst thou leaue behinde? What tongue should tell the story of our deaths, If not from thee? O my heart sinckes _Horatio_, Mine eyes haue lost their sight, my tongue his vse: Farewel _Horatio_, heauen receiue my soule. _Ham. dies._ _Enter Voltemar and the Ambassadors from England. [I4] enter Fortenbrasse with his traine._ _Fort._ Where is this bloudy fight? _Hor._ If aught of woe or wonder you'ld behold, Then looke vpon this tragicke spectacle. _Fort._ O imperious death! how many Princes Hast thou at one draft bloudily shot to death? (_land_, _Ambass._ Our ambassie that we haue brought from _Eng-_ Where be these Princes that should heare vs speake? O most most vnlooked for time! vnhappy country. _Hor._ Content your selues, Ile shew to all, the ground, The first beginning of this Tragedy: Let there a scaffold be rearde vp in the market place, And let the State of the world be there: Where you shall heare such a sad story tolde, That neuer mortall man could more vnfolde. _Fort._ I haue some rights of memory to this kingdome, Which now to claime my leisure doth inuite mee: Let foure of our chiefest Captaines Beare _Hamlet_ like a souldier to his graue: For he was likely, had he liued, To a prou'd most royall. Take vp the bodie, such a fight as this Becomes the fieldes, but here doth much amisse. _Finis_ 
7158	----	THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain Part 5. Chapter XV. Tom as King. The next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous trains; and Tom, throned in awful state, received them. The splendours of the scene delighted his eye and fired his imagination at first, but the audience was long and dreary, and so were most of the addresses --wherefore, what began as a pleasure grew into weariness and home-sickness by-and-by. Tom said the words which Hertford put into his mouth from time to time, and tried hard to acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was too new to such things, and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a tolerable success. He looked sufficiently like a king, but he was ill able to feel like one. He was cordially glad when the ceremony was ended. The larger part of his day was 'wasted'--as he termed it, in his own mind--in labours pertaining to his royal office. Even the two hours devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions and ceremonious observances. However, he had a private hour with his whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both entertainment and needful information out of it. The third day of Tom Canty's kingship came and went much as the others had done, but there was a lifting of his cloud in one way--he felt less uncomfortable than at first; he was getting a little used to his circumstances and surroundings; his chains still galled, but not all the time; he found that the presence and homage of the great afflicted and embarrassed him less and less sharply with every hour that drifted over his head. But for one single dread, he could have seen the fourth day approach without serious distress--the dining in public; it was to begin that day. There were greater matters in the programme--for on that day he would have to preside at a council which would take his views and commands concerning the policy to be pursued toward various foreign nations scattered far and near over the great globe; on that day, too, Hertford would be formally chosen to the grand office of Lord Protector; other things of note were appointed for that fourth day, also; but to Tom they were all insignificant compared with the ordeal of dining all by himself with a multitude of curious eyes fastened upon him and a multitude of mouths whispering comments upon his performance,--and upon his mistakes, if he should be so unlucky as to make any. Still, nothing could stop that fourth day, and so it came. It found poor Tom low-spirited and absent-minded, and this mood continued; he could not shake it off. The ordinary duties of the morning dragged upon his hands, and wearied him. Once more he felt the sense of captivity heavy upon him. Late in the forenoon he was in a large audience-chamber, conversing with the Earl of Hertford and dully awaiting the striking of the hour appointed for a visit of ceremony from a considerable number of great officials and courtiers. After a little while, Tom, who had wandered to a window and become interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond the palace gates--and not idly interested, but longing with all his heart to take part in person in its stir and freedom--saw the van of a hooting and shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and children of the lowest and poorest degree approaching from up the road. "I would I knew what 'tis about!" he exclaimed, with all a boy's curiosity in such happenings. "Thou art the King!" solemnly responded the Earl, with a reverence. "Have I your Grace's leave to act?" "O blithely, yes! O gladly, yes!" exclaimed Tom excitedly, adding to himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, "In truth, being a king is not all dreariness--it hath its compensations and conveniences." The Earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard with the order-- "Let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning the occasion of its movement. By the King's command!" A few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in flashing steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the highway in front of the multitude. A messenger returned, to report that the crowd were following a man, a woman, and a young girl to execution for crimes committed against the peace and dignity of the realm. Death--and a violent death--for these poor unfortunates! The thought wrung Tom's heart-strings. The spirit of compassion took control of him, to the exclusion of all other considerations; he never thought of the offended laws, or of the grief or loss which these three criminals had inflicted upon their victims; he could think of nothing but the scaffold and the grisly fate hanging over the heads of the condemned. His concern made him even forget, for the moment, that he was but the false shadow of a king, not the substance; and before he knew it he had blurted out the command-- "Bring them here!" Then he blushed scarlet, and a sort of apology sprung to his lips; but observing that his order had wrought no sort of surprise in the Earl or the waiting page, he suppressed the words he was about to utter. The page, in the most matter-of-course way, made a profound obeisance and retired backwards out of the room to deliver the command. Tom experienced a glow of pride and a renewed sense of the compensating advantages of the kingly office. He said to himself, "Truly it is like what I was used to feel when I read the old priest's tales, and did imagine mine own self a prince, giving law and command to all, saying 'Do this, do that,' whilst none durst offer let or hindrance to my will." Now the doors swung open; one high-sounding title after another was announced, the personages owning them followed, and the place was quickly half-filled with noble folk and finery. But Tom was hardly conscious of the presence of these people, so wrought up was he and so intensely absorbed in that other and more interesting matter. He seated himself absently in his chair of state, and turned his eyes upon the door with manifestations of impatient expectancy; seeing which, the company forbore to trouble him, and fell to chatting a mixture of public business and court gossip one with another. In a little while the measured tread of military men was heard approaching, and the culprits entered the presence in charge of an under-sheriff and escorted by a detail of the king's guard. The civil officer knelt before Tom, then stood aside; the three doomed persons knelt, also, and remained so; the guard took position behind Tom's chair. Tom scanned the prisoners curiously. Something about the dress or appearance of the man had stirred a vague memory in him. "Methinks I have seen this man ere now . . . but the when or the where fail me"--such was Tom's thought. Just then the man glanced quickly up and quickly dropped his face again, not being able to endure the awful port of sovereignty; but the one full glimpse of the face which Tom got was sufficient. He said to himself: "Now is the matter clear; this is the stranger that plucked Giles Witt out of the Thames, and saved his life, that windy, bitter, first day of the New Year--a brave good deed--pity he hath been doing baser ones and got himself in this sad case . . . I have not forgot the day, neither the hour; by reason that an hour after, upon the stroke of eleven, I did get a hiding by the hand of Gammer Canty which was of so goodly and admired severity that all that went before or followed after it were but fondlings and caresses by comparison." Tom now ordered that the woman and the girl be removed from the presence for a little time; then addressed himself to the under-sheriff, saying-- "Good sir, what is this man's offence?" The officer knelt, and answered-- "So please your Majesty, he hath taken the life of a subject by poison." Tom's compassion for the prisoner, and admiration of him as the daring rescuer of a drowning boy, experienced a most damaging shock. "The thing was proven upon him?" he asked. "Most clearly, sire." Tom sighed, and said-- "Take him away--he hath earned his death. 'Tis a pity, for he was a brave heart--na--na, I mean he hath the LOOK of it!" The prisoner clasped his hands together with sudden energy, and wrung them despairingly, at the same time appealing imploringly to the 'King' in broken and terrified phrases-- "O my lord the King, an' thou canst pity the lost, have pity upon me! I am innocent--neither hath that wherewith I am charged been more than but lamely proved--yet I speak not of that; the judgment is gone forth against me and may not suffer alteration; yet in mine extremity I beg a boon, for my doom is more than I can bear. A grace, a grace, my lord the King! in thy royal compassion grant my prayer--give commandment that I be hanged!" Tom was amazed. This was not the outcome he had looked for. "Odds my life, a strange BOON! Was it not the fate intended thee?" "O good my liege, not so! It is ordered that I be BOILED ALIVE!" The hideous surprise of these words almost made Tom spring from his chair. As soon as he could recover his wits he cried out-- "Have thy wish, poor soul! an' thou had poisoned a hundred men thou shouldst not suffer so miserable a death." The prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into passionate expressions of gratitude--ending with-- "If ever thou shouldst know misfortune--which God forefend!--may thy goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!" Tom turned to the Earl of Hertford, and said-- "My lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's ferocious doom?" "It is the law, your Grace--for poisoners. In Germany coiners be boiled to death in OIL--not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let down into the oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the legs, then--" "O prithee no more, my lord, I cannot bear it!" cried Tom, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the picture. "I beseech your good lordship that order be taken to change this law--oh, let no more poor creatures be visited with its tortures." The Earl's face showed profound gratification, for he was a man of merciful and generous impulses--a thing not very common with his class in that fierce age. He said-- "These your Grace's noble words have sealed its doom. History will remember it to the honour of your royal house." The under-sheriff was about to remove his prisoner; Tom gave him a sign to wait; then he said-- "Good sir, I would look into this matter further. The man has said his deed was but lamely proved. Tell me what thou knowest." "If the King's grace please, it did appear upon the trial that this man entered into a house in the hamlet of Islington where one lay sick--three witnesses say it was at ten of the clock in the morning, and two say it was some minutes later--the sick man being alone at the time, and sleeping--and presently the man came forth again and went his way. The sick man died within the hour, being torn with spasms and retchings." "Did any see the poison given? Was poison found?" "Marry, no, my liege." "Then how doth one know there was poison given at all?" "Please your Majesty, the doctors testified that none die with such symptoms but by poison." Weighty evidence, this, in that simple age. Tom recognised its formidable nature, and said-- "The doctor knoweth his trade--belike they were right. The matter hath an ill-look for this poor man." "Yet was not this all, your Majesty; there is more and worse. Many testified that a witch, since gone from the village, none know whither, did foretell, and speak it privately in their ears, that the sick man WOULD DIE BY POISON--and more, that a stranger would give it--a stranger with brown hair and clothed in a worn and common garb; and surely this prisoner doth answer woundily to the bill. Please your Majesty to give the circumstance that solemn weight which is its due, seeing it was FORETOLD." This was an argument of tremendous force in that superstitious day. Tom felt that the thing was settled; if evidence was worth anything, this poor fellow's guilt was proved. Still he offered the prisoner a chance, saying-- "If thou canst say aught in thy behalf, speak." "Nought that will avail, my King. I am innocent, yet cannot I make it appear. I have no friends, else might I show that I was not in Islington that day; so also might I show that at that hour they name I was above a league away, seeing I was at Wapping Old Stairs; yea more, my King, for I could show, that whilst they say I was TAKING life, I was SAVING it. A drowning boy--" "Peace! Sheriff, name the day the deed was done!" "At ten in the morning, or some minutes later, the first day of the New Year, most illustrious--" "Let the prisoner go free--it is the King's will!" Another blush followed this unregal outburst, and he covered his indecorum as well as he could by adding-- "It enrageth me that a man should be hanged upon such idle, hare-brained evidence!" A low buzz of admiration swept through the assemblage. It was not admiration of the decree that had been delivered by Tom, for the propriety or expediency of pardoning a convicted poisoner was a thing which few there would have felt justified in either admitting or admiring--no, the admiration was for the intelligence and spirit which Tom had displayed. Some of the low-voiced remarks were to this effect-- "This is no mad king--he hath his wits sound." "How sanely he put his questions--how like his former natural self was this abrupt imperious disposal of the matter!" "God be thanked, his infirmity is spent! This is no weakling, but a king. He hath borne himself like to his own father." The air being filled with applause, Tom's ear necessarily caught a little of it. The effect which this had upon him was to put him greatly at his ease, and also to charge his system with very gratifying sensations. However, his juvenile curiosity soon rose superior to these pleasant thoughts and feelings; he was eager to know what sort of deadly mischief the woman and the little girl could have been about; so, by his command, the two terrified and sobbing creatures were brought before him. "What is it that these have done?" he inquired of the sheriff. "Please your Majesty, a black crime is charged upon them, and clearly proven; wherefore the judges have decreed, according to the law, that they be hanged. They sold themselves to the devil--such is their crime." Tom shuddered. He had been taught to abhor people who did this wicked thing. Still, he was not going to deny himself the pleasure of feeding his curiosity for all that; so he asked-- "Where was this done?--and when?" "On a midnight in December, in a ruined church, your Majesty." Tom shuddered again. "Who was there present?" "Only these two, your grace--and THAT OTHER." "Have these confessed?" "Nay, not so, sire--they do deny it." "Then prithee, how was it known?" "Certain witness did see them wending thither, good your Majesty; this bred the suspicion, and dire effects have since confirmed and justified it. In particular, it is in evidence that through the wicked power so obtained, they did invoke and bring about a storm that wasted all the region round about. Above forty witnesses have proved the storm; and sooth one might have had a thousand, for all had reason to remember it, sith all had suffered by it." "Certes this is a serious matter." Tom turned this dark piece of scoundrelism over in his mind a while, then asked-- "Suffered the woman also by the storm?" Several old heads among the assemblage nodded their recognition of the wisdom of this question. The sheriff, however, saw nothing consequential in the inquiry; he answered, with simple directness-- "Indeed did she, your Majesty, and most righteously, as all aver. Her habitation was swept away, and herself and child left shelterless." "Methinks the power to do herself so ill a turn was dearly bought. She had been cheated, had she paid but a farthing for it; that she paid her soul, and her child's, argueth that she is mad; if she is mad she knoweth not what she doth, therefore sinneth not." The elderly heads nodded recognition of Tom's wisdom once more, and one individual murmured, "An' the King be mad himself, according to report, then is it a madness of a sort that would improve the sanity of some I wot of, if by the gentle providence of God they could but catch it." "What age hath the child?" asked Tom. "Nine years, please your Majesty." "By the law of England may a child enter into covenant and sell itself, my lord?" asked Tom, turning to a learned judge. "The law doth not permit a child to make or meddle in any weighty matter, good my liege, holding that its callow wit unfitteth it to cope with the riper wit and evil schemings of them that are its elders. The DEVIL may buy a child, if he so choose, and the child agree thereto, but not an Englishman--in this latter case the contract would be null and void." "It seemeth a rude unchristian thing, and ill contrived, that English law denieth privileges to Englishmen to waste them on the devil!" cried Tom, with honest heat. This novel view of the matter excited many smiles, and was stored away in many heads to be repeated about the Court as evidence of Tom's originality as well as progress toward mental health. The elder culprit had ceased from sobbing, and was hanging upon Tom's words with an excited interest and a growing hope. Tom noticed this, and it strongly inclined his sympathies toward her in her perilous and unfriended situation. Presently he asked-- "How wrought they to bring the storm?" "BY PULLING OFF THEIR STOCKINGS, sire." This astonished Tom, and also fired his curiosity to fever heat. He said, eagerly-- "It is wonderful! Hath it always this dread effect?" "Always, my liege--at least if the woman desire it, and utter the needful words, either in her mind or with her tongue." Tom turned to the woman, and said with impetuous zeal-- "Exert thy power--I would see a storm!" There was a sudden paling of cheeks in the superstitious assemblage, and a general, though unexpressed, desire to get out of the place--all of which was lost upon Tom, who was dead to everything but the proposed cataclysm. Seeing a puzzled and astonished look in the woman's face, he added, excitedly-- "Never fear--thou shalt be blameless. More--thou shalt go free--none shall touch thee. Exert thy power." "Oh, my lord the King, I have it not--I have been falsely accused." "Thy fears stay thee. Be of good heart, thou shalt suffer no harm. Make a storm--it mattereth not how small a one--I require nought great or harmful, but indeed prefer the opposite--do this and thy life is spared --thou shalt go out free, with thy child, bearing the King's pardon, and safe from hurt or malice from any in the realm." The woman prostrated herself, and protested, with tears, that she had no power to do the miracle, else she would gladly win her child's life alone, and be content to lose her own, if by obedience to the King's command so precious a grace might be acquired. Tom urged--the woman still adhered to her declarations. Finally he said-- "I think the woman hath said true. An' MY mother were in her place and gifted with the devil's functions, she had not stayed a moment to call her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the saving of my forfeit life were the price she got! It is argument that other mothers are made in like mould. Thou art free, goodwife--thou and thy child--for I do think thee innocent. NOW thou'st nought to fear, being pardoned--pull off thy stockings!--an' thou canst make me a storm, thou shalt be rich!" The redeemed creature was loud in her gratitude, and proceeded to obey, whilst Tom looked on with eager expectancy, a little marred by apprehension; the courtiers at the same time manifesting decided discomfort and uneasiness. The woman stripped her own feet and her little girl's also, and plainly did her best to reward the King's generosity with an earthquake, but it was all a failure and a disappointment. Tom sighed, and said-- "There, good soul, trouble thyself no further, thy power is departed out of thee. Go thy way in peace; and if it return to thee at any time, forget me not, but fetch me a storm." {13} Chapter XVI. The State Dinner. The dinner hour drew near--yet strangely enough, the thought brought but slight discomfort to Tom, and hardly any terror. The morning's experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the poor little ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret, after four days' habit, than a mature person could have become in a full month. A child's facility in accommodating itself to circumstances was never more strikingly illustrated. Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have a glance at matters there whilst Tom is being made ready for the imposing occasion. It is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and pilasters, and pictured walls and ceilings. At the door stand tall guards, as rigid as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes, and bearing halberds. In a high gallery which runs all around the place is a band of musicians and a packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant attire. In the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is Tom's table. Now let the ancient chronicler speak: "A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him another bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled three times with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and after kneeling again they both retire; then come two others, one with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they have kneeled as the others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table, they too retire with the same ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two nobles, richly clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after prostrating themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach and rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the King had been present." {6} So end the solemn preliminaries. Now, far down the echoing corridors we hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, "Place for the King! Way for the King's most excellent majesty!" These sounds are momently repeated --they grow nearer and nearer--and presently, almost in our faces, the martial note peals and the cry rings out, "Way for the King!" At this instant the shining pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a measured march. Let the chronicler speak again:-- "First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all richly dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between two, one of which carries the royal sceptre, the other the Sword of State in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point upwards; next comes the King himself--whom, upon his appearing, twelve trumpets and many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst all in the galleries rise in their places, crying 'God save the King!' After him come nobles attached to his person, and on his right and left march his guard of honour, his fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, with gilt battle-axes." This was all fine and pleasant. Tom's pulse beat high, and a glad light was in his eye. He bore himself right gracefully, and all the more so because he was not thinking of how he was doing it, his mind being charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and sounds about him--and besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in nicely-fitting beautiful clothes after he has grown a little used to them--especially if he is for the moment unconscious of them. Tom remembered his instructions, and acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of his plumed head, and a courteous "I thank ye, my good people." He seated himself at table, without removing his cap; and did it without the least embarrassment; for to eat with one's cap on was the one solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the Cantys met upon common ground, neither party having any advantage over the other in the matter of old familiarity with it. The pageant broke up and grouped itself picturesquely, and remained bareheaded. Now to the sound of gay music the Yeomen of the Guard entered,--"the tallest and mightiest men in England, they being carefully selected in this regard"--but we will let the chronicler tell about it:-- "The Yeomen of the Guard entered, bareheaded, clothed in scarlet, with golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came, bringing in each turn a course of dishes, served in plate. These dishes were received by a gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed upon the table, while the taster gave to each guard a mouthful to eat of the particular dish he had brought, for fear of any poison." Tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that hundreds of eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him eat it with an interest which could not have been more intense if it had been a deadly explosive and was expected to blow him up and scatter him all about the place. He was careful not to hurry, and equally careful not to do anything whatever for himself, but wait till the proper official knelt down and did it for him. He got through without a mistake--flawless and precious triumph. When the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of his bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring bugles, rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that if he had seen the worst of dining in public it was an ordeal which he would be glad to endure several times a day if by that means he could but buy himself free from some of the more formidable requirements of his royal office. Chapter XVII. Foo-foo the First. Miles Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge, keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and expecting to overtake them presently. He was disappointed in this, however. By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as to how to proceed. Still, he continued his efforts as best he could during the rest of the day. Nightfall found him leg-weary, half-famished, and his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he supped at the Tabard Inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early start in the morning, and give the town an exhaustive search. As he lay thinking and planning, he presently began to reason thus: The boy would escape from the ruffian, his reputed father, if possible; would he go back to London and seek his former haunts? No, he would not do that, he would avoid recapture. What, then, would he do? Never having had a friend in the world, or a protector, until he met Miles Hendon, he would naturally try to find that friend again, provided the effort did not require him to go toward London and danger. He would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do, for he knew Hendon was homeward bound and there he might expect to find him. Yes, the case was plain to Hendon--he must lose no more time in Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk's Holm, searching the wood and inquiring as he went. Let us return to the vanished little King now. The ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about to join' the youth and the King did not exactly join them, but fell in close behind them and followed their steps. He said nothing. His left arm was in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left eye; he limped slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. The youth led the King a crooked course through Southwark, and by-and-by struck into the high road beyond. The King was irritated, now, and said he would stop here--it was Hendon's place to come to him, not his to go to Hendon. He would not endure such insolence; he would stop where he was. The youth said-- "Thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood yonder? So be it, then." The King's manner changed at once. He cried out-- "Wounded? And who hath dared to do it? But that is apart; lead on, lead on! Faster, sirrah! Art shod with lead? Wounded, is he? Now though the doer of it be a duke's son he shall rue it!" It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily traversed. The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking in the ground, with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way into the forest, watching for similar boughs and finding them at intervals; they were evidently guides to the point he was aiming at. By-and-by an open place was reached, where were the charred remains of a farm-house, and near them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay. There was no sign of life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. The youth entered the barn, the King following eagerly upon his heels. No one there! The King shot a surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and asked-- "Where is he?" A mocking laugh was his answer. The King was in a rage in a moment; he seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon the youth when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. It was from the lame ruffian who had been following at a distance. The King turned and said angrily-- "Who art thou? What is thy business here?" "Leave thy foolery," said the man, "and quiet thyself. My disguise is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through it." "Thou art not my father. I know thee not. I am the King. If thou hast hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for what thou hast done." John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice-- "It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee; but if thou provoke me, I must. Thy prating doth no harm here, where there are no ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to practise thy tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our quarters change. I have done a murder, and may not tarry at home--neither shalt thou, seeing I need thy service. My name is changed, for wise reasons; it is Hobbs --John Hobbs; thine is Jack--charge thy memory accordingly. Now, then, speak. Where is thy mother? Where are thy sisters? They came not to the place appointed--knowest thou whither they went?" The King answered sullenly-- "Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my sisters are in the palace." The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would have assaulted him, but Canty--or Hobbs, as he now called himself--prevented him, and said-- "Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret him. Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a morsel to eat, anon." Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the King removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable company. He withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn, where he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. He lay down here, drew straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon absorbed in thinking. He had many griefs, but the minor ones were swept almost into forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his father. To the rest of the world the name of Henry VIII. brought a shiver, and suggested an ogre whose nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand dealt scourgings and death; but to this boy the name brought only sensations of pleasure; the figure it invoked wore a countenance that was all gentleness and affection. He called to mind a long succession of loving passages between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and real was the grief that possessed his heart. As the afternoon wasted away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sank gradually into a tranquil and healing slumber. After a considerable time--he could not tell how long--his senses struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he noted a murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A snug sense of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken, the next moment, by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse laughter. It startled him disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head to see whence this interruption proceeded. A grim and unsightly picture met his eye. A bright fire was burning in the middle of the floor, at the other end of the barn; and around it, and lit weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the motliest company of tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or dreamed of. There were huge stalwart men, brown with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there were middle-sized youths, of truculent countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind mendicants, with patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden legs and crutches; diseased ones, with running sores peeping from ineffectual wrappings; there was a villain-looking pedlar with his pack; a knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements of their trades; some of the females were hardly-grown girls, some were at prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud, brazen, foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were three sore-faced babies; there were a couple of starveling curs, with strings about their necks, whose office was to lead the blind. The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy was beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A general cry broke forth-- "A song! a song from the Bat and Dick and Dot-and-go-One!" One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the patches that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard which recited the cause of his calamity. Dot-and-go-One disencumbered himself of his timber leg and took his place, upon sound and healthy limbs, beside his fellow-rascal; then they roared out a rollicking ditty, and were reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of each stanza, in a rousing chorus. By the time the last stanza was reached, the half-drunken enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch, that everybody joined in and sang it clear through from the beginning, producing a volume of villainous sound that made the rafters quake. These were the inspiring words:-- 'Bien Darkman's then, Bouse Mort and Ken, The bien Coves bings awast, On Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine For his long lib at last. Bing'd out bien Morts and toure, and toure, Bing out of the Rome vile bine, And toure the Cove that cloy'd your duds, Upon the Chates to trine.' (From 'The English Rogue.' London, 1665.) Conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song, for that was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be listening. In the course of it, it appeared that 'John Hobbs' was not altogether a new recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former time. His later history was called for, and when he said he had 'accidentally' killed a man, considerable satisfaction was expressed; when he added that the man was a priest, he was roundly applauded, and had to take a drink with everybody. Old acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were proud to shake him by the hand. He was asked why he had 'tarried away so many months.' He answered-- "London is better than the country, and safer, these late years, the laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced. An' I had not had that accident, I had stayed there. I had resolved to stay, and never more venture country-wards--but the accident has ended that." He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The 'ruffler,' or chief, answered-- "Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. {7} Most are here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow at dawn." "I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me. Where may he be?" "Poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate taste. He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer." "I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave." "That was he, truly. Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but absent on the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly conduct, none ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven." "She was ever strict--I remember it well--a goodly wench and worthy all commendation. Her mother was more free and less particular; a troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit above the common." "We lost her through it. Her gift of palmistry and other sorts of fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame. The law roasted her to death at a slow fire. It did touch me to a sort of tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot--cursing and reviling all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about her old gray head--cursing them! why an' thou should'st live a thousand years thoud'st never hear so masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with her. There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy." The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and under peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to this, for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir. However, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners. "Have any others of our friends fared hardly?" asked Hobbs. "Some--yes. Particularly new comers--such as small husbandmen turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from them to be changed to sheep ranges. They begged, and were whipped at the cart's tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they begged a third time--poor devils, what else could they do?--and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. 'Tis a brief tale, and quickly told. Others of us have fared less hardly. Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge--show your adornments!" These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder--the letter V--and a mutilated ear; the third said-- "I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and kids--now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in--in the other place--but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in ENGLAND! My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed. English law!--up, all, with your cups!--now all together and with a cheer!--drink to the merciful English law that delivered HER from the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and all. I begged, from house to house--I and the wife--bearing with us the hungry kids--but it was crime to be hungry in England--so they stripped us and lashed us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful English law!--for its lash drank deep of my Mary's blood and its blessed deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter's field, safe from all harms. And the kids--well, whilst the law lashed me from town to town, they starved. Drink, lads--only a drop--a drop to the poor kids, that never did any creature harm. I begged again--begged, for a crust, and got the stocks and lost an ear--see, here bides the stump; I begged again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it. And still I begged again, and was sold for a slave--here on my cheek under this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red S the branding-iron left there! A SLAVE! Do you understand that word? An English SLAVE! --that is he that stands before ye. I have run from my master, and when I am found--the heavy curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath commanded it!--I shall hang!" {1} A ringing voice came through the murky air-- "Thou shalt NOT!--and this day the end of that law is come!" All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out-- "Who is it? WHAT is it? Who art thou, manikin?" The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity-- "I am Edward, King of England." A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of delight in the excellence of the joke. The King was stung. He said sharply-- "Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon I have promised?" He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. 'John Hobbs' made several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last succeeded--saying-- "Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad--mind him not--he thinketh he IS the King." "I AM the King," said Edward, turning toward him, "as thou shalt know to thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder--thou shalt swing for it." "THOU'LT betray me?--THOU? An' I get my hands upon thee--" "Tut-tut!" said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the King, and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with his fist, "hast respect for neither Kings NOR Rufflers? An' thou insult my presence so again, I'll hang thee up myself." Then he said to his Majesty, "Thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. BE King, if it please thy mad humour, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title thou hast uttered--'tis treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so base as to be traitor to his King; we be loving and loyal hearts, in that regard. Note if I speak truth. Now--all together: 'Long live Edward, King of England!'" "LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!" The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little King's face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and said with grave simplicity-- "I thank you, my good people." This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature-- "Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humour thy fancy, if thou must, but choose some other title." A tinker shrieked out a suggestion-- "Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!" The title 'took,' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout went up, of-- "Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!" followed by hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter. "Hale him forth, and crown him!" "Robe him!" "Sceptre him!" "Throne him!" These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with the tinker's soldering-iron. Then all flung themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons-- "Be gracious to us, O sweet King!" "Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble Majesty!" "Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!" "Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of sovereignty!" "Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the dirt and be ennobled!" "Deign to spit upon us, O Sire, that our children's children may tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for ever!" But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and carried off the honours. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the King's foot, and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings a sight. He made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy rabble. Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes; and the thought in his heart was, "Had I offered them a deep wrong they could not be more cruel--yet have I proffered nought but to do them a kindness --and it is thus they use me for it!" 
1787	----	This etext is a typo-corrected version of Shakespeare's Hamlet, Project Gutenberg file 1ws2610.txt. ******************************************************************* THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK (#100) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/100 ******************************************************************* 
26593	----	[Illustration: "Your address!" bawled the Duke.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS By HAROLD MACGRATH Author of THE MAN ON THE BOX, THE GOOSE GIRL, THE CARPET FROM BAGDAD, ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR I. KELLER INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright 1912 The Bobbs-Merrill Company PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ To B. O'G. Horace calls no more to me, Homer in the dust-heap lies: I have found my Odyssey In the lightness of her glee, In the laughter of her eyes. Ovid's page is thumbed no more, E'en Catullus has no choice! There is endless, precious lore, Such as I ne'er knew before, In the music of her voice. Breath of hyssop steeped in wine, Breath of violets and furze, Wild-wood roses, Grecian myrrhs, All these perfumes do combine In that maiden breath of hers. Nay, I look not at the skies, Nor the sun that hillward slips, For the day lives or it dies In the laughter of her eyes, In the music of her lips! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. At the Stage Door 1 II. There Is a Woman? 19 III. The Beautiful Tigress 36 IV. The Joke of Monsieur 53 V. Captive or Runaway 74 VI. The Bird Behind Bars 103 VII. Battling Jimmie 126 VIII. Moonlight and a Prince 146 IX. Colonel Caxley-Webster 166 X. Marguerites and Emeralds 185 XI. At the Crater's Edge 202 XII. Dick Courtlandt's Boy 214 XIII. Everything But the Truth 232 XIV. A Comedy with Music 249 XV. Herr Rosen's Regrets 265 XVI. The Apple of Discord 282 XVII. The Ball at the Villa 303 XVIII. Pistols for Two 326 XIX. Courtlandt Tells a Story 345 XX. Journey's End 363 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER I AT THE STAGE DOOR Courtlandt sat perfectly straight; his ample shoulders did not touch the back of his chair; and his arms were folded tightly across his chest. The characteristic of his attitude was tenseness. The nostrils were well defined, as in one who sets the upper jaw hard upon the nether. His brown eyes--their gaze directed toward the stage whence came the voice of the prima donna--epitomized the tension, expressed the whole as in a word. Just now the voice was pathetically subdued, yet reached every part of the auditorium, kindling the ear with its singularly mellowing sweetness. To Courtlandt it resembled, as no other sound, the note of a muffled Burmese gong, struck in the dim incensed cavern of a temple. A Burmese gong: briefly and magically the stage, the audience, the amazing gleam and scintillation of the Opera, faded. He heard only the voice and saw only the purple shadows in the temple at Rangoon, the oriental sunset splashing the golden dome, the wavering lights of the dripping candles, the dead flowers, the kneeling devoteés, the yellow-robed priests, the tatters of gold-leaf, fresh and old, upon the rows of placid grinning Buddhas. The vision was of short duration. The sigh, which had been so long repressed, escaped; his shoulders sank a little, and the angle of his chin became less resolute; but only for a moment. Tension gave place to an ironical grimness. The brows relaxed, but the lips became firmer. He listened, with this new expression unchanging, to the high note that soared above all others. The French horns blared and the timpani crashed. The curtain sank slowly. The audience rustled, stood up, sought its wraps, and pressed toward the exits and the grand staircase. It was all over. Courtlandt took his leave in leisure. Here and there he saw familiar faces, but these, after the finding glance, he studiously avoided. He wanted to be alone. For while the music was still echoing in his ears, in a subtone, his brain was afire with keen activity; but unfortunately for the going forward of things, this mental state was divided into so many battalions, led by so many generals, indirectly and indecisively, nowhere. This plan had no beginning, that one had no ending, and the other neither beginning nor ending. Outside he lighted a cigar, not because at that moment he possessed a craving for nicotine, but because like all inveterate smokers he believed that tobacco conduced to clarity of thought. And mayhap it did. At least, there presently followed a mental calm that expelled all this confusion. The goal waxed and waned as he gazed down the great avenue with its precise rows of lamps. Far away he could discern the outline of the brooding Louvre. There was not the least hope in the world for him to proceed toward his goal this night. He realized this clearly, now that he was face to face with actualities. It required more than the chaotic impulses that had brought him back from the jungles of the Orient. He must reason out a plan that should be like a straight line, the shortest distance between two given points. How then should he pass the night, since none of his schemes could possibly be put into operation? Return to his hotel and smoke himself headachy? Try to become interested in a novel? Go to bed, to turn and roll till dawn? A wild desire seized him to make a night of it,--Maxim's, the cabarets; riot and wine. Who cared? But the desire burnt itself out between two puffs of his cigar. Ten years ago, perhaps, this particular brand of amusement might have urged him successfully. But not now; he was done with tomfool nights. Indeed, his dissipations had been whimsical rather than banal; and retrospection never aroused a furtive sense of shame. He was young, but not so young as an idle glance might conjecture in passing. To such casual reckoning he appeared to be in the early twenties; but scrutiny, more or less infallible, noting a line here or an angle there, was disposed to add ten years to the score. There was in the nose and chin a certain decisiveness which in true youth is rarely developed. This characteristic arrives only with manhood, manhood that has been tried and perhaps buffeted and perchance a little disillusioned. To state that one is young does not necessarily imply youth; for youth is something that is truly green and tender, not rounded out, aimless, light-hearted and desultory, charming and inconsequent. If man regrets his youth it is not for the passing of these pleasing, though tangled attributes, but rather because there exists between the two periods of progression a series of irremediable mistakes. And the subject of this brief commentary could look back on many a grievous one brought about by pride or carelessness rather than by intent. But what was one to do who had both money and leisure linked to an irresistible desire to leave behind one place or thing in pursuit of another, indeterminately? At one time he wanted to be an artist, but his evenly balanced self-criticism had forced him to fling his daubs into the ash-heap. They were good daubs in a way, but were laid on without fire; such work as any respectable schoolmarm might have equaled if not surpassed. Then he had gone in for engineering; but precise and intricate mathematics required patience of a quality not at his command. The inherent ambition was to make money; but recognizing the absurdity of adding to his income, which even in his extravagance he could not spend, he gave himself over into the hands of grasping railroad and steamship companies, or their agencies, and became for a time the slave of guide and dragoman and carrier. And then the wanderlust, descended to him from the blood of his roving Dutch ancestors, which had lain dormant in the several generations following, sprang into active life again. He became known in every port of call. He became known also in the wildernesses. He had climbed almost inaccessible mountains, in Europe, in Asia; he had fished and hunted north, east, south and west; he had fitted out polar expeditions; he had raided the pearl markets; he had made astonishing gifts to women who had pleased his fancy, but whom he did not know or seek to know; he had kept some of his intimate friends out of bankruptcy; he had given the most extravagant dinners at one season and, unknown, had supported a bread-line at another; he had even financed a musical comedy. Whatever had for the moment appealed to his fancy, that he had done. That the world--his world--threw up its hands in wonder and despair neither disturbed him nor swerved him in the least. He was alone, absolute master of his millions. Mamas with marriageable daughters declared that he was impossible; the marriageable daughters never had a chance to decide one way or the other; and men called him a fool. He had promoted elephant fights which had stirred the Indian princes out of their melancholy indifference, and tiger hunts which had, by their duration and magnificence, threatened to disrupt the efficiency of the British military service,--whimsical excesses, not understandable by his intimate acquaintances who cynically arraigned him as the fool and his money. But, like the villain in the play, his income still pursued him. Certain scandals inevitably followed, scandals he was the last to hear about and the last to deny when he heard them. Many persons, not being able to take into the mind and analyze a character like Courtlandt's, sought the line of least resistance for their understanding, and built some precious exploits which included dusky island-princesses, diaphanous dancers, and comic-opera stars. Simply, he was without direction; a thousand goals surrounded him and none burned with that brightness which draws a man toward his destiny: until one day. Personally, he possessed graces of form and feature, and was keener mentally than most young men who inherit great fortunes and distinguished names. * * * * * Automobiles of all kinds panted hither and thither. An occasional smart coupé went by as if to prove that prancing horses were still necessary to the dignity of the old aristocracy. Courtlandt made up his mind suddenly. He laughed with bitterness. He knew now that to loiter near the stage entrance had been his real purpose all along, and persistent lying to himself had not prevailed. In due time he took his stand among the gilded youth who were not privileged (like their more prosperous elders) to wait outside the dressing-rooms for their particular ballerina. By and by there was a little respectful commotion. Courtlandt's hand went instinctively to his collar, not to ascertain if it were properly adjusted, but rather to relieve the sudden pressure. He was enraged at his weakness. He wanted to turn away, but he could not. A woman issued forth, muffled in silks and light furs. She was followed by another, quite possibly her maid. One may observe very well at times from the corner of the eye; that is, objects at which one is not looking come within the range of vision. The woman paused, her foot upon the step of the modest limousine. She whispered something hurriedly into her companion's ear, something evidently to the puzzlement of the latter, who looked around irresolutely. She obeyed, however, and retreated to the stage entrance. A man, quite as tall as Courtlandt, his face shaded carefully, intentionally perhaps, by one of those soft Bavarian hats that are worn successfully only by Germans, stepped out of the gathering to proffer his assistance. Courtlandt pushed him aside calmly, lifted his hat, and smiling ironically, closed the door behind the singer. The step which the other man made toward Courtlandt was unequivocal in its meaning. But even as Courtlandt squared himself to meet the coming outburst, the stranger paused, shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off. The lady in the limousine--very pale could any have looked closely into her face--was whirled away into the night. Courtlandt did not stir from the curb. The limousine dwindled, once it flashed under a light, and then vanished. "It is the American," said one of the waiting dandies. "The icicle!" "The volcano, rather, which fools believe extinct." "Probably sent back her maid for her Bible. Ah, these Americans; they are very amusing." "She was in magnificent voice to-night. I wonder why she never sings _Carmen_?" "Have I not said that she is too cold? What! would you see frost grow upon the toreador's mustache? And what a name, what a name! Eleonora da Toscana!" Courtlandt was not in the most amiable condition of mind, and a hint of the ribald would have instantly transformed a passive anger into a blind fury. Thus, a scene hung precariously; but its potentialities became as nothing on the appearance of another woman. This woman was richly dressed, too richly. Apparently she had trusted her modiste not wisely but too well: there was the strange and unaccountable inherent love of fine feathers and warm colors which is invariably the mute utterance of peasant blood. She was followed by a Russian, huge of body, Jovian of countenance. An expensive car rolled up to the curb. A liveried footman jumped down from beside the chauffeur and opened the door. The diva turned her head this way and that, a thin smile of satisfaction stirring her lips. For Flora Desimone loved the human eye whenever it stared admiration into her own; and she spent half her days setting traps and lures, rather successfully. She and her formidable escort got into the car which immediately went away with a soft purring sound. There was breeding in the engine, anyhow, thought Courtlandt, who longed to put his strong fingers around that luxurious throat which had, but a second gone, passed him so closely. "We shall never have war with Russia," said some one; "her dukes love Paris too well." Light careless laughter followed this cynical observation. Another time Courtlandt might have smiled. He pushed his way into the passage leading to the dressing-rooms, and followed its windings until he met a human barrier. To his inquiry the answer was abrupt and perfectly clear in its meaning: La Signorina da Toscana had given most emphatic orders not to disclose her address to any one. Monsieur might, if he pleased, make further inquiries of the directors; the answer there would be the same. Presently he found himself gazing down the avenue once more. There were a thousand places to go to, a thousand pleasant things to do; yet he doddered, full of ill-temper, dissatisfaction, and self-contempt. He was weak, damnably weak; and for years he had admired himself, detachedly, as a man of pride. He started forward, neither sensing his direction nor the perfected flavor of his Habana. Opera singers were truly a race apart. They lived in the world but were not a part of it, and when they died, left only a memory which faded in one generation and became totally forgotten in another. What jealousies, what petty bickerings, what extravagances! With fancy and desire unchecked, what ingenious tricks they used to keep themselves in the public mind,--tricks begot of fickleness and fickleness begetting. And yet, it was a curious phase: their influence was generally found when history untangled for posterity some Gordian knot. In old times they had sung the _Marseillaise_ and danced the _carmagnole_ and indirectly plied the guillotine. And to-day they smashed prime ministers, petty kings, and bankers, and created fashions for the ruin of husbands and fathers of modest means. Devil take them! And Courtlandt flung his cigar into the street. He halted. The Madeleine was not exactly the goal for a man who had, half an hour before, contemplated a rout at Maxim's. His glance described a half-circle. There was Durand's; but Durand's on opera nights entertained many Americans, and he did not care to meet any of his compatriots to-night. So he turned down the Rue Royale, on the opposite side, and went into the Taverne Royale, where the patrons were not over particular in regard to the laws of fashion, and where certain ladies with light histories sought further adventures to add to their heptamerons. Now, Courtlandt thought neither of the one nor of the other. He desired isolation, safety from intrusion; and here, did he so signify, he could find it. Women gazed up at him and smiled, with interest as much as with invitation. He was brown from long exposure to the wind and the sun, that golden brown which is the gift of the sun-glitter on rocking seas. A traveler is generally indicated by this artistry of the sun, and once noted instantly creates a speculative interest. Even his light brown hair had faded at the temples, and straw-colored was the slender mustache, the ends of which had a cavalier twist. He ignored the lips which smiled and the eyes which invited, and nothing more was necessary. One is not importuned at the Taverne Royale. He sat down at a vacant table and ordered a pint of champagne, drinking hastily rather than thirstily. Would Monsieur like anything to eat? No, the wine was sufficient. Courtlandt poured out a second glass slowly. The wine bubbled up to the brim and overflowed. He had been looking at the glass with unseeing eyes. He set the bottle down impatiently. Fool! To have gone to Burma, simply to stand in the golden temple once more, in vain, to recall that other time: the starving kitten held tenderly in a woman's arms, his own scurry among the booths to find the milk so peremptorily ordered, and the smile of thanks that had been his reward! He had run away when he should have hung on. He should have fought every inch of the way.... "Monsieur is lonely?" A pretty young woman sat down before him in the vacant chair. CHAPTER II THERE IS A WOMAN? Anger, curiosity, interest; these sensations blanketed one another quickly, leaving only interest, which was Courtlandt's normal state of mind when he saw a pretty woman. It did not require very keen scrutiny on his part to arrive swiftly at the conclusion that this one was not quite in the picture. Her cheeks were not red with that redness which has a permanency of tone, neither waxing nor waning, abashed in daylight. Nor had her lips found their scarlet moisture from out the depths of certain little porcelain boxes. Decidedly she was out of place here, yet she evinced no embarrassment; she was cool, at ease. Courtlandt's interest strengthened. "Why do you think I am lonely, Mademoiselle?" he asked, without smiling. "Oh, when one talks to one's self, strikes the table, wastes good wine, the inference is but natural. So, Monsieur is lonely." Her lips and eyes, as grave and smileless as his own, puzzled him. An adventure? He looked at some of the other women. Those he could understand, but this one, no. At all times he was willing to smile, yet to draw her out he realized that he must preserve his gravity unbroken. The situation was not usual. His gaze came back to her. "Is the comparison favorable to me?" she asked. "It is. What is loneliness?" he demanded cynically. "Ah, I could tell you," she answered. "It is the longing to be with the one we love; it is the hate of the wicked things we have done; it is remorse." "That echoes of the Ambigu-Comique." He leaned upon his arms. "What are you doing here?" "I?" "Yes. You do not talk like the other girls who come here." "Monsieur comes here frequently, then?" "This is the first time in five years. I came here to-night because I wanted to be alone, because I did not wish to meet any one I knew. I have scowled at every girl in the room, and they have wisely left me alone. I haven't scowled at you because I do not know what to make of you. That's frankness. Now, you answer my question." "Would you spare me a glass of wine? I am thirsty." He struck his hands together, a bit of orientalism he had brought back with him. The observant waiter instantly came forward with a glass. The young woman sipped the wine, gazing into the glass as she did so. "Perhaps a whim brought me here. But I repeat, Monsieur is lonely." "So lonely that I am almost tempted to put you into a taxicab and run away with you." She set down the glass. "But I sha'n't," he added. The spark of eagerness in her eyes was instantly curtained. "There is a woman?" tentatively. "Is there not always a woman?" "And she has disappointed Monsieur?" There was no marked sympathy in the tone. "Since Eve, has that not been woman's part in the human comedy?" He was almost certain that her lips became firmer. "Smile, if you wish. It is not prohibitory here." It was evident that the smile had been struggling for existence, for it endured to the fulness of half a minute. She had fine teeth. He scrutinized her more closely, and she bore it well. The forehead did not make for beauty; it was too broad and high, intellectual. Her eyes were splendid. There was nothing at all ordinary about her. His sense of puzzlement renewed itself and deepened. What did she want of him? There were other men, other vacant chairs. "Monsieur is certain about the taxicab?" "Absolutely." "Ah, it is to emulate Saint Anthony!" "There are several saints of that name. To which do you refer?" "Positively not to him of Padua." Courtlandt laughed. "No, I can not fancy myself being particularly concerned about bambini. No, my model is Noah." "Noah?" dubiously. "Yes. At the time of the flood there was only one woman in the world." "I am afraid that your knowledge of that event is somewhat obscured. Still, I understand." She lifted the wine-glass again, and then he noticed her hand. It was large, white and strong; it was not the hand of a woman who dallied, who idled in primrose paths. "Tell me, what is it you wish? You interest me, at a moment, too, when I do not want to be interested. Are you really in trouble? Is there anything I can do ... barring the taxicab?" She twirled the glass, uneasily. "I am not in actual need of assistance." "But you spoke peculiarly regarding loneliness." "Perhaps I like the melodrama. You spoke of the Ambigu-Comique." "You are on the stage?" "Perhaps." "The Opera?" "Again perhaps." He laughed once more, and drew his chair closer to the table. "Monsieur in other moods must have a pleasant laughter." "I haven't laughed from the heart in a very long time," he said, returning to his former gravity, this time unassumed. "And I have accomplished this amazing thing?" "No. You followed me here. But from where?" "Followed you?" The effort to give a mocking accent to her voice was a failure. "Yes. The idea just occurred to me. There were other vacant chairs, and there was nothing inviting in my facial expression. Come, let me have the truth." "I have a friend who knows Flora Desimone." "Ah!" As if this information was a direct visitation of kindness from the gods. "Then you know where the Calabrian lives? Give me her address." There was a minute wrinkle above the unknown's nose; the shadow of a frown. "She is very beautiful." "Bah! Did she send you after me? Give me her address. I have come all the way from Burma to see Flora Desimone." "To see her?" She unguardedly clothed the question with contempt, but she instantly forced a smile to neutralize the effect. Concerned with her own defined conclusions, she lost the fine ironic bitterness that was in the man's voice. "Aye, indeed, to see her! Beautiful as Venus, as alluring as Phryne, I want nothing so much as to see her, to look into her eyes, to hear her voice!" "Is it jealousy? I hear the tragic note." The certainty of her ground became as morass again. In his turn he was puzzling her. "Tragedy? I am an American. We do not kill opera singers. We turn them over to the critics. I wish to see the beautiful Flora, to ask her a few questions. If she has sent you after me, her address, my dear young lady, her address." His eyes burned. "I am afraid." And she was so. This wasn't the tone of a man madly in love. It was wild anger. "Afraid of what?" "You." "I will give you a hundred francs." He watched her closely and shrewdly. Came the little wrinkle again, but this time urged in perplexity. "A hundred francs, for something I was sent to tell you?" "And now refuse." "It is very generous. She has a heart of flint, Monsieur." "Well I know it. Perhaps now I have one of steel." "Many sparks do not make a fire. Do you know that your French is very good?" "I spent my boyhood in Paris; some of it. Her address, if you please." He produced a crisp note for a hundred francs. "Do you want it?" She did not answer at once. Presently she opened her purse, found a stubby pencil and a slip of paper, and wrote. "There it is, Monsieur." She held out her hand for the bank-note which, with a sense of bafflement, he gave her. She folded the note and stowed it away with the pencil. "Thank you," said Courtlandt. "Odd paper, though." He turned it over. "Ah, I understand. You copy music." "Yes, Monsieur." This time the nervous flicker of her eyes did not escape him. "You are studying for the opera, perhaps?" "Yes, that is it." The eagerness of the admission convinced him that she was not. Who she was or whence she had come no longer excited his interest. He had the Calabrian's address and he was impatient to be off. "Good night." He rose. "Monsieur is not gallant." "I was in my youth," he replied, putting on his hat. The bald rudeness of his departure did not disturb her. She laughed softly and relievedly. Indeed, there was in the laughter an essence of mischief. However, if he carried away a mystery, he left one behind. As he was hunting for a taxicab, the waiter ran out and told him that he had forgotten to settle for the wine. The lady had refused to do so. Courtlandt chuckled and gave him a ten-franc piece. In other days, in other circumstances, he would have liked to know more about the unknown who scribbled notes on composition paper. She was not an idler in the Rue Royale, and it did not require that indefinable intuition which comes of worldly-wiseness to discover this fact. She might be a friend of the Desimone woman, but she had stepped out of another sphere to become so. He recognized the quality that could adjust itself to any environment and come out scatheless. This was undeniably an American accomplishment; and yet she was distinctly a Frenchwoman. He dismissed the problem from his mind and bade the driver go as fast as the police would permit. Meanwhile the young woman waited five or ten minutes, and, making sure that Courtlandt had been driven off, left the restaurant. Round the corner she engaged a carriage. So that was Edward Courtlandt? She liked his face; there was not a weak line in it, unless stubbornness could be called such. But to stay away for two years! To hide himself in jungles, to be heard of only by his harebrained exploits! "Follow him; see where he goes," had been the command. For a moment she had rebelled, but her curiosity was not to be denied. Besides, of what use was friendship if not to be tried? She knew nothing of the riddle, she had never asked a question openly. She had accidentally seen a photograph one day, in a trunk tray, with this man's name scrawled across it, and upon this flimsy base she had builded a dozen romances, each of which she had ruthlessly torn down to make room for another; but still the riddle lay unsolved. She had thrown the name into the conversation many a time, as one might throw a bomb into a crowd which had no chance to escape. Fizzles! The man had been calmly discussed and calmly dismissed. At odd times an article in the newspapers gave her an opportunity; still the frank discussion, still the calm dismissal. She had learned that the man was rich, irresponsible, vacillating, a picturesque sort of fool. But two years? What had kept him away that long? A weak man, in love, would not have made so tame a surrender. Perhaps he had not surrendered; perhaps neither of them had. And yet, he sought the Calabrian. Here was another blind alley out of which she had to retrace her steps. Bother! That Puck of Shakespeare was right: What fools these mortals be! She was very glad that she possessed a true sense of humor, spiced with harmless audacity. What a dreary world it must be to those who did not know how and when to laugh! They talked of the daring of the American woman: who but a Frenchwoman would have dared what she had this night? The taxicab! She laughed. And this man was wax in the hands of any pretty woman who came along! So rumor had it. But she knew that rumor was only the attenuated ghost of Ananias, doomed forever to remain on earth for the propagation of inaccurate whispers. Wax! Why, she would have trusted herself in any situation with a man with those eyes and that angle of jaw. It was all very mystifying. "Follow him; see where he goes." The frank discussion, then, and the calm dismissal were but a woman's dissimulation. And he had gone to Flora Desimone's. The carriage stopped before a handsome apartment-house in the Avenue de Wagram. The unknown got out, gave the driver his fare, and rang the concierge's bell. The sleepy guardian opened the door, touched his gold-braided cap in recognition, and led the way to the small electric lift. The young woman entered and familiarly pushed the button. The apartment in which she lived was on the second floor; and there was luxury everywhere, but luxury subdued and charmed by taste. There were fine old Persian rugs on the floors, exquisite oils and water-colors on the walls; and rare Japanese silk tapestries hung between the doors. In one corner of the living-room was a bronze jar filled with artificial cherry blossoms; in another corner near the door, hung a flat bell-shaped piece of brass--a Burmese gong. There were many photographs ranged along the mantel-top; celebrities, musical, artistic and literary, each accompanied by a liberal expanse of autographic ink. She threw aside her hat and wraps with that manner of inconsequence which distinguishes the artistic temperament from the thrifty one, and passed on into the cozy dining-room. The maid had arranged some sandwiches and a bottle of light wine. She ate and drank, while intermittent smiles played across her merry face. Having satisfied her hunger, she opened her purse and extracted the bank-note. She smoothed it out and laughed aloud. "Oh, if only he had taken me for a ride in the taxicab!" She bubbled again with merriment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if inspired, and dashed into another room, a study. She came back with pen and ink, and with a celerity that came of long practise, drew five straight lines across the faint violet face of the bank-note. Within these lines she made little dots at the top and bottom of stubby perpendicular strokes, and strange interlineal hieroglyphics, and sweeping curves, all of which would have puzzled an Egyptologist if he were unused to the ways of musicians. Carefully she dried the composition, and then put the note away. Some day she would confound him by returning it. A little later her fingers were moving softly over the piano keys; melodies in minor, sad and haunting and elusive, melodies that had never been put on paper and would always be her own: in them she might leap from comedy to tragedy, from laughter to tears, and only she would know. The midnight adventure was forgotten, and the hero of it, too. With her eyes closed and her lithe body swaying gently, she let the old weary pain in her heart take hold again. CHAPTER III THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS Flora Desimone had been born in a Calabrian peasant's hut, and she had rolled in the dust outside, yelling vigorously at all times. Specialists declare that the reason for all great singers coming from lowly origin is found in this early development of the muscles of the throat. Parents of means employ nurses or sedatives to suppress or at least to smother these infantile protests against being thrust inconsiderately into the turmoil of human beings. Flora yelled or slept, as the case might be; her parents were equally indifferent. They were too busily concerned with the getting of bread and wine. Moreover, Flora was one among many. The gods are always playing with the Calabrian peninsula, heaving it up here or throwing it down there: _il terremoto_, the earthquake, the terror. Here nature tinkers vicariously with souls; and she seldom has time to complete her work. Constant communion with death makes for callosity of feeling; and the Calabrians and the Sicilians are the cruellest among the civilized peoples. Flora was ruthless. She lived amazingly well in the premier of an apartment-hotel in the Champs-Elysées. In England and America she had amassed a fortune. Given the warm beauty of the Southern Italian, the passion, the temperament, the love of mischief, the natural cruelty, the inordinate craving for attention and flattery, she enlivened the nations with her affairs. And she never put a single beat of her heart into any of them. That is why her voice is still splendid and her beauty unchanging. She did not dissipate; calculation always barred her inclination; rather, she loitered about the Forbidden Tree and played that she had plucked the Apple. She had an example to follow; Eve had none. Men scattered fortunes at her feet as foolish Greeks scattered floral offerings at the feet of their marble gods--without provoking the sense of reciprocity or generosity or mercy. She had worked; ah, no one would ever know how hard. She had been crushed, beaten, cursed, starved. That she had risen to the heights in spite of these bruising verbs in no manner enlarged her pity, but dulled and vitiated the little there was of it. Her mental attitude toward humanity was childish: as, when the parent strikes, the child blindly strikes back. She was determined to play, to enjoy life, to give back blow for blow, nor caring where she struck. She was going to press the juice from every grape. A thousand odd years gone, she would have led the cry in Rome--"Bread and the circus!" or "To the lions!" She would have disturbed Nero's complacency, and he would have played an obbligato instead of a solo at the burning. And she was malice incarnate. They came from all climes--her lovers--with roubles and lire and francs and shillings and dollars; and those who finally escaped her enchantment did so involuntarily, for lack of further funds. They called her villas Circe's isles. She hated but two things in the world; the man she could have loved and the woman she could not surpass. Arrayed in a kimono which would have evoked the envy of the empress of Japan, supposing such a gorgeous raiment--peacocks and pine-trees, brilliant greens and olives and blues and purples--fell under the gaze of that lady's slanting eyes, she sat opposite the Slavonic Jove and smoked her cigarette between sips of coffee. Frequently she smiled. The short powerful hand of the man stroked his beard and he beamed out of his cunning eyes, eyes a trifle too porcine to suggest a keen intellect above them. "I am like a gorilla," he said; "but you are like a sleek tigress. I am stronger, more powerful than you; but I am always in fear of your claws. Especially when you smile like that. What mischief are you plotting now?" She drew in a cloud of smoke, held it in her puffed cheeks as she glided round the table and leaned over his shoulders. She let the smoke drift over his head and down his beard. In that moment he was truly Jovian. "Would you like me if I were a tame cat?" she purred. "I have never seen you in that rôle. Perhaps I might. You told me that you would give up everything but the Paris season." "I have changed my mind." She ran one hand through his hair and the other she entangled in his beard. "You'd change your mind, too, if you were a woman." "I don't have to change my mind; you are always doing it for me. But I do not want to go to America next winter." He drew her down so that he might look into her face. It was something to see. "Bah!" She released herself and returned to her chair. "When the season is over I want to go to Capri." "Capri! Too hot." "I want to go." "My dear, a dozen exiles are there, waiting to blow me up." He spoke Italian well. "You do not wish to see me spattered over the beautiful isle?" "Tch! tch! That is merely your usual excuse. You never had anything to do with the police." "No?" He eyed the end of his cigarette gravely. "One does not have to be affiliated with the police. There is class prejudice. We Russians are very fond of Egypt in the winter. Capri seems to be the half-way place. They wait for us, going and coming. Poor fools!" "I shall go alone, then." "All right." In his dull way he had learned that to pull the diva, one must agree with her. In agreeing with her one adroitly dissuaded her. "You go to Capri, and I'll go to the pavilion on the Neva." She snuffed the cigarette in the coffee-cup and frowned. "Some day you will make me horribly angry." "Beautiful tigress! If a man knew what you wanted, you would not want it. I can't hop about with the agility of those dancers at the Théâtre du Palais Royale. The best I can do is to imitate the bear. What is wrong?" "They keep giving her the premier parts. She has no more fire in her than a dead grate. The English-speaking singers, they are having everything their own way. And none of them can act." "My dear Flora, this Eleonora is an actress, first of all. That she can sing is a matter of good fortune, no more. Be reasonable. The consensus of critical opinion is generally infallible; and all over the continent they agree that she can act. Come, come; what do you care? She will never approach your Carmen...." "You praise her to me?" tempest in her glowing eyes. "I do not praise her. I am quoting facts. If you throw that cup, my tigress...." "Well?" dangerously. "It will spoil the set. Listen. Some one is at the speaking-tube." The singer crossed the room impatiently. Ordinarily she would have continued the dispute, whether the bell rang or not. But she was getting the worst of the argument and the bell was a timely diversion. The duke followed her leisurely to the wall. "What is it?" asked Flora in French. The voice below answered with a query in English. "Is this the Signorina Desimone?" "It is the duchess." "The duchess?" "Yes." "The devil!" She turned and stared at the duke, who shrugged. "No, no," she said; "the duchess, not the devil." "Pardon me; I was astonished. But on the stage you are still Flora Desimone?" "Yes. And now that my identity is established, who are you and what do you want at this time of night?" The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which to betray her temper. "I am Edward Courtlandt." "The devil!" mimicked the diva. She and the duke heard a chuckle. "I beg your pardon again, Madame." "Well, what is it you wish?" amiably. The duke looked at her perplexedly. It seemed to him that she was always leaving him in the middle of things. Preparing himself for rough roads, he would suddenly find the going smooth. He was never swift enough mentally to follow these flying transitions from enmity to amity. In the present instance, how was he to know that his tigress had found in the man below something to play with? "You once did me an ill turn," came up the tube. "I desire that you make some reparation." "Sainted Mother! but it has taken you a long time to find out that I have injured you," she mocked. There was no reply to this; so she was determined to stir the fire a little. "And I advise you to be careful what you say; the duke is a very jealous man." That gentleman fingered his beard thoughtfully. "I do not care a hang if he is." The duke coughed loudly close to the tube. Silence. "The least you can do, Madame, is to give me her address." "Her address!" repeated the duke relievedly. He had had certain grave doubts, but these now took wing. Old flames were not in the habit of asking, nay, demanding, other women's addresses. "I am speaking to Madame, your Highness," came sharply. "We do not speak off the stage," said the singer, pushing the duke aside. "I should like to make that young man's acquaintance," whispered the duke. She warned him to be silent. Came the voice again: "Will you give me her address, please? Your messenger gave me your address, inferring that you wished to see me." "I?" There was no impeaching her astonishment. "Yes, Madame." "My dear Mr. Courtlandt, you are the last man in all the wide world I wish to see. And I do not quite like the way you are making your request. His highness does not either." "Send him down!" "That is true." "What is?" "I remember. You are very strong and much given to fighting." The duke opened and shut his hands, pleasurably. Here was something he could understand. He was a fighting man himself. Where was this going to end, and what was it all about? "Do you not think, Madame, that you owe me something?" "No. What I owe I pay. Think, Mr. Courtlandt; think well." "I do not understand," impatiently. "_Ebbene_, I owe you nothing. Once I heard you say--'I do not like to see you with the Calabrian; she is--Well, you know.' I stood behind you at another time when you said that I was a fool." "Madame, I do not forget that, that is pure invention. You are mistaken." "No. You were. I am no fool." A light laugh drifted down the tube. "Madame, I begin to see." "Ah!" "You believe what you wish to believe." "I think not." "I never even noticed you," carelessly. "Take care!" whispered the duke, who noted the sudden dilation of her nostrils. "It is easy to forget," cried the diva, furiously. "It is easy for you to forget, but not for me." "Madame, I do not forget that you entered my room that night ..." "Your address!" bawled the duke. "That statement demands an explanation." "I should explain at once, your Highness," said the man down below calmly, "only I prefer to leave that part in Madame's hands. I should not care to rob her of anything so interesting and dramatic. Madame the duchess can explain, if she wishes. I am stopping at the Grand, if you find her explanations are not up to your requirements." "I shall give you her address," interrupted the diva, hastily. The duke's bristling beard for one thing and the ice in the other man's tones for another, disquieted her. The play had gone far enough, much as she would have liked to continue it. This was going deeper than she cared to go. She gave the address and added: "To-night she sings at the Austrian ambassador's. I give you this information gladly because I know that it will be of no use to you." "Then I shall dispense with the formality of thanking you. I add that I wish you twofold the misery you have carelessly and gratuitously cost me. Good night!" Click! went the little covering of the tube. "Now," said the duke, whose knowledge of the English tongue was not so indifferent that he did not gather the substance, if not all the shadings, of this peculiar conversation; "now, what the devil is all this about?" "I hate him!" "Refused to singe his wings?" "He has insulted me!" "I am curious to learn about that night you went to his room." Her bear had a ring in his nose, but she could not always lead him by it. So, without more ado, she spun the tale, laughing at intervals. The story evidently impressed the duke, for his face remained sober all through the recital. "Did he say that you were a fool?" "Of course not!" "Shall I challenge him?" "Oh, my Russian bear, he fences like a Chicot; he is a dead shot; and is afraid of nothing ... but a woman. No, no; I have something better. It will be like one of those old comedies. I hate her!" with a burst of fury. "She always does everything just so much better than I do. As for him, he was nothing. It was she; I hurt her, wrung her heart." "Why?" mildly. "Is not that enough?" "I am slow; it takes a long time for anything to get into my head; but when it arrives, it takes a longer time to get it out." "Well, go on." Her calm was ominous. "Love or vanity. This American singer got what you could not get. You have had your way too long. Perhaps you did not love him. I do not believe you can really love any one but Flora. Doubtless he possessed millions; but on the other hand, I am a grand duke; I offered marriage, openly and legally, in spite of all the opposition brought to bear." Flora was undeniably clever. She did the one thing that could successfully cope with this perilous condition of the ducal mind. She laughed, and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I have named you well. You are a tigress. But this comedy of which you speak: it might pass in Russia, but not in Paris." "I shall not be in the least concerned. My part was suggestion." "You suggested it to some one else?" "To be sure!" "My objections ..." "I will have my way in this affair. Besides, it is too late." Her gesture was explicit. He sighed. He knew quite well that she was capable of leaving the apartment that night, in her kimono. "I'll go to Capri," resignedly. Dynamite bombs were not the worst things in the world. "I don't want to go now." The duke picked up a fresh cigarette. "How the devil must have laughed when the Lord made Eve!" CHAPTER IV THE JOKE OF MONSIEUR With the same inward bitterness that attends the mental processes of a performing tiger on being sent back to its cage, Courtlandt returned to his taxicab. He wanted to roar and lash and devour something. Instead, he could only twist the ends of his mustache savagely. So she was a grand duchess, or at least the morganatic wife of a grand duke! It did not seem possible that any woman could be so full of malice. He simply could not understand. It was essentially the Italian spirit; doubtless, till she heard his voice, she had forgotten all about the episode that had foundered his ship of happiness. Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity; if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the admission--vanity. However you may look at it, man's vanity is a complex thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant, full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not require the usual skirmishing. A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins. On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera singer or a _première danseuse_. The continental noble at least showed some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw. Oh, stubborn Dutchman that he had been! Blind fool! To have run away instead of fighting to the last ditch for his happiness! The Desimone woman was right: it had taken him a long time to come to the conclusion that she had done him an ill turn. And during all these weary months he had drawn a melancholy picture of himself as a wounded lion, creeping into the jungle to hide its hurts, when, truth be known, he had taken the ways of the jackass for a model. He saw plainly enough now. More than this, where there had been mere obstacles to overcome there were now steep mountains, perhaps inaccessible for all he knew. His jaw set, and the pressure of his lips broke the sweep of his mustache, converting it into bristling tufts, warlike and resolute. As he was leaving, a square of light attracted his attention. He looked up to see the outline of the bearded Russ in the window. Poor devil! He was going to have a merry time of it. Well, that was his affair. Besides, Russians, half the year chilled by their bitter snows, were susceptible to volcanoes; they courted them as a counterbalance. Perhaps he had spoken roughly, but his temper had not been under control. One thing he recalled with grim satisfaction. He had sent a barbed arrow up the tube to disturb the felicity of the dove-cote. The duke would be rather curious to know what was meant in referring to the night she had come to his, Courtlandt's, room. He laughed. It would be a fitting climax indeed if the duke called him out. But what of the pretty woman in the Taverne Royale? What about her? At whose bidding had she followed him? One or the other of them had not told the truth, and he was inclined to believe that the prevarication had its source in the pomegranate lips of the Calabrian. To give the old barb one more twist, to learn if its venomous point still held and hurt; nothing would have afforded the diva more delight. Courtlandt glared at the window as the shade rolled down. When the taxicab joined the long line of carriages and automobiles opposite the Austrian ambassador's, Courtlandt awoke to the dismal and disquieting fact that he had formulated no plan of action. He had done no more than to give the driver his directions; and now that he had arrived, he had the choice of two alternatives. He could wait to see her come out or return at once to his hotel, which, as subsequent events affirmed, would have been the more sensible course. He would have been confronted with small difficulty in gaining admission to the house. He knew enough of these general receptions; the announcing of his name would have conveyed nothing to the host, who knew perhaps a third of his guests, and many of these but slightly. But such an adventure was distasteful to Courtlandt. He could not overstep certain recognized boundaries of convention, and to enter a man's house unasked was colossal impudence. Beyond this, he realized that he could have accomplished nothing; the advantage would have been hers. Nor could he meet her as she came out, for again the odds would have been largely in her favor. No, the encounter must be when they two were alone. She must be surprised. She must have no time to use her ready wit. He had thought to wait until some reasonable plan offered itself for trial; yet, here he was, with nothing definite or recognizable but the fact that the craving to see her was not to be withstood. The blood began to thunder in his ears. An idea presented itself. It appealed to him at that moment as quite clever and feasible. "Wait!" he called to the driver. He dived among the carriages and cars, and presently he found what he sought,--her limousine. He had taken the number into his mind too keenly to be mistaken. He saw the end of his difficulties; and he went about the affair with his usual directness. It was only at rare times that he ran his head into a cul-de-sac. If her chauffeur was regularly employed in her service, he would have to return to the hotel; but if he came from the garage, there was hope. Every man is said to have his price, and a French chauffeur might prove no notable exception to the rule. "Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?" Courtlandt asked of the man lounging in the forward seat. The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these endless inquiries. "Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?" "I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle's car most of the time, especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur." "My mistake." A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. "Would you like to make five hundred francs?" "How, Monsieur?" Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual interest or eagerness. "Permit me to remain in mademoiselle's car till she comes. I wish to ride with her to her apartment." The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. "Thanks, Monsieur. It is very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke." And to Courtlandt's dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been accepted as a jest. "I am not joking. I am in earnest. Five hundred francs. On the word of a gentleman I mean mademoiselle no harm. I am known to her. All she has to do is to appeal to you, and you can stop the car and summon the police." The chauffeur drew in his legs and leaned toward his tempter. "Monsieur, if you are not jesting, then you are a madman. Who are you? What do I know about you? I never saw you before, and for two seasons I have driven mademoiselle in Paris. She wears beautiful jewels to-night. How do I know that you are not a gentlemanly thief? Ride home with mademoiselle! You are crazy. Make yourself scarce, Monsieur; in one minute I shall call the police." "Blockhead!" English of this order the Frenchman perfectly understood. "_Là, là!_" he cried, rising to execute his threat. Courtlandt was furious, but his fury was directed at himself as much as at the trustworthy young man getting down from the limousine. His eagerness had led him to mistake stupidity for cleverness. He had gone about the affair with all the clumsiness of a boy who was making his first appearance at the stage entrance. It was mightily disconcerting, too, to have found an honest man when he was in desperate need of a dishonest one. He had faced with fine courage all sorts of dangerous wild animals; but at this moment he hadn't the courage to face a policeman and endeavor to explain, in a foreign tongue, a situation at once so delicate and so singularly open to misconstruction. So, for the second time in his life he took to his heels. Of the first time, more anon. He scrambled back to his own car, slammed the door, and told the driver to drop him at the Grand. His undignified retreat caused his face to burn; but discretion would not be denied. However, he did not return to the hotel. Mademoiselle da Toscana's chauffeur scratched his chin in perplexity. In frightening off his tempter he recognized that now he would never be able to find out who he was. He should have played with him until mademoiselle came out. She would have known instantly. That would have been the time for the police. To hide in the car! What the devil! Only a madman would have offered such a proposition. The man had been either an American or an Englishman, for all his accuracy in the tongue. Bah! Perhaps he had heard her sing that night, and had come away from the Opera, moonstruck. It was not an isolated case. The fools were always pestering him, but no one had ever offered so uncommon a bribe: five hundred francs. Mademoiselle might not believe that part of the tale. Mademoiselle was clever. There was a standing agreement between them that she would always give him half of whatever was offered him in the way of bribes. It paid. It was easier to sell his loyalty to her for two hundred and fifty francs than to betray her for five hundred. She had yet to find him untruthful, and to-night he would be as frank as he had always been. But who was this fellow in the Bavarian hat, who patrolled the sidewalk? He had been watching him when the madman approached. For an hour or more he had walked up and down, never going twenty feet beyond the limousine. He couldn't see the face. The long dark coat had a military cut about the hips and shoulders. From time to time he saw him glance up at the lighted windows. Eh, well; there were other women in the world besides mademoiselle, several others. He had to wait only half an hour for her appearance. He opened the door and saw to it that she was comfortably seated; then he paused by the window, touching his cap. "What is it, François?" "A gentleman offered me five hundred francs, Mademoiselle, if I would permit him to hide in the car." "Five hundred francs? To hide in the car? Why didn't you call the police?" "I started to, Mademoiselle, but he ran away." "Oh! What was he like?" The prima donna dropped the bunch of roses on the seat beside her. "Oh, he looked well enough. He had the air of a gentleman. He was tall, with light hair and mustache. But as I had never seen him before, and as Mademoiselle wore some fine jewels, I bade him be off." "Would you know him again?" "Surely, Mademoiselle." "The next time any one bothers you, call the police. You have done well, and I shall remember it. Home." The man in the Bavarian hat hurried back to the third car from the limousine, and followed at a reasonably safe distance. The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not have sung to the ambassador's guests for double the fee. There was an electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night. She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness, its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved. The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower, brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the sum of a tremendous physical struggle. She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly. Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling the bright scenes at the ambassador's, the real generous applause that had followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski played! They two had cost the ambassador eight thousand francs. Fame and fortune! Fortune she could understand; but fame! What was it? Upon a time she believed she had known what fame was; but that had been when she was striving for it. A glowing article in a newspaper, a portrait in a magazine, rows upon rows of curious eyes and a patter of hands upon hands; that was all; and for this she had given the best of her life, and she was only twenty-five. The limousine stopped at last. The man in the Bavarian hat saw her alight. His car turned and disappeared. It had taken him a week to discover where she lived. His lodgings were on the other side of the Seine. After reaching them he gave crisp orders to the driver, who set his machine off at top speed. The man in the Bavarian hat entered his room and lighted the gas. The room was bare and cheaply furnished. He took off his coat but retained his hat, pulling it down still farther over his eyes. His face was always in shadow. A round chin, two full red lips, scantily covered by a blond mustache were all that could be seen. He began to walk the floor impatiently, stopping and listening whenever he heard a sound. He waited less than an hour for the return of the car. It brought two men. They were well-dressed, smoothly-shaven, with keen eyes and intelligent faces. Their host, who had never seen either of his guests before, carelessly waved his hand toward the table where there were two chairs. He himself took his stand by the window and looked out as he talked. In another hour the room was dark and the street deserted. In the meantime the prima donna gave a sigh of relief. She was home. It was nearly two o'clock. She would sleep till noon, and Saturday and Sunday would be hers. She went up the stairs instead of taking the lift, and though the hall was dark, she knew her way. She unlocked the door of the apartment and entered, swinging the door behind her. As the act was mechanical, her thoughts being otherwise engaged, she did not notice that the lock failed to click. The ferrule of a cane had prevented that. She flung her wraps on the divan and put the roses in an empty bowl. The door opened softly, without noise. Next, she stopped before the mirror over the mantel, touched her hair lightly, detached the tiara of emeralds ... and became as inanimate as marble. She saw another face. She never knew how long the interval of silence was. She turned slowly. "Yes, it is I!" said the man. Instantly she turned again to the mantel and picked up a magazine-revolver. She leveled it at him. "Leave this room, or I will shoot." Courtlandt advanced toward her slowly. "Do so," he said. "I should much prefer a bullet to that look." "I am in earnest." She was very white, but her hand was steady. He continued to advance. There followed a crash. The smell of burning powder filled the room. The Burmese gong clanged shrilly and whirled wildly. Courtlandt felt his hair stir in terror. "You must hate me indeed," he said quietly, as the sense of terror died away. He folded his arms. "Try again; there ought to be half a dozen bullets left. No? Then, good-by!" He left the apartment without another word or look, and as the door closed behind him there was a kind of finality in the clicking of the latch. The revolver clattered to the floor, and the woman who had fired it leaned heavily against the mantel, covering her eyes. "Nora, Nora!" cried a startled voice from a bedroom adjoining. "What has happened? _Mon Dieu_, what is it?" A pretty, sleepy-eyed young woman, in a night-dress, rushed into the room. She flung her arms about the singer. "Nora, my dear, my dear!" "He forced his way in. I thought to frighten him. It went off accidentally. Oh, Celeste, Celeste, I might have killed him!" The other drew her head down on her shoulder, and listened. She could hear voices in the lower hall, a shout of warning, a patter of steps; then the hall door slammed. After that, silence, save for the faint mellowing vibrations of the Burmese gong. CHAPTER V CAPTIVE OR RUNAWAY At the age of twenty-six Donald Abbott had become a prosperous and distinguished painter in water-colors. His work was individual, and at the same time it was delicate and charming. One saw his Italian landscapes as through a filmy gauze: the almond blossoms of Sicily, the rose-laden walls of Florence, the vineyards of Chianti, the poppy-glowing Campagna out of Rome. His Italian lakes had brought him fame. He knew very little of the grind and hunger that attended the careers of his whilom associates. His father had left him some valuable patents--wash-tubs, carpet-cleaners, and other labor-saving devices--and the royalties from these were quite sufficient to keep him pleasantly housed. When he referred to his father (of whom he had been very fond) it was as an inventor. Of what, he rarely told. In America it was all right; but over here, where these inventions were unknown, a wash-tub had a peculiar significance: that a man should be found in his money through its services left persons in doubt as to his genealogical tree, which, as a matter of fact, was a very good one. As a boy his schoolmates had dubbed him "The Sweep" and "Suds," and it was only human that he should wish to forget. His earnings (not inconsiderable, for tourists found much to admire in both the pictures and the artist) he spent in gratifying his mild extravagances. So there were no lines in his handsome, boyish, beardless face; and his eyes were unusually clear and happy. Perhaps once or twice, since his majority, he had returned to America to prove that he was not an expatriate, though certainly he was one, the only tie existing between him and his native land being the bankers who regularly honored his drafts. And who shall condemn him for preferring Italy to the desolate center of New York state, where good servants and good weather are as rare as are flawless emeralds? Half after three, on Wednesday afternoon, Abbott stared moodily at the weather-tarnished group by Dalou in the Luxembourg gardens--the _Triumph of Silenus_. His gaze was deceptive, for the rollicking old bibulous scoundrel had not stirred his critical sense nor impressed the delicate films of thought. He was looking through the bronze, into the far-away things. He sat on his own folding stool, which he had brought along from his winter studio hard by in the old Boul' Miche'. He had arrived early that morning, all the way from Como, to find a thunderbolt driven in at his feet. Across his knees fluttered an open newspaper, the Paris edition of the New York _Herald_. All that kept it from blowing away was the tense if sprawling fingers of his right hand; his left hung limply at his side. It was not possible. Such things did not happen these unromantic days to musical celebrities. She had written that on Monday night she would sing in _La Bohème_ and on Wednesday, _Faust_. She had since vanished, vanished as completely as though she had taken wings and flown away. It was unreal. She had left the apartment in the Avenue de Wagram on Saturday afternoon, and nothing had been seen or heard of her since. At the last moment they had had to find a substitute for her part in the Puccini opera. The maid testified that her mistress had gone on an errand of mercy. She had not mentioned where, but she had said that she would return in time to dress for dinner, which proved conclusively that something out of the ordinary had befallen her. The automobile that had carried her away had not been her own, and the chauffeur was unknown. None of the directors at the Opera had been notified of any change in the singer's plans. She had disappeared, and they were deeply concerned. Singers were generally erratic, full of sudden indispositions, unaccountable whims; but the Signorina da Toscana was one in a thousand. She never broke an engagement. If she was ill she said so at once; she never left them in doubt until the last moment. Indecision was not one of her characteristics. She was as reliable as the sun. If the directors did not hear definitely from her by noon to-day, they would have to find another Marguerite. The police began to move, and they stirred up some curious bits of information. A man had tried to bribe the singer's chauffeur, while she was singing at the Austrian ambassador's. The chauffeur was able to describe the stranger with some accuracy. Then came the bewildering episode in the apartment: the pistol-shot, the flight of the man, the astonished concierge to whom the beautiful American would offer no explanations. The man (who tallied with the description given by the chauffeur) had obtained entrance under false representations. He claimed to be an emissary with important instructions from the Opera. There was nothing unusual in this; messengers came at all hours, and seldom the same one twice; so the concierge's suspicions had not been aroused. Another item. A tall handsome Italian had called at eleven o'clock Saturday morning, but the signorina had sent down word that she could not see him. The maid recalled that her mistress had intended to dine that night with the Italian gentleman. His name she did not know, having been with the signorina but two weeks. Celeste Fournier, the celebrated young pianist and composer, who shared the apartment with the missing prima donna, stated that she hadn't the slightest idea where her friend was. She was certain that misfortune had overtaken her in some inexplicable manner. To implicate the Italian was out of the question. He was well-known to them both. He had arrived again at seven, Saturday, and was very much surprised that the signorina had not yet returned. He had waited till nine, when he left, greatly disappointed. He was the Barone di Monte-Verdi in Calabria, formerly military attaché at the Italian embassy in Berlin. Sunday noon Mademoiselle Fournier had notified the authorities. She did not know, but she felt sure that the blond stranger knew more than any one else. And here was the end of things. The police found themselves at a standstill. They searched the hotels but without success; the blond stranger could not be found. Abbott's eyes were not happy and pleasant just now. They were dull and blank with the reaction of the stunning blow. He, too, was certain of the Barone. Much as he secretly hated the Italian, he knew him to be a fearless and an honorable man. But who could this blond stranger be who appeared so sinisterly in the two scenes? From where had he come? Why had Nora refused to explain about the pistol-shot? Any woman had a perfect right to shoot a man who forced his way into her apartment. Was he one of those mad fools who had fallen in love with her, and had become desperate? Or was it some one she knew and against whom she did not wish to bring any charges? Abducted! And she might be, at this very moment, suffering all sorts of indignities. It was horrible to be so helpless. The sparkle of the sunlight upon the ferrule of a cane, extending over his shoulder, broke in on his agonizing thoughts. He turned, an angry word on the tip of his tongue. He expected to see some tourist who wanted to be informed. "Ted Courtlandt!" He jumped up, overturning the stool. "And where the dickens did you come from? I thought you were in the Orient?" "Just got back, Abby." The two shook hands and eyed each other with the appraising scrutiny of friends of long standing. "You don't change any," said Abbott. "Nor do you. I've been standing behind you fully two minutes. What were you glooming about? Old Silenus offend you?" "Have you read the _Herald_ this morning?" "I never read it nowadays. They are always giving me a roast of some kind. Whatever I do they are bound to misconstrue it." Courtlandt stooped and righted the stool, but sat down on the grass, his feet in the path. "What's the trouble? Have they been after you?" Abbott rescued the offending paper and shaking it under his friend's nose, said: "Read that." Courtlandt's eyes widened considerably as they absorbed the significance of the heading--"Eleonora da Toscana missing." "Bah!" he exclaimed. "You say bah?" "It looks like one of their advertising dodges. I know something about singers," Courtlandt added. "I engineered a musical comedy once." "You do not know anything about her," cried Abbott hotly. "That's true enough." Courtlandt finished the article, folded the paper and returned it, and began digging in the path with his cane. "But what I want to know is, who the devil is this mysterious blond stranger?" Abbott flourished the paper again. "I tell you, it's no advertising dodge. She's been abducted. The hound!" Courtlandt ceased boring into the earth. "The story says that she refused to explain this blond chap's presence in her room. What do you make of that?" "Perhaps you think the fellow was her press-agent?" was the retort. "Lord, no! But it proves that she knew him, that she did not want the police to find him. At least, not at that moment. Who's the Italian?" suddenly. "I can vouch for him. He is a gentleman, honorable as the day is long, even if he is hot-headed at times. Count him out of it. It's this unknown, I tell you. Revenge for some imagined slight. It's as plain as the nose on your face." "How long have you known her?" asked Courtlandt presently. "About two years. She's the gem of the whole lot. Gentle, kindly, untouched by flattery.... Why, you must have seen and heard her!" "I have." Courtlandt stared into the hole he had dug. "Voice like an angel's, with a face like Bellini's donna; and Irish all over. But for all that, you will find that her disappearance will turn out to be a diva's whim. Hang it, Suds, I've had some experience with singers." "You are a blockhead!" exploded the younger man. "All right, I am." Courtlandt laughed. "Man, she wrote me that she would sing Monday and to-night, and wanted me to hear her. I couldn't get here in time for _La Bohème_, but I was building on _Faust_. And when she says a thing, she means it. As you said, she's Irish." "And I'm Dutch." "And the stubbornest Dutchman I ever met. Why don't you go home and settle down and marry?--and keep that phiz of yours out of the newspapers? Sometimes I think you're as crazy as a bug." "An opinion shared by many. Maybe I am. I dash in where lunatics fear to tread. Come on over to the Soufflet and have a drink with me." "I'm not drinking to-day," tersely. "There's too much ahead for me to do." "Going to start out to find her? Oh, Sir Galahad!" ironically. "Abby, you used to be a sport. I'll wager a hundred against a bottle of pop that to-morrow or next day she'll turn up serenely, with the statement that she was indisposed, sorry not to have notified the directors, and all that. They do it repeatedly every season." "But an errand of mercy, the strange automobile which can not be found? The engagement to dine with the Barone? Celeste Fournier's statement? You can't get around these things. I tell you, Nora isn't that kind. She's too big in heart and mind to stoop to any such devices," vehemently. "Nora! That looks pretty serious, Abby. You haven't gone and made a fool of yourself, have you?" "What do you call making a fool of myself?" truculently. "You aren't a suitor, are you? An accepted suitor?" unruffled, rather kindly. "No, but I would to heaven that I were!" Abbott jammed the newspaper into his pocket and slung the stool over his arm. "Come on over to the studio until I get some money." "You are really going to start a search?" "I really am. I'd start one just as quickly for you, if I heard that you had vanished under mysterious circumstances." "I believe you honestly would." "You are an old misanthrope. I hope some woman puts the hook into you some day. Where did you pick up the grouch? Some of your dusky princesses give you the go-by?" "You, too, Abby?" "Oh, rot! Of course I never believed any of that twaddle. Only, I've got a sore head to-day. If you knew Nora as well as I do, you'd understand." Courtlandt walked on a little ahead of the artist, who looked up and down the athletic form, admiringly. Sometimes he loved the man, sometimes he hated him. He marched through tragedy and comedy and thrilling adventure with no more concern that he evinced in striding through these gardens. Nearly every one had heard of his exploits; but who among them knew anything of the real man, so adroitly hidden under unruffled externals? That there was a man he did not know, hiding deep down within those powerful shoulders, he had not the least doubt. He himself possessed the quick mobile temperament of the artist, and he could penetrate but not understand the poise assumed with such careless ease by his friend. Dutch blood had something to do with it, and there was breeding, but there was something more than these: he was a reversion, perhaps, to the type of man which had made the rovers of the Lowlands feared on land and sea, now hemmed in by convention, hampered by the barriers of progress, and striving futilely to find an outlet for his peculiar energies. One bit of knowledge gratified him; he stood nearer to Courtlandt than any other man. He had known the adventurer as a boy, and long separations had in nowise impaired the foundations of this friendship. Courtlandt continued toward the exit, his head forward, his gaze bent on the path. He had the air of a man deep in thought, philosophic thought, which leaves the brows unmarred by those corrugations known as frowns. Yet his thoughts were far from philosophic. Indeed, his soul was in mad turmoil. He could have thrown his arms toward the blue sky and cursed aloud the fates that had set this new tangle at his feet. He longed for the jungles and some mad beast to vent his wrath upon. But he gave no sign. He had returned with a purpose as hard and grim as iron; and no obstacle, less powerful than death, should divert or control him. Abduction? Let the public believe what it might; he held the key to the mystery. She was afraid, and had taken flight. So be it. "I say, Ted," called out the artist, "what did you mean by saying that you were a Dutchman?" Courtlandt paused so that Abbott might catch up to him. "I said that I was a Dutchman?" "Yes. And it has just occurred to me that you meant something." "Oh, yes. You were talking of Da Toscana? Let's call her Harrigan. It will save time, and no one will know to whom we refer. You said she was Irish, and that when she said a thing she meant it. My boy, the Irish are notorious for claiming that. They often say it before they see clearly. Now, we Dutchmen,--it takes a long time for us to make up our minds, but when we do, something has got to bend or break." "You don't mean to say that you are going to settle down and get married?" "I'm not going to settle down and get married, if that will ease your mind any." "Man, I was hoping!" "Three meals a day in the same house, with the same woman, never appealed to me." "What do you want, one for each meal?" "There's the dusky princess peeking out again. The truth is, Abby, if I could hide myself for three or four years, long enough for people to forget me, I might reconsider. But it should be under another name. They envy us millionaires. Why, we are the lonesomest duffers going. We distrust every one; we fly when a woman approaches; we become monomaniacs; one thing obsesses us, everybody is after our money. We want friends, we want wives, but we want them to be attracted to us and not to our money-bags. Oh, pshaw! What plans have you made in regard to the search?" Gloom settled upon the artist's face. "I've got to find out what's happened to her, Ted. This isn't any play. Why, she loves the part of Marguerite as she loves nothing else. She's been kidnaped, and only God knows for what reason. It has knocked me silly. I just came up from Como, where she spends the summers now. I was going to take her and Fournier out to dinner." "Who's Fournier?" "Mademoiselle Fournier, the composer. She goes with Nora on the yearly concert tours." "Pretty?" "Charming." "I see," thoughtfully. "What part of the lake; the Villa d'Este, Cadenabbia?" "Bellaggio. Oh, it was ripping last summer. She's always singing when she's happy. When she sings out on the terrace, suddenly, without giving any one warning, her voice is wonderful. No audience ever heard anything like it." "I heard her Friday night. I dropped in at the Opera without knowing what they were singing. I admit all you say in regard to her voice and looks; but I stick to the whim." "But you can't fake that chap with the blond mustache," retorted Abbott grimly. "Lord, I wish I had run into you any day but to-day. I'm all in. I can telephone to the Opera from the studio, and then we shall know for a certainty whether or not she will return for the performance to-night. If not, then I'm going in for a little detective work." "Abby, it will turn out to be the sheep of Little Bo-Peep." "Have your own way about it." When they arrived at the studio Abbott telephoned promptly. Nothing had been heard. They were substituting another singer. "Call up the _Herald_," suggested Courtlandt. Abbott did so. And he had to answer innumerable questions, questions which worked him into a fine rage: who was he, where did he live, what did he know, how long had he been in Paris, and could he prove that he had arrived that morning? Abbott wanted to fling the receiver into the mouth of the transmitter, but his patience was presently rewarded. The singer had not yet been found, but the chauffeur of the mysterious car had turned up ... in a hospital, and perhaps by night they would know everything. The chauffeur had had a bad accident; the car itself was a total wreck, in a ditch, not far from Versailles. "There!" cried Abbott, slamming the receiver on the hook. "What do you say to that?" "The chauffeur may have left her somewhere, got drunk afterward, and plunged into the ditch. Things have happened like that. Abby, don't make a camel's-hair shirt out of your paint-brushes. What a pother about a singer! If it had been a great inventor, a poet, an artist, there would have been nothing more than a two-line paragraph. But an opera-singer, one who entertains us during our idle evenings--ha! that's a different matter. Set instantly that great municipal machinery called the police in action; sell extra editions on the streets. What ado!" "What the devil makes _you_ so bitter?" "Was I bitter? I thought I was philosophizing." Courtlandt consulted his watch. Half after four. "Come over to the Maurice and dine with me to-morrow night, that is, if you do not find your prima donna. I've an engagement at five-thirty, and must be off." "I was about to ask you to dine with me to-night," disappointedly. "Can't; awfully sorry, Abby. It was only luck that I met you in the Luxembourg. Be over about seven. I was very glad to see you again." Abbott kicked a broken easel into a corner. "All right. If anything turns up I'll let you know. You're at the Grand?" "Yes. By-by." "I know what's the matter with him," mused the artist, alone. "Some woman has chucked him. Silly little fool, probably." Courtlandt went down-stairs and out into the boulevard. Frankly, he was beginning to feel concerned. He still held to his original opinion that the diva had disappeared of her own free will; but if the machinery of the police had been started, he realized that his own safety would eventually become involved. By this time, he reasoned, there would not be a hotel in Paris free of surveillance. Naturally, blond strangers would be in demand. The complications that would follow his own arrest were not to be ignored. He agreed with his conscience that he had not acted with dignity in forcing his way into her apartment. But that night he had been at odds with convention; his spirit had been that of the marauding old Dutchman of the seventeenth century. He perfectly well knew that she was in the right as far as the pistol-shot was concerned. Further, he knew that he could quash any charge she might make in that direction by the simplest of declarations; and to avoid this simplest of declarations she would prefer silence above all things. They knew each other tolerably well. It was extremely fortunate that he had not been to the hotel since Saturday. He went directly to the war-office. The great and powerful man there was the only hope left. They had met some years before in Algiers, where Courtlandt had rendered him a very real service. "I did not expect you to the minute," the great man said pleasantly. "You will not mind waiting for a few minutes." "Not in the least. Only, I'm in a deuce of a mess," frankly and directly. "Innocently enough, I've stuck my head into the police net." "Is it possible that now I can pay my debt to you?" "Such as it is. Have you read the article in the newspapers regarding the disappearance of Signorina da Toscana, the singer?" "Yes." "I am the unknown blond. To-morrow morning I want you to go with me to the prefecture and state that I was with you all of Saturday and Sunday; that on Monday you and your wife dined with me, that yesterday we went to the aviation meet, and later to the Odéon." "In brief, an alibi?" smiling now. "Exactly. I shall need one." "And a perfectly good alibi. But I have your word that you are in nowise concerned? Pardon the question, but between us it is really necessary if I am to be of service to you." "On my word as a gentleman." "That is sufficient." "In fact, I do not believe that she has been abducted at all. Will you let me use your pad and pen for a minute?" The other pushed over the required articles. Courtlandt scrawled a few words and passed back the pad. "For me to read?" "Yes," moodily. The Frenchman read. Courtlandt watched him anxiously. There was not even a flicker of surprise in the official eye. Calmly he ripped off the sheet and tore it into bits, distributing the pieces into the various waste-baskets yawning about his long flat desk. Next, still avoiding the younger man's eye, he arranged his papers neatly and locked them up in a huge safe which only the artillery of the German army could have forced. He then called for his hat and stick. He beckoned to Courtlandt to follow. Not a word was said until the car was humming on the road to Vincennes. "Well?" said Courtlandt, finally. It was not possible for him to hold back the question any longer. "My dear friend, I am taking you out to the villa for the night." "But I have nothing...." "And I have everything, even foresight. If you were arrested to-night it would cause you some inconvenience. I am fifty-six, some twenty years your senior. Under this hat of mine I carry a thousand secrets, and every one of these thousand must go to the grave with me, yours along with them. I have met you a dozen times since those Algerian days, and never have you failed to afford me some amusement or excitement. You are the most interesting and entertaining young man I know. Try one of these cigars." Precisely at the time Courtlandt stepped into the automobile outside the war-office, a scene, peculiar in character, but inconspicuous in that it did not attract attention, was enacted in the Gare de l'Est. Two sober-visaged men stood respectfully aside to permit a tall young man in a Bavarian hat to enter a compartment of the second-class. What could be seen of the young man's face was full of smothered wrath and disappointment. How he hated himself, for his weakness, for his cowardice! He was not all bad. Knowing that he was being watched and followed, he could not go to Versailles and compromise her, uselessly. And devil take the sleek demon of a woman who had prompted him to commit so base an act! "You will at least," he said, "deliver that message which I have intrusted to your care." "It shall reach Versailles to-night, your Highness." The young man reread the telegram which one of the two men had given him a moment since. It was a command which even he, wilful and disobedient as he was, dared not ignore. He ripped it into shreds and flung them out of the window. He did not apologize to the man into whose face the pieces flew. That gentleman reddened perceptibly, but he held his tongue. The blare of a horn announced the time of departure. The train moved. The two men on the platform saluted, but the young man ignored the salutation. Not until the rear car disappeared in the hazy distance did the watchers stir. Then they left the station and got into the tonneau of a touring-car, which shot away and did not stop until it drew up before that imposing embassy upon which the French will always look with more or less suspicion. CHAPTER VI THE BIRD BEHIND BARS The most beautiful blue Irish eyes in the world gazed out at the dawn which turned night-blue into day-blue and paled the stars. Rosal lay the undulating horizon, presently to burst into living flame, transmuting the dull steel bars of the window into fairy gold, that trick of alchemy so futilely sought by man. There was a window at the north and another at the south, likewise barred; but the Irish eyes never sought these two. It was from the east window only that they could see the long white road that led to Paris. The nightingale was truly caged. But the wild heart of the eagle beat in this nightingale's breast, and the eyes burned as fiercely toward the east as the east burned toward the west. Sunday and Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, to-day; and that the five dawns were singular in beauty and that she had never in her life before witnessed the creation of five days, one after another, made no impression upon her sense of the beautiful, so delicate and receptive in ordinary times. She was conscious that within her the cup of wrath was overflowing. Of other things, such as eating and sleeping and moving about in her cage (more like an eagle indeed than a nightingale), recurrence had blunted her perception. Her clothes were soiled and crumpled, sundrily torn; her hair was in disorder, and tendrils hung about her temples and forehead--thick black hair, full of purple tones in the sunlight--for she had not surrendered peacefully to this incarceration. Dignity, that phase of philosophy which accepts quietly the inevitable, she had thrown to the winds. She had fought desperately, primordially, when she had learned that her errand of mercy was nothing more than a cruel hoax. "Oh, but he shall pay, he shall pay!" she murmured, striving to loosen the bars with her small, white, helpless hands. The cry seemed to be an arietta, for through all these four maddening days she had voiced it,--now low and deadly with hate, now full-toned in burning anger, now broken by sobs of despair. "Will you never come, so that I may tell you how base and vile you are?" she further addressed the east. She had waited for his appearance on Sunday. Late in the day one of the jailers had informed her that it was impossible for the gentleman to come before Monday. So she marshaled her army of phrases, of accusations, of denunciations, ready to smother him with them the moment he came. But he came not Monday, nor Tuesday, nor Wednesday. The suspense was to her mind diabolical. She began to understand: he intended to keep her there till he was sure that her spirit was broken, then he would come. Break her spirit? She laughed wildly. He could break her spirit no more easily than she could break these bars. To bring her to Versailles upon an errand of mercy! Well, he was capable of anything. The room was large and fairly comfortable, but contained nothing breakable, having been tenanted at one time by a strenuous lunatic, who had considerately died after his immediate family and relations had worn themselves into their several graves, taking care of him. But Eleonora Harrigan knew nothing of the history of the room while she occupied it. So, no ghost disturbed her restless slumberless nights, consumed in watching and listening. She was not particularly distressed because she knew that it would not be possible for her to sing again until the following winter in New York. She had sobbed too much, with her face buried in the pillow. Had these sobs been born of weakness, all might have been well; but rage had mothered them, and thus her voice was in a very bad way. This morning she was noticeably hoarse, and there was a break in the arietta. No, she did not fret over this side of the calamity. The sting of it all lay in the fact that she had been outraged in the matter of personal liberty, with no act of reprisal to ease her immediate longing to be avenged. Nora, as she stood in the full morning sunlight, was like to gladden the eyes of all mankind. She was beautiful, and all adjectives applicable would but serve to confuse rather than to embellish her physical excellence. She was as beautiful as a garden rose is, needing no defense, no ramparts of cloying phrases. The day of poets is gone, otherwise she would have been sung in cantos. She was tall, shapely, deep-bosomed, fine-skinned. Critics, in praising her charms, delved into mythology and folk-lore for comparisons, until there wasn't a goddess left on Olympus or on Northland's icy capes; and when these images became a little shop-worn, referred to certain masterpieces of the old fellows who had left nothing more to be said in oils. Nora enjoyed it all. She had not been happy in the selection of her stage name; but she had chosen Eleonora da Toscana because she believed there was good luck in it. Once, long before the world knew of her, she had returned home from Italy unexpectedly. "Molly, here's Nora, from Tuscany!" her delighted father had cried: who at that time had a nebulous idea that Tuscany was somewhere in Ireland because it had a Celtic ring to it. Being filled with love of Italy, its tongue, its history, its physical beauty, she naïvely translated "Nora from Tuscany" into Italian, and declared that when she went upon the stage she would be known by that name. There had been some smiling over the pseudonym; but Nora was Irish enough to cling to it. By and by the great music-loving public ceased to concern itself about her name; it was her fresh beauty and her wonderful voice they craved to see and hear. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, princes and princesses,--what is called royalty and nobility in the newspapers freely gave her homage. Quite a rise in the world for a little girl who had once lived in a shabby apartment in New York and run barefooted on the wet asphalts, summer nights! But Nora was not recalling the happy scenes of her childhood; indeed, no; she was still threatening Paris. Once there, she would not lack for reprisals. To have played on her pity! To have made a lure of her tender concern for the unfortunate! Never would she forgive such baseness. And only a little while ago she had been as happy as the nightingale to which they compared her. Never had she wronged any one; she had been kindness and thoughtfulness to all with whom she had come in contact. But from now on!... Her fingers tightened round the bars. She might have posed as Dido when she learned that the noble Æneas was dead. War, war; woe to the moths who fluttered about her head hereafter! Ah, but had she been happy? Her hands slid down the bars. Her expression changed. The mouth drooped, the eagle-light in her eyes dimmed. From out the bright morning, somewhere, had come weariness, and with this came weakness, and finally, tears. She heard the key turn in the lock. They had never come so early before. She was astonished to see that her jailer did not close the door as usual. He put down the breakfast tray on the table. There was tea and toast and fruit. "Mademoiselle, there has been a terrible mistake," said the man humbly. "Ah! So you have found that out?" she cried. "Yes. You are not the person for whom this room was intended." Which was half a truth and perfectly true, paradoxical as it may seem. "Eat your breakfast in peace. You are free, Mademoiselle." "Free? You will not hinder me if I walk through that door?" "No, Mademoiselle. On the contrary, I shall be very glad, and so will my brother, who guards you at night. I repeat, there has been a frightful mistake. Monsieur Champeaux ..." "Monsieur Champeaux!" Nora was bewildered. She had never heard this name before. "He calls himself that," was the diplomatic answer. All Nora's suspicions took firm ground again. "Will you describe this Monsieur Champeaux to me?" asked the actress coming into life. "He is short, dark, and old, Mademoiselle." "Rather is he not tall, blond, and young?" ironically. The jailer concealed what annoyance he felt. In his way he was just as capable an actor as she was. The accuracy of her description startled him; for the affair had been carried out so adroitly that he had been positive that until her real captor appeared she would be totally in the dark regarding his identity. And here she had hit it off in less than a dozen words. Oh, well; it did not matter now. She might try to make it unpleasant for his employer, but he doubted the ultimate success of her attempts. However, the matter was at an end as far as he was concerned. "Have you thought what this means? It is abduction. It is a crime you have committed, punishable by long imprisonment." "I have been Mademoiselle's jailer, not her abductor. And when one is poor and in need of money!" He shrugged. "I will give you a thousand francs for the name and address of the man who instigated this outrage." Ah, he thought: then she wasn't so sure? "I told you the name, Mademoiselle. As for his address, I dare not give it, not for ten thousand francs. Besides, I have said that there has been a mistake." "For whom have I been mistaken?" "Who but Monsieur Champeaux's wife, Mademoiselle, who is not in her right mind?" with inimitable sadness. "Very well," said Nora. "You say that I am free. That is all I want, freedom." "In twenty minutes the electric tram leaves for Paris. You will recall, Mademoiselle," humbly, "that we have taken nothing belonging to you. You have your purse and hat and cloak. The struggle was most unfortunate. But, think, Mademoiselle, think; we thought you to be insane!" "Permit me to doubt that! And you are not afraid to let me go?" "Not in the least, Mademoiselle. A mistake has been made, and in telling you to go at once, we do our best to rectify this mistake. It is only five minutes to the tram. A carriage is at the door. Will Mademoiselle be pleased to remember that we have treated her with the utmost courtesy?" "I shall remember everything," ominously. "Very good, Mademoiselle. You will be in Paris before nine." With this he bowed and backed out of the room as though Nora had suddenly made a distinct ascension in the scale of importance. "Wait!" she called. His face appeared in the doorway again. "Do you know who I am?" "Since this morning, Mademoiselle." "That is all." Free! Her veins tingled with strange exultation. He had lost his courage and had become afraid of the consequences. Free! Monsieur Champeaux indeed! Cowardice was a new development in his character. He had been afraid to come. She drank the tea, but did not touch the toast or fruit. There would be time enough for breakfast when she arrived in Paris. Her hands trembled violently as she pinned on her hat, and she was not greatly concerned as to the angle. She snatched up her purse and cloak, and sped out into the street. A phaeton awaited her. "The tram," she said. "Yes, Mademoiselle." "And go quickly." She would not feel safe until she was in the tram. A face appeared at one of the windows. As the vehicle turned the corner, the face vanished; and perhaps that particular visage disappeared forever. A gray wig came off, the little gray side-whiskers, the bushy grey eyebrows, revealing a clever face, not more than thirty, cunning, but humorously cunning and anything but scoundrelly. The painted scar aslant the nose was also obliterated. With haste the man thrust the evidences of disguise into a traveling-bag, ran here and there through the rooms, all bare and unfurnished save the one with the bars and the kitchen, which contained two cots and some cooking utensils. Nothing of importance had been left behind. He locked the door and ran all the way to the Place d'Armes, catching the tram to Paris by a fraction of a minute. All very well done. She would be in Paris before the police made any definite move. The one thing that disturbed him was the thought of the blockhead of a chauffeur, who had got drunk before his return from Versailles. If he talked; well, he could say nothing beyond the fact that he had deposited the singer at the house as directed. He knew positively nothing. The man laughed softly. A thousand francs apiece for him and Antoine, and no possible chance of being discovered. Let the police find the house in Versailles; let them trace whatever paths they found; the agent would tell them, and honestly, that an aged man had rented the house for a month and had paid him in advance. What more could the agent say? Only one bit of puzzlement: why hadn't the blond stranger appeared? Who was he, in truth, and what had been his game? All this waiting and wondering, and then a curt telegram of the night before, saying, "Release her." So much the better. What his employer's motives were did not interest him half so much as the fact that he had a thousand francs in his pocket, and that all element of danger had been done away with. True, the singer herself would move heaven and earth to find out who had been back of the abduction. Let her make her accusations. He was out of it. He glanced toward the forward part of the tram. There she sat, staring at the white road ahead. A young Frenchman sat near her, curling his mustache desperately. So beautiful and all alone! At length he spoke to her. She whirled upon him so suddenly that his hat fell off his head and rolled at the feet of the onlooker. "Your hat, Monsieur?" he said gravely, returning it. Nora laughed maliciously. The author of the abortive flirtation fled down to the body of the tram. And now there was no one on top but Nora and her erstwhile jailer, whom she did not recognize in the least. * * * * * "Mademoiselle," said the great policeman soberly, "this is a grave accusation to make." "I make it, nevertheless," replied Nora. She sat stiffly in her chair, her face colorless, dark circles under her eyes. She never looked toward Courtlandt. "But Monsieur Courtlandt has offered an alibi such as we can not ignore. More than that, his integrity is vouched for by the gentleman at his side, whom doubtless Mademoiselle recognizes." Nora eyed the great man doubtfully. "What is the gentleman to you?" she was interrogated. "Absolutely nothing," contemptuously. The minister inspected his rings. "He has annoyed me at various times," continued Nora; "that is all. And his actions on Friday night warrant every suspicion I have entertained against him." The chief of police turned toward the bandaged chauffeur. "You recognize the gentleman?" "No, Monsieur, I never saw him before. It was an old man who engaged me." "Go on." "He said that Mademoiselle's old teacher was very ill and asked for assistance. I left Mademoiselle at the house and drove away. I was hired from the garage. That is the truth, Monsieur." Nora smiled disbelievingly. Doubtless he had been paid well for that lie. "And you?" asked the chief of Nora's chauffeur. "He is certainly the gentleman, Monsieur, who attempted to bribe me." "That is true," said Courtlandt with utmost calmness. "Mademoiselle, if Monsieur Courtlandt wished, he could accuse you of attempting to shoot him." "It was an accident. His sudden appearance in my apartment frightened me. Besides, I believe a woman who lives comparatively alone has a legal and moral right to protect herself from such unwarrantable intrusions. I wish him no physical injury, but I am determined to be annoyed by him no longer." The minister's eyes sought Courtlandt's face obliquely. Strange young man, he thought. From the expression of his face he might have been a spectator rather than the person most vitally concerned in this little scene. And what a pair they made! "Monsieur Courtlandt, you will give me your word of honor not to annoy Mademoiselle again?" "I promise never to annoy her again." For the briefest moment the blazing blue eyes clashed with the calm brown ones. The latter were first to deviate from the line. It was not agreeable to look into a pair of eyes burning with the hate of one's self. Perhaps this conflagration was intensified by the placidity of his gaze. If only there had been some sign of anger, of contempt, anything but this incredible tranquillity against which she longed to cry out! She was too wrathful to notice the quickening throb of the veins on his temples. "Mademoiselle, I find no case against Monsieur Courtlandt, unless you wish to appear against him for his forcible entrance to your apartment." Nora shook her head. The chief of police stroked his mustache to hide the fleeting smile. A peculiar case, the like of which had never before come under his scrutiny! "Circumstantial evidence, we know, points to him; but we have also an alibi which is incontestable. We must look elsewhere for your abductors. Think; have you not some enemy? Is there no one who might wish you worry and inconvenience? Are your associates all loyal to you? Is there any jealousy?" "No, none at all, Monsieur," quickly and decidedly. "In my opinion, then, the whole affair is a hoax, perpetrated to vex and annoy you. The old man who employed this chauffeur may not have been old. I have looked upon all sides of the affair, and it begins to look like a practical joke, Mademoiselle." "Ah!" angrily. "And am I to have no redress? Think of the misery I have gone through, the suspense! My voice is gone. I shall not be able to sing again for months. Is it your suggestion that I drop the investigation?" "Yes, Mademoiselle, for it does not look as if we could get anywhere with it. If you insist, I will hold Monsieur Courtlandt; but I warn you the magistrate would not hesitate to dismiss the case instantly. Monsieur Courtlandt arrived in Marseilles Thursday morning; he reached Paris Friday morning. Since arriving in Paris he has fully accounted for his time. It is impossible that he could have arranged for the abduction. Still, if you say, I can hold him for entering your apartment." "That would be but a farce." Nora rose. "Monsieur, permit me to wish you good day. For my part, I shall pursue this matter to the end. I believe this gentleman guilty, and I shall do my best to prove it. I am a woman, and all alone. When a man has powerful friends, it is not difficult to build an alibi." "That is a reflection upon my word, Mademoiselle," quietly interposed the minister. "Monsieur has been imposed upon." Nora walked to the door. "Wait a moment, Mademoiselle," said the prefect. "Why do you insist upon prosecuting him for something of which he is guiltless, when you could have him held for something of which he is really guilty?" "The one is trivial; the other is a serious outrage. Good morning." The attendant closed the door behind her. "A very determined young woman," mused the chief of police. "Exceedingly," agreed the minister. Courtlandt got up wearily. But the chief motioned him to be reseated. "I do not say that I dare not pursue my investigations; but now that mademoiselle is safely returned, I prefer not to." "May I ask who made this request?" asked Courtlandt. "Request? Yes, Monsieur, it was a request not to proceed further." "From where?" "As to that, you will have to consult the head of the state. I am not at liberty to make the disclosure." The minister leaned forward eagerly. "Then there is a political side to it?" "There would be if everything had not turned out so fortunately." "I believe that I understand now," said Courtlandt, his face hardening. Strange, he had not thought of it before. His skepticism had blinded him to all but one angle. "Your advice to drop the matter is excellent." The chief of police elevated his brows interrogatively. "For I presume," continued Courtlandt, rising, "that Mademoiselle's abductor is by this time safely across the frontier." CHAPTER VII BATTLING JIMMIE There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it--this terrace--poets have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view, and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of modest means rush up to it and down from it to catch the next steamer to Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains, unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger. Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles, and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress, the copper beech, the green pine accentuate the pink and blue and white stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble. Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens. There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the devoteés of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The Englishman's reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or fräulein. (This is nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban highways of the world.) Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet green, abounding in four-leaf clover. _Buona fortuna!_ In the center there is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has. Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted, and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; "Battling Jimmie" Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but only once had he been "railroaded into dreamland," to use the parlance of the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service, lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them. True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain expectant tilt, the reporters scribbling on the deal tables under the very posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never, never again; if only for the little woman's sake. Only when the game was done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return on fighting nights. To-day "Battling Jimmie" was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot, but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays. Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak, was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the pages of Bagot's _Italian Lakes_, and he wasn't making much headway. He was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome. Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of folding up an easel and a camp-stool. The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines. Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox. From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no words,--half a dozen bars from _Martha_; but every delightful note went deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog. The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist scowled at the Italian. "Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!" The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a lover as any, and far more favored. "Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't; let go!" Silence. The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm. "I'll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan," he said. "All right, Abbott." Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner, that his reply was by now purely mechanical. "She's getting her voice back all right; eh?" "Beautifully! But I really don't think she ought to sing at the Haines' villa Sunday." "One song won't hurt her. She's made up her mind to sing. There's nothing for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?" "No." "Say, do you know what I think?" "What?" "Some one has come across to the police." "Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan." "Oh, I don't know. There's a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or New York. Why haven't they moved? They can't tell me that tow-headed chap's alibi was on the level. I wish I'd been in Paris. There'd been something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can't get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws her nerves all out, she says. I'd like to get my hands on the blackguard." "So would I. It's a puzzle. If he had molested her while she was a captive, you could understand. But he never came near her." "Busted his nerve, that's what." "I have my doubts about that. A man who will go that far isn't subject to any derangement of his nerves. Want me to bring up the checkers?" "Sure. I've got two rubbers hanging over you." The artist took the path that led around the villa and thence down by many steps to the village by the waterside, to the cream-tinted cluster of shops and enormous hotels. The Italian was more fortunate. He was staying at the villa. He rose and sauntered over to Harrigan, who was always a source of interest to him. Study the man as he might, there always remained a profound mystery to his keen Italian mind. Every now and then nature--to prove that while she provided laws for humanity she obeyed none herself--nature produced the prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes; but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparable in the living history of music, here logic, the cold and accurate intruder, found an unlockable door. He liked the ex-prizefighter, so kindly and wholesome; but he also pitied him. Harrigan reminded him of a seal he had once seen in an aquarium tank: out of his element, but merry-eyed and swimming round and round as if determined to please everybody. "It will be a fine night," said the Italian, pausing at Harrigan's bench. "Every night is fine here, Barone," replied Harrigan. "Why, they had me up in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I'm not over it yet. It's no place for a sick man; only a well man could come out of it alive." The Barone laughed. Harrigan had told this tale half a dozen times, but each time the Barone felt called on to laugh. The man was her father. "Do you know, Mr. Harrigan, Miss Harrigan is not herself? She is--what do you call?--bitter. She laughs, but--ah, I do not know!--it sounds not real." "Well, she isn't over that rumpus in Paris yet." "Rumpus?" "The abduction." "Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see." "No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise, calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of cards, anything." The Barone spread his hands. "I comprehend," hurriedly. He comprehended nothing, but he was too proud to admit it. "So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called there at the apartment the very day!" "Ah, if I had been there the right time!" "But what puts me down for the count is the action of the fellow. Never showed up; just made her miss two performances." "He was afraid. Men who do cowardly things are always afraid." The Barone spoke with decided accent, but he seldom made a grammatical error. "But sometimes, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness. Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale." The Italian looked down on Como whose broad expanse was crisscrossed by rippled paths made by arriving and departing steamers. "It is not a wonder that some man might want to run away with her." Harrigan looked curiously at the other. "Well, it won't be healthy for any man to try it again." The father held out his powerful hands for the Barone's inspection. They called mutely but expressively for the throat of the man who dared. "It'll never happen again. Her mother and I are not going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I'm going to trail along; when she hits the high note in Paris, I'm lingering near; when she trills in London, I'm hiding in the shadow. And you may put that in your pipe and smoke it." "I smoke only cigarettes," replied the Barone gravely. It had been difficult to follow, this English. Harrigan said nothing in return. He had given up trying to explain to the Italian the idiomatic style of old Broadway. He got up and brushed his flannels perfunctorily. "Well, I suppose I've got to dress for supper," resentfully. He still called it supper; and, as in the matter of the silk hat, his wife no longer strove to correct him. The evening meal had always been supper, and so it would remain until that time when he would cease to look forward to it. "Do you go to the dancing at Cadenabbia to-night?" "Me? I should say not!" Harrigan laughed. "I'd look like a bull in a china-shop. Abbott is coming up to play checkers with me. I'll leave the honors to you." The Barone's face lighted considerably. He hated the artist only when he was visible. He was rather confused, however. Abbott had been invited to the dance. Why wasn't he going? Could it be true? Had the artist tried his luck and lost? Ah, if fate were as kind as that! He let Harrigan depart alone. Why not? What did he care? What if the father had been a fighter for prizes? What if the mother was possessed with a misguided desire to shine socially? What mattered it if they had once resided in an obscure tenement in a great city, and that grandfathers were as far back as they could go with any certainty? Was he not his own master? What titled woman of his acquaintance whose forebears had been powerful in the days of the Borgias, was not dimmed in the presence of this wonderful maid to whom all things had been given unreservedly? Her brow was fit for a royal crown, let alone a simple baronial tiara such as he could provide. The mother favored him a little; of this he was reasonably certain; but the moods of the daughter were difficult to discover or to follow. To-night! The round moon was rising palely over Lecco; the moon, mistress of love and tides, toward whom all men and maids must look, though only Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian's question, for he faced about and walked moodily toward the entrance. Here he paused, looking up at the empty window. Again a snatch of song-- _O solo mio_ ... _che bella cosa_...! What a beautiful thing indeed! Passionately he longed for the old days, when by his physical prowess alone oft a man won his lady. Diplomacy, torrents of words, sly little tricks, subterfuges, adroitness, stolen glances, careless touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day. When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was only mischievous. She was just as likely to sing _O terra addio_ when she was happy as _O sole mio_ when she was sad. So, how was a man to know the right approach to her variant moods? Sighing deeply, he went on to his room, to change his Piccadilly suit for another which was supposed to be the last word in the matter of evening dress. Below, in the village, a man entered the Grand Hotel. He was tall, blond, rosy-cheeked. He carried himself like one used to military service; also, like one used to giving peremptory orders. The porter bowed, the director bowed, and the proprietor himself became a living carpenter's square, hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew every woman of importance at that time residing on the Point. Certainly it could be none of these. _Himmel!_ He struck his hands together. So that was it: the singer. He recalled the hints in certain newspaper paragraphs, the little tales with the names left to the imagination. So that was it? What a woman! Men looked at her and went mad. And not so long ago one had abducted her in Paris. The proprietor threw up his hands in despair. What was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The youth permitted nothing to stand in his way, and the singer's father was a retired fighter with boxing-gloves! CHAPTER VIII MOONLIGHT AND A PRINCE When he had fought what he considered two rattling rounds, Harrigan conceded that his cravat had once more got the decision over him on points. And the cravat was only a second-rater, too, a black-silk affair. He tossed up the sponge and went down to the dining-room, the ends of the conqueror straggling like the four points of a battered weather-vane. His wife and daughter and Mademoiselle Fournier were already at their table by the casement window, from which they could see the changing granite mask of Napoleon across Lecco. At the villa there were seldom more than ten or twelve guests, this being quite the capacity of the little hotel. These generally took refuge here in order to escape the noise and confusion of a large hotel, to avoid the necessity of dining in state every night. Few of the men wore evening dress, save on occasions when they were entertaining. The villa wasn't at all fashionable, and the run of American tourists fought shy of it, preferring the music and dancing and card-playing of the famous hostelries along the water-front. Of course, everybody came up for the view, just as everybody went up the Corner Grat (by cable) at Zermatt to see the Matterhorn. But for all its apparent dulness, there, was always an English duchess, a Russian princess, or a lady from the Faubourg St.-Germain somewhere about, resting after a strenuous winter along the Riviera. Nora Harrigan sought it not only because she loved the spot, but because it sheltered her from idle curiosity. It was almost as if the villa were hers, and the other people her guests. Harrigan crossed the room briskly, urged by an appetite as sound as his views on life. The chef here was a king; there was always something to look forward to at the dinner hour; some new way of serving spinach, or lentils, or some irresistible salad. He smiled at every one and pulled out his chair. "Sorry to keep you folks waiting." "James!" "What's the matter now?" he asked good-naturedly. Never that tone but something was out of kilter. His wife glanced wrathfully at his feet. Wonderingly he looked down. In the heat of the battle with his cravat he had forgotten all about his tennis shoes. "I see. No soup for mine." He went back to his room, philosophically. There was always something wrong when he got into these infernal clothes. "Mother," said Nora, "why can't you let him be?" "But white shoes!" in horror. "Who cares? He's the patientest man I know. We're always nagging him, and I for one am going to stop. Look about! So few men and women dress for dinner. You do as you please here, and that is why I like it." "I shall never be able to do anything with him as long as he sees that his mistakes are being condoned by you," bitterly responded the mother. "Some day he will humiliate us all by his carelessness." "Oh, bother!" Nora's elbow slyly dug into Celeste's side. The pianist's pretty face was bent over her soup. She had grown accustomed to these little daily rifts. For the great, patient, clumsy, happy-go-lucky man she entertained an intense pity. But it was not the kind that humiliates; on the contrary, it was of a mothering disposition; and the ex-gladiator dimly recognized it, and felt more comfortable with her than with any other woman excepting Nora. She understood him perhaps better than either mother or daughter; he was too late: he belonged to a distant time, the beginning of the Christian era; and often she pictured him braving the net and the trident in the saffroned arena. Mrs. Harrigan broke her bread vexatiously. Her husband refused to think for himself, and it was wearing on her nerves to watch him day and night. Deep down under the surface of new adjustments and social ambitions, deep in the primitive heart, he was still her man. But it was only when he limped with an occasional twinge of rheumatism, or a tooth ached, or he dallied with his meals, that the old love-instinct broke up through these artificial crustations. True, she never knew how often he invented these trivial ailments, for he soon came into the knowledge that she was less concerned about him when he was hale and hearty. She still retained evidences of a blossomy beauty. Abbott had once said truly that nature had experimented on her; it was in the reproduction that perfection had been reached. To see the father, the mother, and the daughter together it was not difficult to fashion a theory as to the latter's splendid health and physical superiority. Arriving at this point, however, theory began to fray at the ends. No one could account for the genius and the voice. The mother often stood lost in wonder that out of an ordinary childhood, a barelegged, romping, hoydenish childhood, this marvel should emerge: her's! She was very ambitious for her daughter. She wanted to see nothing less than a ducal coronet upon the child's brow, British preferred. If ordinary chorus girls and vaudeville stars, possessing only passable beauty and no intelligence whatever, could bring earls into their nets, there was no reason why Nora could not be a princess or a duchess. So she planned accordingly. But the child puzzled and eluded her; and from time to time she discovered a disquieting strength of character behind a disarming amiability. Ever since Nora had returned home by way of the Orient, the mother had recognized a subtle change, so subtle that she never had an opportunity of alluding to it verbally. Perhaps the fault lay at her own door. She should never have permitted Nora to come abroad alone to fill her engagements. But that Nora was to marry a duke was, to her mind, a settled fact. It is a peculiar phase, this of the humble who find themselves, without effort of their own, thrust up among the great and the so-called, who forget whence they came in the fierce contest for supremacy upon that tottering ledge called society. The cad and the snob are only infrequently well-born. Mrs. Harrigan was as yet far from being a snob, but it required some tact upon Nora's part to prevent this dubious accomplishment. "Is Mr. Abbott going with us?" she inquired. "Donald is sulking," Nora answered. "For once the Barone got ahead of him in engaging the motor-boat." "I wish you would not call him by his first name." "And why not? I like him, and he is a very good comrade." "You do not call the Barone by his given name." "Heavens, no! If I did he would kiss me. These Italians will never understand western customs, mother. I shall never marry an Italian, much as I love Italy." "Nor a Frenchman?" asked Celeste. "Nor a Frenchman." "I wish I knew if you meant it," sighed the mother. "My dear, I have given myself to the stage. You will never see me being led to the altar." "No, you will do the leading when the time comes," retorted the mother. "Mother, the men I like you may count upon the fingers of one hand. Three of them are old. For the rest, I despise men." "I suppose some day you will marry some poverty-stricken artist," said the mother, filled with dark foreboding. "You would not call Donald poverty-stricken." "No. But you will never marry him." "No. I never shall." Celeste smoothed her hands, a little trick she had acquired from long hours spent at the piano. "He will make some woman a good husband." "That he will." "And he is most desperately in love with you." "That's nonsense!" scoffed Nora. "He thinks he is. He ought to fall in love with you, Celeste. Every time you play the fourth _ballade_ he looks as if he was ready to throw himself at your feet." "_Pouf!_ For ten minutes?" Celeste laughed bravely. "He leaves me quickly enough when you begin to sing." "Glamour, glamour!" "Well, I should not care for the article second-hand." The arrival of Harrigan put an end to this dangerous trend of conversation. He walked in tight proper pumps, and sat down. He was only hungry now; the zest for dining was gone. "Don't go sitting out in the night air, Nora," he warned. "I sha'n't." "And don't dance more than you ought to. Your mother would let you wear the soles off your shoes if she thought you were attracting attention. Don't do it." "James, that is not true," the mother protested. "Well, Molly, you do like to hear 'em talk. I wish they knew how to cook a good club steak." "I brought up a book from the village for you to-day," said Mrs. Harrigan, sternly. "I'll bet a dollar it's on how to keep the creases in a fellow's pants." "Trousers." "Pants," helping himself to the last of the romaine. "What time do you go over?" "At nine. We must be getting ready now," said Nora. "Don't wait up for us." "And only one cigar," added the mother. "Say, Molly, you keep closing in on me. Tobacco won't hurt me any, and I get a good deal of comfort out of it these days." "Two," smiled Nora. "But his heart!" "And what in mercy's name is the matter with his heart? The doctor at Marienbad said that father was the soundest man of his age he had ever met." Nora looked quizzically at her father. He grinned. Out of his own mouth he had been nicely trapped. That morning he had complained of a little twinge in his heart, a childish subterfuge to take Mrs. Harrigan's attention away from the eternal society page of the _Herald_. It had succeeded. He had even been cuddled. "James, you told me..." "Oh, Molly, I only wanted to talk to you." "To do so it isn't necessary to frighten me to death," reproachfully. "One cigar, and no more." "Molly, what ails you?" as they left the dining-room. "Nora's right. That sawbones said I was made of iron. I'm only smoking native cigars, and it takes a bunch of 'em to get the taste of tobacco. All right; in a few months you'll have me with the stuffed canary under the glass top. What's the name of that book?" diplomatically. "_Social Usages._" "Break away!" Nora laughed. "But, dad, you really must read it carefully. It will tell you how to talk to a duchess, if you chance to meet one when I am not around. It has all the names of the forks and knives and spoons, and it tells you never to use sugar on your lettuce." And then she threw her arm around her mother's waist. "Honey, when you buy books for father, be sure they are by Dumas or Haggard or Doyle. Otherwise he will never read a line." "And I try so hard!" Tears came into Mrs. Harrigan's eyes. "There, there, Molly, old girl!" soothed the outlaw. "I'll read the book. I know I'm a stupid old stumbling-block, but it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, that is, at the ring of the gong. Run along to your party. And don't break any more hearts than you need, Nora." Nora promised in good faith. But once in the ballroom, that little son of Satan called malice-aforethought took possession of her; and there was havoc. If a certain American countess had not patronized her; if certain lorgnettes (implements of torture used by said son of Satan) had not been leveled in her direction; if certain fans had not been suggestively spread between pairs of feminine heads,--Nora would have been as harmless as a playful kitten. From door to door of the ballroom her mother fluttered like a hen with a duckling. Even Celeste was disturbed, for she saw that Nora's conduct was not due to any light-hearted fun. There was something bitter and ironic cloaked by those smiles, that tinkle of laughter. In fact, Nora from Tuscany flirted outrageously. The Barone sulked and tore at his mustache. He committed any number of murders, by eye and by wish. When his time came to dance with the mischief-maker, he whirled her around savagely, and never said a word; and once done with, he sternly returned her to her mother, which he deemed the wisest course to pursue. "Nora, you are behaving abominably!" whispered her mother, pale with indignation. "Well, I am having a good time ... Your dance? Thank you." And a tender young American led her through the mazes of the waltz, as some poet who knew what he was about phrased it. It is not an exaggeration to say that there was not a woman in the ballroom to compare with her, and some of them were marvelously gowned and complexioned, too. She overshadowed them not only by sheer beauty, but by exuberance of spirit. And they followed her with hating eyes and whispered scandalous things behind their fans and wondered what had possessed the Marchesa to invite the bold thing: so does mediocrity pay homage to beauty and genius. As for the men, though madness lay that way, eagerly as of old they sought it. By way of parenthesis: Herr Rosen marched up the hill and down again, something after the manner of a certain warrior king celebrated in verse. The object of his visit had gone to the ball at Cadenabbia. At the hotel he demanded a motor-boat. There was none to be had. In a furious state of mind he engaged two oarsmen to row him across the lake. And so it came to pass that when Nora, suddenly grown weary of the play, full of bitterness and distaste, hating herself and every one else in the world, stole out to the quay to commune with the moon, she saw him jump from the boat to the landing, scorning the steps. Instantly she drew her lace mantle closely about her face. It was useless. In the man the hunter's instinct was much too keen. "So I have found you!" "One would say that I had been in hiding?" coldly. "From me, always. I have left everything--duty, obligations--to seek you." "From any other man that might be a compliment." "I am a prince," he said proudly. She faced him with that quick resolution, that swift forming of purpose, which has made the Irish so difficult in argument and persuasion. "Will you marry me? Will you make me your wife legally? Before all the world? Will you surrender, for the sake of this love you profess, your right to a great inheritance? Will you risk the anger and the iron hand of your father for my sake?" "_Herr Gott!_ I am mad!" He covered his eyes. "That expression proves that your Highness is sane again. Have you realized the annoyances, the embarrassments, you have thrust upon me by your pursuit? Have you not read the scandalous innuendoes in the newspapers? Your Highness, I was not born on the Continent, so I look upon my work from a point of view not common to those of your caste. I am proud of it, and I look upon it with honor, honor. I am a woman, but I am not wholly defenseless. There was a time when I thought I might number among my friends a prince; but you have made that impossible." "Come," he said hoarsely; "let us go and find a priest. You are right. I love you; I will give up everything, everything!" For a moment she was dumb. This absolute surrender appalled her. But that good fortune which had ever been at her side stepped into the breach. And as she saw the tall form of the Barone approach, she could have thrown her arms around his neck in pure gladness. "Oh, Barone!" she called. "Am I making you miss this dance?" "It does not matter, Signorina." The Barone stared keenly at the erect and tense figure at the prima donna's side. "You will excuse me, Herr Rosen," said Nora, as she laid her hand upon the Barone's arm. Herr Rosen bowed stiffly; and the two left him standing uncovered in the moonlight. "What is he doing here? What has he been saying to you?" the Barone demanded. Nora withdrew her hand from his arm. "Pardon me," said he contritely. "I have no right to ask you such questions." It was not long after midnight when the motor-boat returned to its abiding place. On the way over conversation lagged, and finally died altogether. Mrs. Harrigan fell asleep against Celeste's shoulder, and the musician never deviated her gaze from the silver ripples which flowed out diagonally and magically from the prow of the boat. Nora watched the stars slowly ascend over the eastern range of mountains; and across the fire of his innumerable cigarettes the Barone watched her. As the boat was made fast to the landing in front of the Grand Hotel, Celeste observed a man in evening dress, lounging against the rail of the quay. The search-light from the customs-boat, hunting for tobacco smugglers, flashed over his face. She could not repress the little gasp, and her hand tightened upon Nora's arm. "What is it?" asked Nora. "Nothing. I thought I was slipping." CHAPTER IX COLONEL CAXLEY-WEBSTER Abbott's studio was under the roof of one of the little hotels that stand timorously and humbly, yet expectantly, between the imposing cream-stucco of the Grand Hotel at one end and the elaborate pink-stucco of the Grande Bretegne at the other. The hobnailed shoes of the Teuton (who wears his mountain kit all the way from Hamburg to Palermo) wore up and down the stairs all day; and the racket from the hucksters' carts and hotel omnibuses, arriving and departing from the steamboat landing, the shouts of the begging boatmen, the quarreling of the children and the barking of unpedigreed dogs,--these noises were incessant from dawn until sunset. The artist glared down from his square window at the ruffled waters, or scowled at the fleeting snows on the mountains over the way. He passed some ten or twelve minutes in this useless occupation, but he could not get away from the bald fact that he had acted like a petulant child. To have shown his hand so openly, simply because the Barone had beaten him in the race for the motor-boat! And Nora would understand that he was weak and without backbone. Harrigan himself must have reasoned out the cause for such asinine plays as he had executed in the game of checkers. How many times had the old man called out to him to wake up and move? In spirit he had been across the lake, a spirit in Hades. He was not only a fool, but a coward likewise. He had not dared to "... put it to the touch To gain or lose it all." He saw it coming: before long he and that Italian would be at each other's throats. "Come in!" he called, in response to a sudden thunder on the door. The door opened and a short, energetic old man, purple-visaged and hawk-eyed, came in. "Why the devil don't you join the Trappist monks, Abbott? If I wasn't tough I should have died of apoplexy on the second landing." "Good morning, Colonel!" Abbott laughed and rolled out the patent rocker for his guest. "What's on your mind this morning? I can give you one without ice." "I'll take it neat, my boy. I'm not thirsty, I'm faint. These Italian architects; they call three ladders flights of stairs! ... Ha! That's Irish whisky, and jolly fine. Want you to come over and take tea this afternoon. I'm going up presently to see the Harrigans. Thought I'd go around and do the thing informally. Taken a fancy to the old chap. He's a little bit of all right. I'm no older than he is, but look at the difference! Whisky and soda, that's the racket. Not by the tubful; just an ordinary half dozen a day, and a dem climate thrown in." "Difference in training." "Rot! It's the sized hat a man wears. I'd give fifty guineas to see the old fellow in action. But, I say; recall the argument we had before you went to Paris?" "Yes." "Well, I win. Saw him bang across the street this morning." Abbott muttered something. "What was that?" "Nothing." "Sounded like 'dem it' to me." "Maybe it did." "Heard about him in Paris?" "No." "The old boy had transferred his regiment to a lonesome post in the North to cool his blood. The youngster took the next train to Paris. He was there incognito for two weeks before they found him and bundled him back. Of course, every one knows that he is but a crazy lad who's had too much freedom." The colonel emptied his glass. "I feel dem sorry for Nora. She's the right sort. But a woman can't take a man by the scruff of his neck and chuck him." "But I can," declared Abbott savagely. "Tut, tut! He'd eat you alive. Besides, you will find him too clever to give you an opening. But he'll bear watching. He's capable of putting her on a train and running away with her. Between you and me, I don't blame him. What's the matter with sicking the Barone on him? He's the best man in Southern Italy with foils and broadswords. Sic 'em, Towser; sic 'em!" The old fire-eater chuckled. The subject was extremely distasteful to the artist. The colonel, a rough soldier, whose diplomacy had never risen above the heights of clubbing a recalcitrant Hill man into submission, baldly inferred that he understood the artist's interest in the rose of the Harrigan family. He would have liked to talk more in regard to the interloper, but it would have been sheer folly. The colonel, in his blundering way, would have brought up the subject again at tea-time and put everybody on edge. He had, unfortunately for his friends, a reputation other than that of a soldier: he posed as a peacemaker. He saw trouble where none existed, and the way he patched up imaginary quarrels would have strained the patience of Job. Still, every one loved him, though they lived in mortal fear of him. So Abbott came about quickly and sailed against the wind. "By the way," he said, "I wish you would let me sketch that servant of yours. He's got a profile like a medallion. Where did you pick him up?" "In the Hills. He's a Sikh, and a first-class fighting man. Didn't know that you went for faces." "Not as a usual thing. Just want it for my own use. How does he keep his beard combed that way?" "I've never bothered myself about the curl of his whiskers. Are my clothes laid out? Luggage attended to? Guns shipshape? That's enough for me. Some day you have got to go out there with me." "Never shot a gun in all my life. I don't know which end to hold at my shoulder." "Teach you quick enough. Every man's a born hunter. Rao will have tigers eating out of your hand. He's a marvel; saved my hide more than once. Funny thing; you can't show 'em that you're grateful. Lose caste if you do. I rather miss it. Get the East in your blood and you'll never get it out. Fascinating! But my liver turned over once too many times. Ha! Some one coming up to buy a picture." The step outside was firm and unwearied by the climb. The door opened unceremoniously, and Courtlandt came in. He stared at the colonel and the colonel returned the stare. "Caxley-Webster! Well, I say, this globe goes on shrinking every day!" cried Courtlandt. The two pumped hands energetically, sizing each other up critically. Then they sat down and shot questions, while Abbott looked on bewildered. Elephants and tigers and chittahs and wild boar and quail-running and strange guttural names; weltering nights in the jungles, freezing mornings in the Hills; stupendous card games; and what had become of so-and-so, who always drank his whisky neat; and what's-his-name, who invented cures for snake bites! Abbott deliberately pushed over an oak bench. "Am I host here or not?" "Abby, old man, how are you?" said Courtlandt, smiling warmly and holding out his hand. "My apologies; but the colonel and I never expected to see each other again. And I find him talking with you up here under this roof. It's marvelous." "It's a wonder you wouldn't drop a fellow a line," said Abbott, in a faultfinding tone, as he righted the bench. "When did you come?" "Last night. Came up from Como." "Going to stay long?" "That depends. I am really on my way to Zermatt. I've a hankering to have another try at the Matterhorn." "Think of that!" exclaimed the colonel. "He says another try." "You came a roundabout way," was the artist's comment. "Oh, that's because I left Paris for Brescia. They had some good flights there. Wonderful year! They cross the Channel in an airship and discover the North Pole." "Pah! Neither will be of any use to humanity; merely a fine sporting proposition." The colonel dug into his pocket for his pipe. "But what do you think of Germany?" "Fine country," answered Courtlandt, rising and going to a window; "fine people, too. Why?" "Do you--er--think they could whip us?" "On land, yes." "The devil!" "On water, no." "Thanks. In other words, you believe our chances equal?" "So equal that all this war-scare is piffle. But I rather like to see you English get up in the air occasionally. It will do you good. You've an idea because you walloped Napoleon that you're the same race you were then, and you are not. The English-speaking races, as the first soldiers, have ceased to be." "Well, I be dem!" gasped the colonel. "It's the truth. Take the American: he thinks there is nothing in the world but money. Take the Britisher: to him caste is everything. Take the money out of one man's mind and the importance of being well-born out of the other...." He turned from the window and smiled at the artist and the empurpling Anglo-Indian. "Abbott," growled the soldier, "that man will some day drive me amuck. What do you think? One night, on a tiger hunt, he got me into an argument like this. A brute of a beast jumped into the middle of it. Courtlandt shot him on the second bound, and turned to me with--'Well, as I was saying!' I don't know to this day whether it was nerve or what you Americans call gall." "Divided by two," grinned Abbott. "Ha, I see; half nerve and half gall. I'll remember that. But we were talking of airships." "I was," retorted Courtlandt. "You were the man who started the powwow." He looked down into the street with sudden interest. "Who is that?" The colonel and Abbott hurried across the room. "What did I say, Abbott? I told you I saw him. He's crazy; fact. Thinks he can travel around incognito when there isn't a magazine on earth that hasn't printed his picture." "Well, why shouldn't he travel around if he wants to?" asked Courtlandt coolly. The colonel nudged the artist. "There happens to be an attraction in Bellaggio," said Abbott irritably. "The moth and the candle," supplemented the colonel, peering over Courtlandt's shoulder. "He's well set up," grudgingly admitted the old fellow. "The moth and the candle," mused Courtlandt. "That will be Nora Harrigan. How long has this infatuation been going on?" "Year and a half." "And the other side?" "There isn't any other side," exploded the artist. "She's worried to death. Not a day passes but some scurrilous penny-a-liner springs some yarn, some beastly innuendo. She's been dodging the fellow for months. In Paris last year she couldn't move without running into him. This year she changed her apartment, and gave orders at the Opera to refuse her address to all who asked for it. Consequently she had some peace. I don't know why it is, but a woman in public life seems to be a target." "The penalty of beauty, Abby. Homely women seldom are annoyed, unless they become suffragists." The colonel poured forth a dense cloud of smoke. "What brand is that, Colonel?" asked Courtlandt, choking. The colonel generously produced his pouch. "No, no! I was about to observe that it isn't ambrosia." "Rotter!" The soldier dug the offender in the ribs. "I am going to have the Harrigans over for tea this afternoon. Come over! You'll like the family. The girl is charming; and the father is a sportsman to the backbone. Some silly fools laugh behind his back, but never before his face. And my word, I know rafts of gentlemen who are not fit to stand in his shoes." "I should like to meet Mr. Harrigan." Courtlandt returned his gaze to the window once more. "And his daughter?" said Abbott, curiously. "Oh, surely!" "I may count on you, then?" The colonel stowed away the offending brier. "And you can stay to dinner." "I'll take the dinner end of the invitation," was the reply. "I've got to go over to Menaggio to see about some papers to be signed. If I can make the three o'clock boat in returning, you'll see me at tea. Dinner at all events. I'm off." "Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you have important business?" jeered Abbott. "My boy, the reason I'm on trains and boats, year in and year out, is in the vain endeavor to escape important business. Now and then I am rounded up. Were you ever hunted by money?" humorously. "No," answered the Englishman sadly. "But I know one thing: I'd throw the race at the starting-post. Millions, Abbott, and to be obliged to run away from them! If the deserts hadn't dried up all my tears, I should weep. Why don't you hire a private secretary to handle your affairs?" "And have him following at my heels?" Courtlandt gazed at his lean brown hands. "When these begin to shake, I'll do so. Well, I shall see you both at dinner, whatever happens." "That's Courtlandt," said Abbott, when his friend was gone. "You think he's in Singapore, the door opens and in he walks; never any letter or announcement. He arrives, that's all." "Strikes me," returned the other, polishing his glass, holding it up to the light, and then screwing it into his eye; "strikes me, he wasn't overanxious to have that dish of tea. Afraid of women?" "Afraid of women! Why, man, he backed two musical shows in the States a few years ago." "Musical comedies?" The glass dropped from the colonel's eye. "That's going tigers one better. Forty women, all waiting to be stars, and solemn Courtlandt wandering among them as the god of amity! Afraid of them! Of course he is. Who wouldn't be, after such an experience?" The colonel laughed. "Never had any serious affair?" "Never heard of one. There was some tommy-rot about a Mahommedan princess in the newspapers; but I knew there was no truth in that. Queer fellow! He wouldn't take the trouble to deny it." "Never showed any signs of being a woman-hater?" "No, not the least in the world. But to shy at meeting Nora Harrigan...." "There you have it; the privilege of the gods. Perhaps he really has business in Menaggio. What'll we do with the other beggar?" "Knock his head off, if he bothers her." "Better turn the job over to Courtlandt, then. You're in the light-weight class, and Courtlandt is the best amateur for his weight I ever saw." "What, boxes?" "A tough 'un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India. Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third round." "I never knew that before. He's as full of surprises as a rummage bag." Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination; yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods on his side. At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly. The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted away. Three bars from _La Bohème_. He laughed. So the little lady of the Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio! CHAPTER X MARGUERITES AND EMERALDS From where he sat Courtlandt could see down the main thoroughfare of the pretty village. There were other streets, to be sure, but courtesy and good nature alone permitted this misapplication of title: they were merely a series of torturous enervating stairways of stone, up and down which noisy wooden sandals clattered all the day long. Over the entrances to the shops the proprietors were dropping the white and brown awnings for the day. Very few people shopped after luncheon. There were pleasanter pastimes, even for the women, contradictory as this may seem. By eleven o'clock Courtlandt had finished the reading of his mail, and was now ready to hunt for the little lady of the Taverne Royale. It was necessary to find her. The whereabouts of Flora Desimone was of vital importance. If she had not yet arrived, the presence of her friend presaged her ultimate arrival. The duke was a negligible quantity. It would have surprised Courtlandt could he have foreseen the drawing together of the ends of the circle and the relative concernment of the duke in knotting those ends. The labors of Hercules had never entailed the subjugation of two temperamental women. He rose and proceeded on his quest. Before the photographer's shop he saw a dachel wrathfully challenging a cat on the balcony of the adjoining building. The cat knew, and so did the puppy, that it was all buncombe on the puppy's part: the usual European war-scare, in which one of the belligerent parties refused to come down because it wouldn't have been worth while, there being the usual Powers ready to intervene. Courtlandt did not bother about the cat; the puppy claimed his attention. He was very fond of dogs. So he reached down suddenly and put an end to the sharp challenge. The dachel struggled valiantly, for this breed of dog does not make friends easily. "I say, you little Dutchman, what's the row? I'm not going to hurt you. Funny little codger! To whom do you belong?" He turned the collar around, read the inscription, and gently put the puppy on the ground. Nora Harrigan! His immediate impulse was to walk on, but somehow this impulse refused to act on his sense of locomotion. He waited, dully wondering what was going to happen when she came out. He had left her room that night in Paris, vowing that he would never intrude on her again. With the recollection of that bullet whizzing past his ear, he had been convinced that the play was done. True, she had testified that it had been accidental, but never would he forget the look in her eyes. It was not pleasant to remember. And still, as the needle is drawn by the magnet, here he was, in Bellaggio. He cursed his weakness. From Brescia he had made up his mind to go directly to Berlin. Before he realized how useless it was to battle against these invisible forces, he was in Milan, booking for Como. At Como he had remained a week (the dullest week he had ever known); at the Villa d'Este three days; at Cadenabbia one day. It had all the characteristics of a tug-of-war, and irresistibly he was drawn over the line. The night before he had taken the evening boat across the lake. And Herr Rosen had been his fellow-passenger! The goddess of chance threw whimsical coils around her victims. To find himself shoulder to shoulder, as it were, with this man who, perhaps more than all other incentives, had urged him to return again to civilization; this man who had aroused in his heart a sentiment that hitherto he had not believed existed,--jealousy.... Ah, voices! He stepped aside quickly. "Fritz, Fritz; where are you?" And a moment later she came out, followed by her mother ... and the little lady of the Taverne Royale. Did Nora see him? It was impossible to tell. She simply stooped and gathered up the puppy, who struggled determinedly to lick her face. Courtlandt lifted his hat. It was in nowise offered as an act of recognition; it was merely the mechanical courtesy that a man generally pays to any woman in whose path he chances to be for the breath of a second. The three women in immaculate white, hatless, but with sunshades, passed on down the street. Courtlandt went into the shop, rather blindly. He stared at the shelves of paper-covered novels and post-cards, and when the polite proprietor offered him a dozen of the latter, he accepted them without comment. Indeed, he put them into a pocket and turned to go out. "Pardon, sir; those are one franc the dozen." "Ah, yes." Courtlandt pulled out some silver. It was going to be terribly difficult, and his heart was heavy with evil presages. He had seen Celeste. He understood the amusing if mysterious comedy now. Nora had recognized him and had sent her friend to follow him and learn where he went. And he, poor fool of a blunderer, with the best intentions in the world, he had gone at once to the Calabrian's apartment! It was damnable of fate. He had righted nothing. In truth, he was deeper than ever in the quicksands of misunderstanding. He shut his teeth with a click. How neatly she had waylaid and trapped him! "Those are from Lucerne, sir." "What?" bewildered. "Those wood-carvings which you are touching with your cane, sir." "I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt, apologetically, and gained the open. He threw a quick glance down the street. There they were. He proceeded in the opposite direction, toward his hotel. Tea at the colonel's? Scarcely. He would go to Menaggio with the hotel motor-boat and return so late that he would arrive only in time for dinner. He was not going to meet the enemy over tea-cups, at least, not under the soldier's tactless supervision. He must find a smoother way, calculated, under the rose, but seemingly accidental. It was something to ponder over. "Nora, who was that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan. "Who was who?" countered Nora, snuggling the wriggling dachel under her arm and throwing the sunshade across her shoulder. "That fine-looking young man who stood by the door as we passed out. He raised his hat." "Oh, bother! I was looking at Fritz." Celeste searched her face keenly, but Nora looked on ahead serenely; not a quiver of an eyelid, not the slightest change in color or expression. "She did not see him!" thought the musician, curiously stirred. She knew her friend tolerably well. It would have been impossible for her to have seen that man and not to have given evidence of the fact. In short, Nora had spoken truthfully. She had seen a man dressed in white flannels and canvas shoes, but her eyes had not traveled so far as his face. "Mother, we must have some of those silk blankets. They're so comfy to lie on." "You never see anything except when you want to," complained Mrs. Harrigan. "It saves a deal of trouble. I don't want to go to the colonel's this afternoon. He always has some frump to pour tea and ask fool questions." "The frump, as you call her, is usually a countess or a duchess," with asperity. "Fiddlesticks! Nobility makes a specialty of frumps; it is one of the species of the caste. That's why I shall never marry a title. I wish neither to visit nor to entertain frumps. Frump,--the word calls up the exact picture; frump and fatuity. Oh, I'll go, but I'd rather stay on my balcony and read a good book." "My dear," patiently, "the colonel is one of the social laws on Como. His sister is the wife of an earl. You must not offend him. His Sundays are the most exclusive on the lake." "The word exclusive should be properly applied to those in jail. The social ladder, the social ladder! Don't you know, mother mine, that every rung is sawn by envy and greed, and that those who climb highest fall farthest?" "You are quoting the padre." "The padre could give lessons in kindness and shrewdness to any other man I know. If he hadn't chosen the gown he would have been a poet. I love the padre, with his snow-white hair and his withered leathery face. He was with the old king all through the freeing of Italy." "And had a fine time explaining to the Vatican," sniffed the mother. "Some day I am going to confess to him." "Confess what?" asked Celeste. "That I have wished the Calabrian's voice would fail her some night in _Carmen_; that I am wearing shoes a size too small for me; that I should like to be rich without labor; that I am sometimes ashamed of my calling; that I should have liked to see father win a prizefight; oh, and a thousand other horrid, hateful things." "I wish to gracious that you would fall violently in love." "Spiteful! There are those lovely lace collars; come on." "You are hopeless," was the mother's conviction. "In some things, yes," gravely. "Some day," said Celeste, who was a privileged person in the Harrigan family, "some day I am going to teach you two how to play at foils. It would be splendid. And then you could always settle your differences with bouts." "Better than that," retorted Nora. "I'll ask father to lend us his old set of gloves. He carries them around as if they were a fetish. I believe they're in the bottom of one of my steamer trunks." "Nora!" Mrs. Harrigan was not pleased with this jest. Any reference to the past was distasteful to her ears. She, too, went regularly to confession, but up to the present time had omitted the sin of being ashamed of her former poverty and environment. She had taken it for granted that upon her shoulders rested the future good fortune of the Harrigans. They had money; all that was required was social recognition. She found it a battle within a battle. The good-natured reluctance of her husband and the careless indifference of her daughter were as hard to combat as the icy aloofness of those stars into whose orbit she was pluckily striving to steer the family bark. It never entered her scheming head that the reluctance of the father and the indifference of the daughter were the very conditions that drew society nearward, for the simple novelty of finding two persons who did not care in the least whether they were recognized or not. The trio invaded the lace shop, and Nora and her mother agreed to bury the war-hatchet in their mutual love of Venetian and Florentine fineries. Celeste pretended to be interested, but in truth she was endeavoring to piece together the few facts she had been able to extract from the rubbish of conjecture. Courtlandt and Nora had met somewhere before the beginning of her own intimacy with the singer. They certainly must have formed an extraordinary friendship, for Nora's subsequent vindictiveness could not possibly have arisen out of the ruins of an indifferent acquaintance. Nora could not be moved from the belief that Courtlandt had abducted her; but Celeste was now positive that he had had nothing to do with it. He did not impress her as a man who would abduct a woman, hold her prisoner for five days, and then liberate her without coming near her to press his vantage, rightly or wrongly. He was too strong a personage. He was here in Bellaggio, and attached to that could be but one significance. Why, then, had he not spoken at the photographer's? Perhaps she herself had been sufficient reason for his dumbness. He had recognized her, and the espionage of the night in Paris was no longer a mystery. Nora had sent her to follow him; why then all this bitterness, since she had not been told where he had gone? Had Nora forgotten to inquire? It was possible that, in view of the startling events which had followed, the matter had slipped entirely from Nora's mind. Many a time she had resorted to that subtle guile known only of woman to trap the singer. But Nora never stumbled, and her smile was as firm a barrier to her thoughts, her secrets, as a stone wall would have been. Celeste had known about Herr Rosen's infatuation. Aside from that which concerned this stranger, Nora had withheld no real secret from her. Herr Rosen had been given his congé, but that did not prevent him from sending fabulous baskets of flowers and gems, all of which were calmly returned without comment. Whenever a jewel found its way into a bouquet of flowers from an unknown, Nora would promptly convert it into money and give the proceeds to some charity. It afforded the singer no small amusement to show her scorn in this fashion. Yes, there was one other little mystery which she did not confide to her friends. Once a month, wherever she chanced to be singing, there arrived a simple bouquet of marguerites, in the heart of which they would invariably find an uncut emerald. Nora never disposed of these emeralds. The flowers she would leave in her dressing-room; the emerald would disappear. Was there some one else? Mrs. Harrigan took the omnibus up to the villa. It was generally too much of a climb for her. Nora and Celeste preferred to walk. "What am I going to do, Celeste? He is here, and over at Cadenabbia last night I had a terrible scene with him. In heaven's name, why can't they let me be?" "Herr Rosen?" "Yes." "Why not speak to your father?" "And have a fisticuff which would appear in every newspaper in the world? No, thank you. There is enough scandalous stuff being printed as it is, and I am helpless to prevent it." As the climb starts off stiffly, there wasn't much inclination in either to talk. Celeste had come to one decision, and that was that Nora should find out Courtlandt's presence here in Bellaggio herself. When they arrived at the villa gates, Celeste offered a suggestion. "You could easily stop all this rumor and annoyance." "And, pray, how?" "Marry." "I prefer the rumor and annoyance. I hate men. Most of them are beasts." "You are prejudiced." If Celeste expected Nora to reply that she had reason, she was disappointed, Nora quickened her pace, that was all. At luncheon Harrigan innocently threw a bomb into camp by inquiring: "Say, Nora, who's this chump Herr Rosen? He was up here last night and again this morning. I was going to offer him the cot on the balcony, but I thought I'd consult you first." "Herr Rosen!" exclaimed Mrs. Harrigan, a flutter in her throat. "Why, that's...." "A charming young man who wishes me to sign a contract to sing to him in perpetuity," interrupted Nora, pressing her mother's foot warningly. "Well, why don't you marry him?" laughed Harrigan. "There's worse things than frankfurters and sauerkraut." "Not that I can think of just now," returned Nora. CHAPTER XI AT THE CRATER'S EDGE Harrigan declared that he would not go over to Caxley-Webster's to tea. "But I've promised for you!" expostulated his wife. "And he admires you so." "Bosh! You women can gad about as much as you please, but I'm in wrong when it comes to eating sponge-cake and knuckling my knees under a dinky willow table. And then he always has some frump...." "Frump!" repeated Nora, delighted. "Frump inspecting me through a pair of eye-glasses as if I was a new kind of an animal. It's all right, Molly, when there's a big push. They don't notice me much then. But these six by eight parties have me covering." "Very well, dad," agreed Nora, who saw the storm gathering in her mother's eyes. "You can stay home and read the book mother got you yesterday. Where are you now?" "Page one," grinning. Mrs. Harrigan wisely refrained from continuing the debate. James had made up his mind not to go. If the colonel repeated his invitation to dinner, where there would be only the men folk, why, he'd gladly enough go to that. The women departed at three, for there was to be tennis until five o'clock. When Harrigan was reasonably sure that they were half the distance to the colonel's villa, he put on his hat, whistled to the dachel, and together they took the path to the village. "We'd look fine drinking tea, wouldn't we, old scout?" reaching down and tweaking the dog's velvet ears. "They don't understand, and it's no use trying to make 'em. Nora gets as near as possible. Herr Rosen! Now, where have I seen his phiz before? I wish I had a real man to talk to. Abbott sulks half the time, and the Barone can't get a joke unless it's driven in with a mallet. On your way, old scout, or I'll step on you. Let's see if we can hoof it down to the village at a trot without taking the count." He had but two errands to execute. The first was accomplished expeditely in the little tobacconist's shop under the arcade, where the purchase of a box of Minghetti cigars promised later solace. These cigars were cheap, but Harrigan had a novel way of adding to their strength if not to their aroma. He possessed a meerschaum cigar-holder, in which he had smoked perfectos for some years. The smoke of an ordinary cigar became that of a regalia by the time it passed through the nicotine-soaked clay into the amber mouthpiece. He had kept secret the result of this trifling scientific research. It wouldn't have been politic to disclose it to Molly. The second errand took time and deliberation. He studied the long shelves of Tauchnitz. Having red corpuscles in superabundance, he naturally preferred them in his literature, in the same quantity. "Ever read this?" asked a pleasant voice from behind, indicating _Rodney Stone_ with the ferrule of a cane. Harrigan looked up. "No. What's it about?" "Best story of the London prize-ring ever written. You're Mr. Harrigan, aren't you?" "Yes," diffidently. "My name is Edward Courtlandt. If I am not mistaken, you were a great friend of my father's." "Are you Dick Courtlandt's boy?" "I am." "Well, say!" Harrigan held out his hand and was gratified to encounter a man's grasp. "So you're Edward Courtlandt? Now, what do you think of that! Why, your father was the best sportsman I ever met. Square as they make 'em. Not a kink anywhere in his make-up. He used to come to the bouts in his plug hat and dress suit; always had a seat by the ring. I could hear him tap with his cane when there happened to be a bit of pretty sparring. He was no slouch himself when it came to putting on the mitts. Many's the time I've had a round or two with him in my old gymnasium. Well, well! It's good to see a man again. I've seen your name in the papers, but I never knew you was Dick's boy. You've got an old grizzly's head in your dining-room at home. Some day I'll tell you how it got there, when you're not in a hurry. I went out to Montana for a scrap, and your dad went along. After the mill was over, we went hunting. Come up to the villa and meet the folks.... Hang it, I forgot. They're up to Caxley-Webster's to tea; piffle water and sticky sponge-cake. I want you to meet my wife and daughter." "I should be very pleased to meet them." So this was Nora's father? "Won't you come along with me to the colonel's?" with sudden inspiration. Here was an opportunity not to be thrust aside lightly. "Why, I just begged off. They won't be expecting me now." "All the better. I'd rather have you introduce me to your family than to have the colonel. As a matter of fact, I told him I couldn't get up. But I changed my mind. Come along." The first rift in the storm-packed clouds; and to meet her through the kindly offices of this amiable man who was her father! "But the pup and the cigar box?" "Send them up." Harrigan eyed his own spotless flannels and compared them with the other's. What was good enough for the son of a millionaire was certainly good enough for him. Besides, it would be a bully good joke on Nora and Molly. "You're on!" he cried. Here was a lark. He turned the dog and the purchases over to the proprietor, who promised that they should arrive instantly at the villa. Then the two men sought the quay to engage a boat. They walked shoulder to shoulder, flat-backed, with supple swinging limbs, tanned faces and clear animated eyes. Perhaps Harrigan was ten or fifteen pounds heavier, but the difference would have been noticeable only upon the scales. * * * * * "Padre, my shoe pinches," said Nora with a pucker between her eyes. "My child," replied the padre, "never carry your vanity into a shoemaker's shop. The happiest man is he who walks in loose shoes." "If they are his own, and not inherited," quickly. The padre laughed quietly. He was very fond of this new-found daughter of his. Her spontaneity, her blooming beauty, her careless observation of convention, her independence, had captivated him. Sometimes he believed that he thoroughly understood her, when all at once he would find himself mentally peering into some dark corner into which the penetrating light of his usually swift deduction could throw no glimmer. She possessed the sins of the butterfly and the latent possibilities of a Judith. She was the most interesting feminine problem he had in his long years encountered. The mother mildly amused him, for he could discern the character that she was sedulously striving to batten down beneath inane social usages and formalities. Some day she would revert to the original type, and then he would be glad to renew the acquaintance. In rather a shamefaced way (a sensation he could not quite analyze) he loved the father. The pugilist will always embarrass the scholar and excite a negligible envy; for physical perfection is the most envied of all nature's gifts. The padre was short, thickset, and inclined toward stoutness in the region of the middle button of his cassock. But he was active enough for all purposes. "I have had many wicked thoughts lately," resumed Nora, turning her gaze away from the tennis players. She and the padre were sitting on the lower steps of the veranda. The others were loitering by the nets. "The old plaint disturbs you?" "Yes." "Can you not cast it out wholly?" "Hate has many tentacles." "What produces that condition of mind?" meditatively. "Is it because we have wronged somebody?" "Or because somebody has wronged us?" "Or misjudged us, by us have been misjudged?" softly. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Nora, springing up. "What is it?" "Father is coming up the path!" "I am glad to see him. But I do not recollect having seen the face of the man with him." The lithe eagerness went out of Nora's body instantly. Everything seemed to grow cold, as if she had become enveloped in one of those fogs that suddenly blow down menacingly from hidden icebergs. Fortunately the inquiring eyes of the padre were not directed at her. He was here, not a dozen yards away, coming toward her, her father's arm in his! After what had passed he had dared! It was not often that Nora Harrigan was subjected to a touch of vertigo, but at this moment she felt that if she stirred ever so little she must fall. The stock whence she had sprung, however, was aggressive and fearless; and by the time Courtlandt had reached the outer markings of the courts, Nora was physically herself again. The advantage of the meeting would be his. That was indubitable. Any mistake on her part would be playing into his hands. If only she had known! "Let us go and meet them, Padre," she said quietly. With her father, her mother and the others, the inevitable introduction would be shorn of its danger. What Celeste might think was of no great importance; Celeste had been tried and her loyalty proven. Where had her father met him, and what diabolical stroke of fate had made him bring this man up here? "Nora!" It was her mother calling. She put her arm through the padre's, and they went forward leisurely. "Why, father, I thought you weren't coming," said Nora. Her voice was without a tremor. The padre hadn't the least idea that a volcano might at any moment open up at his side. He smiled benignly. "Changed my mind," said Harrigan. "Nora, Molly, I want you to meet Mr. Courtlandt. I don't know that I ever said anything about it, but his father was one of the best friends I ever had. He was on his way up here, so I came along with him." Then Harrigan paused and looked about him embarrassedly. There were half a dozen unfamiliar faces. The colonel quickly stepped into the breach, and the introduction of Courtlandt became general. Nora bowed, and became at once engaged in an animated conversation with the Barone, who had just finished his set victoriously. The padre's benign smile slowly faded. CHAPTER XII DICK COURTLANDT'S BOY Presently the servants brought out the tea-service. The silent dark-skinned Sikh, with his fierce curling whiskers, his flashing eyes, the semi-military, semi-oriental garb, topped by an enormous brown turban, claimed Courtlandt's attention; and it may be added that he was glad to have something to look at unembarrassedly. He wanted to catch the Indian's eye, but Rao had no glances to waste; he was concerned with the immediate business of superintending the service. Courtlandt had never been a man to surrender to impulse. It had been his habit to form a purpose and then to go about the fulfilling of it. During the last four or five months, however, he had swung about like a weather-cock in April, the victim of a thousand and one impulses. That morning he would have laughed had any one prophesied his presence here. He had fought against the inclination strongly enough at first, but as hour after hour went by his resolution weakened. His meeting Harrigan had been a stroke of luck. Still, he would have come anyhow. "Oh, yes; I am very fond of Como," he found himself replying mechanically to Mrs. Harrigan. He gave up Rao as hopeless so far as coming to his rescue was concerned. He began, despite his repugnance, to watch Nora. "It is always a little cold in the higher Alps." "I am very fond of climbing myself." Nora was laughing and jesting with one of the English tennis players. Not for nothing had she been called a great actress, he thought. It was not humanly possible that her heart was under better control than his own; and yet his was pounding against his ribs in a manner extremely disquieting. Never must he be left alone with her; always must it be under circumstances like this, with people about, and the more closely about the better. A game like this was far more exciting than tiger-hunting. It was going to assume the characteristics of a duel in which he, being the more advantageously placed, would succeed eventually in wearing down her guard. Hereafter, wherever she went, there must he also go: St. Petersburg or New York or London. And by and by the reporters would hear of it, and there would be rumors which he would neither deny nor affirm. Sport! He smiled, and the blood seemed to recede from his throat and his heart-beats to grow normal. And all the while Mrs. Harrigan was talking and he was replying; and she thought him charming, whereas he had not formed any opinion of her at all, nor later could remember a word of the conversation. "Tea!" bawled the colonel. The verb had its distinct uses, and one generally applied it to the colonel's outbursts without being depressed by the feeling of inelegance. There is invariably some slight hesitation in the selection of chairs around a tea-table in the open. Nora scored the first point of this singular battle by seizing the padre on one side and her father on the other and pulling them down on the bench. It was adroit in two ways: it put Courtlandt at a safe distance and in nowise offended the younger men, who could find no cause for alarm in the close proximity of her two fathers, the spiritual and the physical. A few moments later Courtlandt saw a smile of malice part her lips, for he found himself between Celeste and the inevitable frump. "Touched!" he murmured, for he was a thorough sportsman and appreciated a good point even when taken by his opponent. "I never saw anything like it," whispered Mrs. Harrigan into the colonel's ear. "Saw what?" he asked. "Mr. Courtlandt can't keep his eyes off of Nora." "I say!" The colonel adjusted his eye-glass, not that he expected to see more clearly by doing so, but because habit had long since turned an affectation into a movement wholly mechanical. "Well, who can blame him? Gad! if I were only twenty-five or thereabouts." Mrs. Harrigan did not encourage this regret. The colonel had never been a rich man. On the other hand, this Edward Courtlandt was very rich; he was young; and he had the entrée to the best families in Europe, which was greater in her eyes than either youth or riches. Between sips of tea she builded a fine castle in Spain. Abbott and the Barone carried their cups and cakes over to the bench and sat down on the grass, Turkish-wise. Both simultaneously offered their cakes, and Nora took a ladyfinger from each. Abbott laughed and the Barone smiled. "Oh, daddy mine!" sighed Nora drolly. "Huh?" "Don't let mother see those shoes." "What's the matter with 'em? Everybody's wearing the same." "Yes. But I don't see how you manage to do it. One shoe-string is virgin white and the other is pagan brown." "I've got nine pairs of shoes, and yet there's always something the matter," ruefully. "I never noticed when I put them on. Besides, I wasn't coming." "That's no defense. But rest easy. I'll be as secret as the grave." "Now, I for one would never have noticed if you hadn't called my attention," said the padre, stealing a glance at his own immaculate patent-leathers. "Ah, Padre, that wife of mine has eyes like a pilot-fish. I'm in for it." "Borrow one from the colonel before you go home," suggested Abbott. "That's not half bad," gratefully. Harrigan began to recount the trials of forgetfulness. Slyly from the corner of her eye Nora looked at Courtlandt, who was at that moment staring thoughtfully into his tea-cup and stirring the contents industriously. His face was a little thinner, but aside from that he had changed scarcely at all; and then, because these two years had left so little mark upon his face, a tinge of unreasonable anger ran over her. "Men have died and worms have eaten them," she thought cynically. Perhaps the air between them was sufficiently charged with electricity to convey the impression across the intervening space; for his eyes came up quickly, but not quickly enough to catch her. She dropped her glance to Abbott, transferred it to the Barone, and finally let it rest on her father's face. Four handsomer men she had never seen. "You never told me you knew Courtlandt," said Harrigan, speaking to Abbott. "Just happened that way. We went to school together. When I was little they used to make me wear curls and wide collars. Many's the time Courtlandt walloped the school bullies for mussing me up. I don't see him much these days. Once in a while he walks in. That's all. Always seems to know where his friends are, but none ever knows where he is." Abbott proceeded to elaborate some of his friend's exploits. Nora heard, as if from afar. Vaguely she caught a glimmer of what the contest was going to be. She could see only a little way; still, she was optimistically confident of the result. She was ready. Indeed, now that the shock of the meeting was past, she found herself not at all averse to a conflict. It would be something to let go the pent-up wrath of two years. Never would she speak to him directly; never would she permit him to be alone with her; never would she miss a chance to twist his heart, to humiliate him, to snub him. From her point of view, whatever game he chose to play would be a losing one. She was genuinely surprised to learn how eager she was for the game to begin so that she might gage his strength. "So I have heard," she was dimly conscious of saying. "Didn't know you knew," said Abbott. "Knew what?" rousing herself. "That Courtlandt nearly lost his life in the eighties." "In the eighties!" dismayed at her slip. "Latitudes. Polar expedition." "Heavens! I was miles away." The padre took her hand in his own and began to pat it softly. It was the nearest he dared approach in the way of suggesting caution. He alone of them all knew. "Oh, I believe I read something about it in the newspapers." "Five years ago." Abbott set down his tea-cup. "He's the bravest man I know. He's rather a friendless man, besides. Horror of money. Thinks every one is after him for that. Tries to throw it away; but the income piles up too quickly. See that Indian, passing the cakes? Wouldn't think it, would you, that Courtlandt carried him on his back for five miles! The Indian had fallen afoul a wounded tiger, and the beaters were miles off. I've been watching. They haven't even spoken to each other. Courtlandt's probably forgotten all about the incident, and the Indian would die rather than embarrass his savior before strangers." "Your friend, then, is quite a hero?" What was the matter with Nora's voice? Abbott looked at her wonderingly. The tone was hard and unmusical. "He couldn't be anything else, being Dick Courtlandt's boy," volunteered Harrigan, with enthusiasm. "It runs in the family." "It seems strange," observed Nora, "that I never heard you mention that you knew a Mr. Courtlandt." "Why, Nora, there's a lot of things nobody mentions unless chance brings them up. Courtlandt--the one I knew--has been dead these sixteen years. If I knew he had had a son, I'd forgotten all about it. The only graveyard isn't on the hillside; there's one under everybody's thatch." The padre nodded approvingly. Nora was not particularly pleased with this phase in the play. Courtlandt would find a valiant champion in her father, who would blunder in when some fine passes were being exchanged. And she could not tell him; she would have cut out her tongue rather. It was true that she held the principal cards in the game, but she could not table them and claim the tricks as in bridge. She must patiently wait for him to lead, and he, as she very well knew, would lead a card at a time, and then only after mature deliberation. From the exhilaration which attended the prospect of battle she passed into a state of depression, which lasted the rest of the afternoon. "Will you forgive me?" asked Celeste of Courtlandt. Never had she felt more ill at ease. For a full ten minutes he chatted pleasantly, with never the slightest hint regarding the episode in Paris. She could stand it no longer. "Will you forgive me?" "For what?" "That night in Paris." "Do not permit that to bother you in the least. I was never going to recall it." "Was it so unpleasant?" "On the contrary, I was much amused." "I did not tell you the truth." "So I have found out." "I do not believe that it was you," impulsively. "Thanks. I had nothing to do with Miss Harrigan's imprisonment." "Do you feel that you could make a confidant of me?" He smiled. "My dear Miss Fournier, I have come to the place where I distrust even myself." "Forgive my curiosity!" Courtlandt held out his cup to Rao. "I am glad to see you again." "Ah, Sahib!" The little Frenchwoman was torn with curiosity and repression. She wanted to know what causes had produced this unusual drama which was unfolding before her eyes. To be presented with effects which had no apparent causes was maddening. It was not dissimilar to being taken to the second act of a modern problem play and being forced to leave before the curtain rose upon the third act. She had laid all the traps her intelligent mind could invent; and Nora had calmly walked over them or around. Nora's mind was Celtic: French in its adroitness and Irish in its watchfulness and tenacity. And now she had set her arts of persuasion in motion (aided by a piquant beauty) to lift a corner of the veil from this man's heart. Checkmate! "I should like to help you," she said, truthfully. "In what way?" It was useless, but she continued: "She does not know that you went to Flora Desimone's that night." "And yet she sent you to watch me." "But so many things happened afterward that she evidently forgot." "That is possible." "I was asleep when the pistol went off. Oh, you must believe that it was purely accidental! She was in a terrible state until morning. What if she had killed you, what if she had killed you! She seemed to hark upon that phrase." Courtlandt turned a sober face toward her. She might be sincere, and then again she might be playing the first game over again, in a different guise. "It would have been embarrassing if the bullet had found its mark." He met her eyes squarely, and she saw that his were totally free from surprise or agitation or interest. "Do you play chess?" she asked, divertingly. "Chess? I am very fond of that game." "So I should judge," dryly. "I suppose you look upon me as a meddler. Perhaps I am; but I have nothing but good will toward you; and Nora would be very angry if she knew that I was discussing her affairs with you. But I love her and want to make her happy." "That seems to be the ambition of all the young men, at any rate." Jealousy? But the smile baffled her. "Will you be here long?" "It depends." "Upon Nora?" persistently. "The weather." "You are hopeless." "No; on the contrary, I am the most optimistic man in the world." She looked into this reply very carefully. If he had hopes of winning Nora Harrigan, optimistic he certainly must be. Perhaps it was not optimism. Rather might it not be a purpose made of steel, bendable but not breakable, reinforced by a knowledge of conditions which she would have given worlds to learn? "Is she not beautiful?" "I am not a poet." "Wait a moment," her eyes widening. "I believe you know who did commit that outrage." For the first time he frowned. "Very well; I promise not to ask any more questions." "That would be very agreeable to me." Then, as if he realized the rudeness of his reply, he added: "Before I leave I will tell you all you wish to know, upon one condition." "Tell it!" "You will say nothing to any one, you will question neither Miss Harrigan nor myself, nor permit yourself to be questioned." "I agree." "And now, will you not take me over to your friends?" "Over there?" aghast. "Why, yes. We can sit upon the grass. They seem to be having a good time." What a man! Take him over, into the enemy's camp? Nothing would be more agreeable to her. Who would be the stronger, Nora or this provoking man? So they crossed over and joined the group. The padre smiled. It was a situation such as he loved to study: a strong man and a strong woman, at war. But nothing happened; not a ripple anywhere to disclose the agitation beneath. The man laughed and the woman laughed, but they spoke not to each other, nor looked once into each other's eyes. The sun was dropping toward the western tops. The guests were leaving by twos and threes. The colonel had prevailed upon his dinner-guests not to bother about going back to the village to dress, but to dine in the clothes they wore. Finally, none remained but Harrigan, Abbott, the Barone, the padre and Courtlandt. And they talked noisily and agreeably concerning man-affairs until Rao gravely announced that dinner was served. It was only then, during the lull which followed, that light was shed upon the puzzle which had been subconsciously stirring Harrigan's mind: Nora had not once spoken to the son of his old friend. CHAPTER XIII EVERYTHING BUT THE TRUTH "I don't see why the colonel didn't invite some of the ladies," Mrs. Harrigan complained. "It's a man-party. He's giving it to please himself. And I do not blame him. The women about here treat him abominably. They come at all times of the day and night, use his card-room, order his servants about, drink his whisky and smoke his cigarettes, and generally invite themselves to luncheon and tea and dinner. And then, when they are ready to go back to their villas or hotel, take his motor-boat without a thank-you. The colonel has about three thousand pounds outside his half-pay, and they are all crazy to marry him because his sister is a countess. As a bachelor he can live like a prince, but as a married man he would have to dig. He told me that if he had been born Adam, he'd have climbed over Eden's walls long before the Angel of the Flaming Sword paddled him out. Says he's always going to be a bachelor, unless I take pity on him," mischievously. "Has he...?" in horrified tones. "About three times a visit," Nora admitted; "but I told him that I'd be a daughter, a cousin, or a niece to him, or even a grandchild. The latter presented too many complications, so we compromised on niece." "I wish I knew when you were serious and when you were fooling." "I am often as serious when I am fooling as I am foolish when I am serious...." "Nora, you will have me shrieking in a minute!" despaired the mother. "Did the colonel really propose to you?" "Only in fun." Celeste laughed and threw her arm around the mother's waist, less ample than substantial. "Don't you care! Nora is being pursued by little devils and is venting her spite on us." "There'll be too much Burgundy and tobacco, to say nothing of the awful stories." "With the good old padre there? Hardly," said Nora. Celeste was a French woman. "I confess that I like a good story that isn't vulgar. And none of them look like men who would stoop to vulgarity." "That's about all you know of men," declared Mrs. Harrigan. "I am willing to give them the benefit of a doubt." "Celeste," cried Nora, gaily, "I've an idea. Supposing you and I run back after dinner and hide in the card-room, which is right across from the dining-room? Then we can judge for ourselves." "Nora Harrigan!" "Molly Harrigan!" mimicked the incorrigible. "Mother mine, you must learn to recognize a jest." "Ah, but yours!" "Fine!" cried Celeste. As if to put a final period to the discussion, Nora began to hum audibly an aria from _Aïda_. They engaged a carriage in the village and were driven up to the villa. On the way Mrs. Harrigan discussed the stranger, Edward Courtlandt. What a fine-looking young man he was, and how adventurous, how well-connected, how enormously rich, and what an excellent catch! She and Celeste--the one innocently and the other provocatively--continued the subject to the very doors of the villa. All the while Nora hummed softly. "What do you think of him, Nora?" the mother inquired. "Think of whom?" "This Mr. Courtlandt." "Oh, I didn't pay much attention to him," carelessly. But once alone with Celeste, she seized her by the arm, a little roughly. "Celeste, I love you better than any outsider I know. But if you ever discuss that man in my presence again, I shall cease to regard you even as an acquaintance. He has come here for the purpose of annoying me, though he promised the prefect in Paris never to annoy me again." "The prefect!" "Yes. The morning I left Versailles I met him in the private office of the prefect. He had powerful friends who aided him in establishing an alibi. I was only a woman, so I didn't count." "Nora, if I have meddled in any way," proudly, "it has been because I love you, and I see you unhappy. You have nearly killed me with your sphinx-like actions. You have never asked me the result of my spying for you that night. Spying is not one of my usual vocations, but I did it gladly for you." "You gave him my address?" coldly. "I did not. I convinced him that I had come at the behest of Flora Desimone. He demanded her address, which I gave him. If ever there was a man in a fine rage, it was he as he left me to go there. If he found out where we lived, the Calabrian assisted him, I spoke to him rather plainly at tea. He said that he had had nothing whatever to do with the abduction, and I believe him. I am positive that he is not the kind of man to go that far and not proceed to the end. And now, will you please tell Carlos to bring my dinner to my room?" The impulsive Irish heart was not to be resisted. Nora wanted to remain firm, but instead she swept Celeste into her arms. "Celeste, don't be angry! I am very, very unhappy." If the Irish heart was impulsive, the French one was no less so. Celeste wanted to cry out that she was unhappy, too. "Don't bother to dress! Just give your hair a pat or two. We'll all three dine on the balcony." Celeste flew to her room. Nora went over to the casement window and stared at the darkening mountains. When she turned toward the dresser she was astonished to find two bouquets. One was an enormous bunch of violets. The other was of simple marguerites. She picked up the violets. There was a card without a name; but the phrase scribbled across the face of it was sufficient. She flung the violets far down into the grape-vines below. The action was without anger, excited rather by a contemptuous indifference. As for the simple marguerites, she took them up gingerly. The arc these described through the air was even greater than that performed by the violets. "I'm a silly fool, I suppose," she murmured, turning back into the room again. It was ten o'clock when the colonel bade his guests good night as they tumbled out of his motor-boat. They were in more or less exuberant spirits; for the colonel knew how to do two things particularly well: order a dinner, and avoid the many traps set for him by scheming mamas and eligible widows. Abbott, the Barone and Harrigan, arm in arm, marched on ahead, whistling one tune in three different keys, while Courtlandt set the pace for the padre. All through the dinner the padre had watched and listened. Faces were generally books to him, and he read in this young man's face many things that pleased him. This was no night rover, a fool over wine and women, a spendthrift. He straightened out the lines and angles in a man's face as a skilled mathematician elucidates an intricate geometrical problem. He had arrived at the basic knowledge that men who live mostly out of doors are not volatile and irresponsible, but are more inclined to reserve, to reticence, to a philosophy which is broad and comprehensive and generous. They are generally men who are accomplishing things, and who let other people tell about it. Thus, the padre liked Courtlandt's voice, his engaging smile, his frank unwavering eyes; and he liked the leanness about the jaws, which was indicative of strength of character. In fact, he experienced a singular jubilation as he walked beside this silent man. "There has been a grave mistake somewhere," he mused aloud, thoughtfully. "I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt. "I beg yours. I was thinking aloud. How long have you known the Harrigans?" "The father and mother I never saw before to-day." "Then you have met Miss Harrigan?" "I have seen her on the stage." "I have the happiness of being her confessor." They proceeded quite as far as a hundred yards before Courtlandt volunteered: "That must be interesting." "She is a good Catholic." "Ah, yes; I recollect now." "And you?" "Oh, I haven't any religion such as requires my presence in churches. Don't misunderstand me! As a boy I was bred in the Episcopal Church; but I have traveled so much that I have drifted out of the circle. I find that when I am out in the open, in the heart of some great waste, such as a desert, a sea, the top of a mountain, I can see the greatness of the Omnipotent far more clearly and humbly than within the walls of a cathedral." "But God imposes obligations upon mankind. We have ceased to look upon the hermit as a holy man, but rather as one devoid of courage. It is not the stone and the stained windows; it is the text of our daily work, that the physical being of the Church represents." "I have not avoided any of my obligations." Courtlandt shifted his stick behind his back. "I was speaking of the church and the open field, as they impressed me." "You believe in the tenets of Christianity?" "Surely! A man must pin his faith and hope to something more stable than humanity." "I should like to convert you to my way of thinking," simply. "Nothing is impossible. Who knows?" The padre, as they continued onward, offered many openings, but the young man at his side refused to be drawn into any confidence. So the padre gave up, for the futility of his efforts became irksome. His own lips were sealed, so he could not ask point-blank the question that clamored at the tip of his tongue. "So you are Miss Harrigan's confessor?" "Does it strike you strangely?" "Merely the coincidence." "If I were not her confessor I should take the liberty of asking you some questions." "It is quite possible that I should decline to answer them." The padre shrugged. "It is patent to me that you will go about this affair in your own way. I wish you well." "Thank you. As Miss Harrigan's confessor you doubtless know everything but the truth." The padre laughed this time. The shops were closed. The open restaurants by the water-front held but few idlers. The padre admired the young man's independence. Most men would have hesitated not a second to pour the tale into his ears in hope of material assistance. The padre's admiration was equally proportioned with respect. "I leave you here," he said. "You will see me frequently at the villa." "I certainly shall be there frequently. Good night." Courtlandt quickened his pace which soon brought him alongside the others. They stopped in front of Abbott's pension, and he tried to persuade them to come up for a nightcap. "Nothing to it, my boy," said Harrigan. "I need no nightcap on top of cognac forty-eight years old. For me that's a whole suit of pajamas." "You come, Ted." "Abbey, I wouldn't climb those stairs for a bottle of Horace's Falernian, served on Seneca's famous citron table." "Not a friend in the world," Abbott lamented. Laughingly they hustled him into the hallway and fled. Then Courtlandt went his way alone. He slept with the dubious satisfaction that the first day had not gone badly. The wedge had been entered. It remained to be seen if it could be dislodged. Harrigan was in a happy temper. He kissed his wife and chucked Nora under the chin. And then Mrs. Harrigan launched the thunderbolt which, having been held on the leash for several hours, had, for all of that, lost none of its ability to blight and scorch. "James, you are about as hopeless a man as ever was born. You all but disgraced us this afternoon." "Mother!" "Me?" cried the bewildered Harrigan. "Look at those tennis shoes; one white string and one brown one. It's enough to drive a woman mad. What in heaven's name made you come?" Perhaps it was the after effect of a good dinner, that dwindling away of pleasant emotions; perhaps it was the very triviality of the offense for which he was thus suddenly arraigned; at any rate, he lost his temper, and he was rather formidable when that occurred. "Damn it, Molly, I wasn't going, but Courtlandt asked me to go with him, and I never thought of my shoes. You are always finding fault with me these days. I don't drink, I don't gamble, I don't run around after other women; I never did. But since you've got this social bug in your bonnet, you keep me on hooks all the while. Nobody noticed the shoe-strings; and they would have looked upon it as a joke if they had. After all, I'm the boss of this ranch. If I want to wear a white string and a black one, I'll do it. Here!" He caught up the book on social usages and threw it out of the window. "Don't ever shove a thing like that under my nose again. If you do, I'll hike back to little old New York and start the gym again." He rammed one of the colonel's perfectos (which he had been saving for the morrow) between his teeth, and stalked into the garden. Nora was heartless enough to laugh. "He hasn't talked like that to me in years!" Mrs. Harrigan did not know what to do,--follow him or weep. She took the middle course, and went to bed. Nora turned out the lights and sat out on the little balcony. The moonshine was glorious. So dense was the earth-blackness that the few lights twinkling here and there were more like fallen stars. Presently she heard a sound. It was her father, returning as silently as he could. She heard him fumble among the knickknacks on the mantel, and then go away again. By and by she saw a spot of white light move hither and thither among the grape arbors. For five or six minutes she watched it dance. Suddenly all became dark again. She laid her head upon the railing and conned over the day's events. These were not at all satisfactory to her. Then her thoughts traveled many miles away. Six months of happiness, of romance, of play, and then misery and blackness. "Nora, are you there?" "Yes. Over here on the balcony. What were you doing down there?" "Oh, Nora, I'm sorry I lost my temper. But Molly's begun to nag me lately, and I can't stand it. I went after that book. Did you throw some flowers out of the window?" "Yes." "A bunch of daisies?" "Marguerites," she corrected. "All the same to me. I picked up the bunch, and look at what I found inside." He extended his palm, flooding it with the light of his pocket-lamp. Nora's heart tightened. What she saw was a beautiful uncut emerald. CHAPTER XIV A COMEDY WITH MUSIC The Harrigans occupied the suite in the east wing of the villa. This consisted of a large drawing-room and two ample bedchambers, with window-balconies and a private veranda in the rear, looking off toward the green of the pines and the metal-like luster of the copper beeches. Always the suite was referred to by the management as having once been tenanted by the empress of Germany. Indeed, tourists were generally and respectively and impressively shown the suite (provided it was not at the moment inhabited), and were permitted to peer eagerly about for some sign of the vanished august presence. But royalty in passing, as with the most humble of us, leaves nothing behind save the memory of a tip, generous or otherwise. It was raining, a fine, soft, blurring Alpine rain, and a blue-grey monotone prevailed upon the face of the waters and defied all save the keenest scrutiny to discern where the mountain tops ended and the sky began. It was a day for indoors, for dreams, good books, and good fellows. The old-fashioned photographer would have admired and striven to perpetuate the group in the drawing-room. In the old days it was quite the proper thing to snap the family group while they were engaged in some pleasant pastime, such as spinning, or painting china, or playing the piano, or reading a volume of poems. No one ever seemed to bother about the incongruence of the eyes, which were invariably focused at the camera lens. Here they all were. Mrs. Harrigan was deep in the intricate maze of the Amelia Ars of Bologna, which, as the initiated know, is a wonderful lace. By one of the windows sat Nora, winding interminable yards of lace-hemming from off the willing if aching digits of the Barone, who was speculating as to what his Neapolitan club friends would say could they see, by some trick of crystal-gazing, his present occupation. Celeste was at the piano, playing (_pianissimo_) snatches from the operas, while Abbott looked on, his elbows propped upon his knees, his chin in his palms, and a quality of ecstatic content in his eyes. He was in his working clothes, picturesque if paint-daubed. The morning had been pleasant enough, but just before luncheon the rain clouds had gathered and settled down with that suddenness known only in high altitudes. The ex-gladiator sat on one of those slender mockeries, composed of gold-leaf and parabolic curves and faded brocade, such as one sees at the Trianon or upon the stage or in the new home of a new millionaire, and which, if the true facts be known, the ingenious Louis invented for the discomfort of his favorites and the folly of future collectors. It creaked whenever Harrigan sighed, which was often, for he was deeply immersed (and no better word could be selected to fit his mental condition) in the baneful book which he had hurled out of the window the night before, only to retrieve like the good dog that he was. To-day his shoes offered no loophole to criticism; he had very well attended to that. His tie harmonized with his shirt and stockings; his suit was of grey tweed; in fact, he was the glass of fashion and the mold of form, at least for the present. "Say, Molly, I don't see what difference it makes." "Difference what makes, James?" Mrs. Harrigan raised her eyes from her work. James had been so well-behaved that morning it was only logical for her to anticipate that he was about to abolish at one fell stroke all his hard-earned merits. "About eating salads. We never used to put oil on our tomatoes. Sugar and vinegar were good enough." "Sugar and vinegar are not nourishing; olive-oil is." "We seemed to hike along all right before we learned that." His guardian angel was alert this time, and he returned to his delving without further comment. By and by he got up. "Pshaw!" He dropped the wearisome volume on the reading-table, took up a paper-covered novel, and turned to the last fight of the blacksmith in _Rodney Stone_. Here was something that made the invention of type excusable, even commendable. "Play the fourth _ballade_," urged Abbott. Celeste was really a great artist. As an interpreter of Chopin she had no rival among women, and only one man was her equal. She had fire, tenderness, passion, strength; she had beyond all these, soul, which is worth more in true expression than the most marvelous technique. She had chosen Chopin for his brilliance, as some will chose Turner in preference to Corot: riots of color, barbaric and tingling. She was as great a genius in her way as Nora was in hers. There was something of the elfin child in her spirit. Whenever she played to Abbott, there was a quality in the expression that awakened a wonderment in Nora's heart. As Celeste began the _andante_, Nora signified to the Barone to drop his work. She let her own hands fall. Harrigan gently closed his book, for in that rough kindly soul of his lay a mighty love of music. He himself was without expression of any sort, and somehow music seemed to stir the dim and not quite understandable longing for utterance. Mrs. Harrigan alone went on with her work; she could work and listen at the same time. After the magnificent finale, nothing in the room stirred but her needle. "Bravo!" cried the Barone, breaking the spell. "You never played that better," declared Nora. Celeste, to escape the keen inquiry of her friend and to cover up her embarrassment, dashed into one of the lighter compositions, a waltz. It was a favorite of Nora's. She rose and went over to the piano and rested a hand upon Celeste's shoulder. And presently her voice took up the melody. Mrs. Harrigan dropped her needle. It was not that she was particularly fond of music, but there was something in Nora's singing that cast a temporary spell of enchantment over her, rendering her speechless and motionless. She was not of an analytical turn of mind; thus, the truth escaped her. She was really lost in admiration of herself: she had produced this marvelous being! "That's some!" Harrigan beat his hands together thunderously. "Great stuff; eh, Barone?" The Barone raised his hands as if to express his utter inability to describe his sensations. His elation was that ascribed to those fortunate mortals whom the gods lifted to Olympus. At his feet lay the lace-hemming, hopelessly snarled. "Father, father!" remonstrated Nora; "you will wake up all the old ladies who are having their siesta." "Bah! I'll bet a doughnut their ears are glued to their doors. What ho! Somebody's at the portcullis. Probably the padre, come up for tea." He was at the door instantly. He flung it open heartily. It was characteristic of the man to open everything widely, his heart, his mind, his hate or his affection. "Come in, come in! Just in time for the matinée concert." The padre was not alone. Courtlandt followed him in. [Illustration: Courtlandt followed him in.] "We have been standing in the corridor for ten minutes," affirmed the padre, sending a winning smile around the room. "Mr. Courtlandt was for going down to the bureau and sending up our cards. But I would not hear of such formality. I am a privileged person." "Sure yes! Molly, ring for tea, and tell 'em to make it hot. How about a little peg, as the colonel says?" The two men declined. How easily and nonchalantly the man stood there by the door as Harrigan took his hat! Celeste was aquiver with excitement. She was thoroughly a woman: she wanted something to happen, dramatically, romantically. But her want was a vain one. The man smiled quizzically at Nora, who acknowledged the salutation by a curtsy which would have frightened away the banshees of her childhood. Nora hated scenes, and Courtlandt had the advantage of her in his knowledge of this. Celeste remained at the piano, but Nora turned as if to move away. "No, no!" cried the padre, his palms extended in protest. "If you stop the music I shall leave instantly." "But we are all through, Padre," replied Nora, pinching Celeste's arm, which action the latter readily understood as a command to leave the piano. Celeste, however, had a perverse streak in her to-day. Instead of rising as Nora expected she would, she wheeled on the stool and began _Morning Mood_ from Peer Gynt, because the padre preferred Grieg or Beethoven to Chopin. Nora frowned at the pretty head below her. She stooped. "I sha'n't forgive you for this trick," she whispered. Celeste shrugged, and her fingers did not falter. So Nora moved away this time in earnest. "No, you must sing. That is what I came up for," insisted the padre. If there was any malice in the churchman, it was of a negative quality. But it was in his Latin blood that drama should appeal to him strongly, and here was an unusual phase in The Great Play. He had urged Courtlandt, much against the latter's will this day, to come up with him, simply that he might set a little scene such as this promised to be and study it from the vantage of the prompter. He knew that the principal theme of all great books, of all great dramas, was antagonism, antagonism between man and woman, though by a thousand other names has it been called. He had often said, in a spirit of raillery, that this antagonism was principally due to the fact that Eve had been constructed (and very well) out of a rib from Adam. Naturally she resented this, that she had not been fashioned independently, and would hold it against man until the true secret of the parable was made clear to her. "Sing that, Padre?" said Nora. "Why, there are no words to it that I know." "Words? _Peste!_ Who cares for words no one really ever understands? It is the voice, my child. Go on, or I shall make you do some frightful penance." Nora saw that further opposition would be useless. After all, it would be better to sing. She would not be compelled to look at this man she so despised. For a moment her tones were not quite clear; but Celeste increased the volume of sound warningly, and as this required more force on Nora's part, the little cross-current was passed without mishap. It was mere pastime for her to follow these wonderful melodies. She had no words to recall so that her voice was free to do with as she elected. There were bars absolutely impossible to follow, note for note, but she got around this difficulty by taking the key and holding it strongly and evenly. In ordinary times Nora never refused to sing for her guests, if she happened to be in voice. There was none of that conceited arrogance behind which most of the vocal celebrities hide themselves. At the beginning she had intended to sing badly; but as the music proceeded, she sang as she had not sung in weeks. To fill this man's soul with a hunger for the sound of her voice, to pour into his heart a fresh knowledge of what he had lost forever and forever! Courtlandt sat on the divan beside Harrigan who, with that friendly spirit which he observed toward all whom he liked, whether of long or short acquaintance, had thrown his arm across Courtlandt's shoulder. The younger man understood all that lay behind the simple gesture, and he was secretly pleased. But Mrs. Harrigan was not. She was openly displeased, and in vain she tried to catch the eye of her wayward lord. A man he had known but twenty-four hours, and to greet him with such coarse familiarity! Celeste was not wholly unmerciful. She did not finish the suite, but turned from the keys after the final chords of _Morning Mood_. "Thank you!" said Nora. "Do not stop," begged Courtlandt. Nora looked directly into his eyes as she replied: "One's voice can not go on forever, and mine is not at all strong." And thus, without having originally the least intent to do so, they broke the mutual contract on which they had separately and secretly agreed: never to speak directly to each other. Nora was first to realize what she had done, and she was furiously angry with herself. She left the piano. As if her mind had opened suddenly like a book, Courtlandt sprang from the divan and reached for the fat ball of lace-hemming. He sat down in Nora's chair and nodded significantly to the Barone, who blushed. To hold the delicate material for Nora's unwinding was a privilege of the gods, but to hold it for this man for whom he held a dim feeling of antagonism was altogether a different matter. "It is horribly tangled," he admitted, hoping thus to escape. "No matter. You hold the ball. I'll untangle it. I never saw a fish-line I could not straighten out." Nora laughed. It was not possible for her to repress the sound. Her sense of humor was too strong in this case to be denied its release in laughter. It was free of the subtler emotions; frank merriment, no more, no less. And possessing the hunter's extraordinarily keen ear, Courtlandt recognized the quality; and the weight of a thousand worlds lightened its pressure upon his heart. And the Barone laughed, too. So there they were, the three of them. But Nora's ineffectual battle for repression had driven her near to hysteria. To escape this dire calamity, she flung open a casement window and stood within it, breathing in the heavy fragrance of the rain-laden air. This little comedy had the effect of relaxing them all; and the laughter became general. Abbott's smile faded soonest. He stared at his friend in wonder not wholly free from a sense of evil fortune. Never had he known Courtlandt to aspire to be a squire of dames. To see the Barone hold the ball as if it were hot shot was amusing; but the cool imperturbable manner with which Courtlandt proceeded to untangle the snarl was disturbing. Why the deuce wasn't he himself big and strong, silent and purposeful, instead of being a dawdling fool of an artist? No answer came to his inquiry, but there was a knock at the door. The managing director handed Harrigan a card. "Herr Rosen," he read aloud. "Send him up. Some friend of yours, Nora; Herr Rosen. I told Mr. Jilli to send him up." The padre drew his feet under his cassock, a sign of perturbation; Courtlandt continued to unwind; the Barone glanced fiercely at Nora, who smiled enigmatically. CHAPTER XV HERR ROSEN'S REGRETS Herr Rosen! There was no outward reason why the name should have set a chill on them all, turned them into expectant statues. Yet, all semblance of good-fellowship was instantly gone. To Mrs. Harrigan alone did the name convey a sense of responsibility, a flutter of apprehension not unmixed with delight. She put her own work behind the piano lid, swooped down upon the two men and snatched away the lace-hemming, to the infinite relief of the one and the surprise of the other. Courtlandt would have liked nothing better than to hold the lace in his lap, for it was possible that Herr Rosen might wish to shake hands, however disinclined he might be within to perform such greeting. The lace disappeared. Mrs. Harrigan smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress. From the others there had been little movement and no sound to speak of. Harrigan still waited by the door, seriously contemplating the bit of pasteboard in his hand. Nora did not want to look, but curiosity drew her eyes imperiously toward Courtlandt. He had not risen. Did he know? Did he understand? Was his attitude pretense or innocence? Ah, if she could but look behind that impenetrable mask! How she hated him! The effrontery of it all! And she could do nothing, say nothing: dared not tell them then and there what he truly was, a despicable scoundrel! The son of her father's dearest friend; what mockery! A friend of the family! It was maddening. Herr Rosen brushed past Harrigan unceremoniously, without pausing, and went straight over to Nora, who was thereupon seized by an uncontrollable spirit of devilment. She hated Herr Rosen, but she was going to be as pleasant and as engaging as she knew how to be. She did not care if he misinterpreted her mood. She welcomed him with a hand. He went on to Mrs. Harrigan, who colored pleasurably. He was then introduced, and he acknowledged each introduction with a careless nod. He was there to see Nora, and he did not propose to put himself to any inconvenience on account of the others. The temporary restraint which had settled upon the others at the announcement of Herr Rosen's arrival passed away. Courtlandt, who had remained seated during the initial formalities (a fact which bewildered Abbott, who knew how punctilious his friend was in matters of this kind) got up and took a third of the divan. Harrigan dropped down beside him. It was his habit to watch his daughter's face when any guest arrived. He formed his impression on what he believed to be hers. That she was a consummate actress never entered into his calculations. The welcoming smile dissipated any doubts. "No matter where we are, they keep coming. She has as many friends as T. R. I never bother to keep track of 'em." "It would be rather difficult," assented Courtlandt. "You ought to see the flowers. Loads of 'em. And say, what do you think? Every jewel that comes she turns into money and gives to charity. Can you beat it? Fine joke on the Johnnies. Of course, I mean stones that turn up anonymously. Those that have cards go back by fast-mail. It's a good thing I don't chance across the senders. Now, boy, I want you to feel at home here in this family; I want you to come up when you want to and at any old time of day. I kind of want to pay back to you all the kind things your dad did for me. And I don't want any Oh-pshawing. Get me?" "Whatever you say. If my dad did you any favors it was because he liked and admired you; not with any idea of having you discharge the debt in the future by way of inconveniencing yourself on my account. Just let me be a friend of the family, like Abbott here. That would be quite enough honor for me." "You're on! Say, that blacksmith yarn was a corker. He was a game old codger. That was scrapping; no hall full of tobacco-smoke, no palm-fans, lemonade, peanuts and pop-corn; just right out on the turf, and may the best man win. I know. I went through that. No frame-ups, all square and on the level. A fellow had to fight those days, no sparring, no pretty footwork. Sometimes I've a hankering to get back and exchange a wallop or two. Nothing to it, though. My wife won't let me, as the song goes." Courtlandt chuckled. "I suppose it's the monotony. A man who has been active hates to sit down and twiddle his thumbs. You exercise?" "Walk a lot." "Climb any?" "Don't know that game." "It's great sport. I'll break you in some day, if you say. You'll like it. The mountains around here are not dangerous. We can go up and down in a day." "I'll go you. But, say, last night Nora chucked a bunch of daisies out of the window, and as I was nosing around in the vineyard, I came across it. You know how a chap will absently pick a bunch of flowers apart. What do you think I found?" "A note?" "This." Harrigan exhibited the emerald. "Who sent it? Where the dickens did it come from?" Courtlandt took the stone and examined it carefully. "That's not a bad stone. Uncut but polished; oriental." "Oriental, eh? What would you say it was worth?" "Oh, somewhere between six and seven hundred." "Suffering shamrocks! A little green pebble like this?" "Cut and flawless, at that size, it would be worth pounds instead of dollars." "Well, what do you think of that? Nora told me to keep it, so I guess I will." "Why, yes. If a man sends a thing like this anonymously, he can't possibly complain. Have it made into a stick pin." Courtlandt returned the stone which Harrigan pocketed. "Sometimes I wish Nora'd marry and settle down." "She is young. You wouldn't have quit the game at her age!" "I should say not! But that's different. A man's business is to fight for his grub, whether in an office or in the ring. That's a part of the game. But a woman ought to have a home, live in it three-fourths of the year, and bring up good citizens. That's what we are all here for. Molly used to stay at home, but now it's the social bug, gadding from morning until night. Ah, here's Carlos with the tea." Herr Rosen instantly usurped the chair next to Nora, who began to pour the tea. He had come up from the village prepared for a disagreeable half-hour. Instead of being greeted with icy glances from stormy eyes, he encountered such smiles as this adorable creature had never before bestowed upon him. He was in the clouds. That night at Cadenabbia had apparently knocked the bottom out of his dream. Women were riddles which only they themselves could solve for others. For this one woman he was perfectly ready to throw everything aside. A man lived but once; and he was a fool who would hold to tinsel in preference to such happiness as he thought he saw opening out before him. Nora saw, but she did not care. That in order to reach another she was practising infinite cruelty on this man (whose one fault lay in that he loved her) did not appeal to her pity. But her arrow flew wide of the target; at least, there appeared no result to her archery in malice. Not once had the intended victim looked over to where she sat. And yet she knew that he must be watching; he could not possibly avoid it and be human. And when he finally came forward to take his cup, she leaned toward Herr Rosen. "You take two lumps?" she asked sweetly. It was only a chance shot, but she hit on the truth. "And you remember?" excitedly. "One lump for mine, please," said Courtlandt, smiling. She picked up a cube of sugar and dropped it into his cup. She had the air of one wishing it were poison. The recipient of this good will, with perfect understanding, returned to the divan, where the padre and Harrigan were gravely toasting each other with Benedictine. Nora made no mistake with either Abbott's cup or the Barone's; but the two men were filled with but one desire, to throw Herr Rosen out of the window. What had begun as a beautiful day was now becoming black and uncertain. The Barone could control every feature save his eyes, and these openly admitted deep anger. He recollected Herr Rosen well enough. The encounter over at Cadenabbia was not the first by many. Herr Rosen! His presence in this room under that name was an insult, and he intended to call the interloper to account the very first opportunity he found. Perhaps Celeste, sitting as quiet as a mouse upon the piano-stool, was the only one who saw these strange currents drifting dangerously about. That her own heart ached miserably did not prevent her from observing things with all her usual keenness. Ah, Nora, Nora, who have everything to give and yet give nothing, why do you play so heartless a game? Why hurt those who can no more help loving you than the earth can help whirling around the calm dispassionate sun? Always they turn to you, while I, who have so much to give, am given nothing! She set down her tea-cup and began the aria from _La Bohème_. Nora, without relaxing the false smile, suddenly found emptiness in everything. "Sing!" said Herr Rosen. "I am too tired. Some other time." He did not press her. Instead, he whispered in his own tongue: "You are the most adorable woman in the world!" And Nora turned upon him a pair of eyes blank with astonishment. It was as though she had been asleep and he had rudely awakened her. His infatuation blinded him to the truth; he saw in the look a feminine desire to throw the others off the track as to the sentiment expressed in his whispered words. The hour passed tolerably well. Herr Rosen then observed the time, rose and excused himself. He took the steps leading abruptly down the terrace to the carriage road. He had come by the other way, the rambling stone stairs which began at the porter's lodge, back of the villa. "Padre," whispered Courtlandt, "I am going. Do not follow. I shall explain to you when we meet again." The padre signified that he understood. Harrigan protested vigorously, but smiling and shaking his head, Courtlandt went away. Nora ran to the window. She could see Herr Rosen striding along, down the winding road, his head in the air. Presently, from behind a cluster of mulberries, the figure of another man came into view. He was going at a dog-trot, his hat settled at an angle that permitted the rain to beat squarely into his face. The next turn in the road shut them both from sight. But Nora did not stir. Herr Rosen stopped and turned. "You called?" "Yes." Courtlandt had caught up with him just as Herr Rosen was about to open the gates. "Just a moment, Herr Rosen," with a hand upon the bars. "I shall not detain you long." There was studied insolence in the tones and the gestures which accompanied them. "Be brief, if you please." "My name is Edward Courtlandt, as doubtless you have heard." "In a large room it is difficult to remember all the introductions." "Precisely. That is why I take the liberty of recalling it to you, so that you will not forget it," urbanely. A pause. Dark patches of water were spreading across their shoulders. Little rivulets ran down Courtlandt's arm, raised as it was against the bars. "I do not see how it may concern me," replied Herr Rosen finally with an insolence more marked than Courtlandt's. "In Paris we met one night, at the stage entrance of the Opera, I pushed you aside, not knowing who you were. You had offered your services; the door of Miss Harrigan's limousine." "It was you?" scowling. "I apologize for that. To-morrow morning you will leave Bellaggio for Varenna. Somewhere between nine and ten the fast train leaves for Milan." "Varenna! Milan!" "Exactly. You speak English as naturally and fluently as if you were born to the tongue. Thus, you will leave for Milan. What becomes of you after that is of no consequence to me. Am I making myself clear?" "_Verdampt!_ Do I believe my ears?" furiously. "Are you telling me to leave Bellaggio to-morrow morning?" "As directly as I can." Herr Rosen's face became as red as his name. He was a brave young man, but there was danger of an active kind in the blue eyes boring into his own. If it came to a physical contest, he realized that he would get the worst of it. He put his hand to his throat; his very impotence was choking him. "Your Highness...." "Highness!" Herr Rosen stepped back. "Yes. Your Highness will readily see the wisdom of my concern for your hasty departure when I add that I know all about the little house in Versailles, that my knowledge is shared by the chief of the Parisian police and the minister of war. If you annoy Miss Harrigan with your equivocal attentions...." "_Gott!_ This is too much!" "Wait! I am stronger than you are. Do not make me force you to hear me to the end. You have gone about this intrigue like a blackguard, and that I know your Highness not to be. The matter is, you are young, you have always had your way, you have not learnt restraint. Your presence here is an insult to Miss Harrigan, and if she was pleasant to you this afternoon it was for my benefit. If you do not go, I shall expose you." Courtlandt opened the gate. "And if I refuse?" "Why, in that case, being the American that I am, without any particular reverence for royalty or nobility, as it is known, I promise to thrash you soundly to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, in the dining-room, in the bureau, the drawing-room, wherever I may happen to find you." Courtlandt turned on his heel and hurried back to the villa. He did not look over his shoulder. If he had, he might have felt pity for the young man who leaned heavily against the gate, his burning face pressed upon his rain-soaked sleeve. When Courtlandt knocked at the door and was admitted, he apologized. "I came back for my umbrella." "Umbrella!" exclaimed the padre. "Why, we had no umbrellas. We came up in a carriage which is probably waiting for us this very minute by the porter's lodge." "Well, I am certainly absent-minded!" "Absent-minded!" scoffed Abbott. "You never forgot anything in all your life, unless it was to go to bed. You wanted an excuse to come back." "Any excuse would be a good one in that case. I think we'd better be going, Padre. And by the way, Herr Rosen begged me to present his regrets. He is leaving Bellaggio in the morning." Nora turned her face once more to the window. CHAPTER XVI THE APPLE OF DISCORD "It is all very petty, my child," said the padre. "Life is made up of bigger things; the little ones should be ignored." To which Nora replied: "To a woman, the little things are everything; they are the daily routine, the expected, the necessary things. What you call the big things in life are accidents. And, oh! I have pride." She folded her arms across her heaving bosom; for the padre's directness this morning had stirred her deeply. "Wilfulness is called pride by some; and stubbornness. But you know, as well as I do, that yours is resentment, anger, indignation. Yes, you have pride, but it has not been brought into this affair. Pride is that within which prevents us from doing mean or sordid acts; and you could not do one or the other if you tried. The sentiment in you which should be developed...." "Is mercy?" "No; justice, the patience to weigh the right or wrong of a thing." "Padre, I have eyes, eyes; I _saw_." He twirled the middle button of his cassock. "The eyes see and the ears hear, but these are only witnesses, laying the matter before the court of the last resort, which is the mind. It is there we sift the evidence." "He had the insufferable insolence to order Herr Rosen to leave," going around the barrier of his well-ordered logic. "Ah! Now, how could he send away Herr Rosen if that gentleman had really preferred to stay?" Nora looked confused. "Shall I tell you? I suspected; so I questioned him last night. Had I been in his place, I should have chastised Herr Rosen instead of bidding him be gone. It was he." Nora, sat down. "Positively. The men who guarded you were two actors from one of the theaters. He did not come to Versailles because he was being watched. He was found and sent home the night before your release." "I am sorry. But it was so like _him_." The padre spread his hands. "What a way women have of modifying either good or bad impulses! It would have been fine of you to have stopped when you said you were sorry." "Padre, one would believe that you had taken up his defense!" "If I had I should have to leave it after to-day. I return to Rome to-morrow and shall not see you again before you go to America. I have bidden good-by to all save you. My child, my last admonition is, be patient; observe; guard against that impulse born in your blood to move hastily, to form opinions without solid foundations. Be happy while you are young, for old age is happy only in that reflected happiness of recollection. Write to me, here. I return in November. _Benedicite?_" smiling. Nora bowed her head and he put a hand upon it. * * * * * "And listen to this," began Harrigan, turning over a page. "'It is considered bad form to call the butler to your side when you are a guest. Catch his eye. He will understand that something is wanted.' How's that?" "That's the way to live." Courtlandt grinned, and tilted back his chair until it rested against the oak. The morning was clear and mild. Fresh snow lay upon the mountain tops; later it would disappear. The fountain tinkled, and swallows darted hither and thither under the sparkling spray. The gardeners below in the vegetable patch were singing. By the door of the villa sat two old ladies, breakfasting in the sunshine. There was a hint of lavender in the lazy drifting air. A dozen yards away sat Abbott, two or three brushes between his teeth and one in his hand. A little behind was Celeste, sewing posies upon one of those squares of linen toward which all women in their idle moments are inclined, and which, on finishing, they immediately stow away in the bottom of some trunk against the day when they have a home of their own, or marry, or find some one ignorant enough to accept it as a gift. "'And when in doubt,'" continued Harrigan, "'watch how other persons use their forks.' Can you beat it? And say, honest, Molly bought that for me to read and study. And I never piped the subtitle until this morning. 'Advice to young ladies upon going into society.' Huh?" Harrigan slapped his knee with the book and roared out his keen enjoyment. Somehow he seemed to be more at ease with this young fellow than with any other man he had met in years. "But for the love of Mike, don't say anything to Molly," fearfully. "Oh, she means the best in the world," contritely. "I'm always embarrassing her; shoe-strings that don't match, a busted stud in my shirt-front, and there isn't a pair of white-kids made that'll stay whole more than five minutes on these paws. I suppose it's because I don't think. After all, I'm only a retired pug." The old fellow's eyes sparkled suspiciously. "The best two women in all the world, and I don't want them to be ashamed of me." "Why, Mr. Harrigan," said Courtlandt, letting his chair fall into place so that he could lay a hand affectionately upon the other's knee, "neither of them would be worth their salt if they ever felt ashamed of you. What do you care what strangers think or say? You know. You've seen life. You've stepped off the stage and carried with you the recollection of decent living, of playing square, of doing the best you could. The worst scoundrels I ever met never made any mistake with their forks. Perhaps you don't know it, but my father became rich because he could judge a man's worth almost at sight. And he kept this fortune and added to it because he chose half a dozen friends and refused to enlarge the list. If you became his friend, he had good reason for making you such." "Well, we did have some good times together," Harrigan admitted, with a glow in his heart. "And I guess after all that I'll go to the ball with Molly. I don't mind teas like we had at the colonel's, but dinners and balls I have drawn the line at. I'll take the plunge to-night. There's always some place for a chap to smoke." "At the Villa Rosa? I'll be there myself; and any time you are in doubt, don't be afraid to question me." "You're in class A," heartily. "But there's one thing that worries me,--Nora. She's gone up so high, and she's such a wonderful girl, that all the men in Christendom are hiking after her. And some of 'em.... Well, Molly says it isn't good form to wallop a man over here. Why, she went on her lonesome to India and Japan, with nobody but her maid; and never put us hep until she landed in Bombay. The men out that way aren't the best. East of Suez, you know. And that chap yesterday, Herr Rosen. Did you see the way he hiked by me when I let him in? He took me to be the round number before one. And he didn't speak a dozen words to any but Nora. Not that I mind that; but it was something in the way he did it that scratched me the wrong way. The man who thinks he's going to get Nora by walking over me, has got a guess coming. Of course, it's meat and drink to Molly to have sons of grand dukes and kings trailing around. She says it gives tone." "Isn't she afraid sometimes?" "Afraid? I should say not! There's only three things that Molly's afraid of these days: a spool of thread, a needle, and a button." Courtlandt laughed frankly. "I really don't think you need worry about Herr Rosen. He has gone, and he will not come back." "Say! I'll bet a dollar it was you who shoo'd him off." "Yes. But it was undoubtedly an impertinence on my part, and I'd rather you would not disclose my officiousness to Miss Harrigan." "Piffle! If you knew him you had a perfect right to pass him back his ticket. Who was he?" Courtlandt poked at the gravel with his cane. "One of the big guns?" Courtlandt nodded. "So big that he couldn't have married my girl even if he loved her?" "Yes. As big as that." Harrigan riffled the leaves of his book. "What do you say to going down to the hotel and having a game of _bazzica_, as they call billiards here?" "Nothing would please me better," said Courtlandt, relieved that Harrigan did not press him for further revelations. "Nora is studying a new opera, and Molly-O is ragging the village dressmaker. It's only half after ten, and we can whack 'em around until noon. I warn you, I'm something of a shark." "I'll lay you the cigars that I beat you." "You're on!" Harrigan put the book in his pocket, and the two of them made for the upper path, not, however, without waving a friendly adieu to Celeste, who was watching them with much curiosity. For a moment Nora became visible in the window. Her expression did not signify that the sight of the men together pleased her. On the contrary, her eyes burned and her brow was ruffled by several wrinkles which threatened to become permanent if the condition of affairs continued to remain as it was. To her the calm placidity of the man was nothing less than monumental impudence. How she hated him; how bitterly, how intensely she hated him! She withdrew from the window without having been seen. "Did you ever see two finer specimens of man?" Celeste asked of Abbott. "What? Who?" mumbled Abbott, whose forehead was puckered with impatience. "Oh, those two? They _are_ well set up. But what the deuce _is_ the matter with this foreground?" taking the brushes from his teeth. "I've been hammering away at it for a week, and it does not get there yet." Celeste rose and laid aside her work. She stood behind him and studied the picture through half-closed critical eyes. "You have painted it over too many times." Then she looked down at the shapely head. Ah, the longing to put her hands upon it, to run her fingers through the tousled hair, to touch it with her lips! But no! "Perhaps you are tired; perhaps you have worked too hard. Why not put aside your brushes for a week?" "I've a good mind to chuck it into the lake. I simply can't paint any more." He flung down the brushes. "I'm a fool, Celeste, a fool. I'm crying for the moon, that's what the matter is. What's the use of beating about the bush? You know as well as I do that it's Nora." Her heart contracted, and for a little while she could not see him clearly. "But what earthly chance have I?" he went on, innocently but ruthlessly. "No one can help loving Nora." "No," in a small voice. "It's all rot, this talk about affinities. There's always some poor devil left outside. But who can help loving Nora?" he repeated. "Who indeed!" "And there's not the least chance in the world for me." "You never can tell until you put it to the test." "Do you think I have a chance? Is it possible that Nora may care a little for me?" He turned his head toward her eagerly. "Who knows?" She wanted him to have it over with, to learn the truth that to Nora Harrigan he would never be more than an amiable comrade. He would then have none to turn to but her. What mattered it if her own heart ached so she might soothe the hurt in his? She laid a hand upon his shoulder, so lightly that he was only dimly conscious of the contact. "It's a rummy old world. Here I've gone alone all these years...." "Twenty-six!" smiling. "Well, that's a long time. Never bothered my head about a woman. Selfish, perhaps. Had a good time, came and went as I pleased. And then I met Nora." "Yes." "If only she'd been stand-offish, like these other singers, why, I'd have been all right to-day. But she's such a brick! She's such a good fellow! She treats us all alike; sings when we ask her to; always ready for a romp. Think of her making us all take the _Kneip_-cure the other night! And we marched around the fountain singing 'Mary had a little lamb.' Barefooted in the grass! When a man marries he doesn't want a wife half so much as a good comrade; somebody to slap him on the back in the morning to hearten him up for the day's work; and to cuddle him up when he comes home tired, or disappointed, or unsuccessful. No matter what mood he's in. Is my English getting away from you?" "No; I understand all you say." Her hand rested a trifle heavier upon his shoulder, that was all. "Nora would be that kind of a wife. 'Honor, anger, valor, fire,' as Stevenson says. Hang the picture; what am I going to do with it?" "'Honor, anger, valor, fire,'" Celeste repeated slowly. "Yes, that is Nora." A bitter little smile moved her lips as she recalled the happenings of the last two days. But no; he must find out for himself; he must meet the hurt from Nora, not from her. "How long, Abbott, have you known your friend Mr. Courtlandt?" "Boys together," playing a light tattoo with his mahl-stick. "How old is he?" "About thirty-two or three." "He is very rich?" "Oceans of money; throws it away, but not fast enough to get rid of it." "He is what you say in English ... wild?" "Well," with mock gravity, "I shouldn't like to be the tiger that crossed his path. Wild; that's the word for it." "You are laughing. Ah, I know! I should say dissipated." "Courtlandt? Come, now, Celeste; does he look dissipated?" "No-o." "He drinks when he chooses, he flirts with a pretty woman when he chooses, he smokes the finest tobacco there is when he chooses; and he gives them all up when he chooses. He is like the seasons; he comes and goes, and nobody can change his habits." "He has had no affair?" "Why, Courtlandt hasn't any heart. It's a mechanical device to keep his blood in circulation; that's all. I am the most intimate friend he has, and yet I know no more than you how he lives and where he goes." She let her hand fall from his shoulder. She was glad that he did not know. "But look!" she cried in warning. Abbott looked. A woman was coming serenely down the path from the wooded promontory, a woman undeniably handsome in a cedar-tinted linen dress, exquisitely fashioned, with a touch of vivid scarlet on her hat and a most tantalizing flash of scarlet ankle. It was Flora Desimone, fresh from her morning bath and a substantial breakfast. The errand that had brought her from Aix-les-Bains was confessedly a merciful one. But she possessed the dramatist's instinct to prolong a situation. Thus, to make her act of mercy seem infinitely larger than it was, she was determined first to cast the Apple of Discord into this charming corner of Eden. The Apple of Discord, as every man knows, is the only thing a woman can throw with any accuracy. The artist snatched up his brushes, and ruined the painting forthwith, for all time. The foreground was, in his opinion, beyond redemption; so, with a savage humor, he rapidly limned in a score of impossible trees, turned midday into sunset, with a riot of colors which would have made the Chinese New-year in Canton a drab and sober event in comparison. He hated Flora Desimone, as all Nora's adherents most properly did, but with a hatred wholly reflective and adapted to Nora's moods. "You have spoiled it!" cried Celeste. She had watched the picture grow, and to see it ruthlessly destroyed this way hurt her. "How could you!" "Worst I ever did." He began to change the whole effect, chuckling audibly as he worked. Sunset divided honors with moonlight. It was no longer incongruous; it was ridiculous. He leaned back and laughed. "I'm going to send it to L'Asino, and call it an afterthought." "Give it to me." "What?" "Yes." "Nonsense! I'm going to touch a match to it. I'll give you that picture with the lavender in bloom." "I want this." "But you can not hang it." "I want it." "Well!" The more he learned about women the farther out of mental reach they seemed to go. Why on earth did she want this execrable daub? "You may have it; but all the same, I'm going to call an oculist and have him examine your eyes." "Why, it is the Signorina Fournier!" In preparing studiously to ignore Flora Desimone's presence they had forgotten all about her. "Good morning, Signora," said Celeste in Italian. "And the Signore Abbott, the painter, also!" The Calabrian raised what she considered her most deadly weapon, her lorgnette. Celeste had her fancy-work instantly in her two hands; Abbott's were occupied; Flora's hands were likewise engaged; thus, the insipid mockery of hand-shaking was nicely and excusably avoided. "What is it?" asked Flora, squinting. "It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning," soberly. "It looks very natural," observed Flora. "Natural!" Abbott dropped his mahl-stick. "It is Vesuv', is it not, on a cloudy day?" This was too much for Abbott's gravity, and he laughed. "It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," said Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy and contemplative like a cat's, and, as every one knows, a cat's eye is the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since a cat's attitude toward the world is by need and experience wholly defensive. "The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it represents an eruption of temper." Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum. "It is too bad," she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the villa. "It was irrevocably lost," Abbott declared. "No, no; I do not mean the picture. I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice was really superb; and to lose it entirely...!" She waved a sympathetic hand. Abbott was about to rise up in vigorous protest. But fate itself chose to rebuke Flora. From the window came--"_Sai cos' ebbe cuore!_"--sung as only Nora could sing it. The ferrule of Flora Desimone's parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf. CHAPTER XVII THE BALL AT THE VILLA "Do you know the Duchessa?" asked Flora Desimone. "Yes." It was three o'clock the same afternoon. The duke sat with his wife under the vine-clad trattoria on the quay. Between his knees he held his Panama hat, which was filled with ripe hazelnuts. He cracked them vigorously with his strong white teeth and filliped the broken shells into the lake, where a frantic little fish called _agoni_ darted in and about the slowly sinking particles. "Why?" The duke was not any grayer than he had been four or five months previous, but the characteristic expression of his features had undergone a change. He looked less Jovian than Job-like. "I want you to get an invitation to her ball at the Villa Rosa to-night." "We haven't been here twenty-four hours!" in mild protest. "What has that to do with it? It doesn't make any difference." "I suppose not." He cracked and ate a nut. "Where is he?" "He has gone to Milan. He left hurriedly. He's a fool," impatiently. "Not necessarily. Foolishness is one thing and discretion is another. Oh, well; his presence here was not absolutely essential. Presently he will marry and settle down and be a good boy." The next nut was withered, and he tossed it aside. "Is her voice really gone?" "No." Flora leaned with her arms upon the railing and glared at the wimpling water. She had carried the Apple of Discord up the hill and down again. Nora had been indisposed. "I am glad of that." She turned the glare upon him. "I am very glad of that, considering your part in the affair." "Michael...!" "Be careful. Michael is always a prelude to a temper. Have one of these," offering a nut. She struck it rudely from his hand. "Sometimes I am tempted to put my two hands around that exquisite neck of yours." "Try it." "No, I do not believe it would be wise. But if ever I find out that you have lied to me, that you loved the fellow and married me out of spite...." He completed the sentence by suggestively crunching a nut. The sullen expression on her face gave place to a smile. "I should like to see you in a rage." "No, my heart; you would like nothing of the sort. I understand you better than you know; that accounts for my patience. You are Italian. You are caprice and mood. I come from a cold land. If ever I do get angry, run, run as fast as ever you can." Flora was not, among other things, frivolous or light-headed. There was an earthquake hidden somewhere in this quiet docile man, and the innate deviltry of the woman was always trying to dig down to it. But she never deceived herself. Some day this earthquake would open up and devour her. "I hate him. He snubbed me. I have told you that a thousand times." He laughed and rattled the nuts in his hat. "I want you to get that invitation." "And if I do not?" "I shall return immediately to Paris." "And break your word to me?" "As easily as you break one of these nuts." "And if I get the invitation?" "I shall fulfil my promise to the letter. I will tell her as I promised." "Out of love for me?" "Out of love for you, and because the play no longer interests me." "I wonder what new devilment is at work in your mind?" "Michael, I do not want to get into a temper. It makes lines in my face. I hate this place. It is dead. I want life, and color, and music. I want the rest of September in Ostend." "Paris, Capri, Taormina, Ostend; I marvel if ever you will be content to stay in one place long enough for me to get my breath?" "My dear, I am young. One of these days I shall be content to sit by your great Russian fireplace and hold your hand." "Hold it now." She laughed and pressed his hand between her own. "Michael, look me straight in the eyes." He did so willingly enough. "There is no other man. And if you ever look at another woman ... Well!" "I'll send over for the invitation." He stuffed his pockets with nuts and put on his hat. Flora then proceeded secretly to polish once more the Apple of Discord which, a deal tarnished for lack of use, she had been compelled to bring down from the promontory. * * * * * "Am I all right?" asked Harrigan. Courtlandt nodded. "You look like a soldier in mufti, and more than that, like the gentleman that you naturally are," quite sincerely. The ex-gladiator blushed. "This is the reception-room. There's the ballroom right out there. The smoking-room is on the other side. Now, how in the old Harry am I going to get across without killing some one?" Courtlandt resisted the desire to laugh. "Supposing you let me pilot you over?" "You're the referee. Ring the gong." "Come on, then." "What! while they are dancing?" backing away in dismay. The other caught him by the arm. "Come on." And in and out they went, hither and thither, now dodging, now pausing to let the swirl pass, until at length Harrigan found himself safe on shore, in the dim cool smoking-room. "I don't see how you did it," admiringly. "I'll drop in every little while to see how you are getting on," volunteered Courtlandt. "You can sit by the door if you care to see them dance. I'm off to see Mrs. Harrigan and tell her where you are. Here's a cigar." Harrigan turned the cigar over and over in his fingers, all the while gazing at the young man's diminishing back. He sighed. _That_ would make him the happiest man in the world. He examined the carnelian band encircling the six-inches of evanescent happiness. "What do you think of that!" he murmured. "Same brand the old boy used to smoke. And if he pays anything less than sixty apiece for 'em at wholesale, I'll eat this one." Then he directed his attention to the casual inspection of the room. A few elderly men were lounging about. His sympathy was at once mutely extended; it was plain that they too had been dragged out. At the little smoker's tabouret by the door he espied two chairs, one of which was unoccupied; and he at once appropriated it. The other chair was totally obscured by the bulk of the man who sat in it; a man, bearded, blunt-nosed, passive, but whose eyes were bright and twinkling. Hanging from his cravat was a medal of some kind. Harrigan lighted his cigar, and gave himself up to the delights of it. "They should leave us old fellows at home," he ventured. "Perhaps, in most cases, the women would much prefer that." "Foreigner," thought Harrigan. "Well, it does seem that the older we get the greater obstruction we become." "What is old age?" asked the thick but not unpleasant voice of the stranger. "It's standing aside. Years don't count at all. A man is as young as he feels." "And a woman as old as she looks!" laughed the other. "Now, I don't feel old, and I am fifty-one." The man with the beard shot an admiring glance across the tabouret. "You are extraordinarily well preserved, sir. You do not seem older than I, and I am but forty." "The trouble is, over here you play cards all night in stuffy rooms and eat too many sauces." Harrigan had read this somewhere, and he was pleased to think that he could recall it so fittingly. "Agreed. You Americans are getting out in the open more than any other white people." "Wonder how he guessed I was from the States?" Aloud, Harrigan said: "You don't look as though you'd grow any older in the next ten years." "That depends." The bearded man sighed and lighted a fresh cigarette. "There's a beautiful young woman," with an indicative gesture toward the ballroom. Harrigan expanded. It was Nora, dancing with the Barone. "She's the most beautiful young woman in the world," enthusiastically. "Ah, you know her?" interestedly. "I am her father!"--as Louis XIV might have said, "I am the State." The bearded man smiled. "Sir, I congratulate you both." Courtlandt loomed in the doorway. "Comfortable?" "Perfectly. Good cigar, comfortable chair, fine view." The duke eyed Courtlandt through the pall of smoke which he had purposefully blown forth. He questioned, rather amusedly, what would have happened had he gone down to the main hall that night in Paris? Among the few things he admired was a well-built handsome man. Courtlandt on his part pretended that he did not see. "You'll find the claret and champagne punches in the hall," suggested Courtlandt. "Not for mine! Run away and dance." "Good-by, then." Courtlandt vanished. "There's a fine chap. Edward Courtlandt, the American millionaire." It was not possible for Harrigan to omit this awe-compelling elaboration. "Edward Courtlandt." The stranger stretched his legs. "I have heard of him. Something of a hunter." "One of the keenest." "There is no half-way with your rich American: either his money ruins him or he runs away from it." "There's a stunner," exclaimed Harrigan. "Wonder how she got here?" "To which lady do you refer?" "The one in scarlet. She is Flora Desimone. She and my daughter sing together sometimes. Of course you have heard of Eleonora da Toscana; that's my daughter's stage name. The two are not on very good terms, naturally." "Quite naturally," dryly. "But you can't get away from the Calabrian's beauty," generously. "No." The bearded man extinguished his cigarette and rose, laying a _carte-de-visite_ on the tabouret. "More, I should not care to get away from it. Good evening," pleasantly. The music stopped. He passed on into the crowd. Harrigan reached over and picked up the card. "Suffering shamrocks! if Molly could only see me now," he murmured. "I wonder if I made any breaks? The grand duke, and me hobnobbing with him like a waiter! James, this is all under your hat. We'll keep the card where Molly won't find it." Young men began to drift in and out. The air became heavy with smoke, the prevailing aroma being that of Turkish tobacco of which Harrigan was not at all fond. But his cigar was so good that he was determined not to stir until the coal began to tickle the end of his nose. Since Molly knew where he was there was no occasion to worry. Abbott came in, pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, and impatiently struck a match. His hands shook a little, and the flare of the match revealed a pale and angry countenance. "Hey, Abbott, here's a seat. Get your second wind." "Thanks." Abbott dropped into the chair and smoked quickly. "Very stuffy out there. Too many." "You look it. Having a good time?" "Oh, fine!" There was a catch in the laugh which followed, but Harrigan's ear was not trained for these subtleties of sound, "How are you making out?" "I'm getting acclimated. Where's the colonel to-night? He ought to be around here somewhere." "I left him a few moments ago." "When you see him again, send him in. He's a live one, and I like to hear him talk." "I'll go at once," crushing his cigarette in the Jeypore bowl. "What's your hurry? You look like a man who has just lost his job." "Been steering a German countess. She was wound up to turn only one way, and I am groggy. I'll send the colonel over. By-by." "Now, what's stung the boy?" Nora was enjoying herself famously. The men hummed around her like bees around the sweetest rose. From time to time she saw Courtlandt hovering about the outskirts. She was glad he had come: the lepidopterist is latent or active in most women; to impale the butterfly, the moth falls easily into the daily routine. She was laughing and jesting with the men. Her mother stood by, admiringly. This time Courtlandt gently pushed his way to Nora's side. "May I have a dance?" he asked. "You are too late," evenly. She was becoming used to the sight of him, much to her amazement. "I am sorry." "Why, Nora, I didn't know that your card was filled!" said Mrs. Harrigan. She had the maternal eye upon Courtlandt. "Nevertheless," said Nora sweetly, "it is a fact." "I am disconsolate," replied Courtlandt, who had approached for form's sake only, being fully prepared for a refusal. "I have the unfortunate habit of turning up late," with a significance which only Nora understood. "So, those who are late must suffer the consequences." "Supper?" "The Barone rather than you." The music began again, and Abbott whirled her away. She was dressed in Burmese taffeta, a rich orange. In the dark of her beautiful black hair there was the green luster of emeralds; an Indian-princess necklace of emeralds and pearls was looped around her dazzling white throat. Unconsciously Courtlandt sighed audibly, and Mrs. Harrigan heard this note of unrest. "Who is that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan. "Flora Desimone's husband, the duke. He and Mr. Harrigan were having quite a conversation in the smoke-room." "What!" in consternation. "They were getting along finely when I left them." Mrs. Harrigan felt her heart sink. The duke and James together meant nothing short of a catastrophe; for James would not know whom he was addressing, and would make all manner of confidences. She knew something would happen if she let him out of her sight. He was eternally talking to strangers. "Would you mind telling Mr. Harrigan that I wish to see him?" "Not at all." Nora stopped at the end of the ballroom. "Donald, let us go out into the garden. I want a breath of air. Did you see her?" "Couldn't help seeing her. It was the duke, I suppose. It appears that he is an old friend of the duchess. We'll go through the conservatory. It's a short-cut." The night was full of moonshine; it danced upon the water; it fired the filigree tops of the solemn cypress; it laced the lawn with quivering shadows; and heavy hung the cloying perfume of the box-wood hedges. "_O bellissima notta!_" she sang. "Is it not glorious?" "Nora," said Abbott, leaning suddenly toward her. "Don't say it. Donald; please don't. Don't waste your love on me. You are a good man, and I should not be worthy the name of woman if I did not feel proud and sad. I want you always as a friend; and if you decide that can not be, I shall lose faith in everything. I have never had a brother, and in these two short years I have grown to look on you as one. I am sorry. But if you will look back you will see that I never gave you any encouragement. I was never more than your comrade. I have many faults, but I am not naturally a coquette. I know my heart; I know it well." "Is there another?" in despair. "Once upon a time, Donald, there was. There is nothing now but ashes. I am telling you this so that it will not be so hard for you to return to the old friendly footing. You are a brave man. Any man is who takes his heart in his hand and offers it to a woman. You are going to take my hand and promise to be my friend always." "Ah, Nora!" "You mustn't, Donald. I can't return to the ballroom with my eyes red. You will never know how a woman on the stage has to fight to earn her bread. And that part is only a skirmish compared to the ceaseless war men wage against her. She has only the fortifications of her wit and her presence of mind. Was I not abducted in the heart of Paris? And but for the cowardice of the man, who knows what might have happened? If I have beauty, God gave it to me to wear, and wear it I will. My father, the padre, you and the Barone; I would not trust any other men living. I am often unhappy, but I do not inflict this unhappiness on others. Be you the same. Be my friend; be brave and fight it out of your heart." Quickly she drew his head toward her and lightly kissed the forehead. "There! Ah, Donald, I very much need a friend." "All right, Nora," bravely indeed, for the pain in his young heart cried out for the ends of the earth in which to hide. "All right! I'm young; maybe I'll get over it in time. Always count on me. You wouldn't mind going back to the ballroom alone, would you? I've got an idea I'd like to smoke over it. No, I'll take you to the end of the conservatory and come back. I can't face the rest of them just now." Nora had hoped against hope that it was only infatuation, but in the last few days she could not ignore the truth that he really loved her. She had thrown him and Celeste together in vain. Poor Celeste, poor lovely Celeste, who wore her heart upon her sleeve, patent to all eyes save Donald's! Thus, it was with defined purpose that she had lured him this night into the garden. She wanted to disillusion him. The Barone, glooming in an obscure corner of the conservatory, saw them come in. Abbott's brave young face deceived him. At the door Abbott smiled and bowed and returned to the garden. The Barone rose to follow him. He had committed a theft of which he was genuinely sorry; and he was man enough to seek his rival and apologize. But fate had chosen for him the worst possible time. He had taken but a step forward, when a tableau formed by the door, causing him to pause irresolutely. Nora was face to face at last with Flora Desimone. "I wish to speak to you," said the Italian abruptly. "Nothing you could possibly say would interest me," declared Nora, haughtily and made as if to pass. "Do not be too sure," insolently. Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the exit. "Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart," continued Flora. "I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose father...." "Don't you dare to say an ill word of him!" cried Nora, her Irish blood throwing hauteur to the winds. "He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the least." The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well, for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone's eyes searched the shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet. [Illustration: "I hate you and detest you with all my heart."] "Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!" The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood. Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly knocked him down. CHAPTER XVIII PISTOLS FOR TWO Courtlandt knocked on the studio door. "Come in." He discovered Abbott, stretched out upon the lounge, idly picking at the loose plaster in the wall. "Hello!" said Abbott carelessly. "Help yourself to a chair." Instead, Courtlandt walked about the room, aimlessly. He paused at the window; he picked up a sketch and studied it at various angles; he kicked the footstool across the floor, not with any sign of anger but with a seriousness that would have caused Abbott to laugh, had he been looking at his friend. He continued, however, to pluck at the plaster. He had always hated and loved Courtlandt, alternately. He never sought to analyze this peculiar cardiac condition. He only knew that at one time he hated the man, and that at another he would have laid down his life for him. Perhaps it was rather a passive jealousy which he mistook for hatred. Abbott had never envied Courtlandt his riches; but often the sight of Courtlandt's physical superiority, his adaptability, his knowledge of men and affairs, the way he had of anticipating the unspoken wishes of women, his unembarrassed gallantry, these attributes stirred the envy of which he was always manly enough to be ashamed. Courtlandt's unexpected appearance in Bellaggio had also created a suspicion which he could not minutely define. The truth was, when a man loved, every other man became his enemy, not excepting her father: the primordial instinct has survived all the applications of veneer. So, Abbott was not at all pleased to see his friend that morning. At length Courtlandt returned to the lounge. "The Barone called upon me this morning." "Oh, he did?" "I think you had better write him an apology." Abbott sat up. He flung the piece of plaster violently to the floor. "Apologize? Well, I like your nerve to come here with that kind of wabble. Look at these lips! Man, he struck me across the mouth, and I knocked him down." "It was a pretty good wallop, considering that you couldn't see his face very well in the dark. I always said that you had more spunk to the square inch than any other chap I know. But over here, Suds, as you know, it's different. You can't knock down an officer and get away with it. So, you just sit down at your desk and write a little note, saying that you regret your hastiness. I'll see that it goes through all right. Fortunately, no one heard of the row." "I'll see you both farther!" wrathfully. "Look at these lips, I say!" "Before he struck you, you must have given provocation." "Sha'n't discuss what took place. Nor will I apologize." "That's final?" "You have my word for it." "Well, I'm sorry. The Barone is a decent sort. He gives you the preference, and suggests that you select pistols, since you would be no match for him with rapiers." "Pistols!" shouted Abbott. "For the love of glory, what are you driving at?" "The Barone has asked me to be his second. And I have despatched a note to the colonel, advising him to attend to your side. I accepted the Barone's proposition solely that I might get here first and convince you that an apology will save you a heap of discomfort. The Barone is a first-rate shot, and doubtless he will only wing you. But that will mean scandal and several weeks in the hospital, to say nothing of a devil of a row with the civil authorities. In the army the Italian still fights his _duello_, but these affairs never get into the newspapers, as in France. Seldom, however, is any one seriously hurt. They are excitable, and consequently a good shot is likely to shoot wildly at a pinch. So there you are, my boy." "Are you in your right mind? Do you mean to tell me that you have come here to arrange a duel?" asked Abbott, his voice low and a bit shaky. "To prevent one. So, write your apology. Don't worry about the moral side of the question. It's only a fool who will offer himself as a target to a man who knows how to shoot. You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a shot-gun." Abbott brushed the dust from his coat and got up. "A duel!" He laughed a bit hysterically. Well, why not? Since Nora could never be his, there was no future for him. He might far better serve as a target than to go on living with the pain and bitterness in his heart. "Very well. Tell the Barone my choice is pistols. He may set the time and place himself." "Go over to that desk and write that apology. If you don't, I promise on my part to tell Nora Harrigan, who, I dare say, is at the bottom of this, innocently or otherwise." "Courtlandt!" "I mean just what I say. Take your choice. Stop this nonsense yourself like a reasonable human being, or let Nora Harrigan stop it for you. There will be no duel, not if I can help it." Abbott saw instantly what would happen. Nora would go to the Barone and beg off for him. "All right! I'll write that apology. But listen: you will knock hereafter when you enter any of my studios. You've kicked out the bottom from the old footing. You are not the friend you profess to be. You are making me a coward in the eyes of that damned Italian. He will never understand this phase of it." Thereupon Abbott ran over to his desk and scribbled the note, sealing it with a bang. "Here you are. Perhaps you had best go at once." "Abby, I'm sorry that you take this view." "I don't care to hear any platitudes, thank you." "I'll look you up to-morrow, and on my part I sha'n't ask for any apology. In a little while you'll thank me. You will even laugh with me." "Permit me to doubt that," angrily. He threw open the door. Courtlandt was too wise to argue further. He had obtained the object of his errand, and that was enough for the present. "Sorry you are not open to reason. Good morning." When the door closed, Abbott tramped the floor and vented his temper on the much abused footstool, which he kicked whenever it came in the line of his march. In his soul he knew that Courtlandt was right. More than that, he knew that presently he would seek him and apologize. Unfortunately, neither of them counted on the colonel. Without being quite conscious of the act, Abbott took down from the wall an ancient dueling-pistol, cocked it, snapped it, and looked it over with an interest that he had never before bestowed on it. And the colonel, bursting into the studio, found him absorbed in the contemplation of this old death-dealing instrument. "Ha!" roared the old war dog. "Had an idea that something like this was going to happen. Put that up. You couldn't kill anything with that unless you hit 'em on the head with it. Leave the matter to me. I've a pair of pistols, sighted to hit a shilling at twenty yards. Of course, you can't fight him with swords. He's one of the best in all Italy. But you've just as good a chance as he has with pistols. Nine times out of ten the tyro hits the bull's-eye, while the crack goes wild. Just you sit jolly tight. Who's his second; Courtlandt?" "Yes." Abbott was truly and completely bewildered. "He struck you first, I understand, and you knocked him down. Good! My tennis-courts are out of the way. We can settle this matter to-morrow morning at dawn. Ellicott will come over from Cadenabbia with his saws. He's close-mouthed. All you need to do is to keep quiet. You can spend the night at the villa with me, and I'll give you a few ideas about shooting a pistol. Here; write what I dictate." He pushed Abbott over to the desk and forced him into the chair. Abbott wrote mechanically, as one hypnotized. The colonel seized the letter. "No flowery sentences; a few words bang at the mark. Come up to the villa as soon as you can. We'll jolly well cool this Italian's blood." And out he went, banging the door. There was something of the directness of a bullet in the old fellow's methods. Literally, Abbott had been rushed off his feet. The moment his confusion cleared he saw the predicament into which his own stupidity and the amiable colonel's impetuous good offices had plunged him. He was horrified. Here was Courtlandt carrying the apology, and hot on his heels was the colonel, with the final arrangements for the meeting. He ran to the door, bareheaded, took the stairs three and four at a bound. But the energetic Anglo-Indian had gone down in bounds also; and when the distracted artist reached the street, the other was nowhere to be seen. Apparently there was nothing left but to send another apology. Rather than perform so shameful and cowardly an act he would have cut off his hand. The Barone, pale and determined, passed the second note to Courtlandt who was congratulating himself (prematurely as will be seen) on the peaceful dispersion of the war-clouds. He was dumfounded. "You will excuse me," he said meekly. He must see Abbott. "A moment," interposed the Barone coldly. "If it is to seek another apology, it will be useless. I refuse to accept. Mr. Abbott will fight, or I will publicly brand him, the first opportunity, as a coward." Courtlandt bit his mustache. "In that case, I shall go at once to Colonel Caxley-Webster." "Thank you. I shall be in my room at the villa the greater part of the day." The Barone bowed. Courtlandt caught the colonel as he was entering his motor-boat. "Come over to tiffin." "Very well; I can talk here better than anywhere else." When the motor began its racket, Courtlandt pulled the colonel over to him. "Do you know what you have done?" "Done?" dropping his eye-glass. "Yes. Knowing that Abbott would have no earthly chance against the Italian, I went to him and forced him to write an apology. And you have blown the whole thing higher than a kite." The colonel's eyes bulged. "Dem it, why didn't the young fool tell me?" "Your hurry probably rattled him. But what are we going to do? I'm not going to have the boy hurt. I love him as a brother; though, just now, he regards me as a mortal enemy. Perhaps I am," moodily. "I have deceived him, and somehow--blindly it is true--he knows it. I am as full of deceit as a pomegranate is of seeds." "Have him send another apology." "The Barone is thoroughly enraged. He would refuse to accept it, and said so." "Well, dem me for a well-meaning meddler!" "With pleasure, but that will not stop the row. There is a way out, but it appeals to me as damnably low." "Oh, Abbott will not run. He isn't that kind." "No, he'll not run. But if you will agree with me, honor may be satisfied without either of them getting hurt." "Women beat the devil, don't they? What's your plan?" Courtlandt outlined it. The colonel frowned. "That doesn't sound like you. Beastly trick." "I know it." "We'll lunch first. It will take a few pegs to get that idea through this bally head of mine." When Abbott came over later that day, he was subdued in manner. He laughed occasionally, smoked a few cigars, but declined stimulants. He even played a game of tennis creditably. And after dinner he shot a hundred billiards. The colonel watched his hands keenly. There was not the slightest indication of nerves. "Hang the boy!" he muttered. "I ought to be ashamed of myself. There isn't a bit of funk in his whole make-up." At nine Abbott retired. He did not sleep very well. He was irked by the morbid idea that the Barone was going to send the bullet through his throat. He was up at five. He strolled about the garden. He realized that it was very good to be alive. Once he gazed somberly at the little white villa, away to the north. How crisply it stood out against the dark foliage! How blue the water was! And far, far away the serene snowcaps! Nora Harrigan ... Well, he was going to stand up like a man. She should never be ashamed of her memory of him. If he went out, all worry would be at an end, and that would be something. What a mess he had made of things! He did not blame the Italian. A duel! he, the son of a man who had invented wash-tubs, was going to fight a duel! He wanted to laugh; he wanted to cry. Wasn't he just dreaming? Wasn't it all a nightmare out of which he would presently awake? "Breakfast, Sahib," said Rao, deferentially touching his arm. He was awake; it was all true. "You'll want coffee," began the colonel. "Drink as much as you like. And you'll find the eggs good, too." The colonel wanted to see if Abbott ate well. The artist helped himself twice and drank three cups of coffee. "You know, I suppose all men in a hole like this have funny ideas. I was just thinking that I should like a partridge and a bottle of champagne." "We'll have that for tiffin," said the colonel, confidentially. In fact, he summoned the butler and gave the order. "It's mighty kind of you, Colonel, to buck me up this way." "Rot!" The colonel experienced a slight heat in his leathery cheeks. "All you've got to do is to hold your arm out straight, pull the trigger, and squint afterward." "I sha'n't hurt the Barone," smiling faintly. "Are you going to be ass enough to pop your gun in the air?" indignantly. Abbott shrugged; and the colonel cursed himself for the guiltiest scoundrel unhung. Half an hour later the opponents stood at each end of the tennis-court. Ellicott, the surgeon, had laid open his medical case. He was the most agitated of the five men. His fingers shook as he spread out the lints and bandages. The colonel and Courtlandt had solemnly gone through the formality of loading the weapons. The sun had not climbed over the eastern summits, but the snow on the western tops was rosy. "At the word three, gentlemen, you will fire," said the colonel. The two shots came simultaneously. Abbott had deliberately pointed his into the air. For a moment he stood perfectly still; then, his knees sagged, and he toppled forward on his face. "Great God!" whispered the colonel; "you must have forgotten the ramrod!" He, Courtlandt, and the surgeon rushed over to the fallen man. The Barone stood like stone. Suddenly, with a gesture of horror, he flung aside his smoking pistol and ran across the court. "Gentlemen," he cried, "on my honor, I aimed three feet above his head." He wrung his hands together in anxiety. "It is impossible! It is only that I wished to see if he were a brave man. I shoot well. It is impossible!" he reiterated. [Illustration: Suddenly he flung aside his smoking pistol.] Rapidly the cunning hand of the surgeon ran over Abbott's body. He finally shook his head. "Nothing has touched him. His heart gave under. Fainted." When Abbott came to his senses, he smiled weakly. The Barone was one of the two who helped him to his feet. "I feel like a fool," he said. "Ah, let me apologize now," said the Barone. "What I did at the ball was wrong, and I should not have lost my temper. I had come to you to apologize then. But I am Italian. It is natural that I should lose my temper," naïvely. "We're both of us a pair of fools, Barone. There was always some one else. A couple of fools." "Yes," admitted the Barone eagerly. "Considering," whispered the colonel in Courtlandt's ear; "considering that neither of them knew they were shooting nothing more dangerous than wads, they're pretty good specimens. Eh, what?" CHAPTER XIX COURTLANDT TELLS A STORY The Colonel and his guests at luncheon had listened to Courtlandt without sound or movement beyond the occasional rasp of feet shifting under the table. He had begun with the old familiar phrase--"I've got a story." "Tell it," had been the instant request. At the beginning the men had been leaning at various negligent angles,--some with their elbows upon the table, some with their arms thrown across the backs of their chairs. The partridge had been excellent, the wine delicious, the tobacco irreproachable. Burma, the tinkle of bells in the temples, the strange pictures in the bazaars, long journeys over smooth and stormy seas; romance, moving and colorful, which began at Rangoon, had zigzagged around the world, and ended in Berlin. "And so," concluded the teller of the tale, "that is the story. This man was perfectly innocent of any wrong, a victim of malice on the one hand and of injustice on the other." "Is that the end of the yarn?" asked the colonel. "Who in life knows what the end of anything is? This is not a story out of a book." Courtlandt accepted a fresh cigar from the box which Rao passed to him, and dropped his dead weed into the ash-bowl. "Has he given up?" asked Abbott, his voice strangely unfamiliar in his own ears. "A man can struggle just so long against odds, then he wins or becomes broken. Women are not logical; generally they permit themselves to be guided by impulse rather than by reason. This man I am telling you about was proud; perhaps too proud. It is a shameful fact, but he ran away. True, he wrote letter after letter, but all these were returned unopened. Then he stopped." "A woman would a good deal rather believe circumstantial evidence than not. Humph!" The colonel primed his pipe and relighted it. "She couldn't have been worth much." "Worth much!" cried Abbott. "What do you imply by that?" "No man will really give up a woman who is really worth while, that is, of course, admitting that your man, Courtlandt, _is_ a man. Perhaps, though, it was his fault. He was not persistent enough, maybe a bit spineless. The fact that he gave up so quickly possibly convinced her that her impressions were correct. Why, I'd have followed her day in and day out, year after year; never would I have let up until I had proved to her that she had been wrong." "The colonel is right," Abbott approved, never taking his eyes off Courtlandt, who was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the bread crumbs under his fingers. "And more, by hook or crook, I'd have dragged in the other woman by the hair and made her confess." "I do not doubt it, Colonel," responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. "And that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between the two." "That is like a woman," the Barone agreed, and he knew something about them. "And where is this man now?" "Here," said Courtlandt, pushing back his chair and rising. "I am he." He turned his back upon them and sought the garden. Tableau! "Dash me!" cried the colonel, who, being the least interested personally, was first to recover his speech. The Barone drew in his breath sharply. Then he looked at Abbott. "I suspected it," replied Abbott to the mute question. Since the episode of that morning his philosophical outlook had broadened. He had fought a duel and had come out of it with flying colors. As long as he lived he was certain that the petty affairs of the day were never again going to disturb him. "Let him be," was the colonel's suggestion, adding a gesture in the direction of the casement door through which Courtlandt had gone. "He's as big a man as Nora is a woman. If he has returned with the determination of winning her, he will." They did not see Courtlandt again. After a few minutes of restless to-and-froing, he proceeded down to the landing, helped himself to the colonel's motor-boat, and returned to Bellaggio. At the hotel he asked for the duke, only to be told that the duke and madame had left that morning for Paris. Courtlandt saw that he had permitted one great opportunity to slip past. He gave up the battle. One more good look at her, and he would go away. The odds had been too strong for him, and he knew that he was broken. When the motor-boat came back, Abbott and the Barone made use of it also. They crossed in silence, heavy-hearted. On landing Abbott said: "It is probable that I shall not see you again this year. I am leaving to-morrow for Paris. It's a great world, isn't it, where they toss us around like dice? Some throw sixes and others deuces. And in this game you and I have lost two out of three." "I shall return to Rome," replied the Barone. "My long leave of absence is near its end." "What in the world can have happened?" demanded Nora, showing the two notes to Celeste. "Here's Donald going to Paris to-morrow and the Barone to Rome. They will bid us good-by at tea. I don't understand. Donald was to remain until we left for America, and the Barone's leave does not end until October." "To-morrow?" Dim-eyed, Celeste returned the notes. "Yes. You play the fourth _ballade_ and I'll sing from _Madame_. It will be very lonesome without them." Nora gazed into the wall mirror and gave a pat or two to her hair. When the men arrived, it was impressed on Nora's mind that never had she seen them so amiable toward each other. They were positively friendly. And why not? The test of the morning had proved each of them to his own individual satisfaction, and had done away with those stilted mannerisms that generally make rivals ridiculous in all eyes save their own. The revelation at luncheon had convinced them of the futility of things in general and of woman in particular. They were, without being aware of the fact, each a consolation to the other. The old adage that misery loves company was never more nicely typified. If Celeste expected Nora to exhibit any signs of distress over the approaching departure, she was disappointed. In truth, Nora was secretly pleased to be rid of these two suitors, much as she liked them. The Barone had not yet proposed, and his sudden determination to return to Rome eliminated this disagreeable possibility. She was glad Abbott was going because she had hurt him without intention, and the sight of him was, in spite of her innocence, a constant reproach. Presently she would have her work, and there would be no time for loneliness. The person who suffered keenest was Celeste. She was awake; the tender little dream was gone; and bravely she accepted the fact. Never her agile fingers stumbled, and she played remarkably well, from Beethoven, Chopin, Grieg, Rubinstein, MacDowell. And Nora, perversely enough, sang from old light opera. When the two men departed, Celeste went to her room and Nora out upon the terrace. It was after five. No one was about, so far as she could see. She stood enchanted over the transformation that was affecting the mountains and the lakes. How she loved the spot! How she would have liked to spend the rest of her days here! And how beautiful all the world was to-day! She gave a frightened little scream. A strong pair of arms had encircled her. She started to cry out again, but the sound was muffled and blotted out by the pressure of a man's lips upon her own. She struggled violently, and suddenly was freed. "If I were a man," she said, "you should die for that!" "It was an opportunity not to be ignored," returned Courtlandt. "It is true that I was a fool to run away as I did, but my return has convinced me that I should have been as much a fool had I remained to tag you about, begging for an interview. I wrote you letters. You returned them unopened. You have condemned me without a hearing. So be it. You may consider that kiss the farewell appearance so dear to the operatic heart," bitterly. He addressed most of this to the back of her head, for she was already walking toward the villa into which she disappeared with the proud air of some queen of tragedy. She was a capital actress. A heavy hand fell upon Courtlandt's shoulder. He was irresistibly drawn right about face. "Now, then, Mr. Courtlandt," said Harrigan, his eyes blue and cold as ice, "perhaps you will explain?" With rage and despair in his heart, Courtlandt flung off the hand and answered: "I refuse!" "Ah!" Harrigan stood off a few steps and ran his glance critically up and down this man of whom he had thought to make a friend. "You're a husky lad. There's one way out of this for you." "So long as it does not necessitate any explanations," indifferently. "In the bottom of one of Nora's trunks is a set of my old gloves. There will not be any one up at the tennis-court this time of day. If you are not a mean cuss, if you are not an ordinary low-down imitation of a man, you'll meet me up there inside of five minutes. If you can stand up in front of me for ten minutes, you need not make any explanations. On the other hand, you'll hike out of here as fast as boats and trains can take you. And never come back." "I am nearly twenty years younger than you, Mr. Harrigan." "Oh, don't let that worry you any," with a truculent laugh. "Very well. You will find me there. After all, you are her father." "You bet I am!" Harrigan stole into his daughter's room and soundlessly bored into the bottom of the trunk that contained the relics of past glory. As he pulled them forth, a folded oblong strip of parchment came out with them and fluttered to the floor; but he was too busily engaged to notice it, nor would he have bothered if he had. The bottom of the trunk was littered with old letters and programs and operatic scores. He wrapped the gloves in a newspaper and got away without being seen. He was as happy as a boy who had discovered an opening in the fence between him and the apple orchard. He was rather astonished to see Courtlandt kneeling in the clover-patch, hunting for a four-leaf clover. It was patent that the young man was not troubled with nerves. "Here!" he cried, bruskly, tossing over a pair of gloves. "If this method of settling the dispute isn't satisfactory, I'll accept your explanations." For reply Courtlandt stood up and stripped to his undershirt. He drew on the gloves and laced them with the aid of his teeth. Then he kneaded them carefully. The two men eyed each other a little more respectfully than they had ever done before. "This single court is about as near as we can make it. The man who steps outside is whipped." "I agree," said Courtlandt. "No rounds with rests; until one or the other is outside. Clean breaks. That's about all. Now, put up your dukes and take a man's licking. I thought you were your father's son, but I guess you are like the rest of 'em, hunters of women." Courtlandt laughed and stepped to the middle of the court. Harrigan did not waste any time. He sent in a straight jab to the jaw, but Courtlandt blocked it neatly and countered with a hard one on Harrigan's ear, which began to swell. "Fine!" growled Harrigan. "You know something about the game. It won't be as if I was walloping a baby." He sent a left to the body, but the right failed to reach his man. For some time Harrigan jabbed and swung and upper-cut; often he reached his opponent's body, but never his face. It worried him a little to find that he could not stir Courtlandt more than two or three feet. Courtlandt never followed up any advantage, thus making Harrigan force the fighting, which was rather to his liking. But presently it began to enter his mind convincingly that apart from the initial blow, the younger man was working wholly on the defensive. As if he were afraid he might hurt him! This served to make the old fellow furious. He bored in right and left, left and right, and Courtlandt gave way, step by step until he was so close to the line that he could see it from the corner of his eye. This glance, swift as it was, came near to being his undoing. Harrigan caught him with a terrible right on the jaw. It was a glancing blow, otherwise the fight would have ended then and there. Instantly he lurched forward and clenched before the other could add the finishing touch. The two pushed about, Harrigan fiercely striving to break the younger man's hold. He was beginning to breathe hard besides. A little longer, and his blows would lack the proper steam. Finally Courtlandt broke away of his own accord. His head buzzed a little, but aside from that he had recovered. Harrigan pursued his tactics and rushed. But this time there was an offensive return. Courtlandt became the aggressor. There was no withstanding him. And Harrigan fairly saw the end; but with that indomitable pluck which had made him famous in the annals of the ring, he kept banging away. The swift cruel jabs here and there upon his body began to tell. Oh, for a minute's rest and a piece of lemon on his parched tongue! Suddenly Courtlandt rushed him tigerishly, landing a jab which closed Harrigan's right eye. Courtlandt dropped his hands, and stepped back. His glance traveled suggestively to Harrigan's feet. He was outside the "ropes." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Harrigan, for losing my temper." "What's the odds? I lost mine. You win." Harrigan was a true sportsman. He had no excuses to offer. He had dug the pit of humiliation with his own hands. He recognized this as one of two facts. The other was, that had Courtlandt extended himself, the battle would have lasted about one minute. It was gall and wormwood, but there you were. "And now, you ask for explanations. Ask your daughter to make them." Courtlandt pulled off the gloves and got into his clothes. "You may add, sir, that I shall never trouble her again with my unwelcome attentions. I leave for Milan in the morning." Courtlandt left the field of victory without further comment. "Well, what do you think of that?" mused Harrigan, as he stooped over to gather up the gloves. "Any one would say that he was the injured party. I'm in wrong on this deal somewhere. I'll ask Miss Nora a question or two." It was not so easy returning. He ran into his wife. He tried to dodge her, but without success. "James, where did you get that black eye?" tragically. "It's a daisy, ain't it, Molly?" pushing past her into Nora's room and closing the door after him. "Father!" "That you, Nora?" blinking. "Father, if you have been fighting with _him_, I'll never forgive you." "Forget it, Nora. I wasn't fighting. I only thought I was." He raised the lid of the trunk and cast in the gloves haphazard. And then he saw the paper which had fallen out. He picked it up and squinted at it, for he could not see very well. Nora was leaving the room in a temper. "Going, Nora?" "I am. And I advise you to have your dinner in your room." Alone, he turned on the light. It never occurred to him that he might be prying into some of Nora's private correspondence. He unfolded the parchment and held it under the light. For a long time he stared at the writing, which was in English, at the date, at the names. Then he quietly refolded it and put it away for future use, immediate future use. "This is a great world," he murmured, rubbing his ear tenderly. CHAPTER XX JOURNEY'S END Harrigan dined alone. He was in disgrace; he was sore, mentally as well as physically; and he ate his dinner without relish, in simple obedience to those well regulated periods of hunger that assailed him three times a day, in spring, summer, autumn and winter. By the time the waiter had cleared away the dishes, Harrigan had a perfecto between his teeth (along with a certain matrimonial bit), and smoked as if he had wagered to finish the cigar in half the usual stretch. He then began to walk the floor, much after the fashion of a man who has the toothache, or the earache, which would be more to the point. To his direct mind no diplomacy was needed; all that was necessary was a few blunt questions. Nora could answer them as she chose. Nora, his baby, his little girl that used to run around barefooted and laugh when he applied the needed birch! How children grew up! And they never grew too old for the birch; they certainly never did. They heard him from the drawing-room; tramp, tramp, tramp. "Let him be, Nora," said Mrs. Harrigan, wisely. "He is in a rage about something. And your father is not the easiest man to approach when he's mad. If he fought Mr. Courtlandt, he believed he had some good reason for doing so." "Mother, there are times when I believe you are afraid of father." "I am always afraid of him. It is only because I make believe I'm not that I can get him to do anything. It was dreadful. And Mr. Courtlandt was such a gentleman. I could cry. But let your father be until to-morrow." "And have him wandering about with that black eye? Something must be done for it. I'm not afraid of him." "Sometimes I wish you were." So Nora entered the lion's den fearlessly. "Is there anything I can do for you, dad?" "You can get the witch-hazel and bathe this lamp of mine," grimly. She ran into her own room and returned with the simpler devices for reducing a swollen eye. She did not notice, or pretended that she didn't, that he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He sat down in a chair, under the light; and she went to work deftly. "I've got some make-up, and to-morrow morning I'll paint it for you." "You don't ask any questions," he said, with grimness. "Would it relieve your eye any?" lightly. He laughed. "No; but it might relieve my mind." "Well, then, why did you do so foolish a thing? At your age! Don't you know that you can't go on whipping every man you take a dislike to?" "I haven't taken any dislike to Courtlandt. But I saw him kiss you." "I can take care of myself." "Perhaps. I asked him to explain. He refused. One thing puzzled me, though I didn't know what it was at the time. Now, when a fellow steals a kiss from a beautiful woman like you, Nora, I don't see why he should feel mad about it. When he had all but knocked your daddy to by-by, he said that you could explain.... Don't press so hard," warningly. "Well, can you?" "Since you saw what he did, I do not see where explanations on my part are necessary." "Nora, I've never caught you in a lie. I never want to. When you were little you were the truthfullest thing I ever saw. No matter what kind of a licking was in store for you, you weren't afraid; you told the truth.... There, that'll do. Put some cotton over it and bind it with a handkerchief. It'll be black all right, but the swelling will go down. I can tell 'em a tennis-ball hit me. It was more like a cannon-ball, though. Say, Nora, you know I've always pooh-poohed these amateurs. People used to say that there were dozens of men in New York in my prime who could have laid me cold. I used to laugh. Well, I guess they were right. Courtlandt's got the stiffest kick I ever ran into. A pile-driver, and if he had landed on my jaw, it would have been _dormi bene_, as you say when you bid me good night in dago. That's all right now until to-morrow. I want to talk to you. Draw up a chair. There! As I said, I've never caught you in a lie, but I find that you've been living a lie for two years. You haven't been square to me, nor to your mother, nor to the chaps that came around and made love to you. You probably didn't look at it that way, but there's the fact. I'm not Paul Pry; but accidentally I came across this," taking the document from his pocket and handing it to her. "Read it. What's the answer?" Nora's hands trembled. "Takes you a long time to read it. Is it true?" "Yes." "And I went up to the tennis-court with the intention of knocking his head off; and now I'm wondering why he didn't knock off mine. Nora, he's a man; and when you get through with this, I'm going down to the hotel and apologize." "You will do nothing of the sort; not with that eye." "All right. I was always worried for fear you'd hook up with some duke you'd have to support. Now, I want to know how this chap happens to be my son-in-law. Make it brief, for I don't want to get tangled up more than is necessary." Nora crackled the certificate in her fingers and stared unseeingly at it for some time. "I met him first in Rangoon," she began slowly, without raising her eyes. "When you went around the world on your own?" "Yes. Oh, don't worry. I was always able to take care of myself." "An Irish idea," answered Harrigan complacently. "I loved him, father, with all my heart and soul. He was not only big and strong and handsome, but he was kindly and tender and thoughtful. Why, I never knew that he was rich until after I had promised to be his wife. When I learned that he was the Edward Courtlandt who was always getting into the newspapers, I laughed. There were stories about his escapades. There were innuendoes regarding certain women, but I put them out of my mind as twaddle. Ah, never had I been so happy! In Berlin we went about like two children. It was play. He brought me to the Opera and took me away; and we had the most charming little suppers. I never wrote you or mother because I wished to surprise you." "You have. Go on." "I had never paid much attention to Flora Desimone, though I knew that she was jealous of my success. Several times I caught her looking at Edward in a way I did not like." "She looked at him, huh?" "It was the last performance of the season. We were married that afternoon. We did not want any one to know about it. I was not to leave the stage until the end of the following season. We were staying at the same hotel, with rooms across the corridor. This was much against his wishes, but I prevailed." "I see." "Our rooms were opposite, as I said. After the performance that night I went to mine to complete the final packing. We were to leave at one for the Tyrol. Father, I saw Flora Desimone come out of his room." Harrigan shut and opened his hands. "Do you understand? I saw her. She was laughing. I did not see him. My wedding night! She came from his room. My heart stopped, the world stopped, everything went black. All the stories that I had read and heard came back. When he knocked at my door I refused to see him. I never saw him again until that night in Paris when he forced his way into my apartment." "Hang it, Nora, this doesn't sound like him!" "I saw her." "He wrote you?" "I returned the letters, unopened." "That wasn't square. You might have been wrong." "He wrote five letters. After that he went to India, to Africa and back to India, where he seemed to find consolation enough." Harrigan laid it to his lack of normal vision, but to his single optic there was anything but misery in her beautiful blue eyes. True, they sparkled with tears; but that signified nothing: he hadn't been married these thirty-odd years without learning that a woman weeps for any of a thousand and one reasons. "Do you care for him still?" "Not a day passed during these many months that I did not vow I hated him." "Any one else know?" "The padre. I had to tell some one or go mad. But I didn't hate him. I could no more put him out of my life than I could stop breathing. Ah, I have been so miserable and unhappy!" She laid her head upon his knees and clumsily he stroked it. His girl! "That's the trouble with us Irish, Nora. We jump without looking, without finding whether we're right or wrong. Well, your daddy's opinion is that you should have read his first letter. If it didn't ring right, why, you could have jumped the traces. I don't believe he did anything wrong at all. It isn't in the man's blood to do anything underboard." "But I _saw_ her," a queer look in her eyes as she glanced up at him. "I don't care a kioodle if you did. Take it from me, it was a put-up job by that Calabrian woman. She might have gone to his room for any number of harmless things. But I think she was curious." "Why didn't she come to me, if she wanted to ask questions?" "I can see you answering 'em. She probably just wanted to know if you were married or not. She might have been in love with him, and then she might not. These Italians don't know half the time what they're about, anyhow. But I don't believe it of Courtlandt. He doesn't line up that way. Besides, he's got eyes. You're a thousand times more attractive. He's no fool. Know what I think? As she was coming out she saw _you_ at your door; and the devil in her got busy." Nora rose, flung her arms around him and kissed him. "Look out for that tin ear!" "Oh, you great big, loyal, true-hearted man! Open that door and let me get out to the terrace. I want to sing, sing!" "He said he was going to Milan in the morning." She danced to the door and was gone. "Nora!" he called, impatiently. He listened in vain for the sound of her return. "Well, I'll take the count when it comes to guessing what a woman's going to do. I'll go out and square up with the old girl. Wonder how this news will harness up with her social bug?" Courtlandt got into his compartment at Varenna. He had tipped the guard liberally not to open the door for any one else, unless the train was crowded. As the shrill blast of the conductor's horn sounded the warning of "all aboard," the door opened and a heavily veiled woman got in hurriedly. The train began to move instantly. The guard slammed the door and latched it. Courtlandt sighed: the futility of trusting these Italians, of trying to buy their loyalty! The woman was without any luggage whatever, not even the usual magazine. She was dressed in brown, her hat was brown, her veil, her gloves, her shoes. But whether she was young or old was beyond his deduction. He opened his _Corriere_ and held it before his eyes; but he found reading impossible. The newspaper finally slipped from his hands to the floor where it swayed and rustled unnoticed. He was staring at the promontory across Lecco, the green and restful hill, the little earthly paradise out of which he had been unjustly cast. He couldn't understand. He had lived cleanly and decently; he had wronged no man or woman, nor himself. And yet, through some evil twist of fate, he had lost all there was in life worth having. The train lurched around a shoulder of the mountain. He leaned against the window. In a moment more the villa was gone. What was it? He felt irresistibly drawn. Without intending to do so, he turned and stared at the woman in brown. Her hand went to the veil and swept it aside. Nora was as full of romance as a child. She could have stopped him before he made the boat, but she wanted to be alone with him. "Nora!" She flung herself on her knees in front of him. "I am a wretch!" she said. He could only repeat her name. "I am not worth my salt. Ah, why did you run away? Why did you not pursue me, importune me until I wearied? ... perhaps gladly? There were times when I would have opened my arms had you been the worst scoundrel in the world instead of the dearest lover, the patientest! Ah, can you forgive me?" "Forgive you, Nora?" He was numb. "I am a miserable wretch! I doubted you, I! When all I had to do was to recall the way people misrepresented things I had done! I sent back your letters ... and read and reread the old blue ones. Don't you remember how you used to write them on blue paper? ... Flora told me everything. It was only because she hated me, not that she cared anything about you. She told me that night at the ball. I believe the duke forced her to do it. She was at the bottom of the abduction. When you kissed me ... didn't you know that I kissed you back? Edward, I am a miserable wretch, but I shall follow you wherever you go, and I haven't even a vanity-box in my hand-bag!" There were tears in her eyes. "Say that I am a wretch!" He drew her up beside him. His arms closed around her so hungrily, so strongly, that she gasped a little. He looked into her eyes; his glance traveled here and there over her face, searching for the familiar dimple at one corner of her mouth. "Nora!" he whispered. "Kiss me!" And then the train came to a stand, jerkily. They fell back against the cushions. "Lecco!" cried the guard through the window. They laughed like children. "I bribed him," she said gaily. "And now...." "Yes, and now?" eagerly, if still bewilderedly. "Let's go back!" THE END 
384	----	[Illustration: The King had the eyes he longed to see.] THE LOST PRINCE By FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT With Four Illustrations By MAURICE L. BOWER 1915 CONTENTS I THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE II A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD III THE LEGEND OF THE LOST PRINCE IV THE RAT V "SILENCE IS STILL THE ORDER" VI THE DRILL AND THE SECRET PARTY VII "THE LAMP IS LIGHTED!" VIII AN EXCITING GAME IX "IT IS NOT A GAME" X THE RAT--AND SAMAVIA XI "COME WITH ME" XII "ONLY TWO BOYS" XIII LORISTAN ATTENDS A DRILL OF THE SQUAD XIV MARCO DOES NOT ANSWER XV A SOUND IN A DREAM XVI THE RAT TO THE RESCUE XVII "IT IS A VERY BAD SIGN" XVIII "CITIES AND FACES" XIX "THAT IS ONE!" XX MARCO GOES TO THE OPERA XXI "HELP!" XXII THE NIGHT VIGIL XXIII THE SILVER HORN XXIV "HOW SHALL WE FIND HIM?" XXV A VOICE IN THE NIGHT XXVI ACROSS THE FRONTIER XXVII "IT IS THE LOST PRINCE! IT IS IVOR!" XXVIII "EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!" XXIX 'TWIXT NIGHT AND MORNING XXX THE GAME IS AT AN END XXXI "THE SON OF STEFAN LORISTAN" THE LOST PRINCE I THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of London, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been more attractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates were set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with "Sacred to the Memory of." Another had piles of old lumber in it, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. The insides of the houses were as gloomy as the outside. They were all exactly alike. In each a dark entrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom looked out on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat on the coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless on the brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlorn place in London. At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the iron railings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this story begins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by his father to live as a lodger in the back sitting-room of the house No. 7. He was a boy about twelve years old, his name was Marco Loristan, and he was the kind of boy people look at a second time when they have looked at him once. In the first place, he was a very big boy--tall for his years, and with a particularly strong frame. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were long and powerful. He was quite used to hearing people say, as they glanced at him, "What a fine, big lad!" And then they always looked again at his face. It was not an English face or an American one, and was very dark in coloring. His features were strong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes were large and deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. He was as un-English a boy as one could imagine, and an observing person would have been struck at once by a sort of _silent_ look expressed by his whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talked much. This look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before the iron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely to bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression. He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and their old soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the last few days--the journey from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage, they had dashed across the Continent as if something important or terrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London as if they were going to live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew, however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probable that, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken him from his sleep and say, "Get up--dress yourself quickly. We must go at once." A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna, or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby and comfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place. He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched the busses. His strange life and his close association with his father had made him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and set him to deep wondering. In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whose life was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which they spent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played with other boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, and the journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to make a few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existence was a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own silence and discretion. This was because of the promises he had made to his father, and they had been the first thing he remembered. Not that he had ever regretted anything connected with his father. He threw his black head up as he thought of that. None of the other boys had such a father, not one of them. His father was his idol and his chief. He had scarcely ever seen him when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also never seen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stood out among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable of them. When he walked down a street, people turned to look at him even oftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of disobeying him. Yet Marco had never seen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one country or another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the few people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearly always stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sit down. "It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected," the boy had told himself. He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his own country of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His father had talked to him about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. He had taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of it--maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He had told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings and struggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. When they talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned and leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father's eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, they had been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians had stood centuries before. "Why do we not live there," Marco had cried on the day the promises were made. "Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be a soldier and die for Samavia." "We are of those who must _live_ for Samavia--working day and night," his father had answered; "denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our people and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers--I am one, you must be one." "Are we exiles?" asked Marco. "Yes," was the answer. "But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since I was sixteen. I shall give it until I die." "Have you never lived there?" said Marco. A strange look shot across his father's face. "No," he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knew he must not ask the question again. The next words his father said were about the promises. Marco was quite a little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were a man. "When you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know," Loristan said. "Now you are a child, and your mind must not be burdened. But you must do your part. A child sometimes forgets that words may be dangerous. You must promise never to forget this. Wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. You must not speak of what I do, or of the people who come to see me. You must not mention the things in your life which make it different from the lives of other boys. You must keep in your mind that a secret exists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are a Samavian, and there have been Samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather than betray a secret. You must learn to obey without question, as if you were a soldier. Now you must take your oath of allegiance." He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. He knelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from beneath it. It was a sword, and, as he came back to Marco, he drew it out from its sheath. The child's strong, little body stiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. He was to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were a man. He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them. Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him. "Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!" he commanded. And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly. "The sword in my hand--for Samavia! "The heart in my breast--for Samavia! "The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life--for Samavia. "Here grows a man for Samavia. "God be thanked!" Then Loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his dark face looked almost fiercely proud. "From this hour," he said, "you and I are comrades at arms." And from that day to the one on which he stood beside the broken iron railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour. II A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD He had been in London more than once before, but not to the lodgings in Philibert Place. When he was brought a second or third time to a town or city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in a quarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seen before. Such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed themselves between him and other children as shabby and poor as himself were easily broken. His father, however, had never forbidden him to make chance acquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had reasons for not wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The only barrier which must exist between them must be the barrier of silence concerning his wanderings from country to country. Other boys as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russian people and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, or England, he must do the same thing. When he had learned English, French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had seemed to grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived with them until one scarcely seems less familiar than another. He did remember, however, that his father had always been unswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of any country they chanced to be living in. "You must not seem a foreigner in any country," he had said to him. "It is necessary that you should not. But when you are in England, you must not know French, or German, or anything but English." Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what his father's work was. "His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one," Marco brought the story to Loristan. "I said you were not. Then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayer or a tailor--and I didn't know what to tell them." He had been out playing in a London street, and he put a grubby little hand on his father's arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. "I wanted to say that you were not like their fathers, not at all. I knew you were not, though you were quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, but a patriot--you could not be only a bricklayer--you!" He said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up and his eyes angry. Loristan laid his hand against his mouth. "Hush! hush!" he said. "Is it an insult to a man to think he may be a carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I could make our clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker, your toes would not be making their way into the world as they are now." He was smiling, but Marco saw his head held itself high, too, and his eyes were glowing as he touched his shoulder. "I know you did not tell them I was a patriot," he ended. "What was it you said to them?" "I remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawing maps, and I said you were a writer, but I did not know what you wrote--and that you said it was a poor trade. I heard you say that once to Lazarus. Was that a right thing to tell them?" "Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poor fellows enough who write a thousand different things which bring them little money. There is nothing strange in my being a writer." So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, his father's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enough and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread. In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco often walked a great deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wander through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people. He did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked to branch off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, and even courts and alleyways. He often stopped to watch workmen and talk to them if they were friendly. In this way he made stray acquaintances in his strollings, and learned a good many things. He had a fondness for wandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in his youth been a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in his strong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the people in several countries. It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had something to do or some one to speak to. To do nothing whatever is a depressing thing at all times, but perhaps it is more especially so when one is a big, healthy boy twelve years old. London as he saw it in the Marylebone Road seemed to him a hideous place. It was murky and shabby-looking, and full of dreary-faced people. It was not the first time he had seen the same things, and they always made him feel that he wished he had something to do. Suddenly he turned away from the gate and went into the house to speak to Lazarus. He found him in his dingy closet of a room on the fourth floor at the back of the house. "I am going for a walk," he announced to him. "Please tell my father if he asks for me. He is busy, and I must not disturb him." Lazarus was patching an old coat as he often patched things--even shoes sometimes. When Marco spoke, he stood up at once to answer him. He was very obstinate and particular about certain forms of manner. Nothing would have obliged him to remain seated when Loristan or Marco was near him. Marco thought it was because he had been so strictly trained as a soldier. He knew that his father had had great trouble to make him lay aside his habit of saluting when they spoke to him. "Perhaps," Marco had heard Loristan say to him almost severely, once when he had forgotten himself and had stood at salute while his master passed through a broken-down iron gate before an equally broken-down-looking lodging-house--"perhaps you can force yourself to remember when I tell you that it is not safe--_it is not safe_! You put us in danger!" It was evident that this helped the good fellow to control himself. Marco remembered that at the time he had actually turned pale, and had struck his forehead and poured forth a torrent of Samavian dialect in penitence and terror. But, though he no longer saluted them in public, he omitted no other form of reverence and ceremony, and the boy had become accustomed to being treated as if he were anything but the shabby lad whose very coat was patched by the old soldier who stood "at attention" before him. "Yes, sir," Lazarus answered. "Where was it your wish to go?" Marco knitted his black brows a little in trying to recall distinct memories of the last time he had been in London. "I have been to so many places, and have seen so many things since I was here before, that I must begin to learn again about the streets and buildings I do not quite remember." "Yes, sir," said Lazarus. "There _have_ been so many. I also forget. You were but eight years old when you were last here." "I think I will go and find the royal palace, and then I will walk about and learn the names of the streets," Marco said. "Yes, sir," answered Lazarus, and this time he made his military salute. Marco lifted his right hand in recognition, as if he had been a young officer. Most boys might have looked awkward or theatrical in making the gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease, because he had been familiar with the form since his babyhood. He had seen officers returning the salutes of their men when they encountered each other by chance in the streets, he had seen princes passing sentries on their way to their carriages, more august personages raising the quiet, recognizing hand to their helmets as they rode through applauding crowds. He had seen many royal persons and many royal pageants, but always only as an ill-clad boy standing on the edge of the crowd of common people. An energetic lad, however poor, cannot spend his days in going from one country to another without, by mere every-day chance, becoming familiar with the outer life of royalties and courts. Marco had stood in continental thoroughfares when visiting emperors rode by with glittering soldiery before and behind them, and a populace shouting courteous welcomes. He knew where in various great capitals the sentries stood before kingly or princely palaces. He had seen certain royal faces often enough to know them well, and to be ready to make his salute when particular quiet and unattended carriages passed him by. "It is well to know them. It is well to observe everything and to train one's self to remember faces and circumstances," his father had said. "If you were a young prince or a young man training for a diplomatic career, you would be taught to notice and remember people and things as you would be taught to speak your own language with elegance. Such observation would be your most practical accomplishment and greatest power. It is as practical for one man as another--for a poor lad in a patched coat as for one whose place is to be in courts. As you cannot be educated in the ordinary way, you must learn from travel and the world. You must lose nothing--forget nothing." It was his father who had taught him everything, and he had learned a great deal. Loristan had the power of making all things interesting to fascination. To Marco it seemed that he knew everything in the world. They were not rich enough to buy many books, but Loristan knew the treasures of all great cities, the resources of the smallest towns. Together he and his boy walked through the endless galleries filled with the wonders of the world, the pictures before which through centuries an unbroken procession of almost worshiping eyes had passed uplifted. Because his father made the pictures seem the glowing, burning work of still-living men whom the centuries could not turn to dust, because he could tell the stories of their living and laboring to triumph, stories of what they felt and suffered and were, the boy became as familiar with the old masters--Italian, German, French, Dutch, English, Spanish--as he was with most of the countries they had lived in. They were not merely old masters to him, but men who were great, men who seemed to him to have wielded beautiful swords and held high, splendid lights. His father could not go often with him, but he always took him for the first time to the galleries, museums, libraries, and historical places which were richest in treasures of art, beauty, or story. Then, having seen them once through his eyes, Marco went again and again alone, and so grew intimate with the wonders of the world. He knew that he was gratifying a wish of his father's when he tried to train himself to observe all things and forget nothing. These palaces of marvels were his school-rooms, and his strange but rich education was the most interesting part of his life. In time, he knew exactly the places where the great Rembrandts, Vandykes, Rubens, Raphaels, Tintorettos, or Frans Hals hung; he knew whether this masterpiece or that was in Vienna, in Paris, in Venice, or Munich, or Rome. He knew stories of splendid crown jewels, of old armor, of ancient crafts, and of Roman relics dug up from beneath the foundations of old German cities. Any boy wandering to amuse himself through museums and palaces on "free days" could see what he saw, but boys living fuller and less lonely lives would have been less likely to concentrate their entire minds on what they looked at, and also less likely to store away facts with the determination to be able to recall at any moment the mental shelf on which they were laid. Having no playmates and nothing to play with, he began when he was a very little fellow to make a sort of game out of his rambles through picture-galleries, and the places which, whether they called themselves museums or not, were storehouses or relics of antiquity. There were always the blessed "free days," when he could climb any marble steps, and enter any great portal without paying an entrance fee. Once inside, there were plenty of plainly and poorly dressed people to be seen, but there were not often boys as young as himself who were not attended by older companions. Quiet and orderly as he was, he often found himself stared at. The game he had created for himself was as simple as it was absorbing. It was to try how much he could remember and clearly describe to his father when they sat together at night and talked of what he had seen. These night talks filled his happiest hours. He never felt lonely then, and when his father sat and watched him with a certain curious and deep attention in his dark, reflective eyes, the boy was utterly comforted and content. Sometimes he brought back rough and crude sketches of objects he wished to ask questions about, and Loristan could always relate to him the full, rich story of the thing he wanted to know. They were stories made so splendid and full of color in the telling that Marco could not forget them. III THE LEGEND OF THE LOST PRINCE As he walked through the streets, he was thinking of one of these stories. It was one he had heard first when he was very young, and it had so seized upon his imagination that he had asked often for it. It was, indeed, a part of the long-past history of Samavia, and he had loved it for that reason. Lazarus had often told it to him, sometimes adding much detail, but he had always liked best his father's version, which seemed a thrilling and living thing. On their journey from Russia, during an hour when they had been forced to wait in a cold wayside station and had found the time long, Loristan had discussed it with him. He always found some such way of making hard and comfortless hours easier to live through. "Fine, big lad--for a foreigner," Marco heard a man say to his companion as he passed them this morning. "Looks like a Pole or a Russian." It was this which had led his thoughts back to the story of the Lost Prince. He knew that most of the people who looked at him and called him a "foreigner" had not even heard of Samavia. Those who chanced to recall its existence knew of it only as a small fierce country, so placed upon the map that the larger countries which were its neighbors felt they must control and keep it in order, and therefore made incursions into it, and fought its people and each other for possession. But it had not been always so. It was an old, old country, and hundreds of years ago it had been as celebrated for its peaceful happiness and wealth as for its beauty. It was often said that it was one of the most beautiful places in the world. A favorite Samavian legend was that it had been the site of the Garden of Eden. In those past centuries, its people had been of such great stature, physical beauty, and strength, that they had been like a race of noble giants. They were in those days a pastoral people, whose rich crops and splendid flocks and herds were the envy of less fertile countries. Among the shepherds and herdsmen there were poets who sang their own songs when they piped among their sheep upon the mountain sides and in the flower-thick valleys. Their songs had been about patriotism and bravery, and faithfulness to their chieftains and their country. The simple courtesy of the poorest peasant was as stately as the manner of a noble. But that, as Loristan had said with a tired smile, had been before they had had time to outlive and forget the Garden of Eden. Five hundred years ago, there had succeeded to the throne a king who was bad and weak. His father had lived to be ninety years old, and his son had grown tired of waiting in Samavia for his crown. He had gone out into the world, and visited other countries and their courts. When he returned and became king, he lived as no Samavian king had lived before. He was an extravagant, vicious man of furious temper and bitter jealousies. He was jealous of the larger courts and countries he had seen, and tried to introduce their customs and their ambitions. He ended by introducing their worst faults and vices. There arose political quarrels and savage new factions. Money was squandered until poverty began for the first time to stare the country in the face. The big Samavians, after their first stupefaction, broke forth into furious rage. There were mobs and riots, then bloody battles. Since it was the king who had worked this wrong, they would have none of him. They would depose him and make his son king in his place. It was at this part of the story that Marco was always most deeply interested. The young prince was totally unlike his father. He was a true royal Samavian. He was bigger and stronger for his age than any man in the country, and he was as handsome as a young Viking god. More than this, he had a lion's heart, and before he was sixteen, the shepherds and herdsmen had already begun to make songs about his young valor, and his kingly courtesy, and generous kindness. Not only the shepherds and herdsmen sang them, but the people in the streets. The king, his father, had always been jealous of him, even when he was only a beautiful, stately child whom the people roared with joy to see as he rode through the streets. When he returned from his journeyings and found him a splendid youth, he detested him. When the people began to clamor and demand that he himself should abdicate, he became insane with rage, and committed such cruelties that the people ran mad themselves. One day they stormed the palace, killed and overpowered the guards, and, rushing into the royal apartments, burst in upon the king as he shuddered green with terror and fury in his private room. He was king no more, and must leave the country, they vowed, as they closed round him with bared weapons and shook them in his face. Where was the prince? They must see him and tell him their ultimatum. It was he whom they wanted for a king. They trusted him and would obey him. They began to shout aloud his name, calling him in a sort of chant in unison, "Prince Ivor--Prince Ivor--Prince Ivor!" But no answer came. The people of the palace had hidden themselves, and the place was utterly silent. The king, despite his terror, could not help but sneer. "Call him again," he said. "He is afraid to come out of his hole!" A savage fellow from the mountain fastnesses struck him on the mouth. "He afraid!" he shouted. "If he does not come, it is because thou hast killed him--and thou art a dead man!" This set them aflame with hotter burning. They broke away, leaving three on guard, and ran about the empty palace rooms shouting the prince's name. But there was no answer. They sought him in a frenzy, bursting open doors and flinging down every obstacle in their way. A page, found hidden in a closet, owned that he had seen His Royal Highness pass through a corridor early in the morning. He had been softly singing to himself one of the shepherd's songs. And in this strange way out of the history of Samavia, five hundred years before Marco's day, the young prince had walked--singing softly to himself the old song of Samavia's beauty and happiness. For he was never seen again. In every nook and cranny, high and low, they sought for him, believing that the king himself had made him prisoner in some secret place, or had privately had him killed. The fury of the people grew to frenzy. There were new risings, and every few days the palace was attacked and searched again. But no trace of the prince was found. He had vanished as a star vanishes when it drops from its place in the sky. During a riot in the palace, when a last fruitless search was made, the king himself was killed. A powerful noble who headed one of the uprisings made himself king in his place. From that time, the once splendid little kingdom was like a bone fought for by dogs. Its pastoral peace was forgotten. It was torn and worried and shaken by stronger countries. It tore and worried itself with internal fights. It assassinated kings and created new ones. No man was sure in his youth what ruler his maturity would live under, or whether his children would die in useless fights, or through stress of poverty and cruel, useless laws. There were no more shepherds and herdsmen who were poets, but on the mountain sides and in the valleys sometimes some of the old songs were sung. Those most beloved were songs about a Lost Prince whose name had been Ivor. If he had been king, he would have saved Samavia, the verses said, and all brave hearts believed that he would still return. In the modern cities, one of the jocular cynical sayings was, "Yes, that will happen when Prince Ivor comes again." In his more childish days, Marco had been bitterly troubled by the unsolved mystery. Where had he gone--the Lost Prince? Had he been killed, or had he been hidden away in a dungeon? But he was so big and brave, he would have broken out of any dungeon. The boy had invented for himself a dozen endings to the story. "Did no one ever find his sword or his cap--or hear anything or guess anything about him ever--ever--ever?" he would say restlessly again and again. One winter's night, as they sat together before a small fire in a cold room in a cold city in Austria, he had been so eager and asked so many searching questions, that his father gave him an answer he had never given him before, and which was a sort of ending to the story, though not a satisfying one: "Everybody guessed as you are guessing. A few very old shepherds in the mountains who like to believe ancient histories relate a story which most people consider a kind of legend. It is that almost a hundred years after the prince was lost, an old shepherd told a story his long-dead father had confided to him in secret just before he died. The father had said that, going out in the early morning on the mountain side, he had found in the forest what he at first thought to be the dead body of a beautiful, boyish, young huntsman. Some enemy had plainly attacked him from behind and believed he had killed him. He was, however, not quite dead, and the shepherd dragged him into a cave where he himself often took refuge from storms with his flocks. Since there was such riot and disorder in the city, he was afraid to speak of what he had found; and, by the time he discovered that he was harboring the prince, the king had already been killed, and an even worse man had taken possession of his throne, and ruled Samavia with a blood-stained, iron hand. To the terrified and simple peasant the safest thing seemed to get the wounded youth out of the country before there was any chance of his being discovered and murdered outright, as he would surely be. The cave in which he was hidden was not far from the frontier, and while he was still so weak that he was hardly conscious of what befell him, he was smuggled across it in a cart loaded with sheepskins, and left with some kind monks who did not know his rank or name. The shepherd went back to his flocks and his mountains, and lived and died among them, always in terror of the changing rulers and their savage battles with each other. The mountaineers said among themselves, as the generations succeeded each other, that the Lost Prince must have died young, because otherwise he would have come back to his country and tried to restore its good, bygone days." "Yes, he would have come," Marco said. "He would have come if he had seen that he could help his people," Loristan answered, as if he were not reflecting on a story which was probably only a kind of legend. "But he was very young, and Samavia was in the hands of the new dynasty, and filled with his enemies. He could not have crossed the frontier without an army. Still, I think he died young." [Illustration: He was the man who had spoken to him in Samavian.] It was of this story that Marco was thinking as he walked, and perhaps the thoughts that filled his mind expressed themselves in his face in some way which attracted attention. As he was nearing Buckingham Palace, a distinguished-looking well-dressed man with clever eyes caught sight of him, and, after looking at him keenly, slackened his pace as he approached him from the opposite direction. An observer might have thought he saw something which puzzled and surprised him. Marco didn't see him at all, and still moved forward, thinking of the shepherds and the prince. The well-dressed man began to walk still more slowly. When he was quite close to Marco, he stopped and spoke to him--in the Samavian language. "What is your name?" he asked. Marco's training from his earliest childhood had been an extraordinary thing. His love for his father had made it simple and natural to him, and he had never questioned the reason for it. As he had been taught to keep silence, he had been taught to control the expression of his face and the sound of his voice, and, above all, never to allow himself to look startled. But for this he might have started at the extraordinary sound of the Samavian words suddenly uttered in a London street by an English gentleman. He might even have answered the question in Samavian himself. But he did not. He courteously lifted his cap and replied in English: "Excuse me?" The gentleman's clever eyes scrutinized him keenly. Then he also spoke in English. "Perhaps you do not understand? I asked your name because you are very like a Samavian I know," he said. "I am Marco Loristan," the boy answered him. The man looked straight into his eyes and smiled. "That is not the name," he said. "I beg your pardon, my boy." He was about to go on, and had indeed taken a couple of steps away, when he paused and turned to him again. "You may tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad. I wanted to find out for myself." And he went on. Marco felt that his heart beat a little quickly. This was one of several incidents which had happened during the last three years, and made him feel that he was living among things so mysterious that their very mystery hinted at danger. But he himself had never before seemed involved in them. Why should it matter that he was well-behaved? Then he remembered something. The man had not said "well-behaved," he had said "well-_trained_." Well-trained in what way? He felt his forehead prickle slightly as he thought of the smiling, keen look which set itself so straight upon him. Had he spoken to him in Samavian for an experiment, to see if he would be startled into forgetting that he had been trained to seem to know only the language of the country he was temporarily living in? But he had not forgotten. He had remembered well, and was thankful that he had betrayed nothing. "Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers. I am one. You must be one," his father had said on that day long ago when he had made him take his oath. Perhaps remembering his training was being a soldier. Never had Samavia needed help as she needed it to-day. Two years before, a rival claimant to the throne had assassinated the then reigning king and his sons, and since then, bloody war and tumult had raged. The new king was a powerful man, and had a great following of the worst and most self-seeking of the people. Neighboring countries had interfered for their own welfare's sake, and the newspapers had been full of stories of savage fighting and atrocities, and of starving peasants. Marco had late one evening entered their lodgings to find Loristan walking to and fro like a lion in a cage, a paper crushed and torn in his hands, and his eyes blazing. He had been reading of cruelties wrought upon innocent peasants and women and children. Lazarus was standing staring at him with huge tears running down his cheeks. When Marco opened the door, the old soldier strode over to him, turned him about, and led him out of the room. "Pardon, sir, pardon!" he sobbed. "No one must see him, not even you. He suffers so horribly." He stood by a chair in Marco's own small bedroom, where he half pushed, half led him. He bent his grizzled head, and wept like a beaten child. "Dear God of those who are in pain, assuredly it is now the time to give back to us our Lost Prince!" he said, and Marco knew the words were a prayer, and wondered at the frenzied intensity of it, because it seemed so wild a thing to pray for the return of a youth who had died five hundred years before. When he reached the palace, he was still thinking of the man who had spoken to him. He was thinking of him even as he looked at the majestic gray stone building and counted the number of its stories and windows. He walked round it that he might make a note in his memory of its size and form and its entrances, and guess at the size of its gardens. This he did because it was part of his game, and part of his strange training. When he came back to the front, he saw that in the great entrance court within the high iron railings an elegant but quiet-looking closed carriage was drawing up before the doorway. Marco stood and watched with interest to see who would come out and enter it. He knew that kings and emperors who were not on parade looked merely like well-dressed private gentlemen, and often chose to go out as simply and quietly as other men. So he thought that, perhaps, if he waited, he might see one of those well-known faces which represent the highest rank and power in a monarchical country, and which in times gone by had also represented the power over human life and death and liberty. "I should like to be able to tell my father that I have seen the King and know his face, as I know the faces of the czar and the two emperors." There was a little movement among the tall men-servants in the royal scarlet liveries, and an elderly man descended the steps attended by another who walked behind him. He entered the carriage, the other man followed him, the door was closed, and the carriage drove through the entrance gates, where the sentries saluted. Marco was near enough to see distinctly. The two men were talking as if interested. The face of the one farthest from him was the face he had often seen in shop-windows and newspapers. The boy made his quick, formal salute. It was the King; and, as he smiled and acknowledged his greeting, he spoke to his companion. "That fine lad salutes as if he belonged to the army," was what he said, though Marco could not hear him. His companion leaned forward to look through the window. When he caught sight of Marco, a singular expression crossed his face. "He does belong to an army, sir," he answered, "though he does not know it. His name is Marco Loristan." Then Marco saw him plainly for the first time. He was the man with the keen eyes who had spoken to him in Samavian. IV THE RAT Marco would have wondered very much if he had heard the words, but, as he did not hear them, he turned toward home wondering at something else. A man who was in intimate attendance on a king must be a person of importance. He no doubt knew many things not only of his own ruler's country, but of the countries of other kings. But so few had really known anything of poor little Samavia until the newspapers had begun to tell them of the horrors of its war--and who but a Samavian could speak its language? It would be an interesting thing to tell his father--that a man who knew the King had spoken to him in Samavian, and had sent that curious message. Later he found himself passing a side street and looked up it. It was so narrow, and on either side of it were such old, tall, and sloping-walled houses that it attracted his attention. It looked as if a bit of old London had been left to stand while newer places grew up and hid it from view. This was the kind of street he liked to pass through for curiosity's sake. He knew many of them in the old quarters of many cities. He had lived in some of them. He could find his way home from the other end of it. Another thing than its queerness attracted him. He heard a clamor of boys' voices, and he wanted to see what they were doing. Sometimes, when he had reached a new place and had had that lonely feeling, he had followed some boyish clamor of play or wrangling, and had found a temporary friend or so. Half-way to the street's end there was an arched brick passage. The sound of the voices came from there--one of them high, and thinner and shriller than the rest. Marco tramped up to the arch and looked down through the passage. It opened on to a gray flagged space, shut in by the railings of a black, deserted, and ancient graveyard behind a venerable church which turned its face toward some other street. The boys were not playing, but listening to one of their number who was reading to them from a newspaper. Marco walked down the passage and listened also, standing in the dark arched outlet at its end and watching the boy who read. He was a strange little creature with a big forehead, and deep eyes which were curiously sharp. But this was not all. He had a hunch back, his legs seemed small and crooked. He sat with them crossed before him on a rough wooden platform set on low wheels, on which he evidently pushed himself about. Near him were a number of sticks stacked together as if they were rifles. One of the first things that Marco noticed was that he had a savage little face marked with lines as if he had been angry all his life. "Hold your tongues, you fools!" he shrilled out to some boys who interrupted him. "Don't you want to know anything, you ignorant swine?" He was as ill-dressed as the rest of them, but he did not speak in the Cockney dialect. If he was of the riffraff of the streets, as his companions were, he was somehow different. Then he, by chance, saw Marco, who was standing in the arched end of the passage. "What are you doing there listening?" he shouted, and at once stooped to pick up a stone and threw it at him. The stone hit Marco's shoulder, but it did not hurt him much. What he did not like was that another lad should want to throw something at him before they had even exchanged boy-signs. He also did not like the fact that two other boys promptly took the matter up by bending down to pick up stones also. He walked forward straight into the group and stopped close to the hunchback. "What did you do that for?" he asked, in his rather deep young voice. He was big and strong-looking enough to suggest that he was not a boy it would be easy to dispose of, but it was not that which made the group stand still a moment to stare at him. It was something in himself--half of it a kind of impartial lack of anything like irritation at the stone-throwing. It was as if it had not mattered to him in the least. It had not made him feel angry or insulted. He was only rather curious about it. Because he was clean, and his hair and his shabby clothes were brushed, the first impression given by his appearance as he stood in the archway was that he was a young "toff" poking his nose where it was not wanted; but, as he drew near, they saw that the well-brushed clothes were worn, and there were patches on his shoes. "What did you do that for?" he asked, and he asked it merely as if he wanted to find out the reason. "I'm not going to have you swells dropping in to my club as if it was your own," said the hunchback. "I'm not a swell, and I didn't know it was a club," Marco answered. "I heard boys, and I thought I'd come and look. When I heard you reading about Samavia, I wanted to hear." He looked at the reader with his silent-expressioned eyes. "You needn't have thrown a stone," he added. "They don't do it at men's clubs. I'll go away." He turned about as if he were going, but, before he had taken three steps, the hunchback hailed him unceremoniously. "Hi!" he called out. "Hi, you!" "What do you want?" said Marco. "I bet you don't know where Samavia is, or what they're fighting about." The hunchback threw the words at him. "Yes, I do. It's north of Beltrazo and east of Jiardasia, and they are fighting because one party has assassinated King Maran, and the other will not let them crown Nicola Iarovitch. And why should they? He's a brigand, and hasn't a drop of royal blood in him." "Oh!" reluctantly admitted the hunchback. "You do know that much, do you? Come back here." Marco turned back, while the boys still stared. It was as if two leaders or generals were meeting for the first time, and the rabble, looking on, wondered what would come of their encounter. "The Samavians of the Iarovitch party are a bad lot and want only bad things," said Marco, speaking first. "They care nothing for Samavia. They only care for money and the power to make laws which will serve them and crush everybody else. They know Nicola is a weak man, and that, if they can crown him king, they can make him do what they like." The fact that he spoke first, and that, though he spoke in a steady boyish voice without swagger, he somehow seemed to take it for granted that they would listen, made his place for him at once. Boys are impressionable creatures, and they know a leader when they see him. The hunchback fixed glittering eyes on him. The rabble began to murmur. "Rat! Rat!" several voices cried at once in good strong Cockney. "Arst 'im some more, Rat!" "Is that what they call you?" Marco asked the hunchback. "It's what I called myself," he answered resentfully. "'The Rat.' Look at me! Crawling round on the ground like this! Look at me!" He made a gesture ordering his followers to move aside, and began to push himself rapidly, with queer darts this side and that round the inclosure. He bent his head and body, and twisted his face, and made strange animal-like movements. He even uttered sharp squeaks as he rushed here and there--as a rat might have done when it was being hunted. He did it as if he were displaying an accomplishment, and his followers' laughter was applause. "Wasn't I like a rat?" he demanded, when he suddenly stopped. "You made yourself like one on purpose," Marco answered. "You do it for fun." "Not so much fun," said The Rat. "I feel like one. Every one's my enemy. I'm vermin. I can't fight or defend myself unless I bite. I can bite, though." And he showed two rows of fierce, strong, white teeth, sharper at the points than human teeth usually are. "I bite my father when he gets drunk and beats me. I've bitten him till he's learned to remember." He laughed a shrill, squeaking laugh. "He hasn't tried it for three months--even when he was drunk--and he's always drunk." Then he laughed again still more shrilly. "He's a gentleman," he said. "I'm a gentleman's son. He was a Master at a big school until he was kicked out--that was when I was four and my mother died. I'm thirteen now. How old are you?" "I'm twelve," answered Marco. The Rat twisted his face enviously. "I wish I was your size! Are you a gentleman's son? You look as if you were." "I'm a very poor man's son," was Marco's answer. "My father is a writer." "Then, ten to one, he's a sort of gentleman," said The Rat. Then quite suddenly he threw another question at him. "What's the name of the other Samavian party?" "The Maranovitch. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch have been fighting with each other for five hundred years. First one dynasty rules, and then the other gets in when it has killed somebody as it killed King Maran," Marco answered without hesitation. "What was the name of the dynasty that ruled before they began fighting? The first Maranovitch assassinated the last of them," The Rat asked him. "The Fedorovitch," said Marco. "The last one was a bad king." "His son was the one they never found again," said The Rat. "The one they call the Lost Prince." Marco would have started but for his long training in exterior self-control. It was so strange to hear his dream-hero spoken of in this back alley in a slum, and just after he had been thinking of him. "What do you know about him?" he asked, and, as he did so, he saw the group of vagabond lads draw nearer. "Not much. I only read something about him in a torn magazine I found in the street," The Rat answered. "The man that wrote about him said he was only part of a legend, and he laughed at people for believing in him. He said it was about time that he should turn up again if he intended to. I've invented things about him because these chaps like to hear me tell them. They're only stories." "We likes 'im," a voice called out, "becos 'e wos the right sort; 'e'd fight, 'e would, if 'e was in Samavia now." Marco rapidly asked himself how much he might say. He decided and spoke to them all. "He is not part of a legend. He's part of Samavian history," he said. "I know something about him too." "How did you find it out?" asked The Rat. "Because my father's a writer, he's obliged to have books and papers, and he knows things. I like to read, and I go into the free libraries. You can always get books and papers there. Then I ask my father questions. All the newspapers are full of things about Samavia just now." Marco felt that this was an explanation which betrayed nothing. It was true that no one could open a newspaper at this period without seeing news and stories of Samavia. The Rat saw possible vistas of information opening up before him. "Sit down here," he said, "and tell us what you know about him. Sit down, you fellows." There was nothing to sit on but the broken flagged pavement, but that was a small matter. Marco himself had sat on flags or bare ground often enough before, and so had the rest of the lads. He took his place near The Rat, and the others made a semicircle in front of them. The two leaders had joined forces, so to speak, and the followers fell into line at "attention." Then the new-comer began to talk. It was a good story, that of the Lost Prince, and Marco told it in a way which gave it reality. How could he help it? He knew, as they could not, that it was real. He who had pored over maps of little Samavia since his seventh year, who had studied them with his father, knew it as a country he could have found his way to any part of if he had been dropped in any forest or any mountain of it. He knew every highway and byway, and in the capital city of Melzarr could almost have made his way blindfolded. He knew the palaces and the forts, the churches, the poor streets and the rich ones. His father had once shown him a plan of the royal palace which they had studied together until the boy knew each apartment and corridor in it by heart. But this he did not speak of. He knew it was one of the things to be silent about. But of the mountains and the emerald velvet meadows climbing their sides and only ending where huge bare crags and peaks began, he could speak. He could make pictures of the wide fertile plains where herds of wild horses fed, or raced and sniffed the air; he could describe the fertile valleys where clear rivers ran and flocks of sheep pastured on deep sweet grass. He could speak of them because he could offer a good enough reason for his knowledge of them. It was not the only reason he had for his knowledge, but it was one which would serve well enough. "That torn magazine you found had more than one article about Samavia in it," he said to The Rat. "The same man wrote four. I read them all in a free library. He had been to Samavia, and knew a great deal about it. He said it was one of the most beautiful countries he had ever traveled in--and the most fertile. That's what they all say of it." The group before him knew nothing of fertility or open country. They only knew London back streets and courts. Most of them had never traveled as far as the public parks, and in fact scarcely believed in their existence. They were a rough lot, and as they had stared at Marco at first sight of him, so they continued to stare at him as he talked. When he told of the tall Samavians who had been like giants centuries ago, and who had hunted the wild horses and captured and trained them to obedience by a sort of strong and gentle magic, their mouths fell open. This was the sort of thing to allure any boy's imagination. "Blimme, if I wouldn't 'ave liked ketchin' one o' them 'orses," broke in one of the audience, and his exclamation was followed by a dozen of like nature from the others. Who wouldn't have liked "ketchin' one"? When he told of the deep endless-seeming forests, and of the herdsmen and shepherds who played on their pipes and made songs about high deeds and bravery, they grinned with pleasure without knowing they were grinning. They did not really know that in this neglected, broken-flagged inclosure, shut in on one side by smoke-blackened, poverty-stricken houses, and on the other by a deserted and forgotten sunken graveyard, they heard the rustle of green forest boughs where birds nested close, the swish of the summer wind in the river reeds, and the tinkle and laughter and rush of brooks running. They heard more or less of it all through the Lost Prince story, because Prince Ivor had loved lowland woods and mountain forests and all out-of-door life. When Marco pictured him tall and strong-limbed and young, winning all the people when he rode smiling among them, the boys grinned again with unconscious pleasure. "Wisht 'e 'adn't got lost!" some one cried out. When they heard of the unrest and dissatisfaction of the Samavians, they began to get restless themselves. When Marco reached the part of the story in which the mob rushed into the palace and demanded their prince from the king, they ejaculated scraps of bad language. "The old geezer had got him hidden somewhere in some dungeon, or he'd killed him out an' out--that's what he'd been up to!" they clamored. "Wisht the lot of us had been there then--wisht we 'ad. We'd 'ave give' 'im wot for, anyway!" "An' 'im walkin' out o' the place so early in the mornin' just singin' like that! 'E 'ad 'im follered an' done for!" they decided with various exclamations of boyish wrath. Somehow, the fact that the handsome royal lad had strolled into the morning sunshine singing made them more savage. Their language was extremely bad at this point. But if it was bad here, it became worse when the old shepherd found the young huntsman's half-dead body in the forest. He _had_ "bin 'done for' _in the back_! 'E'd bin give' no charnst. G-r-r-r!" they groaned in chorus. "Wisht" _they'd_ "bin there when 'e'd bin 'it!" They'd "'ave done fur somebody" themselves. It was a story which had a queer effect on them. It made them think they saw things; it fired their blood; it set them wanting to fight for ideals they knew nothing about--adventurous things, for instance, and high and noble young princes who were full of the possibility of great and good deeds. Sitting upon the broken flagstones of the bit of ground behind the deserted graveyard, they were suddenly dragged into the world of romance, and noble young princes and great and good deeds became as real as the sunken gravestones, and far more interesting. And then the smuggling across the frontier of the unconscious prince in the bullock cart loaded with sheepskins! They held their breaths. Would the old shepherd get him past the line! Marco, who was lost in the recital himself, told it as if he had been present. He felt as if he had, and as this was the first time he had ever told it to thrilled listeners, his imagination got him in its grip, and his heart jumped in his breast as he was sure the old man's must have done when the guard stopped his cart and asked him what he was carrying out of the country. He knew he must have had to call up all his strength to force his voice into steadiness. And then the good monks! He had to stop to explain what a monk was, and when he described the solitude of the ancient monastery, and its walled gardens full of flowers and old simples to be used for healing, and the wise monks walking in the silence and the sun, the boys stared a little helplessly, but still as if they were vaguely pleased by the picture. And then there was no more to tell--no more. There it broke off, and something like a low howl of dismay broke from the semicircle. "Aw!" they protested, "it 'adn't ought to stop there! Ain't there no more? Is that all there is?" "It's all that was ever known really. And that last part might only be a sort of story made up by somebody. But I believe it myself." The Rat had listened with burning eyes. He had sat biting his finger-nails, as was a trick of his when he was excited or angry. "Tell you what!" he exclaimed suddenly. "This was what happened. It was some of the Maranovitch fellows that tried to kill him. They meant to kill his father and make their own man king, and they knew the people wouldn't stand it if young Ivor was alive. They just stabbed him in the back, the fiends! I dare say they heard the old shepherd coming, and left him for dead and ran." "Right, oh! That was it!" the lads agreed. "Yer right there, Rat!" "When he got well," The Rat went on feverishly, still biting his nails, "he couldn't go back. He was only a boy. The other fellow had been crowned, and his followers felt strong because they'd just conquered the country. He could have done nothing without an army, and he was too young to raise one. Perhaps he thought he'd wait till he was old enough to know what to do. I dare say he went away and had to work for his living as if he'd never been a prince at all. Then perhaps sometime he married somebody and had a son, and told him as a secret who he was and all about Samavia." The Rat began to look vengeful. "If I'd bin him I'd have told him not to forget what the Maranovitch had done to me. I'd have told him that if I couldn't get back the throne, he must see what he could do when he grew to be a man. And I'd have made him swear, if he got it back, to take it out of them or their children or their children's children in torture and killing. I'd have made him swear not to leave a Maranovitch alive. And I'd have told him that, if he couldn't do it in his life, he must pass the oath on to his son and his son's son, as long as there was a Fedorovitch on earth. Wouldn't you?" he demanded hotly of Marco. Marco's blood was also hot, but it was a different kind of blood, and he had talked too much to a very sane man. "No," he said slowly. "What would have been the use? It wouldn't have done Samavia any good, and it wouldn't have done him any good to torture and kill people. Better keep them alive and make them do things for the country. If you're a patriot, you think of the country." He wanted to add "That's what my father says," but he did not. "Torture 'em first and then attend to the country," snapped The Rat. "What would you have told your son if you'd been Ivor?" "I'd have told him to learn everything about Samavia--and all the things kings have to know--and study things about laws and other countries--and about keeping silent--and about governing himself as if he were a general commanding soldiers in battle--so that he would never do anything he did not mean to do or could be ashamed of doing after it was over. And I'd have asked him to tell his son's sons to tell their sons to learn the same things. So, you see, however long the time was, there would always be a king getting ready for Samavia--when Samavia really wanted him. And he would be a real king." He stopped himself suddenly and looked at the staring semicircle. "I didn't make that up myself," he said. "I have heard a man who reads and knows things say it. I believe the Lost Prince would have had the same thoughts. If he had, and told them to his son, there has been a line of kings in training for Samavia for five hundred years, and perhaps one is walking about the streets of Vienna, or Budapest, or Paris, or London now, and he'd be ready if the people found out about him and called him." "Wisht they would!" some one yelled. "It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it," The Rat communed with himself as it were, "that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown. I wonder if it would make a chap look different?" He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to Marco: "But he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is your name?" "Marco Loristan. What's yours? It isn't The Rat really." "It's Jem _Rat_cliffe. That's pretty near. Where do you live?" "No. 7 Philibert Place." "This club is a soldiers' club," said The Rat. "It's called the Squad. I'm the captain. 'Tention, you fellows! Let's show him." The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision. "Form in line!" ordered The Rat. They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and their heads up amazingly well. Each had seized one of the sticks which had been stacked together like guns. The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform. There was actually something military in the bearing of his lean body. His voice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding. He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart young officer. And the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks. It made Marco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest. "That's good!" he exclaimed when it was at an end. "How did you learn that?" The Rat made a savage gesture. "If I'd had legs to stand on, I'd have been a soldier!" he said. "I'd have enlisted in any regiment that would take me. I don't care for anything else." Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers. "Turn your backs!" he ordered. And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the old churchyard. Marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not new to them. The Rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them. He held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen. Marco turned his back as the rest had done. All at once he understood that, though The Rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boy would possibly have broken down under. "All right!" he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again. "I want to go to war!" he said hoarsely. "I want to fight! I want to lead a lot of men into battle! And I haven't got any legs. Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me." "You've not grown up yet!" said Marco. "You might get strong." No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drill the club?" "I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers. If I could get books, I'd read about wars. I can't go to libraries as you can. I can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat." "I can take you to some libraries," said Marco. "There are places where boys can get in. And I can get some papers from my father." "Can you?" said The Rat. "Do you want to join the club?" "Yes!" Marco answered. "I'll speak to my father about it." He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in The Rat's eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature as he was, there was attraction in him. Scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. Marco knew that, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. The boy wanted to hear what Loristan would say. "I'm going home now," he said. "If you're going to be here to-morrow, I will try to come." "We shall be here," The Rat answered. "It's our barracks." Marco drew himself up smartly and made his salute as if to a superior officer. Then he wheeled about and marched through the brick archway, and the sound of his boyish tread was as regular and decided as if he had been a man keeping time with his regiment. "He's been drilled himself," said The Rat. "He knows as much as I do." And he sat up and stared down the passage with new interest. V "SILENCE IS STILL THE ORDER" They were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper Marco and his father sat down to was scant enough. Lazarus stood upright behind his master's chair and served him with strictest ceremony. Their poor lodgings were always kept with a soldierly cleanliness and order. When an object could be polished it was forced to shine, no grain of dust was allowed to lie undisturbed, and this perfection was not attained through the ministrations of a lodging house slavey. Lazarus made himself extremely popular by taking the work of caring for his master's rooms entirely out of the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. He had learned to do many things in his young days in barracks. He carried about with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels, which he laundered as if they had been the finest linen. He mended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poor must face--the fight with dirt and dinginess--he always held his own. They had nothing but dry bread and coffee this evening, but Lazarus had made the coffee and the bread was good. As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and his followers. Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would, with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. It was a look which always fascinated Marco because it meant that he was thinking so many things. Perhaps he would tell some of them and perhaps he would not. His spell over the boy lay in the fact that to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had only glimpses. It was full of pictures and adventures which were true, and one could not help continually making guesses about them. Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father's attraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the same thing. When he stood and talked to commoner people, he held his tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. He never stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous or uncertain. He could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender and strong hands) quite still; he could stand on his fine arched feet without shuffling them. He could sit without any ungrace or restlessness. His mind knew what his body should do, and gave it orders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles and nerves obeyed. So he could stand still and at ease and look at the people he was talking to, and they always looked at him and listened to what he said, and somehow, courteous and uncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always to seem to Marco as if he were "giving an audience" as kings gave them. He had often seen people bow very low when they went away from him, and more than once it had happened that some humble person had stepped out of his presence backward, as people do when retiring before a sovereign. And yet his bearing was the quietest and least assuming in the world. "And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story of the Lost Prince?" he said ponderingly. "Even in that place!" "He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them," Marco answered. "If he could stand and were old enough, he would go and fight for Samavia himself." "It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!" said Loristan. "The people are mad when they are not heartbroken and terrified." Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's hand. He did it before he realized any intention in his own mind. "Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of the Maranovitch be king!" he cried. "They were only savage peasants when they first fought for the crown hundreds of years ago. The most savage one got it, and they have been fighting ever since. Only the Fedorovitch were born kings. There is only one man in the world who has the right to the throne--and I don't know whether he is in the world or not. But I believe he is! I do!" Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflective curiousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in him had leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might have shaken him. "You mean--?" he suggested softly. "Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the people would obey him, and the good days would come again." "It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the good monks." Loristan still spoke softly. "But, Father," Marco protested, "even The Rat said what you said--that he was too young to be able to come back while the Maranovitch were in power. And he would have to work and have a home, and perhaps he is as poor as we are. But when he had a son he would call him Ivor and _tell_ him--and his son would call _his_ son Ivor and tell _him_--and it would go on and on. They could never call their eldest sons anything but Ivor. And what you said about the training would be true. There would always be a king being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called." In the fire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright. "Why! There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knows he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his people, his blood gets red-hot. They're his own people--his very own! He ought to go to them--he ought to go and tell them who he is! Don't you think he ought, Father?" "It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy," Loristan answered. "There are many countries which would have something to say--Russia would have her word, and Austria, and Germany; and England never is silent. But, if he were a strong man and knew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime be able to declare himself openly." "But if he is anywhere, some one--some Samavian--ought to go and look for him. It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and a patriot--" He stopped at a flash of recognition. "Father!" he cried out. "Father! You--you are the one who could find him if any one in the world could. But perhaps--" and he stopped a moment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind. "Have _you_ ever looked for him?" he asked hesitating. Perhaps he had asked a stupid question--perhaps his father had always been looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and his work. But Loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid. Quite the contrary. He kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in that curious way, as if he were studying him--as if he were much more than twelve years old, and he were deciding to tell him something. "Comrade at arms," he said, with the smile which always gladdened Marco's heart, "you have kept your oath of allegiance like a man. You were not seven years old when you took it. You are growing older. Silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more." He paused and looked down, and then looked up again, speaking in a low tone. "I have not looked for him," he said, "because--I believe I know where he is." Marco caught his breath. "Father!" He said only that word. He could say no more. He knew he must not ask questions. "Silence is still the order." But as they faced each other in their dingy room at the back of the shabby house on the side of the roaring common road--as Lazarus stood stock-still behind his father's chair and kept his eyes fixed on the empty coffee cups and the dry bread plate, and everything looked as poor as things always did--there was a king of Samavia--an Ivor Fedorovitch with the blood of the Lost Prince in his veins--alive in some town or city this moment! And Marco's own father knew where he was! He glanced at Lazarus, but, though the old soldier's face looked as expressionless as if it were cut out of wood, Marco realized that he knew this thing and had always known it. He had been a comrade at arms all his life. He continued to stare at the bread plate. Loristan spoke again and in an even lower voice. "The Samavians who are patriots and thinkers," he said, "formed themselves into a secret party about eighty years ago. They formed it when they had no reason for hope, but they formed it because one of them discovered that an Ivor Fedorovitch was living. He was head forester on a great estate in the Austrian Alps. The nobleman he served had always thought him a mystery because he had the bearing and speech of a man who had not been born a servant, and his methods in caring for the forests and game were those of a man who was educated and had studied his subject. But he never was familiar or assuming, and never professed superiority over any of his fellows. He was a man of great stature, and was extraordinarily brave and silent. The nobleman who was his master made a sort of companion of him when they hunted together. Once he took him with him when he traveled to Samavia to hunt wild horses. He found that he knew the country strangely well, and that he was familiar with Samavian hunting and customs. Before he returned to Austria, the man obtained permission to go to the mountains alone. He went among the shepherds and made friends among them, asking many questions. "One night around a forest fire he heard the songs about the Lost Prince which had not been forgotten even after nearly five hundred years had passed. The shepherds and herdsmen talked about Prince Ivor, and told old stories about him, and related the prophecy that he would come back and bring again Samavia's good days. He might come only in the body of one of his descendants, but it would be his spirit which came, because his spirit would never cease to love Samavia. One very old shepherd tottered to his feet and lifted his face to the myriad stars bestrewn like jewels in the blue sky above the forest trees, and he wept and prayed aloud that the great God would send their king to them. And the stranger huntsman stood upright also and lifted his face to the stars. And, though he said no word, the herdsman nearest to him saw tears on his cheeks--great, heavy tears. The next day, the stranger went to the monastery where the order of good monks lived who had taken care of the Lost Prince. When he had left Samavia, the secret society was formed, and the members of it knew that an Ivor Fedorovitch had passed through his ancestors' country as the servant of another man. But the secret society was only a small one, and, though it has been growing ever since and it has done good deeds and good work in secret, the huntsman died an old man before it was strong enough even to dare to tell Samavia what it knew." "Had he a son?" cried Marco. "Had he a son?" "Yes. He had a son. His name was Ivor. And he was trained as I told you. That part I knew to be true, though I should have believed it was true even if I had not known. There has _always_ been a king ready for Samavia--even when he has labored with his hands and served others. Each one took the oath of allegiance." "As I did?" said Marco, breathless with excitement. When one is twelve years old, to be so near a Lost Prince who might end wars is a thrilling thing. "The same," answered Loristan. Marco threw up his hand in salute. "'Here grows a man for Samavia! God be thanked!'" he quoted. "And _he_ is somewhere? And you know?" Loristan bent his head in acquiescence. "For years much secret work has been done, and the Fedorovitch party has grown until it is much greater and more powerful than the other parties dream. The larger countries are tired of the constant war and disorder in Samavia. Their interests are disturbed by them, and they are deciding that they must have peace and laws which can be counted on. There have been Samavian patriots who have spent their lives in trying to bring this about by making friends in the most powerful capitals, and working secretly for the future good of their own land. Because Samavia is so small and uninfluential, it has taken a long time but when King Maran and his family were assassinated and the war broke out, there were great powers which began to say that if some king of good blood and reliable characteristics were given the crown, he should be upheld." "_His_ blood,"--Marco's intensity made his voice drop almost to a whisper,--"_his_ blood has been trained for five hundred years, Father! If it comes true--" though he laughed a little, he was obliged to wink his eyes hard because suddenly he felt tears rush into them, which no boy likes--"the shepherds will have to make a new song--it will have to be a shouting one about a prince going away and a king coming back!" "They are a devout people and observe many an ancient rite and ceremony. They will chant prayers and burn altar-fires on their mountain sides," Loristan said. "But the end is not yet--the end is not yet. Sometimes it seems that perhaps it is near--but God knows!" Then there leaped back upon Marco the story he had to tell, but which he had held back for the last--the story of the man who spoke Samavian and drove in the carriage with the King. He knew now that it might mean some important thing which he could not have before suspected. "There is something I must tell you," he said. He had learned to relate incidents in few but clear words when he related them to his father. It had been part of his training. Loristan had said that he might sometime have a story to tell when he had but few moments to tell it in--some story which meant life or death to some one. He told this one quickly and well. He made Loristan see the well-dressed man with the deliberate manner and the keen eyes, and he made him hear his voice when he said, "Tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad." "I am glad he said that. He is a man who knows what training is," said Loristan. "He is a person who knows what all Europe is doing, and almost all that it will do. He is an ambassador from a powerful and great country. If he saw that you are a well-trained and fine lad, it might--it might even be good for Samavia." "Would it matter that _I_ was well-trained? _Could_ it matter to Samavia?" Marco cried out. Loristan paused for a moment--watching him gravely--looking him over--his big, well-built boy's frame, his shabby clothes, and his eagerly burning eyes. He smiled one of his slow wonderful smiles. "Yes. It might even matter to Samavia!" he answered. VI THE DRILL AND THE SECRET PARTY Loristan did not forbid Marco to pursue his acquaintance with The Rat and his followers. "You will find out for yourself whether they are friends for you or not," he said. "You will know in a few days, and then you can make your own decision. You have known lads in various countries, and you are a good judge of them, I think. You will soon see whether they are going to be _men_ or mere rabble. The Rat now--how does he strike you?" And the handsome eyes held their keen look of questioning. "He'd be a brave soldier if he could stand," said Marco, thinking him over. "But he might be cruel." "A lad who might make a brave soldier cannot be disdained, but a man who is cruel is a fool. Tell him that from me," Loristan answered. "He wastes force--his own and the force of the one he treats cruelly. Only a fool wastes force." "May I speak of you sometimes?" asked Marco. "Yes. You will know how. You will remember the things about which silence is the order." "I never forget them," said Marco. "I have been trying not to, for such a long time." "You have succeeded well, Comrade!" returned Loristan, from his writing-table, to which he had gone and where he was turning over papers. A strong impulse overpowered the boy. He marched over to the table and stood very straight, making his soldierly young salute, his whole body glowing. "Father!" he said, "you don't know how I love you! I wish you were a general and I might die in battle for you. When I look at you, I long and long to do something for you a boy could not do. I would die of a thousand wounds rather than disobey you--or Samavia!" He seized Loristan's hand, and knelt on one knee and kissed it. An English or American boy could not have done such a thing from unaffected natural impulse. But he was of warm Southern blood. "I took my oath of allegiance to you, Father, when I took it to Samavia. It seems as if you were Samavia, too," he said, and kissed his hand again. Loristan had turned toward him with one of the movements which were full of dignity and grace. Marco, looking up at him, felt that there was always a certain remote stateliness in him which made it seem quite natural that any one should bend the knee and kiss his hand. A sudden great tenderness glowed in his father's face as he raised the boy and put his hand on his shoulder. "Comrade," he said, "you don't know how much I love you--and what reason there is that we should love each other! You don't know how I have been watching you, and thanking God each year that here grew a man for Samavia. That I know you are--a _man_, though you have lived but twelve years. Twelve years may grow a man--or prove that a man will never grow, though a human thing he may remain for ninety years. This year may be full of strange things for both of us. We cannot know _what_ I may have to ask you to do for me--and for Samavia. Perhaps such a thing as no twelve-year-old boy has ever done before." "Every night and every morning," said Marco, "I shall pray that I may be called to do it, and that I may do it well." "You will do it well, Comrade, if you are called. That I could make oath," Loristan answered him. The Squad had collected in the inclosure behind the church when Marco appeared at the arched end of the passage. The boys were drawn up with their rifles, but they all wore a rather dogged and sullen look. The explanation which darted into Marco's mind was that this was because The Rat was in a bad humor. He sat crouched together on his platform biting his nails fiercely, his elbows on his updrawn knees, his face twisted into a hideous scowl. He did not look around, or even look up from the cracked flagstone of the pavement on which his eyes were fixed. Marco went forward with military step and stopped opposite to him with prompt salute. "Sorry to be late, sir," he said, as if he had been a private speaking to his colonel. "It's 'im, Rat! 'E's come, Rat!" the Squad shouted. "Look at 'im!" But The Rat would not look, and did not even move. "What's the matter?" said Marco, with less ceremony than a private would have shown. "There's no use in my coming here if you don't want me." "'E's got a grouch on 'cos you're late!" called out the head of the line. "No doin' nothin' when 'e's got a grouch on." "I sha'n't try to do anything," said Marco, his boy-face setting itself into good stubborn lines. "That's not what I came here for. I came to drill. I've been with my father. He comes first. I can't join the Squad if he doesn't come first. We're not on active service, and we're not in barracks." Then The Rat moved sharply and turned to look at him. "I thought you weren't coming at all!" he snapped and growled at once. "My father said you wouldn't. He said you were a young swell for all your patched clothes. He said your father would think he was a swell, even if he was only a penny-a-liner on newspapers, and he wouldn't let you have anything to do with a vagabond and a nuisance. Nobody begged you to join. Your father can go to blazes!" "Don't you speak in that way about my father," said Marco, quite quietly, "because I can't knock you down." "I'll get up and let you!" began The Rat, immediately white and raging. "I can stand up with two sticks. I'll get up and let you!" "No, you won't," said Marco. "If you want to know what my father said, I can tell you. He said I could come as often as I liked--till I found out whether we should be friends or not. He says I shall find that out for myself." It was a strange thing The Rat did. It must always be remembered of him that his wretched father, who had each year sunk lower and lower in the under-world, had been a gentleman once, a man who had been familiar with good manners and had been educated in the customs of good breeding. Sometimes when he was drunk, and sometimes when he was partly sober, he talked to The Rat of many things the boy would otherwise never have heard of. That was why the lad was different from the other vagabonds. This, also, was why he suddenly altered the whole situation by doing this strange and unexpected thing. He utterly changed his expression and voice, fixing his sharp eyes shrewdly on Marco's. It was almost as if he were asking him a conundrum. He knew it would have been one to most boys of the class he appeared outwardly to belong to. He would either know the answer or he wouldn't. "I beg your pardon," The Rat said. That was the conundrum. It was what a gentleman and an officer would have said, if he felt he had been mistaken or rude. He had heard that from his drunken father. "I beg yours--for being late," said Marco. That was the right answer. It was the one another officer and gentleman would have made. It settled the matter at once, and it settled more than was apparent at the moment. It decided that Marco was one of those who knew the things The Rat's father had once known--the things gentlemen do and say and think. Not another word was said. It was all right. Marco slipped into line with the Squad, and The Rat sat erect with his military bearing and began his drill: "Squad! "'Tention! "Number! "Slope arms! "Form fours! "Right! "Quick march! "Halt! "Left turn! "Order arms! "Stand at ease! "Stand easy!" They did it so well that it was quite wonderful when one considered the limited space at their disposal. They had evidently done it often, and The Rat had been not only a smart, but a severe, officer. This morning they repeated the exercise a number of times, and even varied it with Review Drill, with which they seemed just as familiar. "Where did you learn it?" The Rat asked, when the arms were stacked again and Marco was sitting by him as he had sat the previous day. "From an old soldier. And I like to watch it, as you do." "If you were a young swell in the Guards, you couldn't be smarter at it," The Rat said. "The way you hold yourself! The way you stand! You've got it! Wish I was you! It comes natural to you." "I've always liked to watch it and try to do it myself. I did when I was a little fellow," answered Marco. "I've been trying to kick it into these chaps for more than a year," said The Rat. "A nice job I had of it! It nearly made me sick at first." The semicircle in front of him only giggled or laughed outright. The members of it seemed to take very little offense at his cavalier treatment of them. He had evidently something to give them which was entertaining enough to make up for his tyranny and indifference. He thrust his hand into one of the pockets of his ragged coat, and drew out a piece of newspaper. "My father brought home this, wrapped round a loaf of bread," he said. "See what it says there!" He handed it to Marco, pointing to some words printed in large letters at the head of a column. Marco looked at it and sat very still. The words he read were: "The Lost Prince." "Silence is still the order," was the first thought which flashed through his mind. "Silence is still the order." "What does it mean?" he said aloud. "There isn't much of it. I wish there was more," The Rat said fretfully. "Read and see. Of course they say it mayn't be true--but I believe it is. They say that people think some one knows where he is--at least where one of his descendants is. It'd be the same thing. He'd be the real king. If he'd just show himself, it might stop all the fighting. Just read." Marco read, and his skin prickled as the blood went racing through his body. But his face did not change. There was a sketch of the story of the Lost Prince to begin with. It had been regarded by most people, the article said, as a sort of legend. Now there was a definite rumor that it was not a legend at all, but a part of the long past history of Samavia. It was said that through the centuries there had always been a party secretly loyal to the memory of this worshiped and lost Fedorovitch. It was even said that from father to son, generation after generation after generation, had descended the oath of fealty to him and his descendants. The people had made a god of him, and now, romantic as it seemed, it was beginning to be an open secret that some persons believed that a descendant had been found--a Fedorovitch worthy of his young ancestor--and that a certain Secret Party also held that, if he were called back to the throne of Samavia, the interminable wars and bloodshed would reach an end. The Rat had begun to bite his nails fast. "Do you believe he's found?" he asked feverishly. "_Don't you_? I do!" "I wonder where he is, if it's true? I wonder! Where?" exclaimed Marco. He could say that, and he might seem as eager as he felt. The Squad all began to jabber at once. "Yus, where wos'e? There is no knowin'. It'd be likely to be in some o' these furrin places. England'd be too far from Samavia. 'Ow far off wos Samavia? Wos it in Roosha, or where the Frenchies were, or the Germans? But wherever 'e wos, 'e'd be the right sort, an' 'e'd be the sort a chap'd turn and look at in the street." The Rat continued to bite his nails. "He might be anywhere," he said, his small fierce face glowing. "That's what I like to think about. He might be passing in the street outside there; he might be up in one of those houses," jerking his head over his shoulder toward the backs of the inclosing dwellings. "Perhaps he knows he's a king, and perhaps he doesn't. He'd know if what you said yesterday was true--about the king always being made ready for Samavia." "Yes, he'd know," put in Marco. "Well, it'd be finer if he did," went on The Rat. "However poor and shabby he was, he'd know the secret all the time. And if people sneered at him, he'd sneer at them and laugh to himself. I dare say he'd walk tremendously straight and hold his head up. If I was him, I'd like to make people suspect a bit that I wasn't like the common lot o' them." He put out his hand and pushed Marco excitedly. "Let's work out plots for him!" he said. "That'd be a splendid game! Let's pretend we're the Secret Party!" He was tremendously excited. Out of the ragged pocket he fished a piece of chalk. Then he leaned forward and began to draw something quickly on the flagstones closest to his platform. The Squad leaned forward also, quite breathlessly, and Marco leaned forward. The chalk was sketching a roughly outlined map, and he knew what map it was, before The Rat spoke. "That's a map of Samavia," he said. "It was in that piece of magazine I told you about--the one where I read about Prince Ivor. I studied it until it fell to pieces. But I could draw it myself by that time, so it didn't matter. I could draw it with my eyes shut. That's the capital city," pointing to a spot. "It's called Melzarr. The palace is there. It's the place where the first of the Maranovitch killed the last of the Fedorovitch--the bad chap that was Ivor's father. It's the palace Ivor wandered out of singing the shepherds' song that early morning. It's where the throne is that his descendant would sit upon to be crowned--that he's _going_ to sit upon. I believe he is! Let's swear he shall!" He flung down his piece of chalk and sat up. "Give me two sticks. Help me to get up." Two of the Squad sprang to their feet and came to him. Each snatched one of the sticks from the stacked rifles, evidently knowing what he wanted. Marco rose too, and watched with sudden, keen curiosity. He had thought that The Rat could not stand up, but it seemed that he could, in a fashion of his own, and he was going to do it. The boys lifted him by his arms, set him against the stone coping of the iron railings of the churchyard, and put a stick in each of his hands. They stood at his side, but he supported himself. "'E could get about if 'e 'ad the money to buy crutches!" said one whose name was Cad, and he said it quite proudly. The queer thing that Marco had noticed was that the ragamuffins were proud of The Rat, and regarded him as their lord and master. "--'E could get about an' stand as well as any one," added the other, and he said it in the tone of one who boasts. His name was Ben. "I'm going to stand now, and so are the rest of you," said The Rat. "Squad! 'Tention! You at the head of the line," to Marco. They were in line in a moment--straight, shoulders back, chins up. And Marco stood at the head. "We're going to take an oath," said The Rat. "It's an oath of allegiance. Allegiance means faithfulness to a thing--a king or a country. Ours means allegiance to the King of Samavia. We don't know where he is, but we swear to be faithful to him, to fight for him, to plot for him, to _die_ for him, and to bring him back to his throne!" The way in which he flung up his head when he said the word "die" was very fine indeed. "We are the Secret Party. We will work in the dark and find out things--and run risks--and collect an army no one will know anything about until it is strong enough to suddenly rise at a secret signal, and overwhelm the Maranovitch and Iarovitch, and seize their forts and citadels. No one even knows we are alive. We are a silent, secret thing that never speaks aloud!" Silent and secret as they were, however, they spoke aloud at this juncture. It was such a grand idea for a game, and so full of possible larks, that the Squad broke into a howl of an exultant cheer. "Hooray!" they yelled. "Hooray for the oath of 'legiance! 'Ray! 'ray! 'ray!" "Shut up, you swine!" shouted The Rat. "Is that the way you keep yourself secret? You'll call the police in, you fools! Look at _him_!" pointing to Marco. "He's got some sense." Marco, in fact, had not made any sound. "Come here, you Cad and Ben, and put me back on my wheels," raged the Squad's commander. "I'll not make up the game at all. It's no use with a lot of fat-head, raw recruits like you." The line broke and surrounded him in a moment, pleading and urging. "Aw, Rat! We forgot. It's the primest game you've ever thought out! Rat! Rat! Don't get a grouch on! We'll keep still, Rat! Primest lark of all 'll be the sneakin' about an' keepin' quiet. Aw, Rat! Keep it up!" "Keep it up yourselves!" snarled The Rat. "Not another cove of us could do it but you! Not one! There's no other cove could think it out. You're the only chap that can think out things. You thought out the Squad! That's why you're captain!" This was true. He was the one who could invent entertainment for them, these street lads who had nothing. Out of that nothing he could create what excited them, and give them something to fill empty, useless, often cold or wet or foggy, hours. That made him their captain and their pride. The Rat began to yield, though grudgingly. He pointed again to Marco, who had not moved, but stood still at attention. "Look at _him_!" he said. "He knows enough to stand where he's put until he's ordered to break line. He's a soldier, he is--not a raw recruit that don't know the goose-step. He's been in barracks before." But after this outburst, he deigned to go on. "Here's the oath," he said. "We swear to stand any torture and submit in silence to any death rather than betray our secret and our king. We will obey in silence and in secret. We will swim through seas of blood and fight our way through lakes of fire, if we are ordered. Nothing shall bar our way. All we do and say and think is for our country and our king. If any of you have anything to say, speak out before you take the oath." He saw Marco move a little, and he made a sign to him. "You," he said. "Have you something to say?" Marco turned to him and saluted. "Here stand ten men for Samavia. God be thanked!" he said. He dared say that much, and he felt as if his father himself would have told him that they were the right words. The Rat thought they were. Somehow he felt that they struck home. He reddened with a sudden emotion. "Squad!" he said. "I'll let you give three cheers on that. It's for the last time. We'll begin to be quiet afterward." And to the Squad's exultant relief he led the cheer, and they were allowed to make as much uproar as they liked. They liked to make a great deal, and when it was at an end, it had done them good and made them ready for business. The Rat opened the drama at once. Never surely had there ever before been heard a conspirator's whisper as hollow as his. "Secret Ones," he said, "it is midnight. We meet in the depths of darkness. We dare not meet by day. When we meet in the daytime, we pretend not to know each other. We are meeting now in a Samavian city where there is a fortress. We shall have to take it when the secret sign is given and we make our rising. We are getting everything ready, so that, when we find the king, the secret sign can be given." "What is the name of the city we are in?" whispered Cad. "It is called Larrina. It is an important seaport. We must take it as soon as we rise. The next time we meet I will bring a dark lantern and draw a map and show it to you." It would have been a great advantage to the game if Marco could have drawn for them the map he could have made, a map which would have shown every fortress--every stronghold and every weak place. Being a boy, he knew what excitement would have thrilled each breast, how they would lean forward and pile question on question, pointing to this place and to that. He had learned to draw the map before he was ten, and he had drawn it again and again because there had been times when his father had told him that changes had taken place. Oh, yes! he could have drawn a map which would have moved them to a frenzy of joy. But he sat silent and listened, only speaking when he asked a question, as if he knew nothing more about Samavia than The Rat did. What a Secret Party they were! They drew themselves together in the closest of circles; they spoke in unearthly whispers. "A sentinel ought to be posted at the end of the passage," Marco whispered. "Ben, take your gun!" commanded The Rat. Ben rose stealthily, and, shouldering his weapon, crept on tiptoe to the opening. There he stood on guard. "My father says there's been a Secret Party in Samavia for a hundred years," The Rat whispered. "Who told him?" asked Marco. "A man who has been in Samavia," answered The Rat. "He said it was the most wonderful Secret Party in the world, because it has worked and waited so long, and never given up, though it has had no reason for hoping. It began among some shepherds and charcoal-burners who bound themselves by an oath to find the Lost Prince and bring him back to the throne. There were too few of them to do anything against the Maranovitch, and when the first lot found they were growing old, they made their sons take the same oath. It has been passed on from generation to generation, and in each generation the band has grown. No one really knows how large it is now, but they say that there are people in nearly all the countries in Europe who belong to it in dead secret, and are sworn to help it when they are called. They are only waiting. Some are rich people who will give money, and some are poor ones who will slip across the frontier to fight or to help to smuggle in arms. They even say that for all these years there have been arms made in caves in the mountains, and hidden there year after year. There are men who are called Forgers of the Sword, and they, and their fathers, and grandfathers, and great-grandfathers have always made swords and stored them in caverns no one knows of, hidden caverns underground." Marco spoke aloud the thought which had come into his mind as he listened, a thought which brought fear to him. "If the people in the streets talk about it, they won't be hidden long." "It isn't common talk, my father says. Only very few have guessed, and most of them think it is part of the Lost Prince legend," said The Rat. "The Maranovitch and Iarovitch laugh at it. They have always been great fools. They're too full of their own swagger to think anything can interfere with them." "Do you talk much to your father?" Marco asked him. The Rat showed his sharp white teeth in a grin. "I know what you're thinking of," he said. "You're remembering that I said he was always drunk. So he is, except when he's only _half_ drunk. And when he's _half_ drunk, he's the most splendid talker in London. He remembers everything he has ever learned or read or heard since he was born. I get him going and listen. He wants to talk and I want to hear. I found out almost everything I know in that way. He didn't know he was teaching me, but he was. He goes back into being a gentleman when he's half drunk." "If--if you care about the Samavians, you'd better ask him not to tell people about the Secret Party and the Forgers of the Sword," suggested Marco. The Rat started a little. "That's true!" he said. "You're sharper than I am. It oughtn't to be blabbed about, or the Maranovitch might hear enough to make them stop and listen. I'll get him to promise. There's one queer thing about him," he added very slowly, as if he were thinking it over, "I suppose it's part of the gentleman that's left in him. If he makes a promise, he never breaks it, drunk or sober." "Ask him to make one," said Marco. The next moment he changed the subject because it seemed the best thing to do. "Go on and tell us what our own Secret Party is to do. We're forgetting," he whispered. The Rat took up his game with renewed keenness. It was a game which attracted him immensely because it called upon his imagination and held his audience spellbound, besides plunging him into war and strategy. "We're preparing for the rising," he said. "It must come soon. We've waited so long. The caverns are stacked with arms. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch are fighting and using all their soldiers, and now is our time." He stopped and thought, his elbows on his knees. He began to bite his nails again. "The Secret Signal must be given," he said. Then he stopped again, and the Squad held its breath and pressed nearer with a softly shuffling sound. "Two of the Secret Ones must be chosen by lot and sent forth," he went on; and the Squad almost brought ruin and disgrace upon itself by wanting to cheer again, and only just stopping itself in time. "Must be chosen _by lot_," The Rat repeated, looking from one face to another. "Each one will take his life in his hand when he goes forth. He may have to die a thousand deaths, but he must go. He must steal in silence and disguise from one country to another. Wherever there is one of the Secret Party, whether he is in a hovel or on a throne, the messengers must go to him in darkness and stealth and give him the sign. It will mean, 'The hour has come. God save Samavia!'" "God save Samavia!" whispered the Squad, excitedly. And, because they saw Marco raise his hand to his forehead, every one of them saluted. They all began to whisper at once. "Let's draw lots now. Let's draw lots, Rat. Don't let's 'ave no waitin'." The Rat began to look about him with dread anxiety. He seemed to be examining the sky. "The darkness is not as thick as it was," he whispered. "Midnight has passed. The dawn of day will be upon us. If any one has a piece of paper or a string, we will draw the lots before we part." Cad had a piece of string, and Marco had a knife which could be used to cut it into lengths. This The Rat did himself. Then, after shutting his eyes and mixing them, he held them in his hand ready for the drawing. "The Secret One who draws the longest lot is chosen. The Secret One who draws the shortest is chosen," he said solemnly. The drawing was as solemn as his tone. Each boy wanted to draw either the shortest lot or the longest one. The heart of each thumped somewhat as he drew his piece of string. When the drawing was at an end, each showed his lot. The Rat had drawn the shortest piece of string, and Marco had drawn the longest one. "Comrade!" said The Rat, taking his hand. "We will face death and danger together!" "God save Samavia!" answered Marco. And the game was at an end for the day. The primest thing, the Squad said, The Rat had ever made up for them. "'E wos a wonder, he wos!" VII "THE LAMP IS LIGHTED!" On his way home, Marco thought of nothing but the story he must tell his father, the story the stranger who had been to Samavia had told The Rat's father. He felt that it must be a true story and not merely an invention. The Forgers of the Sword must be real men, and the hidden subterranean caverns stacked through the centuries with arms must be real, too. And if they were real, surely his father was one of those who knew the secret. His thoughts ran very fast. The Rat's boyish invention of the rising was only part of a game, but how natural it would be that sometime--perhaps before long--there would be a real rising! Surely there would be one if the Secret Party had grown so strong, and if many weapons and secret friends in other countries were ready and waiting. During all these years, hidden work and preparation would have been going on continually, even though it was preparation for an unknown day. A party which had lasted so long--which passed its oath on from generation to generation--must be of a deadly determination. What might it not have made ready in its caverns and secret meeting-places! He longed to reach home and tell his father, at once, all he had heard. He recalled to mind, word for word, all that The Rat had been told, and even all he had added in his game, because--well, because that seemed so real too, so real that it actually might be useful. But when he reached No. 7 Philibert Place, he found Loristan and Lazarus very much absorbed in work. The door of the back sitting-room was locked when he first knocked on it, and locked again as soon as he had entered. There were many papers on the table, and they were evidently studying them. Several of them were maps. Some were road maps, some maps of towns and cities, and some of fortifications; but they were all maps of places in Samavia. They were usually kept in a strong box, and when they were taken out to be studied, the door was always kept locked. Before they had their evening meal, these were all returned to the strong box, which was pushed into a corner and had newspapers piled upon it. "When he arrives," Marco heard Loristan say to Lazarus, "we can show him clearly what has been planned. He can see for himself." His father spoke scarcely at all during the meal, and, though it was not the habit of Lazarus to speak at such times unless spoken to, this evening it seemed to Marco that he _looked_ more silent than he had ever seen him look before. They were plainly both thinking anxiously of deeply serious things. The story of the stranger who had been to Samavia must not be told yet. But it was one which would keep. Loristan did not say anything until Lazarus had removed the things from the table and made the room as neat as possible. While that was being done, he sat with his forehead resting on his hand, as if absorbed in thought. Then he made a gesture to Marco. "Come here, Comrade," he said. Marco went to him. "To-night some one may come to talk with me about grave things," he said. "I think he will come, but I cannot be quite sure. It is important that he should know that, when he comes, he will find me quite alone. He will come at a late hour, and Lazarus will open the door quietly that no one may hear. It is important that no one should see him. Some one must go and walk on the opposite side of the street until he appears. Then the one who goes to give warning must cross the pavement before him and say in a low voice, 'The Lamp is lighted!' and at once turn quietly away." What boy's heart would not have leaped with joy at the mystery of it! Even a common and dull boy who knew nothing of Samavia would have felt jerky. Marco's voice almost shook with the thrill of his feeling. "How shall I know him?" he said at once. Without asking at all, he knew he was the "some one" who was to go. "You have seen him before," Loristan answered. "He is the man who drove in the carriage with the King." "I shall know him," said Marco. "When shall I go?" "Not until it is half-past one o'clock. Go to bed and sleep until Lazarus calls you." Then he added, "Look well at his face before you speak. He will probably not be dressed as well as he was when you saw him first." Marco went up-stairs to his room and went to bed as he was told, but it was hard to go to sleep. The rattle and roaring of the road did not usually keep him awake, because he had lived in the poorer quarter of too many big capital cities not to be accustomed to noise. But to-night it seemed to him that, as he lay and looked out at the lamplight, he heard every bus and cab which went past. He could not help thinking of the people who were in them, and on top of them, and of the people who were hurrying along on the pavement outside the broken iron railings. He was wondering what they would think if they knew that things connected with the battles they read of in the daily papers were going on in one of the shabby houses they scarcely gave a glance to as they went by them. It must be something connected with the war, if a man who was a great diplomat and the companion of kings came in secret to talk alone with a patriot who was a Samavian. Whatever his father was doing was for the good of Samavia, and perhaps the Secret Party knew he was doing it. His heart almost beat aloud under his shirt as he lay on the lumpy mattress thinking it over. He must indeed look well at the stranger before he even moved toward him. He must be sure he was the right man. The game he had amused himself with so long--the game of trying to remember pictures and people and places clearly and in detail--had been a wonderful training. If he could draw, he knew he could have made a sketch of the keen-eyed, clever, aquiline face with the well-cut and delicately close mouth, which looked as if it had been shut upon secrets always--always. If he could draw, he found himself saying again. He _could_ draw, though perhaps only roughly. He had often amused himself by making sketches of things he wanted to ask questions about. He had even drawn people's faces in his untrained way, and his father had said that he had a crude gift for catching a likeness. Perhaps he could make a sketch of this face which would show his father that he knew and would recognize it. He jumped out of bed and went to a table near the window. There was paper and a pencil lying on it. A street lamp exactly opposite threw into the room quite light enough for him to see by. He half knelt by the table and began to draw. He worked for about twenty minutes steadily, and he tore up two or three unsatisfactory sketches. The poor drawing would not matter if he could catch that subtle look which was not slyness but something more dignified and important. It was not difficult to get the marked, aristocratic outline of the features. A common-looking man with less pronounced profile would have been less easy to draw in one sense. He gave his mind wholly to the recalling of every detail which had photographed itself on his memory through its trained habit. Gradually he saw that the likeness was becoming clearer. It was not long before it was clear enough to be a striking one. Any one who knew the man would recognize it. He got up, drawing a long and joyful breath. He did not put on his shoes, but crossed his room as noiselessly as possible, and as noiselessly opened the door. He made no ghost of a sound when he went down the stairs. The woman who kept the lodging-house had gone to bed, and so had the other lodgers and the maid of all work. All the lights were out except the one he saw a glimmer of under the door of his father's room. When he had been a mere baby, he had been taught to make a special sign on the door when he wished to speak to Loristan. He stood still outside the back sitting-room and made it now. It was a low scratching sound--two scratches and a soft tap. Lazarus opened the door and looked troubled. "It is not yet time, sir," he said very low. "I know," Marco answered. "But I must show something to my father." Lazarus let him in, and Loristan turned round from his writing-table questioningly. Marco went forward and laid the sketch down before him. "Look at it," he said. "I remember him well enough to draw that. I thought of it all at once--that I could make a sort of picture. Do you think it is like him?" Loristan examined it closely. "It is very like him," he answered. "You have made me feel entirely safe. Thanks, Comrade. It was a good idea." There was relief in the grip he gave the boy's hand, and Marco turned away with an exultant feeling. Just as he reached the door, Loristan said to him: "Make the most of this gift. It is a gift. And it is true your mind has had good training. The more you draw, the better. Draw everything you can." Neither the street lamps, nor the noises, nor his thoughts kept Marco awake when he went back to bed. But before he settled himself upon his pillow he gave himself certain orders. He had both read, and heard Loristan say, that the mind can control the body when people once find out that it can do so. He had tried experiments himself, and had found out some curious things. One was that if he told himself to remember a certain thing at a certain time, he usually found that he _did_ remember it. Something in his brain seemed to remind him. He had often tried the experiment of telling himself to awaken at a particular hour, and had awakened almost exactly at the moment by the clock. "I will sleep until one o'clock," he said as he shut his eyes. "Then I will awaken and feel quite fresh. I shall not be sleepy at all." He slept as soundly as a boy can sleep. And at one o'clock exactly he awakened, and found the street lamp still throwing its light through the window. He knew it was one o'clock, because there was a cheap little round clock on the table, and he could see the time. He was quite fresh and not at all sleepy. His experiment had succeeded again. He got up and dressed. Then he went down-stairs as noiselessly as before. He carried his shoes in his hands, as he meant to put them on only when he reached the street. He made his sign at his father's door, and it was Loristan who opened it. "Shall I go now?" Marco asked. "Yes. Walk slowly to the other side of the street. Look in every direction. We do not know where he will come from. After you have given him the sign, then come in and go to bed again." Marco saluted as a soldier would have done on receiving an order. Then, without a second's delay, he passed noiselessly out of the house. Loristan turned back into the room and stood silently in the center of it. The long lines of his handsome body looked particularly erect and stately, and his eyes were glowing as if something deeply moved him. "There grows a man for Samavia," he said to Lazarus, who watched him. "God be thanked!" Lazarus's voice was low and hoarse, and he saluted quite reverently. "Your--sir!" he said. "God save the Prince!" "Yes," Loristan answered, after a moment's hesitation,--"when he is found." And he went back to his table smiling his beautiful smile. * * * * * The wonder of silence in the deserted streets of a great city, after midnight has hushed all the roar and tumult to rest, is an almost unbelievable thing. The stillness in the depths of a forest or on a mountain top is not so strange. A few hours ago, the tumult was rushing past; in a few hours more, it will be rushing past again. But now the street is a naked thing; a distant policeman's tramp on the bare pavement has a hollow and almost fearsome sound. It seemed especially so to Marco as he crossed the road. Had it ever been so empty and deadly silent before? Was it so every night? Perhaps it was, when he was fast asleep on his lumpy mattress with the light from a street lamp streaming into the room. He listened for the step of the policeman on night-watch, because he did not wish to be seen. There was a jutting wall where he could stand in the shadow while the man passed. A policeman would stop to look questioningly at a boy who walked up and down the pavement at half-past one in the morning. Marco could wait until he had gone by, and then come out into the light and look up and down the road and the cross streets. He heard his approaching footsteps in a few minutes, and was safely in the shadows before he could be seen. When the policeman passed, he came out and walked slowly down the road, looking on each side, and now and then looking back. At first no one was in sight. Then a late hansom-cab came tinkling along. But the people in it were returning from some festivity, and were laughing and talking, and noticed nothing but their own joking. Then there was silence again, and for a long time, as it seemed to Marco, no one was to be seen. It was not really so long as it appeared, because he was anxious. Then a very early vegetable-wagon on the way from the country to Covent Garden Market came slowly lumbering by with its driver almost asleep on his piles of potatoes and cabbages. After it had passed, there was stillness and emptiness once more, until the policeman showed himself again on his beat, and Marco slipped into the shadow of the wall as he had done before. When he came out into the light, he had begun to hope that the time would not seem long to his father. It had not really been long, he told himself, it had only seemed so. But his father's anxiousness would be greater than his own could be. Loristan knew all that depended on the coming of this great man who sat side by side with a king in his carriage and talked to him as if he knew him well. "It might be something which all Samavia is waiting to know--at least all the Secret Party," Marco thought. "The Secret Party is Samavia,"--he started at the sound of footsteps. "Some one is coming!" he said. "It is a man." It was a man who was walking up the road on the same side of the pavement as his own. Marco began to walk toward him quietly but rather rapidly. He thought it might be best to appear as if he were some boy sent on a midnight errand--perhaps to call a doctor. Then, if it was a stranger he passed, no suspicion would be aroused. Was this man as tall as the one who had driven with the King? Yes, he was about the same height, but he was too far away to be recognizable otherwise. He drew nearer, and Marco noticed that he also seemed slightly to hasten his footsteps. Marco went on. A little nearer, and he would be able to make sure. Yes, now he was near enough. Yes, this man was the same height and not unlike in figure, but he was much younger. He was not the one who had been in the carriage with His Majesty. He was not more than thirty years old. He began swinging his cane and whistling a music-hall song softly as Marco passed him without changing his pace. It was after the policeman had walked round his beat and disappeared for the third time, that Marco heard footsteps echoing at some distance down a cross street. After listening to make sure that they were approaching instead of receding in another direction, he placed himself at a point where he could watch the length of the thoroughfare. Yes, some one was coming. It was a man's figure again. He was able to place himself rather in the shadow so that the person approaching would not see that he was being watched. The solitary walker reached a recognizable distance in about two minutes' time. He was dressed in an ordinary shop-made suit of clothes which was rather shabby and quite unnoticeable in its appearance. His common hat was worn so that it rather shaded his face. But even before he had crossed to Marco's side of the road, the boy had clearly recognized him. It was the man who had driven with the King! Chance was with Marco. The man crossed at exactly the place which made it easy for the boy to step lightly from behind him, walk a few paces by his side, and then pass directly before him across the pavement, glancing quietly up into his face as he said in a low voice but distinctly, the words "The Lamp is lighted," and without pausing a second walk on his way down the road. He did not slacken his pace or look back until he was some distance away. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the figure had crossed the street and was inside the railings. It was all right. His father would not be disappointed. The great man had come. He walked for about ten minutes, and then went home and to bed. But he was obliged to tell himself to go to sleep several times before his eyes closed for the rest of the night. VIII AN EXCITING GAME Loristan referred only once during the next day to what had happened. "You did your errand well. You were not hurried or nervous," he said. "The Prince was pleased with your calmness." No more was said. Marco knew that the quiet mention of the stranger's title had been made merely as a designation. If it was necessary to mention him again in the future, he could be referred to as "the Prince." In various Continental countries there were many princes who were not royal or even serene highnesses--who were merely princes as other nobles were dukes or barons. Nothing special was revealed when a man was spoken of as a prince. But though nothing was said on the subject of the incident, it was plain that much work was being done by Loristan and Lazarus. The sitting-room door was locked, and the maps and documents, usually kept in the iron box, were being used. Marco went to the Tower of London and spent part of the day in living again the stories which, centuries past, had been inclosed within its massive and ancient stone walls. In this way, he had throughout boyhood become intimate with people who to most boys seemed only the unreal creatures who professed to be alive in school-books of history. He had learned to know them as men and women because he had stood in the palaces they had been born in and had played in as children, had died in at the end. He had seen the dungeons they had been imprisoned in, the blocks on which they had laid their heads, the battlements on which they had fought to defend their fortressed towers, the thrones they had sat upon, the crowns they had worn, and the jeweled scepters they had held. He had stood before their portraits and had gazed curiously at their "Robes of Investiture," sewn with tens of thousands of seed-pearls. To look at a man's face and feel his pictured eyes follow you as you move away from him, to see the strangely splendid garments he once warmed with his living flesh, is to realize that history is not a mere lesson in a school-book, but is a relation of the life stories of men and women who saw strange and splendid days, and sometimes suffered strange and terrible things. There were only a few people who were being led about sight-seeing. The man in the ancient Beef-eaters' costume, who was their guide, was good-natured, and evidently fond of talking. He was a big and stout man, with a large face and a small, merry eye. He was rather like pictures of Henry the Eighth, himself, which Marco remembered having seen. He was specially talkative when he stood by the tablet that marks the spot where stood the block on which Lady Jane Grey had laid her young head. One of the sightseers who knew little of English history had asked some questions about the reasons for her execution. "If her father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland, had left that young couple alone--her and her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley--they'd have kept their heads on. He was bound to make her a queen, and Mary Tudor was bound to be queen herself. The duke wasn't clever enough to manage a conspiracy and work up the people. These Samavians we're reading about in the papers would have done it better. And they're half-savages." "They had a big battle outside Melzarr yesterday," the sight-seer standing next to Marco said to the young woman who was his companion. "Thousands of 'em killed. I saw it in big letters on the boards as I rode on the top of the bus. They're just slaughtering each other, that's what they're doing." The talkative Beef-eater heard him. "They can't even bury their dead fast enough," he said. "There'll be some sort of plague breaking out and sweeping into the countries nearest them. It'll end by spreading all over Europe as it did in the Middle Ages. What the civilized countries have got to do is to make them choose a decent king and begin to behave themselves." "I'll tell my father that too," Marco thought. "It shows that everybody is thinking and talking of Samavia, and that even the common people know it must have a real king. This must be _the time_!" And what he meant was that this must be the time for which the Secret Party had waited and worked so long--the time for the Rising. But his father was out when he went back to Philibert Place, and Lazarus looked more silent than ever as he stood behind his chair and waited on him through his insignificant meal. However plain and scant the food they had to eat, it was always served with as much care and ceremony as if it had been a banquet. "A man can eat dry bread and drink cold water as if he were a gentleman," his father had said long ago. "And it is easy to form careless habits. Even if one is hungry enough to feel ravenous, a man who has been well bred will not allow himself to look so. A dog may, a man may not. Just as a dog may howl when he is angry or in pain and a man may not." It was only one of the small parts of the training which had quietly made the boy, even as a child, self-controlled and courteous, had taught him ease and grace of boyish carriage, the habit of holding his body well and his head erect, and had given him a certain look of young distinction which, though it assumed nothing, set him apart from boys of carelessly awkward bearing. "Is there a newspaper here which tells of the battle, Lazarus?" he asked, after he had left the table. "Yes, sir," was the answer. "Your father said that you might read it. It is a black tale!" he added, as he handed him the paper. It was a black tale. As he read, Marco felt as if he could scarcely bear it. It was as if Samavia swam in blood, and as if the other countries must stand aghast before such furious cruelties. "Lazarus," he said, springing to his feet at last, his eyes burning, "something must stop it! There must be something strong enough. The time has come. The time has come." And he walked up and down the room because he was too excited to stand still. How Lazarus watched him! What a strong and glowing feeling there was in his own restrained face! "Yes, sir. Surely the time has come," he answered. But that was all he said, and he turned and went out of the shabby back sitting-room at once. It was as if he felt it were wiser to go before he lost power over himself and said more. Marco made his way to the meeting-place of the Squad, to which The Rat had in the past given the name of the Barracks. The Rat was sitting among his followers, and he had been reading the morning paper to them, the one which contained the account of the battle of Melzarr. The Squad had become the Secret Party, and each member of it was thrilled with the spirit of dark plot and adventure. They all whispered when they spoke. "This is not the Barracks now," The Rat said. "It is a subterranean cavern. Under the floor of it thousands of swords and guns are buried, and it is piled to the roof with them. There is only a small place left for us to sit and plot in. We crawl in through a hole, and the hole is hidden by bushes." To the rest of the boys this was only an exciting game, but Marco knew that to The Rat it was more. Though The Rat knew none of the things he knew, he saw that the whole story seemed to him a real thing. The struggles of Samavia, as he had heard and read of them in the newspapers, had taken possession of him. His passion for soldiering and warfare and his curiously mature brain had led him into following every detail he could lay hold of. He had listened to all he had heard with remarkable results. He remembered things older people forgot after they had mentioned them. He forgot nothing. He had drawn on the flagstones a map of Samavia which Marco saw was actually correct, and he had made a rough sketch of Melzarr and the battle which had had such disastrous results. "The Maranovitch had possession of Melzarr," he explained with feverish eagerness. "And the Iarovitch attacked them from here," pointing with his finger. "That was a mistake. I should have attacked them from a place where they would not have been expecting it. They expected attack on their fortifications, and they were ready to defend them. I believe the enemy could have stolen up in the night and rushed in here," pointing again. Marco thought he was right. The Rat had argued it all out, and had studied Melzarr as he might have studied a puzzle or an arithmetical problem. He was very clever, and as sharp as his queer face looked. "I believe you would make a good general if you were grown up," said Marco. "I'd like to show your maps to my father and ask him if he doesn't think your stratagem would have been a good one." "Does he know much about Samavia?" asked The Rat. "He has to read the newspapers because he writes things," Marco answered. "And every one is thinking about the war. No one can help it." The Rat drew a dingy, folded paper out of his pocket and looked it over with an air of reflection. "I'll make a clean one," he said. "I'd like a grown-up man to look at it and see if it's all right. My father was more than half-drunk when I was drawing this, so I couldn't ask him questions. He'll kill himself before long. He had a sort of fit last night." "Tell us, Rat, wot you an' Marco'll 'ave ter do. Let's 'ear wot you've made up," suggested Cad. He drew closer, and so did the rest of the circle, hugging their knees with their arms. "This is what we shall have to do," began The Rat, in the hollow whisper of a Secret Party. "_The hour has come_. To all the Secret Ones in Samavia, and to the friends of the Secret Party in every country, the sign must be carried. It must be carried by some one who could not be suspected. Who would suspect two boys--and one of them a cripple? The best thing of all for us is that I am a cripple. Who would suspect a cripple? When my father is drunk and beats me, he does it because I won't go out and beg in the streets and bring him the money I get. He says that people will nearly always give money to a cripple. I won't be a beggar for him--the swine--but I will be one for Samavia and the Lost Prince. Marco shall pretend to be my brother and take care of me. I say," speaking to Marco with a sudden change of voice, "can you sing anything? It doesn't matter how you do it." "Yes, I can sing," Marco replied. "Then Marco will pretend he is singing to make people give him money. I'll get a pair of crutches somewhere, and part of the time I will go on crutches and part of the time on my platform. We'll live like beggars and go wherever we want to. I can whiz past a man and give the sign and no one will know. Some times Marco can give it when people are dropping money into his cap. We can pass from one country to another and rouse everybody who is of the Secret Party. We'll work our way into Samavia, and we'll be only two boys--and one a cripple--and nobody will think we could be doing anything. We'll beg in great cities and on the highroad." "Where'll you get the money to travel?" said Cad. "The Secret Party will give it to us, and we sha'n't need much. We could beg enough, for that matter. We'll sleep under the stars, or under bridges, or archways, or in dark corners of streets. I've done it myself many a time when my father drove me out of doors. If it's cold weather, it's bad enough but if it's fine weather, it's better than sleeping in the kind of place I'm used to. Comrade," to Marco, "are you ready?" He said "Comrade" as Loristan did, and somehow Marco did not resent it, because he was ready to labor for Samavia. It was only a game, but it made them comrades--and was it really only a game, after all? His excited voice and his strange, lined face made it singularly unlike one. "Yes, Comrade, I am ready," Marco answered him. "We shall be in Samavia when the fighting for the Lost Prince begins." The Rat carried on his story with fire. "We may see a battle. We might do something to help. We might carry messages under a rain of bullets--a rain of bullets!" The thought so elated him that he forgot his whisper and his voice rang out fiercely. "Boys have been in battles before. We might find the Lost King--no, the Found King--and ask him to let us be his servants. He could send us where he couldn't send bigger people. I could say to him, 'Your Majesty, I am called "The Rat," because I can creep through holes and into corners and dart about. Order me into any danger and I will obey you. Let me die like a soldier if I can't live like one.'" Suddenly he threw his ragged coat sleeve up across his eyes. He had wrought himself up tremendously with the picture of the rain of bullets. And he felt as if he saw the King who had at last been found. The next moment he uncovered his face. "That's what we've got to do," he said. "Just that, if you want to know. And a lot more. There's no end to it!" Marco's thoughts were in a whirl. It ought not to be nothing but a game. He grew quite hot all over. If the Secret Party wanted to send messengers no one would think of suspecting, who could be more harmless-looking than two vagabond boys wandering about picking up their living as best they could, not seeming to belong to any one? And one a cripple. It was true--yes, it was true, as The Rat said, that his being a cripple made him look safer than any one else. Marco actually put his forehead in his hands and pressed his temples. "What's the matter?" exclaimed The Rat. "What are you thinking about?" "I'm thinking what a general you would make. I'm thinking that it might all be real--every word of it. It mightn't be a game at all," said Marco. "No, it mightn't," The Rat answered. "If I knew where the Secret Party was, I'd like to go and tell them about it. What's that!" he said, suddenly turning his head toward the street. "What are they calling out?" Some newsboy with a particularly shrill voice was shouting out something at the topmost of his lungs. Tense and excited, no member of the circle stirred or spoke for a few seconds. The Rat listened, Marco listened, the whole Squad listened, pricking up their ears. "Startling news from Samavia," the newsboy was shrilling out. "Amazing story! Descendant of the Lost Prince found! Descendant of the Lost Prince found!" "Any chap got a penny?" snapped The Rat, beginning to shuffle toward the arched passage. "I have!" answered Marco, following him. "Come on!" The Rat yelled. "Let's go and get a paper!" And he whizzed down the passage with his swiftest rat-like dart, while the Squad followed him, shouting and tumbling over each other. IX "IT IS NOT A GAME" Loristan walked slowly up and down the back sitting-room and listened to Marco, who sat by the small fire and talked. "Go on," he said, whenever the boy stopped. "I want to hear it all. He's a strange lad, and it's a splendid game." Marco was telling him the story of his second and third visits to the inclosure behind the deserted church-yard. He had begun at the beginning, and his father had listened with a deep interest. A year later, Marco recalled this evening as a thrilling memory, and as one which would never pass away from him throughout his life. He would always be able to call it all back. The small and dingy back room, the dimness of the one poor gas-burner, which was all they could afford to light, the iron box pushed into the corner with its maps and plans locked safely in it, the erect bearing and actual beauty of the tall form, which the shabbiness of worn and mended clothes could not hide or dim. Not even rags and tatters could have made Loristan seem insignificant or undistinguished. He was always the same. His eyes seemed darker and more wonderful than ever in their remote thoughtfulness and interest as he spoke. "Go on," he said. "It is a splendid game. And it is curious. He has thought it out well. The lad is a born soldier." "It is not a game to him," Marco said. "And it is not a game to me. The Squad is only playing, but with him it's quite different. He knows he'll never really get what he wants, but he feels as if this was something near it. He said I might show you the map he made. Father, look at it." He gave Loristan the clean copy of The Rat's map of Samavia. The city of Melzarr was marked with certain signs. They were to show at what points The Rat--if he had been a Samavian general--would have attacked the capital. As Marco pointed them out, he explained The Rat's reasons for his planning. Loristan held the paper for some minutes. He fixed his eyes on it curiously, and his black brows drew themselves together. "This is very wonderful!" he said at last. "He is quite right. They might have got in there, and for the very reasons he hit on. How did he learn all this?" "He thinks of nothing else now," answered Marco. "He has always thought of wars and made plans for battles. He's not like the rest of the Squad. His father is nearly always drunk, but he is very well educated, and, when he is only half drunk, he likes to talk. The Rat asks him questions then, and leads him on until he finds out a great deal. Then he begs old newspapers, and he hides himself in corners and listens to what people are saying. He says he lies awake at night thinking it out, and he thinks about it all the day. That was why he got up the Squad." Loristan had continued examining the paper. "Tell him," he said, when he refolded and handed it back, "that I studied his map, and he may be proud of it. You may also tell him--" and he smiled quietly as he spoke--"that in my opinion he is right. The Iarovitch would have held Melzarr to-day if he had led them." Marco was full of exultation. "I thought you would say he was right. I felt sure you would. That is what makes me want to tell you the rest," he hurried on. "If you think he is right about the rest too--" He stopped awkwardly because of a sudden wild thought which rushed upon him. "I don't know what you will think," he stammered. "Perhaps it will seem to you as if the game--as if that part of it could--could only be a game." He was so fervent in spite of his hesitation that Loristan began to watch him with sympathetic respect, as he always did when the boy was trying to express something he was not sure of. One of the great bonds between them was that Loristan was always interested in his boyish mental processes--in the way in which his thoughts led him to any conclusion. "Go on," he said again. "I am like The Rat and I am like you. It has not seemed quite like a game to me, so far." He sat down at the writing-table and Marco, in his eagerness, drew nearer and leaned against it, resting on his arms and lowering his voice, though it was always their habit to speak at such a pitch that no one outside the room they were in could distinguish what they said. "It is The Rat's plan for giving the signal for a Rising," he said. Loristan made a slight movement. "Does he think there will be a Rising?" he asked. "He says that must be what the Secret Party has been preparing for all these years. And it must come soon. The other nations see that the fighting must be put an end to even if they have to stop it themselves. And if the real King is found--but when The Rat bought the newspaper there was nothing in it about where he was. It was only a sort of rumor. Nobody seemed to know anything." He stopped a few seconds, but he did not utter the words which were in his mind. He did not say: "But _you_ know." "And The Rat has a plan for giving the signal?" Loristan said. Marco forgot his first feeling of hesitation. He began to see the plan again as he had seen it when The Rat talked. He began to speak as The Rat had spoken, forgetting that it was a game. He made even a clearer picture than The Rat had made of the two vagabond boys--one of them a cripple--making their way from one place to another, quite free to carry messages or warnings where they chose, because they were so insignificant and poor-looking that no one could think of them as anything but waifs and strays, belonging to nobody and blown about by the wind of poverty and chance. He felt as if he wanted to convince his father that the plan was a possible one. He did not quite know why he felt so anxious to win his approval of the scheme--as if it were real--as if it could actually be done. But this feeling was what inspired him to enter into new details and suggest possibilities. "A boy who was a cripple and one who was only a street singer and a sort of beggar could get almost anywhere," he said. "Soldiers would listen to a singer if he sang good songs--and they might not be afraid to talk before him. A strolling singer and a cripple would perhaps hear a great many things it might be useful for the Secret Party to know. They might even hear important things. Don't you think so?" Before he had gone far with his story, the faraway look had fallen upon Loristan's face--the look Marco had known so well all his life. He sat turned a little sidewise from the boy, his elbow resting on the table and his forehead on his hand. He looked down at the worn carpet at his feet, and so he looked as he listened to the end. It was as if some new thought were slowly growing in his mind as Marco went on talking and enlarging on The Rat's plan. He did not even look up or change his position as he answered, "Yes. I think so." But, because of the deep and growing thought in his face, Marco's courage increased. His first fear that this part of the planning might seem so bold and reckless that it would only appear to belong to a boyish game, gradually faded away for some strange reason. His father had said that the first part of The Rat's imaginings had not seemed quite like a game to him, and now--even now--he was not listening as if he were listening to the details of mere exaggerated fancies. It was as if the thing he was hearing was not wildly impossible. Marco's knowledge of Continental countries and of methods of journeying helped him to enter into much detail and give realism to his plans. "Sometimes we could pretend we knew nothing but English," he said. "Then, though The Rat could not understand, I could. I should always understand in each country. I know the cities and the places we should want to go to. I know how boys like us live, and so we should not do anything which would make the police angry or make people notice us. If any one asked questions, I would let them believe that I had met The Rat by chance, and we had made up our minds to travel together because people gave more money to a boy who sang if he was with a cripple. There was a boy who used to play the guitar in the streets of Rome, and he always had a lame girl with him, and every one knew it was for that reason. When he played, people looked at the girl and were sorry for her and gave her soldi. You remember." "Yes, I remember. And what you say is true," Loristan answered. Marco leaned forward across the table so that he came closer to him. The tone in which the words were said made his courage leap like a flame. To be allowed to go on with this boldness was to feel that he was being treated almost as if he were a man. If his father had wished to stop him, he could have done it with one quiet glance, without uttering a word. For some wonderful reason he did not wish him to cease talking. He was willing to hear what he had to say--he was even interested. "You are growing older," he had said the night he had revealed the marvelous secret. "Silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more." Was he man enough to be thought worthy to help Samavia in any small way--even with boyish fancies which might contain a germ of some thought which older and wiser minds might make useful? Was he being listened to because the plan, made as part of a game, was not an impossible one--if two boys who could be trusted could be found? He caught a deep breath as he went on, drawing still nearer and speaking so low that his tone was almost a whisper. "If the men of the Secret Party have been working and thinking for so many years--they have prepared everything. They know by this time exactly what must be done by the messengers who are to give the signal. They can tell them where to go and how to know the secret friends who must be warned. If the orders could be written and given to--to some one who has--who has learned to remember things!" He had begun to breathe so quickly that he stopped for a moment. Loristan looked up. He looked directly into his eyes. "Some one who has been _trained_ to remember things?" he said. "Some one who has been trained," Marco went on, catching his breath again. "Some one who does not forget--who would never forget--never! That one, even if he were only twelve--even if he were only ten--could go and do as he was told." Loristan put his hand on his shoulder. "Comrade," he said, "you are speaking as if you were ready to go yourself." Marco's eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word. "Do you know what it would mean, Comrade?" his father went on. "You are right. It is not a game. And you are not thinking of it as one. But have you thought how it would be if something betrayed you--and you were set up against a wall to be _shot_?" Marco stood up quite straight. He tried to believe he felt the wall against his back. "If I were shot, I should be shot for Samavia," he said. "And for _you_, Father." Even as he was speaking, the front door-bell rang and Lazarus evidently opened it. He spoke to some one, and then they heard his footsteps approaching the back sitting-room. "Open the door," said Loristan, and Marco opened it. "There is a boy who is a cripple here, sir," the old soldier said. "He asked to see Master Marco." "If it is The Rat," said Loristan, "bring him in here. I wish to see him." Marco went down the passage to the front door. The Rat was there, but he was not upon his platform. He was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and Marco thought he looked wild and strange. He was white, and somehow the lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way. Marco wondered if something had frightened him, or if he felt ill. "Rat," he began, "my father--" "I've come to tell you about _my_ father," The Rat broke in without waiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face. "I don't know why I've come, but I--I just wanted to. He's dead!" "Your father?" Marco stammered. "He's--" "He's dead," The Rat answered shakily. "I told you he'd kill himself. He had another fit and he died in it. I knew he would, one of these days. I told him so. He knew he would himself. I stayed with him till he was dead--and then I got a bursting headache and I felt sick--and I thought about you." Marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if he were going to fall. He was just in time, and Lazarus, who had been looking on from the back of the passage, came forward. Together they held him up. "I'm not going to faint," he said weakly, "but I felt as if I was. It was a bad fit, and I had to try and hold him. I was all by myself. The people in the other attic thought he was only drunk, and they wouldn't come in. He's lying on the floor there, dead." "Come and see my father," Marco said. "He'll tell us what do do. Lazarus, help him." "I can get on by myself," said The Rat. "Do you see my crutches? I did something for a pawnbroker last night, and he gave them to me for pay." But though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horribly shaken and overwrought. His queer face was yellowish white still, and he was trembling a little. Marco led the way into the back sitting-room. In the midst of its shabby gloom and under the dim light Loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. He was waiting for them. "Father, this is The Rat," the boy began. The Rat stopped short and rested on his crutches, staring at the tall, reposeful figure with widened eyes. "Is that your father?" he said to Marco. And then added, with a jerky half-laugh, "He's not much like mine, is he?" X THE RAT--AND SAMAVIA What The Rat thought when Loristan began to speak to him, Marco wondered. Suddenly he stood in an unknown world, and it was Loristan who made it so because its poverty and shabbiness had no power to touch him. He looked at the boy with calm and clear eyes, he asked him practical questions gently, and it was plain that he understood many things without asking questions at all. Marco thought that perhaps he had, at some time, seen drunken men die, in his life in strange places. He seemed to know the terribleness of the night through which The Rat had passed. He made him sit down, and he ordered Lazarus to bring him some hot coffee and simple food. "Haven't had a bite since yesterday," The Rat said, still staring at him. "How did you know I hadn't?" "You have not had time," Loristan answered. Afterward he made him lie down on the sofa. "Look at my clothes," said The Rat. "Lie down and sleep," Loristan replied, putting his hand on his shoulder and gently forcing him toward the sofa. "You will sleep a long time. You must tell me how to find the place where your father died, and I will see that the proper authorities are notified." "What are you doing it for?" The Rat asked, and then he added, "sir." "Because I am a man and you are a boy. And this is a terrible thing," Loristan answered him. He went away without saying more, and The Rat lay on the sofa staring at the wall and thinking about it until he fell asleep. But, before this happened, Marco had quietly left him alone. So, as Loristan had told him he would, he slept deeply and long; in fact, he slept through all the night. * * * * * When he awakened it was morning, and Lazarus was standing by the side of the sofa looking down at him. "You will want to make yourself clean," he said. "It must be done." "Clean!" said The Rat, with his squeaky laugh. "I couldn't keep clean when I had a room to live in, and now where am I to wash myself?" He sat up and looked about him. "Give me my crutches," he said. "I've got to go. They've let me sleep here all night. They didn't turn me into the street. I don't know why they didn't. Marco's father--he's the right sort. He looks like a swell." "The Master," said Lazarus, with a rigid manner, "the Master is a great gentleman. He would turn no tired creature into the street. He and his son are poor, but they are of those who give. He desires to see and talk to you again. You are to have bread and coffee with him and the young Master. But it is I who tell you that you cannot sit at table with them until you are clean. Come with me," and he handed him his crutches. His manner was authoritative, but it was the manner of a soldier; his somewhat stiff and erect movements were those of a soldier, also, and The Rat liked them because they made him feel as if he were in barracks. He did not know what was going to happen, but he got up and followed him on his crutches. Lazarus took him to a closet under the stairs where a battered tin bath was already full of hot water, which the old soldier himself had brought in pails. There were soap and coarse, clean towels on a wooden chair, and also there was a much worn but clean suit of clothes. "Put these on when you have bathed," Lazarus ordered, pointing to them. "They belong to the young Master and will be large for you, but they will be better than your own." And then he went out of the closet and shut the door. It was a new experience for The Rat. So long as he remembered, he had washed his face and hands--when he had washed them at all--at an iron tap set in the wall of a back street or court in some slum. His father and himself had long ago sunk into the world where to wash one's self is not a part of every-day life. They had lived amid dirt and foulness, and when his father had been in a maudlin state, he had sometimes cried and talked of the long-past days when he had shaved every morning and put on a clean shirt. To stand even in the most battered of tin baths full of clean hot water and to splash and scrub with a big piece of flannel and plenty of soap was a marvelous thing. The Rat's tired body responded to the novelty with a curious feeling of freshness and comfort. "I dare say swells do this every day," he muttered. "I'd do it myself if I was a swell. Soldiers have to keep themselves so clean they shine." When, after making the most of his soap and water, he came out of the closet under the stairs, he was as fresh as Marco himself; and, though his clothes had been built for a more stalwart body, his recognition of their cleanliness filled him with pleasure. He wondered if by any effort he could keep himself clean when he went out into the world again and had to sleep in any hole the police did not order him out of. He wanted to see Marco again, but he wanted more to see the tall man with the soft dark eyes and that queer look of being a swell in spite of his shabby clothes and the dingy place he lived in. There was something about him which made you keep on looking at him, and wanting to know what he was thinking of, and why you felt as if you'd take orders from him as you'd take orders from your general, if you were a soldier. He looked, somehow, like a soldier, but as if he were something more--as if people had taken orders from him all his life, and always would take orders from him. And yet he had that quiet voice and those fine, easy movements, and he was not a soldier at all, but only a poor man who wrote things for papers which did not pay him well enough to give him and his son a comfortable living. Through all the time of his seclusion with the battered bath and the soap and water, The Rat thought of him, and longed to have another look at him and hear him speak again. He did not see any reason why he should have let him sleep on his sofa or why he should give him a breakfast before he turned him out to face the world. It was first-rate of him to do it. The Rat felt that when he was turned out, after he had had the coffee, he should want to hang about the neighborhood just on the chance of seeing him pass by sometimes. He did not know what he was going to do. The parish officials would by this time have taken his dead father, and he would not see him again. He did not want to see him again. He had never seemed like a father. They had never cared anything for each other. He had only been a wretched outcast whose best hours had been when he had drunk too much to be violent and brutal. Perhaps, The Rat thought, he would be driven to going about on his platform on the pavements and begging, as his father had tried to force him to do. Could he sell newspapers? What could a crippled lad do unless he begged or sold papers? Lazarus was waiting for him in the passage. The Rat held back a little. "Perhaps they'd rather not eat their breakfast with me," he hesitated. "I'm not--I'm not the kind they are. I could swallow the coffee out here and carry the bread away with me. And you could thank him for me. I'd want him to know I thanked him." Lazarus also had a steady eye. The Rat realized that he was looking him over as if he were summing him up. "You may not be the kind they are, but you may be of a kind the Master sees good in. If he did not see something, he would not ask you to sit at his table. You are to come with me." The Squad had seen good in The Rat, but no one else had. Policemen had moved him on whenever they set eyes on him, the wretched women of the slums had regarded him as they regarded his darting, thieving namesake; loafing or busy men had seen in him a young nuisance to be kicked or pushed out of the way. The Squad had not called "good" what they saw in him. They would have yelled with laughter if they had heard any one else call it so. "Goodness" was not considered an attraction in their world. The Rat grinned a little and wondered what was meant, as he followed Lazarus into the back sitting-room. It was as dingy and gloomy as it had looked the night before, but by the daylight The Rat saw how rigidly neat it was, how well swept and free from any speck of dust, how the poor windows had been cleaned and polished, and how everything was set in order. The coarse linen cloth on the table was fresh and spotless, so was the cheap crockery, the spoons shone with brightness. Loristan was standing on the hearth and Marco was near him. They were waiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman. The Rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then it suddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute. When he found himself in the presence of Loristan, he felt as if he ought to do something, but he did not know what. Loristan's recognition of his gesture and his expression as he moved forward lifted from The Rat's shoulders a load which he himself had not known lay there. Somehow he felt as if something new had happened to him, as if he were not mere "vermin," after all, as if he need not be on the defensive--even as if he need not feel so much in the dark, and like a thing there was no place in the world for. The mere straight and far-seeing look of this man's eyes seemed to make a place somewhere for what he looked at. And yet what he said was quite simple. "This is well," he said. "You have rested. We will have some food, and then we will talk together." He made a slight gesture in the direction of the chair at the right hand of his own place. The Rat hesitated again. What a swell he was! With that wave of the hand he made you feel as if you were a fellow like himself, and he was doing you some honor. "I'm not--" The Rat broke off and jerked his head toward Marco. "He knows--" he ended, "I've never sat at a table like this before." "There is not much on it." Loristan made the slight gesture toward the right-hand seat again and smiled. "Let us sit down." The Rat obeyed him and the meal began. There were only bread and coffee and a little butter before them. But Lazarus presented the cups and plates on a small japanned tray as if it were a golden salver. When he was not serving, he stood upright behind his master's chair, as though he wore royal livery of scarlet and gold. To the boy who had gnawed a bone or munched a crust wheresoever he found them, and with no thought but of the appeasing of his own wolfish hunger, to watch the two with whom he sat eat their simple food was a new thing. He knew nothing of the every-day decencies of civilized people. The Rat liked to look at them, and he found himself trying to hold his cup as Loristan did, and to sit and move as Marco was sitting and moving--taking his bread or butter, when it was held at his side by Lazarus, as if it were a simple thing to be waited upon. Marco had had things handed to him all his life, and it did not make him feel awkward. The Rat knew that his own father had once lived like this. He himself would have been at ease if chance had treated him fairly. It made him scowl to think of it. But in a few minutes Loristan began to talk about the copy of the map of Samavia. Then The Rat forgot everything else and was ill at ease no more. He did not know that Loristan was leading him on to explain his theories about the country and the people and the war. He found himself telling all that he had read, or overheard, or _thought_ as he lay awake in his garret. He had thought out a great many things in a way not at all like a boy's. His strangely concentrated and over-mature mind had been full of military schemes which Loristan listened to with curiosity and also with amazement. He had become extraordinarily clever in one direction because he had fixed all his mental powers on one thing. It seemed scarcely natural that an untaught vagabond lad should know so much and reason so clearly. It was at least extraordinarily interesting. There had been no skirmish, no attack, no battle which he had not led and fought in his own imagination, and he had made scores of rough queer plans of all that had been or should have been done. Lazarus listened as attentively as his master, and once Marco saw him exchange a startled, rapid glance with Loristan. It was at a moment when The Rat was sketching with his finger on the cloth an attack which _ought_ to have been made but was not. And Marco knew at once that the quickly exchanged look meant "He is right! If it had been done, there would have been victory instead of disaster!" It was a wonderful meal, though it was only of bread and coffee. The Rat knew he should never be able to forget it. Afterward, Loristan told him of what he had done the night before. He had seen the parish authorities and all had been done which a city government provides in the case of a pauper's death. His father would be buried in the usual manner. "We will follow him," Loristan said in the end. "You and I and Marco and Lazarus." The Rat's mouth fell open. "You--and Marco--and Lazarus!" he exclaimed, staring. "And me! Why should any of us go? I don't want to. He wouldn't have followed me if I'd been the one." Loristan remained silent for a few moments. "When a life has counted for nothing, the end of it is a lonely thing," he said at last. "If it has forgotten all respect for itself, pity is all that one has left to give. One would like to give _something_ to anything so lonely." He said the last brief sentence after a pause. "Let us go," Marco said suddenly; and he caught The Rat's hand. The Rat's own movement was sudden. He slipped from his crutches to a chair, and sat and gazed at the worn carpet as if he were not looking at it at all, but at something a long way off. After a while he looked up at Loristan. "Do you know what I thought of, all at once?" he said in a shaky voice. "I thought of that 'Lost Prince' one. He only lived once. Perhaps he didn't live a long time. Nobody knows. But it's five hundred years ago, and, just because he was the kind he was, every one that remembers him thinks of something fine. It's queer, but it does you good just to hear his name. And if he has been training kings for Samavia all these centuries--they may have been poor and nobody may have known about them, but they've been _kings_. That's what _he_ did--just by being alive a few years. When I think of him and then think of--the other--there's such an awful difference that--yes--I'm sorry. For the first time. I'm his son and I can't care about him; but he's too lonely--I want to go." * * * * * So it was that when the forlorn derelict was carried to the graveyard where nameless burdens on the city were given to the earth, a curious funeral procession followed him. There were two tall and soldierly looking men and two boys, one of whom walked on crutches, and behind them were ten other boys who walked two by two. These ten were a queer, ragged lot; but they had respectfully sober faces, held their heads and their shoulders well, and walked with a remarkably regular marching step. It was the Squad; but they had left their "rifles" at home. XI "COME WITH ME" When they came back from the graveyard, The Rat was silent all the way. He was thinking of what had happened and of what lay before him. He was, in fact, thinking chiefly that nothing lay before him--nothing. The certainty of that gave his sharp, lined face new lines and sharpness which made it look pinched and hard. He had nothing before but a corner in a bare garret in which he could find little more than a leaking roof over his head--when he was not turned out into the street. But, if policemen asked him where he lived, he could say he lived in Bone Court with his father. Now he couldn't say it. He got along very well on his crutches, but he was rather tired when they reached the turn in the street which led in the direction of his old haunts. At any rate, they were haunts he knew, and he belonged to them more than he belonged elsewhere. The Squad stopped at this particular corner because it led to such homes as they possessed. They stopped in a body and looked at The Rat, and The Rat stopped also. He swung himself to Loristan's side, touching his hand to his forehead. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Line and salute, you chaps!" And the Squad stood in line and raised their hands also. "Thank you, sir. Thank you, Marco. Good-by." "Where are you going?" Loristan asked. "I don't know yet," The Rat answered, biting his lips. He and Loristan looked at each other a few moments in silence. Both of them were thinking very hard. In The Rat's eyes there was a kind of desperate adoration. He did not know what he should do when this man turned and walked away from him. It would be as if the sun itself had dropped out of the heavens--and The Rat had not thought of what the sun meant before. But Loristan did not turn and walk away. He looked deep into the lad's eyes as if he were searching to find some certainty. Then he said in a low voice, "You know how poor I am." "I--I don't care!" said The Rat. "You--you're like a king to me. I'd stand up and be shot to bits if you told me to do it." "I am so poor that I am not sure I can give you enough dry bread to eat--always. Marco and Lazarus and I are often hungry. Sometimes you might have nothing to sleep on but the floor. But I can find a _place_ for you if I take you with me," said Loristan. "Do you know what I mean by a _place_?" "Yes, I do," answered The Rat. "It's what I've never had before--sir." What he knew was that it meant some bit of space, out of all the world, where he would have a sort of right to stand, howsoever poor and bare it might be. "I'm not used to beds or to food enough," he said. But he did not dare to insist too much on that "place." It seemed too great a thing to be true. Loristan took his arm. "Come with me," he said. "We won't part. I believe you are to be trusted." The Rat turned quite white in a sort of anguish of joy. He had never cared for any one in his life. He had been a sort of young Cain, his hand against every man and every man's hand against him. And during the last twelve hours he had plunged into a tumultuous ocean of boyish hero-worship. This man seemed like a sort of god to him. What he had said and done the day before, in what had been really The Rat's hours of extremity, after that appalling night--the way he had looked into his face and understood it all, the talk at the table when he had listened to him seriously, comprehending and actually respecting his plans and rough maps; his silent companionship as they followed the pauper hearse together--these things were enough to make the lad longingly ready to be any sort of servant or slave to him if he might see and be spoken to by him even once or twice a day. The Squad wore a look of dismay for a moment, and Loristan saw it. "I am going to take your captain with me," he said. "But he will come back to Barracks. So will Marco." "Will yer go on with the game?" asked Cad, as eager spokesman. "We want to go on being the 'Secret Party.'" "Yes, I'll go on," The Rat answered. "I won't give it up. There's a lot in the papers to-day." So they were pacified and went on their way, and Loristan and Lazarus and Marco and The Rat went on theirs also. "Queer thing is," The Rat thought as they walked together, "I'm a bit afraid to speak to him unless he speaks to me first. Never felt that way before with any one." He had jeered at policemen and had impudently chaffed "swells," but he felt a sort of secret awe of this man, and actually liked the feeling. "It's as if I was a private and he was commander-in-chief," he thought. "That's it." Loristan talked to him as they went. He was simple enough in his statements of the situation. There was an old sofa in Marco's bedroom. It was narrow and hard, as Marco's bed itself was, but The Rat could sleep upon it. They would share what food they had. There were newspapers and magazines to be read. There were papers and pencils to draw new maps and plans of battles. There was even an old map of Samavia of Marco's which the two boys could study together as an aid to their game. The Rat's eyes began to have points of fire in them. "If I could see the papers every morning, I could fight the battles on paper by night," he said, quite panting at the incredible vision of splendor. Were all the kingdoms of the earth going to be given to him? Was he going to sleep without a drunken father near him? Was he going to have a chance to wash himself and to sit at a table and hear people say "Thank you," and "I beg pardon," as if they were using the most ordinary fashion of speech? His own father, before he had sunk into the depths, had lived and spoken in this way. "When I have time, we will see who can draw up the best plans," Loristan said. "Do you mean that you'll look at mine then--when you have time?" asked The Rat, hesitatingly. "I wasn't expecting that." "Yes," answered Loristan, "I'll look at them, and we'll talk them over." As they went on, he told him that he and Marco could do many things together. They could go to museums and galleries, and Marco could show him what he himself was familiar with. "My father said you wouldn't let him come back to Barracks when you found out about it," The Rat said, hesitating again and growing hot because he remembered so many ugly past days. "But--but I swear I won't do him any harm, sir. I won't!" "When I said I believed you could be trusted, I meant several things," Loristan answered him. "That was one of them. You're a new recruit. You and Marco are both under a commanding officer." He said the words because he knew they would elate him and stir his blood. XII "ONLY TWO BOYS" The words did elate him, and his blood was stirred by them every time they returned to his mind. He remembered them through the days and nights that followed. He sometimes, indeed, awakened from his deep sleep on the hard and narrow sofa in Marco's room, and found that he was saying them half aloud to himself. The hardness of the sofa did not prevent his resting as he had never rested before in his life. By contrast with the past he had known, this poor existence was comfort which verged on luxury. He got into the battered tin bath every morning, he sat at the clean table, and could look at Loristan and speak to him and hear his voice. His chief trouble was that he could hardly keep his eyes off him, and he was a little afraid he might be annoyed. But he could not bear to lose a look or a movement. At the end of the second day, he found his way, at some trouble, to Lazarus's small back room at the top of the house. "Will you let me come in and talk a bit?" he said. When he went in, he was obliged to sit on the top of Lazarus's wooden box because there was nothing else for him. "I want to ask you," he plunged into his talk at once, "do you think he minds me looking at him so much? I can't help it--but if he hates it--well--I'll try and keep my eyes on the table." "The Master is used to being looked at," Lazarus made answer. "But it would be well to ask himself. He likes open speech." "I want to find out everything he likes and everything he doesn't like," The Rat said. "I want--isn't there anything--anything you'd let me do for him? It wouldn't matter what it was. And he needn't know you are not doing it. I know you wouldn't be willing to give up anything particular. But you wait on him night and day. Couldn't you give up something to me?" Lazarus pierced him with keen eyes. He did not answer for several seconds. "Now and then," he said gruffly at last, "I'll let you brush his boots. But not every day--perhaps once a week." "When will you let me have my first turn?" The Rat asked. Lazarus reflected. His shaggy eyebrows drew themselves down over his eyes as if this were a question of state. "Next Saturday," he conceded. "Not before. I'll tell him when you brush them." "You needn't," said The Rat. "It's not that I want him to know. I want to know myself that I'm doing something for him. I'll find out things that I can do without interfering with you. I'll think them out." "Anything any one else did for him would be interfering with me," said Lazarus. It was The Rat's turn to reflect now, and his face twisted itself into new lines and wrinkles. "I'll tell you before I do anything," he said, after he had thought it over. "You served him first." "I have served him ever since he was born," said Lazarus. "He's--he's yours," said The Rat, still thinking deeply. "I am his," was Lazarus's stern answer. "I am his--and the young Master's." "That's it," The Rat said. Then a squeak of a half-laugh broke from him. "I've never been anybody's," he added. His sharp eyes caught a passing look on Lazarus's face. Such a queer, disturbed, sudden look. Could he be rather sorry for him? Perhaps the look meant something like that. "If you stay near him long enough--and it needn't be long--you will be his too. Everybody is." The Rat sat up as straight as he could. "When it comes to that," he blurted out, "I'm his now, in my way. I was his two minutes after he looked at me with his queer, handsome eyes. They're queer because they get you, and you want to follow him. I'm going to follow." That night Lazarus recounted to his master the story of the scene. He simply repeated word for word what had been said, and Loristan listened gravely. "We have not had time to learn much of him yet," he commented. "But that is a faithful soul, I think." A few days later, Marco missed The Rat soon after their breakfast hour. He had gone out without saying anything to the household. He did not return for several hours, and when he came back he looked tired. In the afternoon he fell asleep on his sofa in Marco's room and slept heavily. No one asked him any questions as he volunteered no explanation. The next day he went out again in the same mysterious manner, and the next and the next. For an entire week he went out and returned with the tired look; but he did not explain until one morning, as he lay on his sofa before getting up, he said to Marco: "I'm practicing walking with my crutches. I don't want to go about like a rat any more. I mean to be as near like other people as I can. I walk farther every morning. I began with two miles. If I practice every day, my crutches will be like legs." "Shall I walk with you?" asked Marco. "Wouldn't you mind walking with a cripple?" "Don't call yourself that," said Marco. "We can talk together, and try to remember everything we see as we go along." "I want to learn to remember things. I'd like to train myself in that way too," The Rat answered. "I'd give anything to know some of the things your father taught you. I've got a good memory. I remember a lot of things I don't want to remember. Will you go this morning?" That morning they went, and Loristan was told the reason for their walk. But though he knew one reason, he did not know all about it. When The Rat was allowed his "turn" of the boot-brushing, he told more to Lazarus. "What I want to do," he said, "is not only walk as fast as other people do, but faster. Acrobats train themselves to do anything. It's training that does it. There might come a time when he might need some one to go on an errand quickly, and I'm going to be ready. I'm going to train myself until he needn't think of me as if I were only a cripple who can't do things and has to be taken care of. I want him to know that I'm really as strong as Marco, and where Marco can go I can go." "He" was what he always said, and Lazarus always understood without explanation. "'The Master' is your name for him," he had explained at the beginning. "And I can't call him just 'Mister' Loristan. It sounds like cheek. If he was called 'General' or 'Colonel' I could stand it--though it wouldn't be quite right. Some day I shall find a name. When I speak to him, I say 'Sir.'" The walks were taken every day, and each day were longer. Marco found himself silently watching The Rat with amazement at his determination and endurance. He knew that he must not speak of what he could not fail to see as they walked. He must not tell him that he looked tired and pale and sometimes desperately fatigued. He had inherited from his father the tact which sees what people do not wish to be reminded of. He knew that for some reason of his own The Rat had determined to do this thing at any cost to himself. Sometimes his face grew white and worn and he breathed hard, but he never rested more than a few minutes, and never turned back or shortened a walk they had planned. "Tell me something about Samavia, something to remember," he would say, when he looked his worst. "When I begin to try to remember, I forget--other things." So, as they went on their way, they talked, and The Rat committed things to memory. He was quick at it, and grew quicker every day. They invented a game of remembering faces they passed. Both would learn them by heart, and on their return home Marco would draw them. They went to the museums and galleries and learned things there, making from memory lists and descriptions which at night they showed to Loristan, when he was not too busy to talk to them. As the days passed, Marco saw that The Rat was gaining strength. This exhilarated him greatly. They often went to Hampstead Heath and walked in the wind and sun. There The Rat would go through curious exercises which he believed would develop his muscles. He began to look less tired during and after his journey. There were even fewer wrinkles on his face, and his sharp eyes looked less fierce. The talks between the two boys were long and curious. Marco soon realized that The Rat wanted to learn--learn--learn. "Your father can talk to you almost as if you were twenty years old," he said once. "He knows you can understand what he's saying. If he were to talk to me, he'd always have to remember that I was only a rat that had lived in gutters and seen nothing else." They were talking in their room, as they nearly always did after they went to bed and the street lamp shone in and lighted their bare little room. They often sat up clasping their knees, Marco on his poor bed, The Rat on his hard sofa, but neither of them conscious either of the poorness or hardness, because to each one the long unknown sense of companionship was such a satisfying thing. Neither of them had ever talked intimately to another boy, and now they were together day and night. They revealed their thoughts to each other; they told each other things it had never before occurred to either to think of telling any one. In fact, they found out about themselves, as they talked, things they had not quite known before. Marco had gradually discovered that the admiration The Rat had for his father was an impassioned and curious feeling which possessed him entirely. It seemed to Marco that it was beginning to be like a sort of religion. He evidently thought of him every moment. So when he spoke of Loristan's knowing him to be only a rat of the gutter, Marco felt he himself was fortunate in remembering something he could say. "My father said yesterday that you had a big brain and a strong will," he answered from his bed. "He said that you had a wonderful memory which only needed exercising. He said it after he looked over the list you made of the things you had seen in the Tower." The Rat shuffled on his sofa and clasped his knees tighter. "Did he? Did he?" he said. He rested his chin upon his knees for a few minutes and stared straight before him. Then he turned to the bed. "Marco," he said, in a rather hoarse voice, a queer voice; "are you jealous?" "Jealous," said Marco; "why?" "I mean, have you ever been jealous? Do you know what it is like?" "I don't think I do," answered Marco, staring a little. "Are you ever jealous of Lazarus because he's always with your father--because he's with him oftener than you are--and knows about his work--and can do things for him you can't? I mean, are you jealous of--your father?" Marco loosed his arms from his knees and lay down flat on his pillow. "No, I'm not. The more people love and serve him, the better," he said. "The only thing I care for is--is him. I just care for _him_. Lazarus does too. Don't you?" The Rat was greatly excited internally. He had been thinking of this thing a great deal. The thought had sometimes terrified him. He might as well have it out now if he could. If he could get at the truth, everything would be easier. But would Marco really tell him? "Don't you mind?" he said, still hoarse and eager--"don't you mind how much I care for him? Could it ever make you feel savage? Could it ever set you thinking I was nothing but--what I am--and that it was cheek of me to push myself in and fasten on to a gentleman who only took me up for charity? Here's the living truth," he ended in an outburst; "if I were you and you were me, that's what I should be thinking. I know it is. I couldn't help it. I should see every low thing there was in you, in your manners and your voice and your looks. I should see nothing but the contrast between you and me and between you and him. I should be so jealous that I should just rage. I should _hate_ you--and I should _despise_ you!" He had wrought himself up to such a passion of feeling that he set Marco thinking that what he was hearing meant strange and strong emotions such as he himself had never experienced. The Rat had been thinking over all this in secret for some time, it was evident. Marco lay still a few minutes and thought it over. Then he found something to say, just as he had found something before. "You might, if you were with other people who thought in the same way," he said, "and if you hadn't found out that it is such a mistake to think in that way, that it's even stupid. But, you see, if you were I, you would have lived with my father, and he'd have told you what he knows--what he's been finding out all his life." "What's he found out?" "Oh!" Marco answered, quite casually, "just that you can't set savage thoughts loose in the world, any more than you can let loose savage beasts with hydrophobia. They spread a sort of rabies, and they always tear and worry you first of all." "What do you mean?" The Rat gasped out. "It's like this," said Marco, lying flat and cool on his hard pillow and looking at the reflection of the street lamp on the ceiling. "That day I turned into your Barracks, without knowing that you'd think I was spying, it made you feel savage, and you threw the stone at me. If it had made me feel savage and I'd rushed in and fought, what would have happened to all of us?" The Rat's spirit of generalship gave the answer. "I should have called on the Squad to charge with fixed bayonets. They'd have half killed you. You're a strong chap, and you'd have hurt a lot of them." A note of terror broke into his voice. "What a fool I should have been!" he cried out. "I should never have come here! I should never have known _him_!" Even by the light of the street lamp Marco could see him begin to look almost ghastly. "The Squad could easily have half killed me," Marco added. "They could have quite killed me, if they had wanted to do it. And who would have got any good out of it? It would only have been a street-lads' row--with the police and prison at the end of it." "But because you'd lived with him," The Rat pondered, "you walked in as if you didn't mind, and just asked why we did it, and looked like a stronger chap than any of us--and different--different. I wondered what was the matter with you, you were so cool and steady. I know now. It was because you were like him. He'd taught you. He's like a wizard." "He knows things that wizards think they know, but he knows them better," Marco said. "He says they're not queer and unnatural. They're just simple laws of nature. You have to be either on one side or the other, like an army. You choose your side. You either build up or tear down. You either keep in the light where you can see, or you stand in the dark and fight everything that comes near you, because you can't see and you think it's an enemy. No, you wouldn't have been jealous if you'd been I and I'd been you." "And you're _not_?" The Rat's sharp voice was almost hollow. "You'll swear you're not?" "I'm not," said Marco. The Rat's excitement even increased a shade as he poured forth his confession. "I was afraid," he said. "I've been afraid every day since I came here. I'll tell you straight out. It seemed just natural that you and Lazarus wouldn't stand me, just as I wouldn't have stood you. It seemed just natural that you'd work together to throw me out. I knew how I should have worked myself. Marco--I said I'd tell you straight out--I'm jealous of you. I'm jealous of Lazarus. It makes me wild when I see you both knowing all about him, and fit and ready to do anything he wants done. I'm not ready and I'm not fit." "You'd do anything he wanted done, whether you were fit and ready or not," said Marco. "He knows that." "Does he? Do you think he does?" cried The Rat. "I wish he'd try me. I wish he would." Marco turned over on his bed and rose up on his elbow so that he faced The Rat on his sofa. "Let us _wait_," he said in a whisper. "Let us _wait_." There was a pause, and then The Rat whispered also. "For what?" "For him to find out that we're fit to be tried. Don't you see what fools we should be if we spent our time in being jealous, either of us. We're only two boys. Suppose he saw we were only two silly fools. When you are jealous of me or of Lazarus, just go and sit down in a still place and think of _him_. Don't think about yourself or about us. He's so quiet that to think about him makes you quiet yourself. When things go wrong or when I'm lonely, he's taught me to sit down and make myself think of things I like--pictures, books, monuments, splendid places. It pushes the other things out and sets your mind going properly. He doesn't know I nearly always think of him. He's the best thought himself. You try it. You're not really jealous. You only _think_ you are. You'll find that out if you always stop yourself in time. Any one can be such a fool if he lets himself. And he can always stop it if he makes up his mind. I'm not jealous. You must let that thought alone. You're not jealous yourself. Kick that thought into the street." The Rat caught his breath and threw his arms up over his eyes. "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said; "if I'd lived near him always as you have. If I just had." "We're both living near him now," said Marco. "And here's something to think of," leaning more forward on his elbow. "The kings who were being made ready for Samavia have waited all these years; _We_ can make ourselves ready and wait so that, if just two boys are wanted to do something--just two boys--we can step out of the ranks when the call comes and say 'Here!' Now let's lie down and think of it until we go to sleep." XIII LORISTAN ATTENDS A DRILL OF THE SQUAD, AND MARCO MEETS A SAMAVIAN The Squad was not forgotten. It found that Loristan himself would have regarded neglect as a breach of military duty. "You must remember your men," he said, two or three days after The Rat became a member of his household. "You must keep up their drill. Marco tells me it was very smart. Don't let them get slack." "His men!" The Rat felt what he could not have put into words. He knew he had worked, and that the Squad had worked, in their hidden holes and corners. Only hidden holes and corners had been possible for them because they had existed in spite of the protest of their world and the vigilance of its policemen. They had tried many refuges before they found the Barracks. No one but resented the existence of a troop of noisy vagabonds. But somehow this man knew that there had evolved from it something more than mere noisy play, that he, The Rat, had _meant_ order and discipline. "His men!" It made him feel as if he had had the Victoria Cross fastened on his coat. He had brain enough to see many things, and he knew that it was in this way that Loristan was finding him his "place." He knew how. When they went to the Barracks, the Squad greeted them with a tumultuous welcome which expressed a great sense of relief. Privately the members had been filled with fears which they had talked over together in deep gloom. Marco's father, they decided, was too big a swell to let the two come back after he had seen the sort the Squad was made up of. He might be poor just now, toffs sometimes lost their money for a bit, but you could see what he was, and fathers like him weren't going to let their sons make friends with "such as us." He'd stop the drill and the "Secret Society" game. That's what he'd do! But The Rat came swinging in on his secondhand crutches looking as if he had been made a general, and Marco came with him; and the drill the Squad was put through was stricter and finer than any drill they had ever known. "I wish my father could have seen that," Marco said to The Rat. The Rat turned red and white and then red again, but he said not a single word. The mere thought was like a flash of fire passing through him. But no fellow could hope for a thing as big as that. The Secret Party, in its subterranean cavern, surrounded by its piled arms, sat down to read the morning paper. The war news was bad to read. The Maranovitch held the day for the moment, and while they suffered and wrought cruelties in the capital city, the Iarovitch suffered and wrought cruelties in the country outside. So fierce and dark was the record that Europe stood aghast. The Rat folded his paper when he had finished, and sat biting his nails. Having done this for a few minutes, he began to speak in his dramatic and hollow Secret Party whisper. "The hour has come," he said to his followers. "The messengers must go forth. They know nothing of what they go for; they only know that they must obey. If they were caught and tortured, they could betray nothing because they know nothing but that, at certain places, they must utter a certain word. They carry no papers. All commands they must learn by heart. When the sign is given, the Secret Party will know what to do--where to meet and where to attack." He drew plans of the battle on the flagstones, and he sketched an imaginary route which the two messengers were to follow. But his knowledge of the map of Europe was not worth much, and he turned to Marco. "You know more about geography that I do. You know more about everything," he said. "I only know Italy is at the bottom and Russia is at one side and England's at the other. How would the Secret Messengers go to Samavia? Can you draw the countries they'd have to pass through?" Because any school-boy who knew the map could have done the same thing, Marco drew them. He also knew the stations the Secret Two would arrive at and leave by when they entered a city, the streets they would walk through and the very uniforms they would see; but of these things he said nothing. The reality his knowledge gave to the game was, however, a thrilling thing. He wished he could have been free to explain to The Rat the things he knew. Together they could have worked out so many details of travel and possible adventure that it would have been almost as if they had set out on their journey in fact. As it was, the mere sketching of the route fired The Rat's imagination. He forged ahead with the story of adventure, and filled it with such mysterious purport and design that the Squad at times gasped for breath. In his glowing version the Secret Two entered cities by midnight and sang and begged at palace gates where kings driving outward paused to listen and were given the Sign. "Though it would not always be kings," he said. "Sometimes it would be the poorest people. Sometimes they might seem to be beggars like ourselves, when they were only Secret Ones disguised. A great lord might wear poor clothes and pretend to be a workman, and we should only know him by the signs we had learned by heart. When we were sent to Samavia, we should be obliged to creep in through some back part of the country where no fighting was being done and where no one would attack. Their generals are not clever enough to protect the parts which are joined to friendly countries, and they have not forces enough. Two boys could find a way in if they thought it out." He became possessed by the idea of thinking it out on the spot. He drew his rough map of Samavia on the flagstones with his chalk. "Look here," he said to Marco, who, with the elated and thrilled Squad, bent over it in a close circle of heads. "Beltrazo is here and Carnolitz is here--and here is Jiardasia. Beltrazo and Jiardasia are friendly, though they don't take sides. All the fighting is going on in the country about Melzarr. There is no reason why they should prevent single travelers from coming in across the frontiers of friendly neighbors. They're not fighting with the countries outside, they are fighting with themselves." He paused a moment and thought. "The article in that magazine said something about a huge forest on the eastern frontier. That's here. We could wander into a forest and stay there until we'd planned all we wanted to do. Even the people who had seen us would forget about us. What we have to do is to make people feel as if we were nothing--nothing." They were in the very midst of it, crowded together, leaning over, stretching necks and breathing quickly with excitement, when Marco lifted his head. Some mysterious impulse made him do it in spite of himself. "There's my father!" he said. The chalk dropped, everything dropped, even Samavia. The Rat was up and on his crutches as if some magic force had swung him there. How he gave the command, or if he gave it at all, not even he himself knew. But the Squad stood at salute. Loristan was standing at the opening of the archway as Marco had stood that first day. He raised his right hand in return salute and came forward. "I was passing the end of the street and remembered the Barracks was here," he explained. "I thought I should like to look at your men, Captain." He smiled, but it was not a smile which made his words really a joke. He looked down at the chalk map drawn on the flagstones. "You know that map well," he said. "Even I can see that it is Samavia. What is the Secret Party doing?" "The messengers are trying to find a way in," answered Marco. "We can get in there," said The Rat, pointing with a crutch. "There's a forest where we could hide and find out things." "Reconnoiter," said Loristan, looking down. "Yes. Two stray boys could be very safe in a forest. It's a good game." That he should be there! That he should, in his own wonderful way, have given them such a thing as this. That he should have cared enough even to look up the Barracks, was what The Rat was thinking. A batch of ragamuffins they were and nothing else, and he standing looking at them with his fine smile. There was something about him which made him seem even splendid. The Rat's heart thumped with startled joy. "Father," said Marco, "will you watch The Rat drill us? I want you to see how well it is done." "Captain, will you do me that honor?" Loristan said to The Rat, and to even these words he gave the right tone, neither jesting nor too serious. Because it was so right a tone, The Rat's pulses beat only with exultation. This god of his had looked at his maps, he had talked of his plans, he had come to see the soldiers who were his work! The Rat began his drill as if he had been reviewing an army. What Loristan saw done was wonderful in its mechanical exactness. The Squad moved like the perfect parts of a perfect machine. That they could so do it in such space, and that they should have accomplished such precision, was an extraordinary testimonial to the military efficiency and curious qualities of this one hunchbacked, vagabond officer. "That is magnificent!" the spectator said, when it was over. "It could not be better done. Allow me to congratulate you." He shook The Rat's hand as if it had been a man's, and, after he had shaken it, he put his own hand lightly on the boy's shoulder and let it rest there as he talked a few minutes to them all. He kept his talk within the game, and his clear comprehension of it added a flavor which even the dullest member of the Squad was elated by. Sometimes you couldn't understand toffs when they made a shy at being friendly, but you could understand him, and he stirred up your spirits. He didn't make jokes with you, either, as if a chap had to be kept grinning. After the few minutes were over, he went away. Then they sat down again in their circle and talked about him, because they could talk and think about nothing else. They stared at Marco furtively, feeling as if he were a creature of another world because he had lived with this man. They stared at The Rat in a new way also. The wonderful-looking hand had rested on his shoulder, and he had been told that what he had done was magnificent. "When you said you wished your father could have seen the drill," said The Rat, "you took my breath away. I'd never have had the cheek to think of it myself--and I'd never have dared to let you ask him, even if you wanted to do it. And he came himself! It struck me dumb." "If he came," said Marco, "it was because he wanted to see it." When they had finished talking, it was time for Marco and The Rat to go on their way. Loristan had given The Rat an errand. At a certain hour he was to present himself at a certain shop and receive a package. "Let him do it alone," Loristan said to Marco. "He will be better pleased. His desire is to feel that he is trusted to do things alone." So they parted at a street corner, Marco to walk back to No. 7 Philibert Place, The Rat to execute his commission. Marco turned into one of the better streets, through which he often passed on his way home. It was not a fashionable quarter, but it contained some respectable houses in whose windows here and there were to be seen neat cards bearing the word "Apartments," which meant that the owner of the house would let to lodgers his drawing-room or sitting-room suite. As Marco walked up the street, he saw some one come out of the door of one of the houses and walk quickly and lightly down the pavement. It was a young woman wearing an elegant though quiet dress, and a hat which looked as if it had been bought in Paris or Vienna. She had, in fact, a slightly foreign air, and it was this, indeed, which made Marco look at her long enough to see that she was also a graceful and lovely person. He wondered what her nationality was. Even at some yards' distance he could see that she had long dark eyes and a curved mouth which seemed to be smiling to itself. He thought she might be Spanish or Italian. He was trying to decide which of the two countries she belonged to, as she drew near to him, but quite suddenly the curved mouth ceased smiling as her foot seemed to catch in a break in the pavement, and she so lost her balance that she would have fallen if he had not leaped forward and caught her. She was light and slender, and he was a strong lad and managed to steady her. An expression of sharp momentary anguish crossed her face. "I hope you are not hurt," Marco said. She bit her lip and clutched his shoulder very hard with her slim hand. "I have twisted my ankle," she answered. "I am afraid I have twisted it badly. Thank you for saving me. I should have had a bad fall." Her long, dark eyes were very sweet and grateful. She tried to smile, but there was such distress under the effort that Marco was afraid she must have hurt herself very much. "Can you stand on your foot at all?" he asked. "I can stand a little now," she said, "but I might not be able to stand in a few minutes. I must get back to the house while I can bear to touch the ground with it. I am so sorry. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to go with me. Fortunately it is only a few yards away." "Yes," Marco answered. "I saw you come out of the house. If you will lean on my shoulder, I can soon help you back. I am glad to do it. Shall we try now?" She had a gentle and soft manner which would have appealed to any boy. Her voice was musical and her enunciation exquisite. Whether she was Spanish or Italian, it was easy to imagine her a person who did not always live in London lodgings, even of the better class. "If you please," she answered him. "It is very kind of you. You are very strong, I see. But I am glad to have only a few steps to go." She rested on his shoulder as well as on her umbrella, but it was plain that every movement gave her intense pain. She caught her lip with her teeth, and Marco thought she turned white. He could not help liking her. She was so lovely and gracious and brave. He could not bear to see the suffering in her face. "I am so sorry!" he said, as he helped her, and his boy's voice had something of the wonderful sympathetic tone of Loristan's. The beautiful lady herself remarked it, and thought how unlike it was to the ordinary boy-voice. "I have a latch-key," she said, when they stood on the low step. She found the latch-key in her purse and opened the door. Marco helped her into the entrance-hall. She sat down at once in a chair near the hat-stand. The place was quite plain and old-fashioned inside. "Shall I ring the front-door bell to call some one?" Marco inquired. "I am afraid that the servants are out," she answered. "They had a holiday. Will you kindly close the door? I shall be obliged to ask you to help me into the sitting-room at the end of the hall. I shall find all I want there--if you will kindly hand me a few things. Some one may come in presently--perhaps one of the other lodgers--and, even if I am alone for an hour or so, it will not really matter." "Perhaps I can find the landlady," Marco suggested. The beautiful person smiled. "She has gone to her sister's wedding. That is why I was going out to spend the day myself. I arranged the plan to accommodate her. How good you are! I shall be quite comfortable directly, really. I can get to my easy-chair in the sitting-room now I have rested a little." Marco helped her to her feet, and her sharp, involuntary exclamation of pain made him wince internally. Perhaps it was a worse sprain than she knew. The house was of the early-Victorian London order. A "front lobby" with a dining-room on the right hand, and a "back lobby," after the foot of the stairs was passed, out of which opened the basement kitchen staircase and a sitting-room looking out on a gloomy flagged back yard inclosed by high walls. The sitting-room was rather gloomy itself, but there were a few luxurious things among the ordinary furnishings. There was an easy-chair with a small table near it, and on the table were a silver lamp and some rather elegant trifles. Marco helped his charge to the easy-chair and put a cushion from the sofa under her foot. He did it very gently, and, as he rose after doing it, he saw that the long, soft dark eyes were looking at him in a curious way. "I must go away now," he said, "but I do not like to leave you. May I go for a doctor?" "How dear you are!" she exclaimed. "But I do not want one, thank you. I know exactly what to do for a sprained ankle. And perhaps mine is not really a sprain. I am going to take off my shoe and see." "May I help you?" Marco asked, and he kneeled down again and carefully unfastened her shoe and withdrew it from her foot. It was a slender and delicate foot in a silk stocking, and she bent and gently touched and rubbed it. "No," she said, when she raised herself, "I do not think it is a sprain. Now that the shoe is off and the foot rests on the cushion, it is much more comfortable, much more. Thank you, thank you. If you had not been passing I might have had a dangerous fall." "I am very glad to have been able to help you," Marco answered, with an air of relief. "Now I must go, if you think you will be all right." "Don't go yet," she said, holding out her hand. "I should like to know you a little better, if I may. I am so grateful. I should like to talk to you. You have such beautiful manners for a boy," she ended, with a pretty, kind laugh, "and I believe I know where you got them from." "You are very kind to me," Marco answered, wondering if he did not redden a little. "But I must go because my father will--" "Your father would let you stay and talk to me," she said, with even a prettier kindliness than before. "It is from him you have inherited your beautiful manner. He was once a friend of mine. I hope he is my friend still, though perhaps he has forgotten me." All that Marco had ever learned and all that he had ever trained himself to remember, quickly rushed back upon him now, because he had a clear and rapidly working brain, and had not lived the ordinary boy's life. Here was a beautiful lady of whom he knew nothing at all but that she had twisted her foot in the street and he had helped her back into her house. If silence was still the order, it was not for him to know things or ask questions or answer them. She might be the loveliest lady in the world and his father her dearest friend, but, even if this were so, he could best serve them both by obeying her friend's commands with all courtesy, and forgetting no instruction he had given. "I do not think my father ever forgets any one," he answered. "No, I am sure he does not," she said softly. "Has he been to Samavia during the last three years?" Marco paused a moment. "Perhaps I am not the boy you think I am," he said. "My father has never been to Samavia." "He has not? But--you are Marco Loristan?" "Yes. That is my name." Suddenly she leaned forward and her long lovely eyes filled with fire. "Then you are a Samavian, and you know of the disasters overwhelming us. You know all the hideousness and barbarity of what is being done. Your father's son must know it all!" "Every one knows it," said Marco. "But it is your country--your own! Your blood must burn in your veins!" Marco stood quite still and looked at her. His eyes told whether his blood burned or not, but he did not speak. His look was answer enough, since he did not wish to say anything. "What does your father think? I am a Samavian myself, and I think night and day. What does he think of the rumor about the descendant of the Lost Prince? Does he believe it?" Marco was thinking very rapidly. Her beautiful face was glowing with emotion, her beautiful voice trembled. That she should be a Samavian, and love Samavia, and pour her feeling forth even to a boy, was deeply moving to him. But howsoever one was moved, one must remember that silence was still the order. When one was very young, one must remember orders first of all. "It might be only a newspaper story," he said. "He says one cannot trust such things. If you know him, you know he is very calm." "Has he taught you to be calm too?" she said pathetically. "You are only a boy. Boys are not calm. Neither are women when their hearts are wrung. Oh, my Samavia! Oh, my poor little country! My brave, tortured country!" and with a sudden sob she covered her face with her hands. A great lump mounted to Marco's throat. Boys could not cry, but he knew what she meant when he said her heart was wrung. When she lifted her head, the tears in her eyes made them softer than ever. "If I were a million Samavians instead of one woman, I should know what to do!" she cried. "If your father were a million Samavians, he would know, too. He would find Ivor's descendant, if he is on the earth, and he would end all this horror!" "Who would not end it if they could?" cried Marco, quite fiercely. "But men like your father, men who are Samavians, must think night and day about it as I do," she impetuously insisted. "You see, I cannot help pouring my thoughts out even to a boy--because he is a Samavian. Only Samavians care. Samavia seems so little and unimportant to other people. They don't even seem to know that the blood she is pouring forth pours from human veins and beating human hearts. Men like your father must think, and plan, and feel that they must--must find a way. Even a woman feels it. Even a boy must. Stefan Loristan cannot be sitting quietly at home, knowing that Samavian hearts are being shot through and Samavian blood poured forth. He cannot think and say _nothing_!" Marco started in spite of himself. He felt as if his father had been struck in the face. How dare she say such words! Big as he was, suddenly he looked bigger, and the beautiful lady saw that he did. "He is my father," he said slowly. She was a clever, beautiful person, and saw that she had made a great mistake. "You must forgive me," she exclaimed. "I used the wrong words because I was excited. That is the way with women. You must see that I meant that I knew he was giving his heart and strength, his whole being, to Samavia, even though he must stay in London." She started and turned her head to listen to the sound of some one using the latch-key and opening the front door. The some one came in with the heavy step of a man. "It is one of the lodgers," she said. "I think it is the one who lives in the third floor sitting-room." "Then you won't be alone when I go," said Marco. "I am glad some one has come. I will say good-morning. May I tell my father your name?" "Tell me that you are not angry with me for expressing myself so awkwardly," she said. "You couldn't have meant it. I know that," Marco answered boyishly. "You couldn't." "No, I couldn't," she repeated, with the same emphasis on the words. She took a card from a silver case on the table and gave it to him. "Your father will remember my name," she said. "I hope he will let me see him and tell him how you took care of me." She shook his hand warmly and let him go. But just as he reached the door she spoke again. "Oh, may I ask you to do one thing more before you leave me?" she said suddenly. "I hope you won't mind. Will you run up-stairs into the drawing-room and bring me the purple book from the small table? I shall not mind being alone if I have something to read." "A purple book? On a small table?" said Marco. "Between the two long windows," she smiled back at him. The drawing-room of such houses as these is always to be reached by one short flight of stairs. Marco ran up lightly. XIV MARCO DOES NOT ANSWER By the time he turned the corner of the stairs, the beautiful lady had risen from her seat in the back room and walked into the dining-room at the front. A heavily-built, dark-bearded man was standing inside the door as if waiting for her. "I could do nothing with him," she said at once, in her soft voice, speaking quite prettily and gently, as if what she said was the most natural thing in the world. "I managed the little trick of the sprained foot really well, and got him into the house. He is an amiable boy with perfect manners, and I thought it might be easy to surprise him into saying more than he knew he was saying. You can generally do that with children and young things. But he either knows nothing or has been trained to hold his tongue. He's not stupid, and he's of a high spirit. I made a pathetic little scene about Samavia, because I saw he could be worked up. It did work him up. I tried him with the Lost Prince rumor; but, if there is truth in it, he does not or will not know. I tried to make him lose his temper and betray something in defending his father, whom he thinks a god, by the way. But I made a mistake. I saw that. It's a pity. Boys can sometimes be made to tell anything." She spoke very quickly under her breath. The man spoke quickly too. "Where is he?" he asked. "I sent him up to the drawing-room to look for a book. He will look for a few minutes. Listen. He's an innocent boy. He sees me only as a gentle angel. Nothing will _shake_ him so much as to hear me tell him the truth suddenly. It will be such a shock to him that perhaps you can do something with him then. He may lose his hold on himself. He's only a boy." "You're right," said the bearded man. "And when he finds out he is not free to go, it may alarm him and we may get something worth while." "If we could find out what is true, or what Loristan thinks is true, we should have a clue to work from," she said. "We have not much time," the man whispered. "We are ordered to Bosnia at once. Before midnight we must be on the way." "Let us go into the other room. He is coming." When Marco entered the room, the heavily-built man with the pointed dark beard was standing by the easy-chair. "I am sorry I could not find the book," he apologized. "I looked on all the tables." "I shall be obliged to go and search for it myself," said the Lovely Person. She rose from her chair and stood up smiling. And at her first movement Marco saw that she was not disabled in the least. "Your foot!" he exclaimed. "It's better?" "It wasn't hurt," she answered, in her softly pretty voice and with her softly pretty smile. "I only made you think so." It was part of her plan to spare him nothing of shock in her sudden transformation. Marco felt his breath leave him for a moment. "I made you believe I was hurt because I wanted you to come into the house with me," she added. "I wished to find out certain things I am sure you know." "They were things about Samavia," said the man. "Your father knows them, and you must know something of them at least. It is necessary that we should hear what you can tell us. We shall not allow you to leave the house until you have answered certain questions I shall ask you." Then Marco began to understand. He had heard his father speak of political spies, men and women who were paid to trace the people that certain governments or political parties desired to have followed and observed. He knew it was their work to search out secrets, to disguise themselves and live among innocent people as if they were merely ordinary neighbors. They must be spies who were paid to follow his father because he was a Samavian and a patriot. He did not know that they had taken the house two months before, and had accomplished several things during their apparently innocent stay in it. They had discovered Loristan and had learned to know his outgoings and incomings, and also the outgoings and incomings of Lazarus, Marco, and The Rat. But they meant, if possible, to learn other things. If the boy could be startled and terrified into unconscious revelations, it might prove well worth their while to have played this bit of melodrama before they locked the front door behind them and hastily crossed the Channel, leaving their landlord to discover for himself that the house had been vacated. In Marco's mind strange things were happening. They were spies! But that was not all. The Lovely Person had been right when she said that he would receive a shock. His strong young chest swelled. In all his life, he had never come face to face with black treachery before. He could not grasp it. This gentle and friendly being with the grateful soft voice and grateful soft eyes had betrayed--_betrayed_ him! It seemed impossible to believe it, and yet the smile on her curved mouth told him that it was true. When he had sprung to help her, she had been playing a trick! When he had been sorry for her pain and had winced at the sound of her low exclamation, she had been deliberately laying a trap to harm him. For a few seconds he was stunned--perhaps, if he had not been his father's son, he might have been stunned only. But he was more. When the first seconds had passed, there arose slowly within him a sense of something like high, remote disdain. It grew in his deep boy's eyes as he gazed directly into the pupils of the long soft dark ones. His body felt as if it were growing taller. "You are very clever," he said slowly. Then, after a second's pause, he added, "I was too young to know that there was any one so--clever--in the world." The Lovely Person laughed, but she did not laugh easily. She spoke to her companion. "A _grand seigneur_!" she said. "As one looks at him, one half believes it is true." The man with the beard was looking very angry. His eyes were savage and his dark skin reddened. Marco thought that he looked at him as if he hated him, and was made fierce by the mere sight of him, for some mysterious reason. "Two days before you left Moscow," he said, "three men came to see your father. They looked like peasants. They talked to him for more than an hour. They brought with them a roll of parchment. Is that not true?" "I know nothing," said Marco. "Before you went to Moscow, you were in Budapest. You went there from Vienna. You were there for three months, and your father saw many people. Some of them came in the middle of the night." "I know nothing," said Marco. "You have spent your life in traveling from one country to another," persisted the man. "You know the European languages as if you were a courier, or the __portier__ in a Viennese hotel. Do you not?" Marco did not answer. The Lovely Person began to speak to the man rapidly in Russian. "A spy and an adventurer Stefan Loristan has always been and always will be," she said. "We know what he is. The police in every capital in Europe know him as a sharper and a vagabond, as well as a spy. And yet, with all his cleverness, he does not seem to have money. What did he do with the bribe the Maranovitch gave him for betraying what he knew of the old fortress? The boy doesn't even suspect him. Perhaps it's true that he knows nothing. Or perhaps it is true that he has been so ill-treated and flogged from his babyhood that he dare not speak. There is a cowed look in his eyes in spite of his childish swagger. He's been both starved and beaten." The outburst was well done. She did not look at Marco as she poured forth her words. She spoke with the abruptness and impetuosity of a person whose feelings had got the better of her. If Marco was sensitive about his father, she felt sure that his youth would make his face reveal something if his tongue did not--if he understood Russian, which was one of the things it would be useful to find out, because it was a fact which would verify many other things. Marco's face disappointed her. No change took place in it, and the blood did not rise to the surface of his skin. He listened with an uninterested air, blank and cold and polite. Let them say what they chose. The man twisted his pointed beard and shrugged his shoulders. "We have a good little wine-cellar downstairs," he said. "You are going down into it, and you will probably stay there for some time if you do not make up your mind to answer my questions. You think that nothing can happen to you in a house in a London street where policemen walk up and down. But you are mistaken. If you yelled now, even if any one chanced to hear you, they would only think you were a lad getting a thrashing he deserved. You can yell as much as you like in the black little wine-cellar, and no one will hear at all. We only took this house for three months, and we shall leave it to-night without mentioning the fact to any one. If we choose to leave you in the wine-cellar, you will wait there until somebody begins to notice that no one goes in and out, and chances to mention it to the landlord--which few people would take the trouble to do. Did you come here from Moscow?" "I know nothing," said Marco. "You might remain in the good little black cellar an unpleasantly long time before you were found," the man went on, quite coolly. "Do you remember the peasants who came to see your father two nights before you left?" "I know nothing," said Marco. "By the time it was discovered that the house was empty and people came in to make sure, you might be too weak to call out and attract their attention. Did you go to Budapest from Vienna, and were you there for three months?" asked the inquisitor. "I know nothing," said Marco. "You are too good for the little black cellar," put in the Lovely Person. "I like you. Don't go into it!" "I know nothing," Marco answered, but the eyes which were like Loristan's gave her just such a look as Loristan would have given her, and she felt it. It made her uncomfortable. "I don't believe you were ever ill-treated or beaten," she said. "I tell you, the little black cellar will be a hard thing. Don't go there!" And this time Marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if he were some great young noble who was very proud. He knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true. To cry out would be of no use. If they went away and left him behind them, there was no knowing how many days would pass before the people of the neighborhood would begin to suspect that the place had been deserted, or how long it would be before it occurred to some one to give warning to the owner. And in the meantime, neither his father nor Lazarus nor The Rat would have the faintest reason for guessing where he was. And he would be sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar. He did not know in the least what to do about this thing. He only knew that silence was still the order. "It is a jet-black little hole," the man said. "You might crack your throat in it, and no one would hear. Did men come to talk with your father in the middle of the night when you were in Vienna?" "I know nothing," said Marco. "He won't tell," said the Lovely Person. "I am sorry for this boy." "He may tell after he has sat in the good little black wine-cellar for a few hours," said the man with the pointed beard. "Come with me!" He put his powerful hand on Marco's shoulder and pushed him before him. Marco made no struggle. He remembered what his father had said about the game not being a game. It wasn't a game now, but somehow he had a strong haughty feeling of not being afraid. He was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down the commonplace flagged steps which led to the basement. Then he was marched through a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door in the wall. The door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar. His companion pushed it farther open and showed part of a wine-cellar which was so dark that it was only the shelves nearest the door that Marco could faintly see. His captor pushed him in and shut the door. It was as black a hole as he had described. Marco stood still in the midst of darkness like black velvet. His guard turned the key. "The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian and were big men. Do you remember them?" he asked from outside. "I know nothing," answered Marco. "You are a young fool," the voice replied. "And I believe you know even more than we thought. Your father will be greatly troubled when you do not come home. I will come back to see you in a few hours, if it is possible. I will tell you, however, that I have had disturbing news which might make it necessary for us to leave the house in a hurry. I might not have time to come down here again before leaving." Marco stood with his back against a bit of wall and remained silent. There was stillness for a few minutes, and then there was to be heard the sound of footsteps marching away. When the last distant echo died all was quite silent, and Marco drew a long breath. Unbelievable as it may appear, it was in one sense almost a breath of relief. In the rush of strange feeling which had swept over him when he found himself facing the astounding situation up-stairs, it had not been easy to realize what his thoughts really were; there were so many of them and they came so fast. How could he quite believe the evidence of his eyes and ears? A few minutes, only a few minutes, had changed his prettily grateful and kindly acquaintance into a subtle and cunning creature whose love for Samavia had been part of a plot to harm it and to harm his father. What did she and her companion want to do--what could they do if they knew the things they were trying to force him to tell? Marco braced his back against the wall stoutly. "What will it be best to think about first?" This he said because one of the most absorbingly fascinating things he and his father talked about together was the power of the thoughts which human beings allow to pass through their minds--the strange strength of them. When they talked of this, Marco felt as if he were listening to some marvelous Eastern story of magic which was true. In Loristan's travels, he had visited the far Oriental countries, and he had seen and learned many things which seemed marvels, and they had taught him deep thinking. He had known, and reasoned through days with men who believed that when they desired a thing, clear and exalted thought would bring it to them. He had discovered why they believed this, and had learned to understand their profound arguments. What he himself believed, he had taught Marco quite simply from his childhood. It was this: he himself--Marco, with the strong boy-body, the thick mat of black hair, and the patched clothes--was the magician. He held and waved his wand himself--and his wand was his own Thought. When special privation or anxiety beset them, it was their rule to say, "What will it be best to think about first?" which was Marco's reason for saying it to himself now as he stood in the darkness which was like black velvet. He waited a few minutes for the right thing to come to him. "I will think of the very old hermit who lived on the ledge of the mountains in India and who let my father talk to him through all one night," he said at last. This had been a wonderful story and one of his favorites. Loristan had traveled far to see this ancient Buddhist, and what he had seen and heard during that one night had made changes in his life. The part of the story which came back to Marco now was these words: "_Let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desire to see a truth. Meditate only upon the wish of thy heart, seeing first that it can injure no man and is not ignoble. Then will it take earthly form and draw near to thee. This is the law of that which creates._" "I am not afraid," Marco said aloud. "I shall not be afraid. In some way I shall get out." This was the image he wanted most to keep steadily in his mind--that nothing could make him afraid, and that in some way he would get out of the wine-cellar. He thought of this for some minutes, and said the words over several times. He felt more like himself when he had done it. "When my eyes are accustomed to the darkness, I shall see if there is any little glimmer of light anywhere," he said next. He waited with patience, and it seemed for some time that he saw no glimmer at all. He put out his hands on either side of him, and found that, on the side of the wall against which he stood, there seemed to be no shelves. Perhaps the cellar had been used for other purposes than the storing of wine, and, if that was true, there might be somewhere some opening for ventilation. The air was not bad, but then the door had not been shut tightly when the man opened it. "I am not afraid," he repeated. "I shall not be afraid. In some way I shall get out." He would not allow himself to stop and think about his father waiting for his return. He knew that would only rouse his emotions and weaken his courage. He began to feel his way carefully along the wall. It reached farther than he had thought it would. The cellar was not so very small. He crept round it gradually, and, when he had crept round it, he made his way across it, keeping his hands extended before him and setting down each foot cautiously. Then he sat down on the stone floor and thought again, and what he thought was of the things the old Buddhist had told his father, and that there was a way out of this place for him, and he should somehow find it, and, before too long a time had passed, be walking in the street again. It was while he was thinking in this way that he felt a startling thing. It seemed almost as if something touched him. It made him jump, though the touch was so light and soft that it was scarcely a touch at all, in fact he could not be sure that he had not imagined it. He stood up and leaned against the wall again. Perhaps the suddenness of his movement placed him at some angle he had not reached before, or perhaps his eyes had become more completely accustomed to the darkness, for, as he turned his head to listen, he made a discovery: above the door there was a place where the velvet blackness was not so dense. There was something like a slit in the wall, though, as it did not open upon daylight but upon the dark passage, it was not light it admitted so much as a lesser shade of darkness. But even that was better than nothing, and Marco drew another long breath. "That is only the beginning. I shall find a way out," he said. "I _shall_." He remembered reading a story of a man who, being shut by accident in a safety vault, passed through such terrors before his release that he believed he had spent two days and nights in the place when he had been there only a few hours. "His thoughts did that. I must remember. I will sit down again and begin thinking of all the pictures in the cabinet rooms of the Art History Museum in Vienna. It will take some time, and then there are the others," he said. It was a good plan. While he could keep his mind upon the game which had helped him to pass so many dull hours, he could think of nothing else, as it required close attention--and perhaps, as the day went on, his captors would begin to feel that it was not safe to run the risk of doing a thing as desperate as this would be. They might think better of it before they left the house at least. In any case, he had learned enough from Loristan to realize that only harm could come from letting one's mind run wild. "A mind is either an engine with broken and flying gear, or a giant power under control," was the thing they knew. He had walked in imagination through three of the cabinet rooms and was turning mentally into a fourth, when he found himself starting again quite violently. This time it was not at a touch but at a sound. Surely it was a sound. And it was in the cellar with him. But it was the tiniest possible noise, a ghost of a squeak and a suggestion of a movement. It came from the opposite side of the cellar, the side where the shelves were. He looked across in the darkness, and in the darkness saw a light which there could be no mistake about. It _was_ a light, two lights indeed, two round phosphorescent greenish balls. They were two eyes staring at him. And then he heard another sound. Not a squeak this time, but something so homely and comfortable that he actually burst out laughing. It was a cat purring, a nice warm cat! And she was curled up on one of the lower shelves purring to some new-born kittens. He knew there were kittens because it was plain now what the tiny squeak had been, and it was made plainer by the fact that he heard another much more distinct one and then another. They had all been asleep when he had come into the cellar. If the mother had been awake, she had probably been very much afraid. Afterward she had perhaps come down from her shelf to investigate, and had passed close to him. The feeling of relief which came upon him at this queer and simple discovery was wonderful. It was so natural and comfortable an every-day thing that it seemed to make spies and criminals unreal, and only natural things possible. With a mother cat purring away among her kittens, even a dark wine-cellar was not so black. He got up and kneeled by the shelf. The greenish eyes did not shine in an unfriendly way. He could feel that the owner of them was a nice big cat, and he counted four round little balls of kittens. It was a curious delight to stroke the soft fur and talk to the mother cat. She answered with purring, as if she liked the sense of friendly human nearness. Marco laughed to himself. "It's queer what a difference it makes!" he said. "It is almost like finding a window." The mere presence of these harmless living things was companionship. He sat down close to the low shelf and listened to the motherly purring, now and then speaking and putting out his hand to touch the warm fur. The phosphorescent light in the green eyes was a comfort in itself. "We shall get out of this--both of us," he said. "We shall not be here very long, Puss-cat." He was not troubled by the fear of being really hungry for some time. He was so used to eating scantily from necessity, and to passing long hours without food during his journeys, that he had proved to himself that fasting is not, after all, such a desperate ordeal as most people imagine. If you begin by expecting to feel famished and by counting the hours between your meals, you will begin to be ravenous. But he knew better. The time passed slowly; but he had known it would pass slowly, and he had made up his mind not to watch it nor ask himself questions about it. He was not a restless boy, but, like his father, could stand or sit or lie still. Now and then he could hear distant rumblings of carts and vans passing in the street. There was a certain degree of companionship in these also. He kept his place near the cat and his hand where he could occasionally touch her. He could lift his eyes now and then to the place where the dim glimmer of something like light showed itself. Perhaps the stillness, perhaps the darkness, perhaps the purring of the mother cat, probably all three, caused his thoughts to begin to travel through his mind slowly and more slowly. At last they ceased and he fell asleep. The mother cat purred for some time, and then fell asleep herself. XV A SOUND IN A DREAM Marco slept peacefully for several hours. There was nothing to awaken him during that time. But at the end of it, his sleep was penetrated by a definite sound. He had dreamed of hearing a voice at a distance, and, as he tried in his dream to hear what it said, a brief metallic ringing sound awakened him outright. It was over by the time he was fully conscious, and at once he realized that the voice of his dream had been a real one, and was speaking still. It was the Lovely Person's voice, and she was speaking rapidly, as if she were in the greatest haste. She was speaking through the door. "You will have to search for it," was all he heard. "I have not a moment!" And, as he listened to her hurriedly departing feet, there came to him with their hastening echoes the words, "You are too good for the cellar. I like you!" He sprang to the door and tried it, but it was still locked. The feet ran up the cellar steps and through the upper hall, and the front door closed with a bang. The two people had gone away, as they had threatened. The voice had been excited as well as hurried. Something had happened to frighten them, and they had left the house in great haste. Marco turned and stood with his back against the door. The cat had awakened and she was gazing at him with her green eyes. She began to purr encouragingly. She really helped Marco to think. He was thinking with all his might and trying to remember. "What did she come for? She came for something," he said to himself. "What did she say? I only heard part of it, because I was asleep. The voice in the dream was part of it. The part I heard was, 'You will have to search for it. I have not a moment.' And as she ran down the passage, she called back, 'You are too good for the cellar. I like you.'" He said the words over and over again and tried to recall exactly how they had sounded, and also to recall the voice which had seemed to be part of a dream but had been a real thing. Then he began to try his favorite experiment. As he often tried the experiment of commanding his mind to go to sleep, so he frequently experimented on commanding it to work for him--to help him to remember, to understand, and to argue about things clearly. "Reason this out for me," he said to it now, quite naturally and calmly. "Show me what it means." What did she come for? It was certain that she was in too great a hurry to be able, without a reason, to spare the time to come. What was the reason? She had said she liked him. Then she came because she liked him. If she liked him, she came to do something which was not unfriendly. The only good thing she could do for him was something which would help him to get out of the cellar. She had said twice that he was too good for the cellar. If he had been awake, he would have heard all she said and have understood what she wanted him to do or meant to do for him. He must not stop even to think of that. The first words he had heard--what had they been? They had been less clear to him than her last because he had heard them only as he was awakening. But he thought he was sure that they had been, "You will have to search for it." Search for it. For what? He thought and thought. What must he search for? He sat down on the floor of the cellar and held his head in his hands, pressing his eyes so hard that curious lights floated before them. "Tell me! Tell me!" he said to that part of his being which the Buddhist anchorite had said held all knowledge and could tell a man everything if he called upon it in the right spirit. And in a few minutes, he recalled something which seemed so much a part of his sleep that he had not been sure that he had not dreamed it. The ringing sound! He sprang up on his feet with a little gasping shout. The ringing sound! It had been the ring of metal, striking as it fell. Anything made of metal might have sounded like that. She had thrown something made of metal into the cellar. She had thrown it through the slit in the bricks near the door. She liked him, and said he was too good for his prison. She had thrown to him the only thing which could set him free. She had thrown him the _key_ of the cellar! For a few minutes the feelings which surged through him were so full of strong excitement that they set his brain in a whirl. He knew what his father would say--that would not do. If he was to think, he must hold himself still and not let even joy overcome him. The key was in the black little cellar, and he must find it in the dark. Even the woman who liked him enough to give him a chance of freedom knew that she must not open the door and let him out. There must be a delay. He would have to find the key himself, and it would be sure to take time. The chances were that they would be at a safe enough distance before he could get out. "I will kneel down and crawl on my hands and knees," he said. "I will crawl back and forth and go over every inch of the floor with my hands until I find it. If I go over every inch, I shall find it." So he kneeled down and began to crawl, and the cat watched him and purred. "We shall get out, Puss-cat," he said to her. "I told you we should." He crawled from the door to the wall at the side of the shelves, and then he crawled back again. The key might be quite a small one, and it was necessary that he should pass his hands over every inch, as he had said. The difficulty was to be sure, in the darkness, that he did not miss an inch. Sometimes he was not sure enough, and then he went over the ground again. He crawled backward and forward, and he crawled forward and backward. He crawled crosswise and lengthwise, he crawled diagonally, and he crawled round and round. But he did not find the key. If he had had only a little light, but he had none. He was so absorbed in his search that he did not know he had been engaged in it for several hours, and that it was the middle of the night. But at last he realized that he must stop for a rest, because his knees were beginning to feel bruised, and the skin of his hands was sore as a result of the rubbing on the flags. The cat and her kittens had gone to sleep and awakened again two or three times. "But it is somewhere!" he said obstinately. "It is inside the cellar. I heard something fall which was made of metal. That was the ringing sound which awakened me." When he stood up, he found his body ached and he was very tired. He stretched himself and exercised his arms and legs. "I wonder how long I have been crawling about," he thought. "But the key is in the cellar. It is in the cellar." He sat down near the cat and her family, and, laying his arm on the shelf above her, rested his head on it. He began to think of another experiment. "I am so tired, I believe I shall go to sleep again. 'Thought which Knows All' "--he was quoting something the hermit had said to Loristan in their midnight talk--"Thought which Knows All! Show me this little thing. Lead me to it when I awake." And he did fall asleep, sound and fast. * * * * * He did not know that he slept all the rest of the night. But he did. When he awakened, it was daylight in the streets, and the milk-carts were beginning to jingle about, and the early postmen were knocking big double-knocks at front doors. The cat may have heard the milk-carts, but the actual fact was that she herself was hungry and wanted to go in search of food. Just as Marco lifted his head from his arm and sat up, she jumped down from her shelf and went to the door. She had expected to find it ajar as it had been before. When she found it shut, she scratched at it and was disturbed to find this of no use. Because she knew Marco was in the cellar, she felt she had a friend who would assist her, and she miaued appealingly. This reminded Marco of the key. "I will when I have found it," he said. "It is inside the cellar." The cat miaued again, this time very anxiously indeed. The kittens heard her and began to squirm and squeak piteously. "Lead me to this little thing," said Marco, as if speaking to something in the darkness about him, and he got up. He put his hand out toward the kittens, and it touched something lying not far from them. It must have been lying near his elbow all night while he slept. It was the key! It had fallen upon the shelf, and not on the floor at all. Marco picked it up and then stood still a moment. He made the sign of the cross. Then he found his way to the door and fumbled until he found the keyhole and got the key into it. Then he turned it and pushed the door open--and the cat ran out into the passage before him. XVI THE RAT TO THE RESCUE Marco walked through the passage and into the kitchen part of the basement. The doors were all locked, and they were solid doors. He ran up the flagged steps and found the door at the top shut and bolted also, and that too was a solid door. His jailers had plainly made sure that it should take time enough for him to make his way into the world, even after he got out of the wine-cellar. The cat had run away to some part of the place where mice were plentiful. Marco was by this time rather gnawingly hungry himself. If he could get into the kitchen, he might find some fragments of food left in a cupboard; but there was no moving the locked door. He tried the outlet into the area, but that was immovable. Then he saw near it a smaller door. It was evidently the entrance to the coal-cellar under the pavement. This was proved by the fact that trodden coal-dust marked the flagstones, and near it stood a scuttle with coal in it. This coal-scuttle was the thing which might help him! Above the area door was a small window which was supposed to light the entry. He could not reach it, and, if he reached it, he could not open it. He could throw pieces of coal at the glass and break it, and then he could shout for help when people passed by. They might not notice or understand where the shouts came from at first, but, if he kept them up, some one's attention would be attracted in the end. He picked a large-sized solid piece of coal out of the heap in the scuttle, and threw it with all his force against the grimy glass. It smashed through and left a big hole. He threw another, and the entire pane was splintered and fell outside into the area. Then he saw it was broad daylight, and guessed that he had been shut up a good many hours. There was plenty of coal in the scuttle, and he had a strong arm and a good aim. He smashed pane after pane, until only the framework remained. When he shouted, there would be nothing between his voice and the street. No one could see him, but if he could do something which would make people slacken their pace to listen, then he could call out that he was in the basement of the house with the broken window. "Hallo!" he shouted. "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" But vehicles were passing in the street, and the passers-by were absorbed in their own business. If they heard a sound, they did not stop to inquire into it. "Hallo! Hallo! I am locked in!" yelled Marco, at the topmost power of his lungs. "Hallo! Hallo!" After half an hour's shouting, he began to think that he was wasting his strength. "They only think it is a boy shouting," he said. "Some one will notice in time. At night, when the streets are quiet, I might make a policeman hear. But my father does not know where I am. He will be trying to find me--so will Lazarus--so will The Rat. One of them might pass through this very street, as I did. What can I do!" A new idea flashed light upon him. "I will begin to sing a Samavian song, and I will sing it very loud. People nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find out where it comes from. And if any of my own people came near, they would stop at once--and now and then I will shout for help." Once when they had stopped to rest on Hampstead Heath, he had sung a valiant Samavian song for The Rat. The Rat had wanted to hear how he would sing when they went on their secret journey. He wanted him to sing for the Squad some day, to make the thing seem real. The Rat had been greatly excited, and had begged for the song often. It was a stirring martial thing with a sort of trumpet call of a chorus. Thousands of Samavians had sung it together on their way to the battle-field, hundreds of years ago. He drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips, began to sing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through the broken window. He had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though he knew nothing of its fine quality. Just now he wanted only to make it loud. In the street outside very few people were passing. An irritable old gentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped with annoyance when the song suddenly trumpeted forth. Boys had no right to yell in that manner. He hurried his step to get away from the sound. Two or three other people glanced over their shoulders, but had not time to loiter. A few others listened with pleasure as they drew near and passed on. "There's a boy with a fine voice," said one. "What's he singing?" said his companion. "It sounds foreign." "Don't know," was the reply as they went by. But at last a young man who was a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated and looked about him. The song was very loud and spirited just at this moment. The music-teacher could not understand where it came from, and paused to find out. The fact that he stopped attracted the attention of the next comer, who also paused. "Who's singing?" he asked. "Where is he singing?" "I can't make out," the music-teacher laughed. "Sounds as if it came out of the ground." And, because it was queer that a song should seem to be coming out of the ground, a costermonger stopped, and then a little boy, and then a workingwoman, and then a lady. There was quite a little group when another person turned the corner of the street. He was a shabby boy on crutches, and he had a frantic look on his face. And Marco actually heard, as he drew near to the group, the tap-tap-tap of crutches. "It might be," he thought. "It might be!" And he sang the trumpet-call of the chorus as if it were meant to reach the skies, and he sang it again and again. And at the end of it shouted, "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" [Illustration: The Rat swung himself into the group. "Where is he!" "Where is he!" he cried.] The Rat swung himself into the group and looked as if he had gone crazy. He hurled himself against the people. "Where is he! Where is he!" he cried, and he poured out some breathless words; it was almost as if he sobbed them out. "We've been looking for him all night!" he shouted. "Where is he! Marco! Marco! No one else sings it but him. Marco! Marco!" And out of the area, as it seemed, came a shout of answer. "Rat! Rat! I'm here in the cellar--locked in. I'm here!" and a big piece of coal came hurtling through the broken window and fell crashing on the area flags. The Rat got down the steps into the area as if he had not been on crutches but on legs, and banged on the door, shouting back: "Marco! Marco! Here I am! Who locked you in? How can I get the door open?" Marco was close against the door inside. It was The Rat! It was The Rat! And he would be in the street again in a few minutes. "Call a policeman!" he shouted through the keyhole. "The people locked me in on purpose and took away the keys." Then the group of lookers-on began to get excited and press against the area railings and ask questions. They could not understand what had happened to cause the boy with the crutches to look as if he were crazy with terror and relief at the same time. And the little boy ran delightedly to fetch a policeman, and found one in the next street, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him that it was his business to come and get a door open in an empty house where a boy who was a street singer had got locked up in a cellar. XVII "IT IS A VERY BAD SIGN" The policeman was not so much excited as out of temper. He did not know what Marco knew or what The Rat knew. Some common lad had got himself locked up in a house, and some one would have to go to the landlord and get a key from him. He had no intention of laying himself open to the law by breaking into a private house with his truncheon, as The Rat expected him to do. "He got himself in through some of his larks, and he'll have to wait till he's got out without smashing locks," he growled, shaking the area door. "How did you get in there?" he shouted. It was not easy for Marco to explain through a keyhole that he had come in to help a lady who had met with an accident. The policeman thought this mere boy's talk. As to the rest of the story, Marco knew that it could not be related at all without saying things which could not be explained to any one but his father. He quickly made up his mind that he must let it be believed that he had been locked in by some queer accident. It must be supposed that the people had not remembered, in their haste, that he had not yet left the house. When the young clerk from the house agency came with the keys, he was much disturbed and bewildered after he got inside. "They've made a bolt of it," he said. "That happens now and then, but there's something queer about this. What did they lock these doors in the basement for, and the one on the stairs? What did they say to you?" he asked Marco, staring at him suspiciously. "They said they were obliged to go suddenly," Marco answered. "What were you doing in the basement?" "The man took me down." "And left you there and bolted? He must have been in a hurry." "The lady said they had not a moment's time." "Her ankle must have got well in short order," said the young man. "I knew nothing about them," answered Marco. "I had never seen them before." "The police were after them," the young man said. "That's what I should say. They paid three months' rent in advance, and they have only been here two. Some of these foreign spies lurking about London; that's what they were." * * * * * The Rat had not waited until the keys arrived. He had swung himself at his swiftest pace back through the streets to No. 7 Philibert Place. People turned and stared at his wild pale face as he almost shot past them. He had left himself barely breath enough to speak with when he reached the house and banged on the door with his crutch to save time. Both Loristan and Lazarus came to answer. The Rat leaned against the door gasping. "He's found! He's all right!" he panted. "Some one had locked him in a house and left him. They've sent for the keys. I'm going back. Brandon Terrace, No. 10." Loristan and Lazarus exchanged glances. Both of them were at the moment as pale as The Rat. "Help him into the house," said Loristan to Lazarus. "He must stay here and rest. We will go." The Rat knew it was an order. He did not like it, but he obeyed. "This is a bad sign, Master," said Lazarus, as they went out together. "It is a very bad one," answered Loristan. "God of the Right, defend us!" Lazarus groaned. "Amen!" said Loristan. "Amen!" The group had become a small crowd by the time they reached Brandon Terrace. Marco had not found it easy to leave the place because he was being questioned. Neither the policeman nor the agent's clerk seemed willing to relinquish the idea that he could give them some information about the absconding pair. The entrance of Loristan produced its usual effect. The agent's clerk lifted his hat, and the policeman stood straight and made salute. Neither of them realized that the tall man's clothes were worn and threadbare. They felt only that a personage was before them, and that it was not possible to question his air of absolute and serene authority. He laid his hand on Marco's shoulder and held it there as he spoke. When Marco looked up at him and felt the closeness of his touch, it seemed as if it were an embrace--as if he had caught him to his breast. "My boy knew nothing of these people," he said. "That I can guarantee. He had seen neither of them before. His entering the house was the result of no boyish trick. He has been shut up in this place for nearly twenty-four hours and has had no food. I must take him home. This is my address." He handed the young man a card. Then they went home together, and all the way to Philibert Place Loristan's firm hand held closely to his boy's shoulder as if he could not endure to let him go. But on the way they said very little. "Father," Marco said, rather hoarsely, when they first got away from the house in the terrace, "I can't talk well in the street. For one thing, I am so glad to be with you again. It seemed as if--it might turn out badly." "Beloved one," Loristan said the words in their own Samavian, "until you are fed and at rest, you shall not talk at all." Afterward, when he was himself again and was allowed to tell his strange story, Marco found that both his father and Lazarus had at once had suspicions when he had not returned. They knew no ordinary event could have kept him. They were sure that he must have been detained against his will, and they were also sure that, if he had been so detained, it could only have been for reasons they could guess at. "This was the card that she gave me," Marco said, and he handed it to Loristan. "She said you would remember the name." Loristan looked at the lettering with an ironic half-smile. "I never heard it before," he replied. "She would not send me a name I knew. Probably I have never seen either of them. But I know the work they do. They are spies of the Maranovitch, and suspect that I know something of the Lost Prince. They believed they could terrify you into saying things which would be a clue. Men and women of their class will use desperate means to gain their end." "Might they--have left me as they threatened?" Marco asked him. "They would scarcely have dared, I think. Too great a hue and cry would have been raised by the discovery of such a crime. Too many detectives would have been set at work to track them." But the look in his father's eyes as he spoke, and the pressure of the hand he stretched out to touch him, made Marco's heart thrill. He had won a new love and trust from his father. When they sat together and talked that night, they were closer to each other's souls than they had ever been before. They sat in the firelight, Marco upon the worn hearth-rug, and they talked about Samavia--about the war and its heart-rending struggles, and about how they might end. "Do you think that some time we might be exiles no longer?" the boy said wistfully. "Do you think we might go there together--and see it--you and I, Father?" There was a silence for a while. Loristan looked into the sinking bed of red coal. "For years--for years I have made for my soul that image," he said slowly. "When I think of my friend on the side of the Himalayan Mountains, I say, 'The Thought which Thought the World may give us that also!'" XVIII "CITIES AND FACES" The hours of Marco's unexplained absence had been terrible to Loristan and to Lazarus. They had reason for fears which it was not possible for them to express. As the night drew on, the fears took stronger form. They forgot the existence of The Rat, who sat biting his nails in the bedroom, afraid to go out lest he might lose the chance of being given some errand to do but also afraid to show himself lest he should seem in the way. "I'll stay upstairs," he had said to Lazarus. "If you just whistle, I'll come." The anguish he passed through as the day went by and Lazarus went out and came in and he himself received no orders, could not have been expressed in any ordinary words. He writhed in his chair, he bit his nails to the quick, he wrought himself into a frenzy of misery and terror by recalling one by one all the crimes his knowledge of London police-courts supplied him with. He was doing nothing, yet he dare not leave his post. It was his post after all, though they had not given it to him. He must do something. In the middle of the night Loristan opened the door of the back sitting-room, because he knew he must at least go upstairs and throw himself upon his bed even if he could not sleep. He started back as the door opened. The Rat was sitting huddled on the floor near it with his back against the wall. He had a piece of paper in his hand and his twisted face was a weird thing to see. "Why are you here?" Loristan asked. "I've been here three hours, sir. I knew you'd have to come out sometime and I thought you'd let me speak to you. Will you--will you?" "Come into the room," said Loristan. "I will listen to anything you want to say. What have you been drawing on that paper?" as The Rat got up in the wonderful way he had taught himself. The paper was covered with lines which showed it to be another of his plans. "Please look at it," he begged. "I daren't go out lest you might want to send me somewhere. I daren't sit doing nothing. I began remembering and thinking things out. I put down all the streets and squares he _might_ have walked through on his way home. I've not missed one. If you'll let me start out and walk through every one of them and talk to the policemen on the beat and look at the houses--and think out things and work at them--I'll not miss an inch--I'll not miss a brick or a flagstone--I'll--" His voice had a hard sound but it shook, and he himself shook. Loristan touched his arm gently. "You are a good comrade," he said. "It is well for us that you are here. You have thought of a good thing." "May I go now?" said The Rat. "This moment, if you are ready," was the answer. The Rat swung himself to the door. Loristan said to him a thing which was like the sudden lighting of a great light in the very center of his being. "You are one of us. Now that I know you are doing this I may even sleep. You are one of us." And it was because he was following this plan that The Rat had turned into Brandon Terrace and heard the Samavian song ringing out from the locked basement of Number 10. "Yes, he is one of us," Loristan said, when he told this part of the story to Marco as they sat by the fire. "I had not been sure before. I wanted to be very sure. Last night I saw into the depths of him and _knew_. He may be trusted." From that day The Rat held a new place. Lazarus himself, strangely enough, did not resent his holding it. The boy was allowed to be near Loristan as he had never dared to hope to be near. It was not merely that he was allowed to serve him in many ways, but he was taken into the intimacy which had before enclosed only the three. Loristan talked to him as he talked to Marco, drawing him within the circle which held so much that was comprehended without speech. The Rat knew that he was being trained and observed and he realized it with exaltation. His idol had said that he was "one of them" and he was watching and putting him to tests so that he might find out how much he was one of them. And he was doing it for some grave reason of his own. This thought possessed The Rat's whole mind. Perhaps he was wondering if he should find out that he was to be trusted, as a rock is to be trusted. That he should even think that perhaps he might find that he was like a rock, was inspiration enough. "Sir," he said one night when they were alone together, because The Rat had been copying a road-map. His voice was very low--"do you think that--sometime--you could trust me as you trust Marco? Could it ever be like that--ever?" "The time has come," and Loristan's voice was almost as low as his own, though strong and deep feeling underlay its quiet--"the time has come when I can trust you with Marco--to be his companion--to care for him, to stand by his side at any moment. And Marco is--Marco is my son." That was enough to uplift The Rat to the skies. But there was more to follow. "It may not be long before it may be his part to do work in which he will need a comrade who can be trusted--as a rock can be trusted." He had said the very words The Rat's own mind had given to him. "A Rock! A Rock!" the boy broke out. "Let me show you, sir. Send me with him for a servant. The crutches are nothing. You've seen that they're as good as legs, haven't you? I've trained myself." "I know, I know, dear lad." Marco had told him all of it. He gave him a gracious smile which seemed as if it held a sort of fine secret. "You shall go as his aide-de-camp. It shall be part of the game." He had always encouraged "the game," and during the last weeks had even found time to help them in their plannings for the mysterious journey of the Secret Two. He had been so interested that once or twice he had called on Lazarus as an old soldier and Samavian to give his opinions of certain routes--and of the customs and habits of people in towns and villages by the way. Here they would find simple pastoral folk who danced, sang after their day's work, and who would tell all they knew; here they would find those who served or feared the Maranovitch and who would not talk at all. In one place they would meet with hospitality, in another with unfriendly suspicion of all strangers. Through talk and stories The Rat began to know the country almost as Marco knew it. That was part of the game too--because it was always "the game," they called it. Another part was The Rat's training of his memory, and bringing home his proofs of advance at night when he returned from his walk and could describe, or recite, or roughly sketch all he had seen in his passage from one place to another. Marco's part was to recall and sketch faces. Loristan one night gave him a number of photographs of people to commit to memory. Under each face was written the name of a place. "Learn these faces," he said, "until you would know each one of them at once wheresoever you met it. Fix them upon your mind, so that it will be impossible for you to forget them. You must be able to sketch any one of them and recall the city or town or neighborhood connected with it." Even this was still called "the game," but Marco began to know in his secret heart that it was so much more, that his hand sometimes trembled with excitement as he made his sketches over and over again. To make each one many times was the best way to imbed it in his memory. The Rat knew, too, though he had no reason for knowing, but mere instinct. He used to lie awake in the night and think it over and remember what Loristan had said of the time coming when Marco might need a comrade in his work. What was his work to be? It was to be something like "the game." And they were being prepared for it. And though Marco often lay awake on his bed when The Rat lay awake on his sofa, neither boy spoke to the other of the thing his mind dwelt on. And Marco worked as he had never worked before. The game was very exciting when he could prove his prowess. The four gathered together at night in the back sitting-room. Lazarus was obliged to be with them because a second judge was needed. Loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in Paris or a hotel in Vienna, and Marco would at once make a rapid sketch of the face under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written. It was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than a moment's hesitation. And yet even when this had become the case, they still played the game night after night. There was a great hotel near the Place de la Concorde in Paris, of which Marco felt he should never hear the name during all his life without there starting up before his mental vision a tall woman with fierce black eyes and a delicate high-bridged nose across which the strong eyebrows almost met. In Vienna there was a palace which would always bring back at once a pale cold-faced man with a heavy blonde lock which fell over his forehead. A certain street in Munich meant a stout genial old aristocrat with a sly smile; a village in Bavaria, a peasant with a vacant and simple countenance. A curled and smoothed man who looked like a hair-dresser brought up a place in an Austrian mountain town. He knew them all as he knew his own face and No. 7 Philibert Place. But still night after night the game was played. Then came a night when, out of a deep sleep, he was awakened by Lazarus touching him. He had so long been secretly ready to answer any call that he sat up straight in bed at the first touch. "Dress quickly and come down stairs," Lazarus said. "The Prince is here and wishes to speak with you." Marco made no answer but got out of bed and began to slip on his clothes. Lazarus touched The Rat. The Rat was as ready as Marco and sat upright as he had done. "Come down with the young Master," he commanded. "It is necessary that you should be seen and spoken to." And having given the order he went away. No one heard the shoeless feet of the two boys as they stole down the stairs. An elderly man in ordinary clothes, but with an unmistakable face, was sitting quietly talking to Loristan who with a gesture called both forward. "The Prince has been much interested in what I have told him of your game," he said in his lowest voice. "He wishes to see you make your sketches, Marco." Marco looked very straight into the Prince's eyes which were fixed intently on him as he made his bow. "His Highness does me honor," he said, as his father might have said it. He went to the table at once and took from a drawer his pencils and pieces of cardboard. "I should know he was your son and a Samavian," the Prince remarked. Then his keen and deep-set eyes turned themselves on the boy with the crutches. "This," said Loristan, "is the one who calls himself The Rat. He is one of us." The Rat saluted. "Please tell him, sir," he whispered, "that the crutches don't matter." "He has trained himself to an extraordinary activity," Loristan said. "He can do anything." The keen eyes were still taking The Rat in. "They are an advantage," said the Prince at last. Lazarus had nailed together a light, rough easel which Marco used in making his sketches when the game was played. Lazarus was standing in state at the door, and he came forward, brought the easel from its corner, and arranged the necessary drawing materials upon it. Marco stood near it and waited the pleasure of his father and his visitor. They were speaking together in low tones and he waited several minutes. What The Rat noticed was what he had noticed before--that the big boy could stand still in perfect ease and silence. It was not necessary for him to say things or to ask questions--to look at people as if he felt restless if they did not speak to or notice him. He did not seem to require notice, and The Rat felt vaguely that, young as he was, this very freedom from any anxiety to be looked at or addressed made him somehow look like a great gentleman. Loristan and the Prince advanced to where he stood. "L'Hotel de Marigny," Loristan said. Marco began to sketch rapidly. He began the portrait of the handsome woman with the delicate high-bridged nose and the black brows which almost met. As he did it, the Prince drew nearer and watched the work over his shoulder. It did not take very long and, when it was finished, the inspector turned, and after giving Loristan a long and strange look, nodded twice. "It is a remarkable thing," he said. "In that rough sketch she is not to be mistaken." Loristan bent his head. Then he mentioned the name of another street in another place--and Marco sketched again. This time it was the peasant with the simple face. The Prince bowed again. Then Loristan gave another name, and after that another and another; and Marco did his work until it was at an end, and Lazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had silently taken charge of as each was laid aside. "You would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?" said the Prince. "If you passed one in Bond Street or in the Marylebone Road, you would recognize it at once?" "As I know yours, sir," Marco answered. Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had often asked them before. They were questions as to the height and build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and the order of their complexions. Marco answered them all. He knew all but the names of these people, and it was plainly not necessary that he should know them, as his father had never uttered them. After this questioning was at an end the Prince pointed to The Rat who had leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eager like a ferret's. "And he?" the Prince said. "What can he do?" "Let me try," said The Rat. "Marco knows." Marco looked at his father. "May I help him to show you?" he asked. "Yes," Loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the Prince, he said again in his low voice: "_he is one of us_." Then Marco began a new form of the game. He held up one of the pictured faces before The Rat, and The Rat named at once the city and place connected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the height, the build, all the personal details as Marco himself had detailed them. To these he added descriptions of the cities, and points concerning the police system, the palaces, the people. His face twisted itself, his eyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in his readiness of reply and his exactness of memory. "I can't draw," he said at the end. "But I can remember. I didn't want any one to be bothered with thinking I was trying to learn it. So only Marco knew." This he said to Loristan with appeal in his voice. "It was he who invented 'the game,'" said Loristan. "I showed you his strange maps and plans." "It is a good game," the Prince answered in the manner of a man extraordinarily interested and impressed. "They know it well. They can be trusted." "No such thing has ever been done before," Loristan said. "It is as new as it is daring and simple." "Therein lies its safety," the Prince answered. "Perhaps only boyhood," said Loristan, "could have dared to imagine it." "The Prince thanks you," he said after a few more words spoken aside to his visitor. "We both thank you. You may go back to your beds." And the boys went. XIX "THAT IS ONE!" A week had not passed before Marco brought to The Rat in their bedroom an envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which was written something. "This is another part of the game," he said gravely. "Let us sit down together by the table and study it." They sat down and examined what was written on the slips. At the head of each was the name of one of the places with which Marco had connected a face he had sketched. Below were clear and concise directions as to how it was to be reached and the words to be said when each individual was encountered. "This person is to be found at his stall in the market," was written of the vacant-faced peasant. "You will first attract his attention by asking the price of something. When he is looking at you, touch your left thumb lightly with the forefinger of your right hand. Then utter in a low distinct tone the words 'The Lamp is lighted.' That is all you are to do." Sometimes the directions were not quite so simple, but they were all instructions of the same order. The originals of the sketches were to be sought out--always with precaution which should conceal that they were being sought at all, and always in such a manner as would cause an encounter to appear to be mere chance. Then certain words were to be uttered, but always without attracting the attention of any bystander or passer-by. The boys worked at their task through the entire day. They concentrated all their powers upon it. They wrote and re-wrote--they repeated to each other what they committed to memory as if it were a lesson. Marco worked with the greater ease and more rapidly, because exercise of this order had been his practice and entertainment from his babyhood. The Rat, however, almost kept pace with him, as he had been born with a phenomenal memory and his eagerness and desire were a fury. But throughout the entire day neither of them once referred to what they were doing as anything but "the game." At night, it is true, each found himself lying awake and thinking. It was The Rat who broke the silence from his sofa. "It is what the messengers of the Secret Party would be ordered to do when they were sent out to give the Sign for the Rising," he said. "I made that up the first day I invented the party, didn't I?" "Yes," answered Marco. * * * * * After a third day's concentration they knew by heart everything given to them to learn. That night Loristan put them through an examination. "Can you write these things?" he asked, after each had repeated them and emerged safely from all cross-questioning. Each boy wrote them correctly from memory. "Write yours in French--in German--in Russian--in Samavian," Loristan said to Marco. "All you have told me to do and to learn is part of myself, Father," Marco said in the end. "It is part of me, as if it were my hand or my eyes--or my heart." "I believe that is true," answered Loristan. He was pale that night and there was a shadow on his face. His eyes held a great longing as they rested on Marco. It was a yearning which had a sort of dread in it. Lazarus also did not seem quite himself. He was red instead of pale, and his movements were uncertain and restless. He cleared his throat nervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to look for something. It was almost midnight when Loristan, standing near Marco, put his arm round his shoulders. "The Game"--he began, and then was silent a few moments while Marco felt his arm tighten its hold. Both Marco and The Rat felt a hard quick beat in their breasts, and, because of this and because the pause seemed long, Marco spoke. "The Game--yes, Father?" he said. "The Game is about to give you work to do--both of you," Loristan answered. Lazarus cleared his throat and walked to the easel in the corner of the room. But he only changed the position of a piece of drawing-paper on it and then came back. "In two days you are to go to Paris--as you," to The Rat, "planned in the game." "As I planned?" The Rat barely breathed the words. "Yes," answered Loristan. "The instructions you have learned you will carry out. There is no more to be done than to manage to approach certain persons closely enough to be able to utter certain words to them." "Only two young strollers whom no man could suspect," put in Lazarus in an astonishingly rough and shaky voice. "They could pass near the Emperor himself without danger. The young Master--" his voice became so hoarse that he was obligated to clear it loudly--"the young Master must carry himself less finely. It would be well to shuffle a little and slouch as if he were of the common people." "Yes," said The Rat hastily. "He must do that. I can teach him. He holds his head and his shoulders like a gentleman. He must look like a street lad." "I will look like one," said Marco, with determination. "I will trust you to remind him," Loristan said to The Rat, and he said it with gravity. "That will be your charge." As he lay upon his pillow that night, it seemed to Marco as if a load had lifted itself from his heart. It was the load of uncertainty and longing. He had so long borne the pain of feeling that he was too young to be allowed to serve in any way. His dreams had never been wild ones--they had in fact always been boyish and modest, howsoever romantic. But now no dream which could have passed through his brain would have seemed so wonderful as this--that the hour had come--the hour had come--and that he, Marco, was to be its messenger. He was to do no dramatic deed and be announced by no flourish of heralds. No one would know what he did. What he achieved could only be attained if he remained obscure and unknown and seemed to every one only a common ordinary boy who knew nothing whatever of important things. But his father had given to him a gift so splendid that he trembled with awe and joy as he thought of it. The Game had become real. He and The Rat were to carry with them The Sign, and it would be like carrying a tiny lamp to set aflame lights which would blaze from one mountain-top to another until half the world seemed on fire. As he had awakened out of his sleep when Lazarus touched him, so he awakened in the middle of the night again. But he was not aroused by a touch. When he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which had penetrated his sleep--a look in the eyes of his father who was standing by his side. In the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the Prince's first visit--the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan's face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. The Rat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under his breath. "Beloved one," he said. "You are very young. Because I am your father--just at this hour I can feel nothing else. I have trained you for this through all the years of your life. I am proud of your young maturity and strength but--Beloved--you are a child! Can I do this thing!" For the moment, his face and his voice were scarcely like his own. He kneeled by the bedside, and, as he did it, Marco half sitting up caught his hand and held it hard against his breast. "Father, I know!" he cried under his breath also. "It is true. I am a child but am I not a man also? You yourself said it. I always knew that you were teaching me to be one--for some reason. It was my secret that I knew it. I learned well because I never forgot it. And I learned. Did I not?" He was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. But his young strength and courage were splendid to see. Loristan knew him through and through and read every boyish thought of his. "Yes," he answered slowly. "You did your part--and now if I--drew back--you would feel that I _had failed you--failed you_." "You!" Marco breathed it proudly. "You _could_ not fail even the weakest thing in the world." There was a moment's silence in which the two pairs of eyes dwelt on each other with the deepest meaning, and then Loristan rose to his feet. "The end will be all that our hearts most wish," he said. "To-morrow you may begin the new part of 'the Game.' You may go to Paris." * * * * * When the train which was to meet the boat that crossed from Dover to Calais steamed out of the noisy Charing Cross Station, it carried in a third-class carriage two shabby boys. One of them would have been a handsome lad if he had not carried himself slouchingly and walked with a street lad's careless shuffling gait. The other was a cripple who moved slowly, and apparently with difficulty, on crutches. There was nothing remarkable or picturesque enough about them to attract attention. They sat in the corner of the carriage and neither talked much nor seemed to be particularly interested in the journey or each other. When they went on board the steamer, they were soon lost among the commoner passengers and in fact found for themselves a secluded place which was not advantageous enough to be wanted by any one else. "What can such a poor-looking pair of lads be going to Paris for?" some one asked his companion. "Not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work," was the casual answer. In the evening they reached Paris, and Marco led the way to a small café in a side-street where they got some cheap food. In the same side-street they found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny room over a baker's shop. The Rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. He begged Marco to guide him about the brilliant streets. They went slowly along the broad Avenue des Champs Elysees under the lights glittering among the horse-chestnut trees. The Rat's sharp eyes took it all in--the light of the cafés among the embowering trees, the many carriages rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables drinking wine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which flowed on to the Arc de Triomphe and back again. "It's brighter and clearer than London," he said to Marco. "The people look as if they were having more fun than they do in England." The Place de la Concorde spreading its stately spaces--a world of illumination, movement, and majestic beauty--held him as though by a fascination. He wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point of view and then from another. It was bigger and more wonderful than he had been able to picture it when Marco had described it to him and told him of the part it had played in the days of the French Revolution when the guillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied themselves at the foot of its steps. He stood near the Obelisk a long time without speaking. "I can see it all happening," he said at last, and he pulled Marco away. Before they returned home, they found their way to a large house which stood in a courtyard. In the iron work of the handsome gates which shut it in was wrought a gilded coronet. The gates were closed and the house was not brightly lighted. They walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they neared the entrance for the second time, The Rat said in a low tone: "She is five feet seven, has black hair, a nose with a high bridge, her eyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skin and holds her head proudly." "That is the one," Marco answered. They were a week in Paris and each day passed this big house. There were certain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and come in than they were at others. Marco knew this, and they managed to be within sight of the house or to pass it at these hours. For two days they saw no sign of the person they wished to see, but one morning the gates were thrown open and they saw flowers and palms being taken in. "She has been away and is coming back," said Marco. The next day they passed three times--once at the hour when fashionable women drive out to do their shopping, once at the time when afternoon visiting is most likely to begin, and once when the streets were brilliant with lights and the carriages had begun to roll by to dinner-parties and theaters. Then, as they stood at a little distance from the iron gates, a carriage drove through them and stopped before the big open door which was thrown open by two tall footmen in splendid livery. "She is coming out," said The Rat. They would be able to see her plainly when she came, because the lights over the entrance were so bright. Marco slipped from under his coat sleeve a carefully made sketch. He looked at it and The Rat looked at it. A footman stood erect on each side of the open door. The footman who sat with the coachman had got down and was waiting by the carriage. Marco and The Rat glanced again with furtive haste at the sketch. A handsome woman appeared upon the threshold. She paused and gave some order to the footman who stood on the right. Then she came out in the full light and got into the carriage which drove out of the courtyard and quite near the place where the two boys waited. When it was gone, Marco drew a long breath as he tore the sketch into very small pieces indeed. He did not throw them away but put them into his pocket. The Rat drew a long breath also. "Yes," he said positively. "Yes," said Marco. When they were safely shut up in their room over the baker's shop, they discussed the chances of their being able to pass her in such a way as would seem accidental. Two common boys could not enter the courtyard. There was a back entrance for tradespeople and messengers. When she drove, she would always enter her carriage from the same place. Unless she sometimes walked, they could not approach her. What should be done? The thing was difficult. After they had talked some time, The Rat sat and gnawed his nails. "To-morrow afternoon," he broke out at last, "we'll watch and see if her carriage drives in for her--then, when she comes to the door, I'll go in and begin to beg. The servant will think I'm a foreigner and don't know what I'm doing. You can come after me to tell me to come away, because you know better than I do that I shall be ordered out. She may be a good-natured woman and listen to us--and you might get near her." "We might try it," Marco answered. "It might work. We will try it." The Rat never failed to treat him as his leader. He had begged Loristan to let him come with Marco as his servant, and his servant he had been more than willing to be. When Loristan had said he should be his aide-de-camp, he had felt his trust lifted to a military dignity which uplifted him with it. As his aide-de-camp he must serve him, watch him, obey his lightest wish, make everything easy for him. Sometimes, Marco was troubled by the way in which he insisted on serving him, this queer, once dictatorial and cantankerous lad who had begun by throwing stones at him. "You must not wait on me," he said to him. "I must wait upon myself." The Rat rather flushed. "He told me that he would let me come with you as your aide-de camp," he said. "It--it's part of the game. It makes things easier if we keep up the game." It would have attracted attention if they had spent too much time in the vicinity of the big house. So it happened that the next afternoon the great lady evidently drove out at an hour when they were not watching for her. They were on their way to try if they could carry out their plan, when, as they walked together along the Rue Royale, The Rat suddenly touched Marco's elbow. "The carriage stands before the shop with lace in the windows," he whispered hurriedly. Marco saw and recognized it at once. The owner had evidently gone into the shop to buy something. This was a better chance than they had hoped for, and, when they approached the carriage itself, they saw that there was another point in their favor. Inside were no less than three beautiful little Pekingese spaniels that looked exactly alike. They were all trying to look out of the window and were pushing against each other. They were so perfect and so pretty that few people passed by without looking at them. What better excuse could two boys have for lingering about a place? They stopped and, standing a little distance away, began to look at and discuss them and laugh at their excited little antics. Through the shop-window Marco caught a glimpse of the great lady. "She does not look much interested. She won't stay long," he whispered, and added aloud, "that little one is the master. See how he pushes the others aside! He is stronger than the other two, though he is so small." "He can snap, too," said The Rat. "She is coming now," warned Marco, and then laughed aloud as if at the Pekingese, which, catching sight of their mistress at the shop-door, began to leap and yelp for joy. Their mistress herself smiled, and was smiling as Marco drew near her. "May we look at them, Madame?" he said in French, and, as she made an amiable gesture of acquiescence and moved toward the carriage with him, he spoke a few words, very low but very distinctly, in Russian. "The Lamp is lighted," he said. The Rat was looking at her keenly, but he did not see her face change at all. What he noticed most throughout their journey was that each person to whom they gave the Sign had complete control over his or her countenance, if there were bystanders, and never betrayed by any change of expression that the words meant anything unusual. The great lady merely went on smiling, and spoke only of the dogs, allowing Marco and himself to look at them through the window of the carriage as the footman opened the door for her to enter. "They are beautiful little creatures," Marco said, lifting his cap, and, as the footman turned away, he uttered his few Russian words once more and moved off without even glancing at the lady again. "That is _one_!" he said to The Rat that night before they went to sleep, and with a match he burned the scraps of the sketch he had torn and put into his pocket. XX MARCO GOES TO THE OPERA Their next journey was to Munich, but the night before they left Paris an unexpected thing happened. To reach the narrow staircase which led to their bedroom it was necessary to pass through the baker's shop itself. The baker's wife was a friendly woman who liked the two boy lodgers who were so quiet and gave no trouble. More than once she had given them a hot roll or so or a freshly baked little tartlet with fruit in the center. When Marco came in this evening, she greeted him with a nod and handed him a small parcel as he passed through. "This was left for you this afternoon," she said. "I see you are making purchases for your journey. My man and I are very sorry you are going." "Thank you, Madame. We also are sorry," Marco answered, taking the parcel. "They are not large purchases, you see." But neither he nor The Rat had bought anything at all, though the ordinary-looking little package was plainly addressed to him and bore the name of one of the big cheap shops. It felt as if it contained something soft. When he reached their bedroom, The Rat was gazing out of the window watching every living thing which passed in the street below. He who had never seen anything but London was absorbed by the spell of Paris and was learning it by heart. "Something has been sent to us. Look at this," said Marco. The Rat was at his side at once. "What is it? Where did it come from?" They opened the package and at first sight saw only several pairs of quite common woolen socks. As Marco took up the sock in the middle of the parcel, he felt that there was something inside it--something laid flat and carefully. He put his hand in and drew out a number of five-franc notes--not new ones, because new ones would have betrayed themselves by crackling. These were old enough to be soft. But there were enough of them to amount to a substantial sum. "It is in small notes because poor boys would have only small ones. No one will be surprised when we change these," The Rat said. Each of them believed the package had been sent by the great lady, but it had been done so carefully that not the slightest clue was furnished. To The Rat, part of the deep excitement of "the Game" was the working out of the plans and methods of each person concerned. He could not have slept without working out some scheme which might have been used in this case. It thrilled him to contemplate the difficulties the great lady might have found herself obliged to overcome. "Perhaps," he said, after thinking it over for some time, "she went to a big common shop dressed as if she were an ordinary woman and bought the socks and pretended she was going to carry them home herself. She would do that so that she could take them into some corner and slip the money in. Then, as she wanted to have them sent from the shop, perhaps she bought some other things and asked the people to deliver the packages to different places. The socks were sent to us and the other things to some one else. She would go to a shop where no one knew her and no one would expect to see her and she would wear clothes which looked neither rich nor too poor." He created the whole episode with all its details and explained them to Marco. It fascinated him for the entire evening and he felt relieved after it and slept well. Even before they had left London, certain newspapers had swept out of existence the story of the descendant of the Lost Prince. This had been done by derision and light handling--by treating it as a romantic legend. At first, The Rat had resented this bitterly, but one day at a meal, when he had been producing arguments to prove that the story must be a true one, Loristan somehow checked him by his own silence. "If there is such a man," he said after a pause, "it is well for him that his existence should not be believed in--for some time at least." The Rat came to a dead stop. He felt hot for a moment and then felt cold. He saw a new idea all at once. He had been making a mistake in tactics. No more was said but, when they were alone afterwards, he poured himself forth to Marco. "I was a fool!" he cried out. "Why couldn't I see it for myself! Shall I tell you what I believe has been done? There is some one who has influence in England and who is a friend to Samavia. They've got the newspapers to make fun of the story so that it won't be believed. If it was believed, both the Iarovitch and the Maranovitch would be on the lookout, and the Secret Party would lose their chances. What a fool I was not to think of it! There's some one watching and working here who is a friend to Samavia." "But there is some one in Samavia who has begun to suspect that it might be true," Marco answered. "If there were not, I should not have been shut in the cellar. Some one thought my father knew something. The spies had orders to find out what it was." "Yes. Yes. That's true, too!" The Rat answered anxiously. "We shall have to be very careful." In the lining of the sleeve of Marco's coat there was a slit into which he could slip any small thing he wished to conceal and also wished to be able to reach without trouble. In this he had carried the sketch of the lady which he had torn up in Paris. When they walked in the streets of Munich, the morning after their arrival, he carried still another sketch. It was the one picturing the genial-looking old aristocrat with the sly smile. One of the things they had learned about this one was that his chief characteristic was his passion for music. He was a patron of musicians and he spent much time in Munich because he loved its musical atmosphere and the earnestness of its opera-goers. "The military band plays in the Feldherrn-halle at midday. When something very good is being played, sometimes people stop their carriages so that they can listen. We will go there," said Marco. "It's a chance," said The Rat. "We mustn't lose anything like a chance." The day was brilliant and sunny, the people passing through the streets looked comfortable and homely, the mixture of old streets and modern ones, of ancient corners and shops and houses of the day was picturesque and cheerful. The Rat swinging through the crowd on his crutches was full of interest and exhilaration. He had begun to grow, and the change in his face and expression which had begun in London had become more noticeable. He had been given his "place," and a work to do which entitled him to hold it. No one could have suspected them of carrying a strange and vital secret with them as they strolled along together. They seemed only two ordinary boys who looked in at shop windows and talked over their contents, and who loitered with upturned faces in the Marien-Platz before the ornate Gothic Rathaus to hear the eleven o'clock chimes play and see the painted figures of the King and Queen watch from their balcony the passing before them of the automatic tournament procession with its trumpeters and tilting knights. When the show was over and the automatic cock broke forth into his lusty farewell crow, they laughed just as any other boys would have laughed. Sometimes it would have been easy for The Rat to forget that there was anything graver in the world than the new places and new wonders he was seeing, as if he were a wandering minstrel in a story. But in Samavia bloody battles were being fought, and bloody plans were being wrought out, and in anguished anxiety the Secret Party and the Forgers of the Sword waited breathlessly for the Sign for which they had waited so long. And inside the lining of Marco's coat was hidden the sketched face, as the two unnoticed lads made their way to the Feldherrn-halle to hear the band play and see who might chance to be among the audience. Because the day was sunny, and also because the band was playing a specially fine programme, the crowd in the square was larger than usual. Several vehicles had stopped, and among them were one or two which were not merely hired cabs but were the carriages of private persons. One of them had evidently arrived early, as it was drawn up in a good position when the boys reached the corner. It was a big open carriage and a grand one, luxuriously upholstered in green. The footman and coachman wore green and silver liveries and seemed to know that people were looking at them and their master. He was a stout, genial-looking old aristocrat with a sly smile, though, as he listened to the music, it almost forgot to be sly. In the carriage with him were a young officer and a little boy, and they also listened attentively. Standing near the carriage door were several people who were plainly friends or acquaintances, as they occasionally spoke to him. Marco touched The Rat's coat sleeve as the two boys approached. "It would not be easy to get near him," he said. "Let us go and stand as close to the carriage as we can get without pushing. Perhaps we may hear some one say something about where he is going after the music is over." Yes, there was no mistaking him. He was the right man. Each of them knew by heart the creases on his stout face and the sweep of his gray moustache. But there was nothing noticeable in a boy looking for a moment at a piece of paper, and Marco sauntered a few steps to a bit of space left bare by the crowd and took a last glance at his sketch. His rule was to make sure at the final moment. The music was very good and the group about the carriage was evidently enthusiastic. There was talk and praise and comment, and the old aristocrat nodded his head repeatedly in applause. "The Chancellor is music mad," a looker-on near the boys said to another. "At the opera every night unless serious affairs keep him away! There you may see him nodding his old head and bursting his gloves with applauding when a good thing is done. He ought to have led an orchestra or played a 'cello. He is too big for first violin." There was a group about the carriage to the last, when the music came to an end and it drove away. There had been no possible opportunity of passing close to it even had the presence of the young officer and the boy not presented an insurmountable obstacle. Marco and The Rat went on their way and passed by the Hof-Theater and read the bills. "Tristan and Isolde" was to be presented at night and a great singer would sing _Isolde_. "He will go to hear that," both boys said at once. "He will be sure to go." It was decided between them that Marco should go on his quest alone when night came. One boy who hung around the entrance of the Opera would be observed less than two. "People notice crutches more than they notice legs," The Rat said. "I'd better keep out of the way unless you need me. My time hasn't come yet. Even if it doesn't come at all I've--I've been on duty. I've gone with you and I've been ready--that's what an aide-de-camp does." He stayed at home and read such English papers as he could lay hands on and he drew plans and re-fought battles on paper. Marco went to the opera. Even if he had not known his way to the square near the place where the Hof-Theater stood, he could easily have found it by following the groups of people in the streets who all seemed walking in one direction. There were students in their odd caps walking three or four abreast, there were young couples and older ones, and here and there whole families; there were soldiers of all ages, officers and privates; and, when talk was to be heard in passing, it was always talk about music. For some time Marco waited in the square and watched the carriages roll up and pass under the huge pillared portico to deposit their contents at the entrance and at once drive away in orderly sequence. He must make sure that the grand carriage with the green and silver liveries rolled up with the rest. If it came, he would buy a cheap ticket and go inside. It was rather late when it arrived. People in Munich are not late for the opera if it can be helped, and the coachman drove up hurriedly. The green and silver footman leaped to the ground and opened the carriage door almost before it stopped. The Chancellor got out looking less genial than usual because he was afraid that he might lose some of the overture. A rosy-cheeked girl in a white frock was with him and she was evidently trying to soothe him. "I do not think we are really late, Father," she said. "Don't feel cross, dear. It will spoil the music for you." This was not a time in which a man's attention could be attracted quietly. Marco ran to get the ticket which would give him a place among the rows of young soldiers, artists, male and female students, and musicians who were willing to stand four or five deep throughout the performance of even the longest opera. He knew that, unless they were in one of the few boxes which belonged only to the court, the Chancellor and his rosy-cheeked daughter would be in the best seats in the front curve of the balcony which were the most desirable of the house. He soon saw them. They had secured the central places directly below the large royal box where two quiet princesses and their attendants were already seated. When he found he was not too late to hear the overture, the Chancellor's face become more genial than ever. He settled himself down to an evening of enjoyment and evidently forgot everything else in the world. Marco did not lose sight of him. When the audience went out between acts to promenade in the corridors, he might go also and there might be a chance to pass near to him in the crowd. He watched him closely. Sometimes his fine old face saddened at the beautiful woe of the music, sometimes it looked enraptured, and it was always evident that every note reached his soul. The pretty daughter who sat beside him was attentive but not so enthralled. After the first act two glittering young officers appeared and made elegant and low bows, drawing their heels together as they kissed her hand. They looked sorry when they were obliged to return to their seats again. After the second act the Chancellor sat for a few minutes as if he were in a dream. The people in the seats near him began to rise from their seats and file out into the corridors. The young officers were to be seen rising also. The rosy daughter leaned forward and touched her father's arm gently. "She wants him to take her out," Marco thought. "He will take her because he is good-natured." He saw him recall himself from his dream with a smile and then he rose and, after helping to arrange a silvery blue scarf round the girl's shoulders, gave her his arm just as Marco skipped out of his fourth-row standing-place. It was a rather warm night and the corridors were full. By the time Marco had reached the balcony floor, the pair had issued from the little door and were temporarily lost in the moving numbers. Marco quietly made his way among the crowd trying to look as if he belonged to somebody. Once or twice his strong body and his dense black eyes and lashes made people glance at him, but he was not the only boy who had been brought to the opera so he felt safe enough to stop at the foot of the stairs and watch those who went up and those who passed by. Such a miscellaneous crowd as it was made up of--good unfashionable music-lovers mixed here and there with grand people of the court and the gay world. Suddenly he heard a low laugh and a moment later a hand lightly touched him. "You _did_ get out, then?" a soft voice said. When he turned he felt his muscles stiffen. He ceased to slouch and did not smile as he looked at the speaker. What he felt was a wave of fierce and haughty anger. It swept over him before he had time to control it. A lovely person who seemed swathed in several shades of soft violet drapery was smiling at him with long, lovely eyes. It was the woman who had trapped him into No. 10 Brandon Terrace. XXI "HELP!" "Did it take you so long to find it?" asked the Lovely Person with the smile. "Of course I knew you would find it in the end. But we had to give ourselves time. How long did it take?" Marco removed himself from beneath the touch of her hand. It was quietly done, but there was a disdain in his young face which made her wince though she pretended to shrug her shoulders amusedly. "You refuse to answer?" she laughed. "I refuse." At that very moment he saw at the curve of the corridor the Chancellor and his daughter approaching slowly. The two young officers were talking gaily to the girl. They were on their way back to their box. Was he going to lose them? Was he? The delicate hand was laid on his shoulder again, but this time he felt that it grasped him firmly. "Naughty boy!" the soft voice said. "I am going to take you home with me. If you struggle I shall tell these people that you are my bad boy who is here without permission. What will you answer? My escort is coming down the staircase and will help me. Do you see?" And in fact there appeared in the crowd at the head of the staircase the figure of the man he remembered. He did see. A dampness broke out on the palms of his hands. If she did this bold thing, what could he say to those she told her lie to? How could he bring proof or explain who he was--and what story dare he tell? His protestations and struggles would merely amuse the lookers-on, who would see in them only the impotent rage of an insubordinate youngster. There swept over him a wave of remembrance which brought back, as if he were living through it again, the moment when he had stood in the darkness of the wine cellar with his back against the door and heard the man walk away and leave him alone. He felt again as he had done then--but now he was in another land and far away from his father. He could do nothing to help himself unless Something showed him a way. He made no sound, and the woman who held him saw only a flame leap under his dense black lashes. But something within him called out. It was as if he heard it. It was that strong self--the self that was Marco, and it called--it called as if it shouted. "Help!" it called--to that Unknown Stranger Thing which had made worlds and which he and his father so often talked of and in whose power they so believed. "Help!" The Chancellor was drawing nearer. Perhaps! Should he--? "You are too proud to kick and shout," the voice went on. "And people would only laugh. Do you see?" The stairs were crowded and the man who was at the head of them could only move slowly. But he had seen the boy. Marco turned so that he could face his captor squarely as if he were going to say something in answer to her. But he was not. Even as he made the movement of turning, the help he had called for came and he knew what he should do. And he could do two things at once--save himself and give his Sign--because, the Sign once given, the Chancellor would understand. "He will be here in a moment. He has recognized you," the woman said. As he glanced up the stairs, the delicate grip of her hand unconsciously slackened. Marco whirled away from her. The bell rang which was to warn the audience that they must return to their seats and he saw the Chancellor hasten his pace. A moment later, the old aristocrat found himself amazedly looking down at the pale face of a breathless lad who spoke to him in German and in such a manner that he could not but pause and listen. "Sir," he was saying, "the woman in violet at the foot of the stairs is a spy. She trapped me once and she threatens to do it again. Sir, may I beg you to protect me?" He said it low and fast. No one else could hear his words. "What! What!" the Chancellor exclaimed. And then, drawing a step nearer and quite as low and rapidly but with perfect distinctness, Marco uttered four words: "The Lamp is lighted." The Help cry had been answered instantly. Marco saw it at once in the old man's eyes, notwithstanding that he turned to look at the woman at the foot of the staircase as if she only concerned him. "What! What!" he said again, and made a movement toward her, pulling his large moustache with a fierce hand. Then Marco recognized that a curious thing happened. The Lovely Person saw the movement and the gray moustache, and that instant her smile died away and she turned quite white--so white, that under the brilliant electric light she was almost green and scarcely looked lovely at all. She made a sign to the man on the staircase and slipped through the crowd like an eel. She was a slim flexible creature and never was a disappearance more wonderful in its rapidity. Between stout matrons and their thin or stout escorts and families she made her way and lost herself--but always making toward the exit. In two minutes there was no sight of her violet draperies to be seen. She was gone and so, evidently, was her male companion. It was plain to Marco that to follow the profession of a spy was not by any means a safe thing. The Chancellor had recognized her--she had recognized the Chancellor who turned looking ferociously angry and spoke to one of the young officers. "She and the man with her are two of the most dangerous spies in Europe. She is a Rumanian and he is a Russian. What they wanted of this innocent lad I don't pretend to know. What did she threaten?" to Marco. Marco was feeling rather cold and sick and had lost his healthy color for the moment. "She said she meant to take me home with her and would pretend I was her son who had come here without permission," he answered. "She believes I know something I do not." He made a hesitating but grateful bow. "The third act, sir--I must not keep you. Thank you! Thank you!" The Chancellor moved toward the entrance door of the balcony seats, but he did it with his hand on Marco's shoulder. "See that he gets home safely," he said to the younger of the two officers. "Send a messenger with him. He's young to be attacked by creatures of that kind." Polite young officers naturally obey the commands of Chancellors and such dignitaries. This one found without trouble a young private who marched with Marco through the deserted streets to his lodgings. He was a stolid young Bavarian peasant and seemed to have no curiosity or even any interest in the reason for the command given him. He was in fact thinking of his sweetheart who lived near Konigsee and who had skated with him on the frozen lake last winter. He scarcely gave a glance to the schoolboy he was to escort, he neither knew nor wondered why. The Rat had fallen asleep over his papers and lay with his head on his folded arms on the table. But he was awakened by Marco's coming into the room and sat up blinking his eyes in the effort to get them open. "Did you see him? Did you get near enough?" he drowsed. "Yes," Marco answered. "I got near enough." The Rat sat upright suddenly. "It's not been easy," he exclaimed. "I'm sure something happened--something went wrong." "Something nearly went wrong--_very_ nearly," answered Marco. But as he spoke he took the sketch of the Chancellor out of the slit in his sleeve and tore it and burned it with a match. "But I did get near enough. And that's _two_." * * * * * They talked long, before they went to sleep that night. The Rat grew pale as he listened to the story of the woman in violet. "I ought to have gone with you!" he said. "I see now. An aide-de-camp must always be in attendance. It would have been harder for her to manage two than one. I must always be near to watch, even if I am not close by you. If you had not come back--if you had not come back!" He struck his clenched hands together fiercely. "What should I have done!" When Marco turned toward him from the table near which he was standing, he looked like his father. "You would have gone on with the Game just as far as you could," he said. "You could not leave it. You remember the places, and the faces, and the Sign. There is some money; and when it was all gone, you could have begged, as we used to pretend we should. We have not had to do it yet; and it was best to save it for country places and villages. But you could have done it if you were obliged to. The Game would have to go on." The Rat caught at his thin chest as if he had been struck breathless. "Without you?" he gasped. "Without you?" "Yes," said Marco. "And we must think of it, and plan in case anything like that should happen." He stopped himself quite suddenly, and sat down, looking straight before him, as if at some far away thing he saw. "Nothing will happen," he said. "Nothing can." "What are you thinking of?" The Rat gulped, because his breath had not quite come back. "Why will nothing happen?" "Because--" the boy spoke in an almost matter-of-fact tone--in quite an unexalted tone at all events, "you see I can always make a strong call, as I did tonight." "Did you shout?" The Rat asked. "I didn't know you shouted." "I didn't. I said nothing aloud. But I--the myself that is in me," Marco touched himself on the breast, "called out, 'Help! Help!' with all its strength. And help came." The Rat regarded him dubiously. "What did it call to?" he asked. "To the Power--to the Strength-place--to the Thought that does things. The Buddhist hermit, who told my father about it, called it 'The Thought that thought the World.'" A reluctant suspicion betrayed itself in The Rat's eyes. "Do you mean you prayed?" he inquired, with a slight touch of disfavor. Marco's eyes remained fixed upon him in vague thoughtfulness for a moment or so of pause. "I don't know," he said at last. "Perhaps it's the same thing--when you need something so much that you cry out loud for it. But it's not words, it's a strong thing without a name. I called like that when I was shut in the wine-cellar. I remembered some of the things the old Buddhist told my father." The Rat moved restlessly. "The help came that time," he admitted. "How did it come to-night?" "In that thought which flashed into my mind almost the next second. It came like lightning. All at once I knew if I ran to the Chancellor and said the woman was a spy, it would startle him into listening to me; and that then I could give him the Sign; and that when I gave him the Sign, he would know I was speaking the truth and would protect me." "It was a splendid thought!" The Rat said. "And it was quick. But it was you who thought of it." "All thinking is part of the Big Thought," said Marco slowly. "It _knows_--It _knows_. And the outside part of us somehow broke the chain that linked us to It. And we are always trying to mend the chain, without knowing it. That is what our thinking is--trying to mend the chain. But we shall find out how to do it sometime. The old Buddhist told my father so--just as the sun was rising from behind a high peak of the Himalayas." Then he added hastily, "I am only telling you what my father told me, and he only told me what the old hermit told him." "Does your father believe what he told him?" The Rat's bewilderment had become an eager and restless thing. "Yes, he believes it. He always thought something like it, himself. That is why he is so calm and knows so well how to wait." "Is _that_ it!" breathed The Rat. "Is that why? Has--has he mended the chain?" And there was awe in his voice, because of this one man to whom he felt any achievement was possible. "I believe he has," said Marco. "Don't you think so yourself?" "He has done something," The Rat said. He seemed to be thinking things over before he spoke again--and then even more slowly than Marco. "If he could mend the chain," he said almost in a whisper, "he could find out where the descendant of the Lost Prince is. He would know what to do for Samavia!" He ended the words with a start, and his whole face glowed with a new, amazed light. "Perhaps he does know!" he cried. "If the help comes like thoughts--as yours did--perhaps his thought of letting us give the Sign was part of it. We--just we two every-day boys--are part of it!" "The old Buddhist said--" began Marco. "Look here!" broke in The Rat. "Tell me the whole story. I want to hear it." It was because Loristan had heard it, and listened and believed, that The Rat had taken fire. His imagination seized upon the idea, as it would have seized on some theory of necromancy proved true and workable. With his elbows on the table and his hands in his hair, he leaned forward, twisting a lock with restless fingers. His breath quickened. "Tell it," he said, "I want to hear it all!" "I shall have to tell it in my own words," Marco said. "And it won't be as wonderful as it was when my father told it to me. This is what I remember: "My father had gone through much pain and trouble. A great load was upon him, and he had been told he was going to die before his work was done. He had gone to India, because a man he was obliged to speak to had gone there to hunt, and no one knew when he would return. My father followed him for months from one wild place to another, and, when he found him, the man would not hear or believe what he had come so far to say. Then he had jungle-fever and almost died. Once the natives left him for dead in a bungalow in the forest, and he heard the jackals howling round him all the night. Through all the hours he was only alive enough to be conscious of two things--all the rest of him seemed gone from his body: his thought knew that his work was unfinished--and his body heard the jackals howl!" "Was the work for Samavia?" The Rat put in quickly. "If he had died that night, the descendant of the Lost Prince never would have been found--never!" The Rat bit his lip so hard that a drop of blood started from it. "When he was slowly coming alive again, a native, who had gone back and stayed to wait upon him, told him that near the summit of a mountain, about fifty miles away, there was a ledge which jutted out into space and hung over the valley, which was thousands of feet below. On the ledge there was a hut in which there lived an ancient Buddhist, who was a holy man, as they called him, and who had been there during time which had not been measured. They said that their grandparents and great-grandparents had known of him, though very few persons had ever seen him. It was told that the most savage beast was tame before him. They said that a man-eating tiger would stop to salute him, and that a thirsty lioness would bring her whelps to drink at the spring near his hut." "That was a lie," said The Rat promptly. Marco neither laughed nor frowned. "How do we _know_?" he said. "It was a native's story, and it might be anything. My father neither said it was true nor false. He listened to all that was told him by natives. They said that the holy man was the brother of the stars. He knew all things past and to come, and could heal the sick. But most people, especially those who had sinful thoughts, were afraid to go near him." "I'd like to have seen--" The Rat pondered aloud, but he did not finish. "Before my father was well, he had made up his mind to travel to the ledge if he could. He felt as if he must go. He thought that if he were going to die, the hermit might tell him some wise thing to do for Samavia." "He might have given him a message to leave to the Secret Ones," said The Rat. "He was so weak when he set out on his journey that he wondered if he would reach the end of it. Part of the way he traveled by bullock cart, and part, he was carried by natives. But at last the bearers came to a place more than halfway up the mountain, and would go no further. Then they went back and left him to climb the rest of the way himself. They had traveled slowly and he had got more strength, but he was weak yet. The forest was more wonderful than anything he had ever seen. There were tropical trees with foliage like lace, and some with huge leaves, and some of them seemed to reach the sky. Sometimes he could barely see gleams of blue through them. And vines swung down from their high branches, and caught each other, and matted together; and there were hot scents, and strange flowers, and dazzling birds darting about, and thick moss, and little cascades bursting out. The path grew narrower and steeper, and the flower scents and the sultriness made it like walking in a hothouse. He heard rustlings in the undergrowth, which might have been made by any kind of wild animal; once he stepped across a deadly snake without seeing it. But it was asleep and did not hurt him. He knew the natives had been convinced that he would not reach the ledge; but for some strange reason he believed he should. He stopped and rested many times, and he drank some milk he had brought in a canteen. The higher he climbed, the more wonderful everything was, and a strange feeling began to fill him. He said his body stopped being tired and began to feel very light. And his load lifted itself from his heart, as if it were not his load any more but belonged to something stronger. Even Samavia seemed to be safe. As he went higher and higher, and looked down the abyss at the world below, it appeared as if it were not real but only a dream he had wakened from--only a dream." The Rat moved restlessly. "Perhaps he was light-headed with the fever," he suggested. "The fever had left him, and the weakness had left him," Marco answered. "It seemed as if he had never really been ill at all--as if no one could be ill, because things like that were only dreams, just as the world was." "I wish I'd been with him! Perhaps I could have thrown these away--down into the abyss!" And The Rat shook his crutches which rested against the table. "I feel as if I was climbing, too. Go on." Marco had become more absorbed than The Rat. He had lost himself in the memory of the story. "I felt that _I_ was climbing, when he told me," he said. "I felt as if I were breathing in the hot flower-scents and pushing aside the big leaves and giant ferns. There had been a rain, and they were wet and shining with big drops, like jewels, that showered over him as he thrust his way through and under them. And the stillness and the height--the stillness and the height! I can't make it real to you as he made it to me! I can't! I was there. He took me. And it was so high--and so still--and so beautiful that I could scarcely bear it." But the truth was, that with some vivid boy-touch he had carried his hearer far. The Rat was deadly quiet. Even his eyes had not moved. He spoke almost as if he were in a sort of trance. "It's real," he said. "I'm there now. As high as you--go on--go on. I want to climb higher." And Marco, understanding, went on. "The day was over and the stars were out when he reached the place were the ledge was. He said he thought that during the last part of the climb he never looked on the earth at all. The stars were so immense that he could not look away from them. They seemed to be drawing him up. And all overhead was like violet velvet, and they hung there like great lamps of radiance. Can you see them? You must see them. My father saw them all night long. They were part of the wonder." "I see them," The Rat answered, still in his trance-like voice and without stirring, and Marco knew he did. "And there, with the huge stars watching it, was the hut on the ledge. And there was no one there. The door was open. And outside it was a low bench and table of stone. And on the table was a meal of dates and rice, waiting. Not far from the hut was a deep spring, which ran away in a clear brook. My father drank and bathed his face there. Then he went out on the ledge, and sat down and waited, with his face turned up to the stars. He did not lie down, and he thought he saw the stars all the time he waited. He was sure he did not sleep. He did not know how long he sat there alone. But at last he drew his eyes from the stars, as if he had been commanded to do it. And he was not alone any more. A yard or so away from him sat the holy man. He knew it was the hermit because his eyes were different from any human eyes he had ever beheld. They were as still as the night was, and as deep as the shadows covering the world thousands of feet below, and they had a far, far look, and a strange light was in them." "What did he say?" asked The Rat hoarsely. "He only said, 'Rise, my son. I awaited thee. Go and eat the food I prepared for thee, and then we will speak together.' He didn't move or speak again until my father had eaten the meal. He only sat on the moss and let his eyes rest on the shadows over the abyss. When my father went back, he made a gesture which meant that he should sit near him. "Then he sat still for several minutes, and let his eyes rest on my father, until he felt as if the light in them were set in the midst of his own body and his soul. Then he said, 'I cannot tell thee all thou wouldst know. That I may not do.' He had a wonderful gentle voice, like a deep soft bell. 'But the work will be done. Thy life and thy son's life will set it on its way.' "They sat through the whole night together. And the stars hung quite near, as if they listened. And there were sounds in the bushes of stealthy, padding feet which wandered about as if the owners of them listened too. And the wonderful, low, peaceful voice of the holy man went on and on, telling of wonders which seemed like miracles but which were to him only the 'working of the Law.'" "What is the Law?" The Rat broke in. "There were two my father wrote down, and I learned them. The first was the law of The One. I'll try to say that," and he covered his eyes and waited through a moment of silence. It seemed to The Rat as if the room held an extraordinary stillness. "Listen!" came next. "This is it: "'_There are a myriad worlds. There is but One Thought out of which they grew. Its Law is Order which cannot swerve. Its creatures are free to choose. Only they can create Disorder, which in itself is Pain and Woe and Hate and Fear. These they alone can bring forth. The Great One is a Golden Light. It is not remote but near. Hold thyself within its glow and thou wilt behold all things clearly. First, with all thy breathing being, know one thing! That thine own thought--when so thou standest--is one with That which thought the Worlds!_'" "What?" gasped The Rat. "_My_ thought--the things _I_ think!" "Your thoughts--boys' thoughts--anybody's thoughts." "You're giving me the jim-jams!" "He said it," answered Marco. "And it was then he spoke about the broken Link--and about the greatest books in the world--that in all their different ways, they were only saying over and over again one thing thousands of times. Just this thing--'Hate not, Fear not, Love.' And he said that was Order. And when it was disturbed, suffering came--poverty and misery and catastrophe and wars." "Wars!" The Rat said sharply. "The World couldn't do without war--and armies and defences! What about Samavia?" "My father asked him that. And this is what he answered. I learned that too. Let me think again," and he waited as he had waited before. Then he lifted his head. "Listen! This is it: "_'Out of the blackness of Disorder and its outpouring of human misery, there will arise the Order which is Peace. When Man learns that he is one with the Thought which itself creates all beauty, all power, all splendor, and all repose, he will not fear that his brother can rob him of his heart's desire. He will stand in the Light and draw to himself his own.'_" "Draw to himself?" The Rat said. "Draw what he wants? I don't believe it!" "Nobody does," said Marco. "We don't know. He said we stood in the dark of the night--without stars--and did not know that the broken chain swung just above us." "I don't believe it!" said The Rat. "It's too big!" Marco did not say whether he believed it or not. He only went on speaking. "My father listened until he felt as if he had stopped breathing. Just at the stillest of the stillness the Buddhist stopped speaking. And there was a rustling of the undergrowth a few yards away, as if something big was pushing its way through--and there was the soft pad of feet. The Buddhist turned his head and my father heard him say softly: 'Come forth, Sister.' "And a huge leopardess with two cubs walked out on to the ledge and came to him and threw herself down with a heavy lunge near his feet." "Your father saw that!" cried out The Rat. "You mean the old fellow knew something that made wild beasts afraid to touch him or any one near him?" "Not afraid. They knew he was their brother, and that he was one with the Law. He had lived so long with the Great Thought that all darkness and fear had left him forever. He had mended the Chain." The Rat had reached deep waters. He leaned forward--his hands burrowing in his hair, his face scowling and twisted, his eyes boring into space. He had climbed to the ledge at the mountain-top; he had seen the luminous immensity of the stars, and he had looked down into the shadows filling the world thousands of feet below. Was there some remote deep in him from whose darkness a slow light was rising? All that Loristan had said he knew must be true. But the rest of it--? Marco got up and came over to him. He looked like his father again. "If the descendant of the Lost Prince is brought back to rule Samavia, he will teach his people the Law of the One. It was for that the holy man taught my father until the dawn came." "Who will--who will teach the Lost Prince--the new King--when he is found?" The Rat cried. "Who will teach him?" "The hermit said my father would. He said he would also teach his son--and that son would teach his son--and he would teach his. And through such as they were, the whole world would come to know the Order and the Law." Never had The Rat looked so strange and fierce a thing. A whole world at peace! No tactics--no battles--no slaughtered heroes--no clash of arms, and fame! It made him feel sick. And yet--something set his chest heaving. "And your father would teach him that--when he was found! So that he could teach his sons. Your father _believes_ in it?" "Yes," Marco answered. He said nothing but "Yes." The Rat threw himself forward on the table, face downward. "Then," he said, "he must make me believe it. He must teach me--if he can." They heard a clumping step upon the staircase, and, when it reached the landing, it stopped at their door. Then there was a solid knock. When Marco opened the door, the young soldier who had escorted him from the Hof-Theater was standing outside. He looked as uninterested and stolid as before, as he handed in a small flat package. "You must have dropped it near your seat at the Opera," he said. "I was to give it into your own hands. It is your purse." After he had clumped down the staircase again, Marco and The Rat drew a quick breath at one and the same time. "I had no seat and I had no purse," Marco said. "Let us open it." There was a flat limp leather note-holder inside. In it was a paper, at the head of which were photographs of the Lovely Person and her companion. Beneath were a few lines which stated that they were the well known spies, Eugenia Karovna and Paul Varel, and that the bearer must be protected against them. It was signed by the Chief of the Police. On a separate sheet was written the command: "Carry this with you as protection." "That is help," The Rat said. "It would protect us, even in another country. The Chancellor sent it--but you made the strong call--and it's here!" There was no street lamp to shine into their windows when they went at last to bed. When the blind was drawn up, they were nearer the sky than they had been in the Marylebone Road. The last thing each of them saw, as he went to sleep, was the stars--and in their dreams, they saw them grow larger and larger, and hang like lamps of radiance against the violet-velvet sky above a ledge of a Himalayan Mountain, where they listened to the sound of a low voice going on and on and on. XXII THE NIGHT VIGIL On a hill in the midst of a great Austrian plain, around which high Alps wait watching through the ages, stands a venerable fortress, almost more beautiful than anything one has ever seen. Perhaps, if it were not for the great plain flowering broadly about it with its wide-spread beauties of meadow-land, and wood, and dim toned buildings gathered about farms, and its dream of a small ancient city at its feet, it might--though it is to be doubted--seem something less a marvel of medieval picturesqueness. But out of the plain rises the low hill, and surrounding it at a stately distance stands guard the giant majesty of Alps, with shoulders in the clouds and god-like heads above them, looking on--always looking on--sometimes themselves ethereal clouds of snow-whiteness, some times monster bare crags which pierce the blue, and whose unchanging silence seems to know the secret of the everlasting. And on the hill which this august circle holds in its embrace, as though it enclosed a treasure, stands the old, old, towered fortress built as a citadel for the Prince Archbishops, who were kings in their domain in the long past centuries when the splendor and power of ecclesiastical princes was among the greatest upon earth. And as you approach the town--and as you leave it--and as you walk through its streets, the broad calm empty-looking ones, or the narrow thoroughfares whose houses seem so near to each other, whether you climb or descend--or cross bridges, or gaze at churches, or step out on your balcony at night to look at the mountains and the moon--always it seems that from some point you can see it gazing down at you--the citadel of Hohen-Salzburg. It was to Salzburg they went next, because at Salzburg was to be found the man who looked like a hair-dresser and who worked in a barber's shop. Strange as it might seem, to him also must be carried the Sign. "There may be people who come to him to be shaved--soldiers, or men who know things," The Rat worked it out, "and he can speak to them when he is standing close to them. It will be easy to get near him. You can go and have your hair cut." The journey from Munich was not a long one, and during the latter part of it they had the wooden-seated third-class carriage to themselves. Even the drowsy old peasant who nodded and slept in one corner got out with his bundles at last. To Marco the mountains were long-known wonders which could never grow old. They had always and always been so old! Surely they had been the first of the world! Surely they had been standing there waiting when it was said "Let there be Light." The Light had known it would find them there. They were so silent, and yet it seemed as if they said some amazing thing--something which would take your breath from you if you could hear it. And they never changed. The clouds changed, they wreathed them, and hid them, and trailed down them, and poured out storm torrents on them, and thundered against them, and darted forked lightnings round them. But the mountains stood there afterwards as if such things had not been and were not in the world. Winds roared and tore at them, centuries passed over them--centuries of millions of lives, of changing of kingdoms and empires, of battles and world-wide fame which grew and died and passed away; and temples crumbled, and kings' tombs were forgotten, and cities were buried and others built over them after hundreds of years--and perhaps a few stones fell from a mountain side, or a fissure was worn, which the people below could not even see. And that was all. There they stood, and perhaps their secret was that they had been there for ever and ever. That was what the mountains said to Marco, which was why he did not want to talk much, but sat and gazed out of the carriage window. The Rat had been very silent all the morning. He had been silent when they got up, and he had scarcely spoken when they made their way to the station at Munich and sat waiting for their train. It seemed to Marco that he was thinking so hard that he was like a person who was far away from the place he stood in. His brows were drawn together and his eyes did not seem to see the people who passed by. Usually he saw everything and made shrewd remarks on almost all he saw. But to-day he was somehow otherwise absorbed. He sat in the train with his forehead against the window and stared out. He moved and gasped when he found himself staring at the Alps, but afterwards he was even strangely still. It was not until after the sleepy old peasant had gathered his bundles and got out at a station that he spoke, and he did it without turning his head. "You only told me one of the two laws," he said. "What was the other one?" Marco brought himself back from his dream of reaching the highest mountain-top and seeing clouds float beneath his feet in the sun. He had to come back a long way. "Are you thinking of that? I wondered what you had been thinking of all the morning," he said. "I couldn't stop thinking of it. What was the second one?" said The Rat, but he did not turn his head. "It was called the Law of Earthly Living. It was for every day," said Marco. "It was for the ordering of common things--the small things we think don't matter, as well as the big ones. I always remember that one without any trouble. This was it: "_'Let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desire to see become a truth. Meditate only upon the wish of thy heart--seeing first that it is such as can wrong no man and is not ignoble. Then will it take earthly form and draw near to thee._ "_'This is the Law of That which Creates.'_" Then The Rat turned round. He had a shrewdly reasoning mind. "That sounds as if you could get anything you wanted, if you think about it long enough and in the right way," he said. "But perhaps it only means that, if you do it, you'll be happy after you're dead. My father used to shout with laughing when he was drunk and talked about things like that and looked at his rags." He hugged his knees for a few minutes. He was remembering the rags, and the fog-darkened room in the slums, and the loud, hideous laughter. "What if you want something that will harm somebody else?" he said next. "What if you hate some one and wish you could kill him?" "That was one of the questions my father asked that night on the ledge. The holy man said people always asked it," Marco answered. "This was the answer: "_'Let him who stretcheth forth his hand to draw the lightning to his brother recall that through his own soul and body will pass the bolt.'_" "Wonder if there's anything in it?" The Rat pondered. "It'd make a chap careful if he believed it! Revenging yourself on a man would be like holding him against a live wire to kill him and getting all the volts through yourself." A sudden anxiety revealed itself in his face. "Does your father believe it?" he asked. "Does he?" "He knows it is true," Marco said. "I'll own up," The Rat decided after further reflection--"I'll own up I'm glad that there isn't any one left that I've a grudge against. There isn't any one--now." Then he fell again into silence and did not speak until their journey was at an end. As they arrived early in the day, they had plenty of time to wander about the marvelous little old city. But through the wide streets and through the narrow ones, under the archways into the market gardens, across the bridge and into the square where the "glockenspiel" played its old tinkling tune, everywhere the Citadel looked down and always The Rat walked on in his dream. They found the hair-dresser's shop in one of the narrow streets. There were no grand shops there, and this particular shop was a modest one. They walked past it once, and then went back. It was a shop so humble that there was nothing remarkable in two common boys going into it to have their hair cut. An old man came forward to receive them. He was evidently glad of their modest patronage. He undertook to attend to The Rat himself, but, having arranged him in a chair, he turned about and called to some one in the back room. "Heinrich," he said. In the slit in Marco's sleeve was the sketch of the man with smooth curled hair, who looked like a hair-dresser. They had found a corner in which to take their final look at it before they turned back to come in. Heinrich, who came forth from the small back room, had smooth curled hair. He looked extremely like a hair-dresser. He had features like those in the sketch--his nose and mouth and chin and figure were like what Marco had drawn and committed to memory. But-- He gave Marco a chair and tied the professional white covering around his neck. Marco leaned back and closed his eyes a moment. "That is _not_ the man!" he was saying to himself. "He is _not_ the man." How he knew he was not, he could not have explained, but he felt sure. It was a strong conviction. But for the sudden feeling, nothing would have been easier than to give the Sign. And if he could not give it now, where was the one to whom it must be spoken, and what would be the result if that one could not be found? And if there were two who were so much alike, how could he be sure? Each owner of each of the pictured faces was a link in a powerful secret chain; and if a link were missed, the chain would be broken. Each time Heinrich came within the line of his vision, he recorded every feature afresh and compared it with the remembered sketch. Each time the resemblance became more close, but each time some persistent inner conviction repeated, "No; the Sign is not for him!" It was disturbing, also, to find that The Rat was all at once as restless as he had previously been silent and preoccupied. He moved in his chair, to the great discomfort of the old hair-dresser. He kept turning his head to talk. He asked Marco to translate divers questions he wished him to ask the two men. They were questions about the Citadel--about the Monchsberg--the Residenz--the Glockenspiel--the mountains. He added one query to another and could not sit still. "The young gentleman will get an ear snipped," said the old man to Marco. "And it will not be my fault." "What shall I do?" Marco was thinking. "He is not the man." He did not give the Sign. He must go away and think it out, though where his thoughts would lead him he did not know. This was a more difficult problem than he had ever dreamed of facing. There was no one to ask advice of. Only himself and The Rat, who was nervously wriggling and twisting in his chair. "You must sit still," he said to him. "The hair-dresser is afraid you will make him cut you by accident." "But I want to know who lives at the Residenz?" said The Rat. "These men can tell us things if you ask them." "It is done now," said the old hair-dresser with a relieved air. "Perhaps the cutting of his hair makes the young gentleman nervous. It is sometimes so." The Rat stood close to Marco's chair and asked questions until Heinrich also had done his work. Marco could not understand his companion's change of mood. He realized that, if he had wished to give the Sign, he had been allowed no opportunity. He could not have given it. The restless questioning had so directed the older man's attention to his son and Marco that nothing could have been said to Heinrich without his observing it. "I could not have spoken if he had been the man," Marco said to himself. Their very exit from the shop seemed a little hurried. When they were fairly in the street, The Rat made a clutch at Marco's arm. "You didn't give it?" he whispered breathlessly. "I kept talking and talking to prevent you." Marco tried not to feel breathless, and he tried to speak in a low and level voice with no hint of exclamation in it. "Why did you say that?" he asked. The Rat drew closer to him. "That was not the man!" he whispered. "It doesn't matter how much he looks like him, he isn't the right one." He was pale and swinging along swiftly as if he were in a hurry. "Let's get into a quiet place," he said. "Those queer things you've been telling me have got hold of me. How did I know? How could I know--unless it's because I've been trying to work that second law? I've been saying to myself that we should be told the right things to do--for the Game and for your father--and so that I could be the right sort of aide-de-camp. I've been working at it, and, when he came out, I knew he was not the man in spite of his looks. And I couldn't be sure you knew, and I thought, if I kept on talking and interrupting you with silly questions, you could be prevented from speaking." "There's a place not far away where we can get a look at the mountains. Let's go there and sit down," said Marco. "I knew it was not the right one, too. It's the Help over again." "Yes, it's the Help--it's the Help--it must be," muttered The Rat, walking fast and with a pale, set face. "It could not be anything else." They got away from the streets and the people and reached the quiet place where they could see the mountains. There they sat down by the wayside. The Rat took off his cap and wiped his forehead, but it was not only the quick walking which had made it damp. "The queerness of it gave me a kind of fright," he said. "When he came out and he was near enough for me to see him, a sudden strong feeling came over me. It seemed as if I knew he wasn't the man. Then I said to myself--'but he looks like him'--and I began to get nervous. And then I was sure again--and then I wanted to try to stop you from giving him the Sign. And then it all seemed foolishness--and the next second all the things you had told me rushed back to me at once--and I remembered what I had been thinking ever since--and I said--'Perhaps it's the Law beginning to work,' and the palms of my hands got moist." Marco was very quiet. He was looking at the farthest and highest peaks and wondering about many things. "It was the expression of his face that was different," he said. "And his eyes. They are rather smaller than the right man's are. The light in the shop was poor, and it was not until the last time he bent over me that I found out what I had not seen before. His eyes are gray--the other ones are brown." "Did you see that!" The Rat exclaimed. "Then we're sure! We're safe!" "We're not safe till we've found the right man," Marco said. "Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?" He said the words dreamily and quietly, as if he were lost in thought--but also rather as if he expected an answer. And he still looked at the far-off peaks. The Rat, after watching him a moment or so, began to look at them also. They were like a loadstone to him too. There was something stilling about them, and when your eyes had rested upon them a few moments they did not want to move away. "There must be a ledge up there somewhere," he said at last. "Let's go up and look for it and sit there and think and think--about finding the right man." There seemed nothing fantastic in this to Marco. To go into some quiet place and sit and think about the thing he wanted to remember or to find out was an old way of his. To be quiet was always the best thing, his father had taught him. It was like listening to something which could speak without words. "There is a little train which goes up the Gaisberg," he said. "When you are at the top, a world of mountains spreads around you. Lazarus went once and told me. And we can lie out on the grass all night. Let us go, Aide-de-camp." So they went, each one thinking the same thought, and each boy-mind holding its own vision. Marco was the calmer of the two, because his belief that there was always help to be found was an accustomed one and had ceased to seem to partake of the supernatural. He believed quite simply that it was the working of a law, not the breaking of one, which gave answer and led him in his quests. The Rat, who had known nothing of laws other than those administered by police-courts, was at once awed and fascinated by the suggestion of crossing some borderland of the Unknown. The law of the One had baffled and overthrown him, with its sweeping away of the enmities of passions which created wars and called for armies. But the Law of Earthly Living seemed to offer practical benefits if you could hold on to yourself enough to work it. "You wouldn't get everything for nothing, as far as I can make out," he had said to Marco. "You'd have to sweep all the rubbish out of your mind--sweep it as if you did it with a broom--and then keep on thinking straight and believing you were going to get things--and working for them--and they'd come." Then he had laughed a short ugly laugh because he recalled something. "There was something in the Bible that my father used to jeer about--something about a man getting what he prayed for if he believed it," he said. "Oh, yes, it's there," said Marco. "That if a man pray believing he shall receive what he asks it shall be given him. All the books say something like it. It's been said so often it makes you believe it." "He didn't believe it, and I didn't," said The Rat. "Nobody does--really," answered Marco, as he had done once before. "It's because we don't know." They went up the Gaisberg in the little train, which pushed and dragged and panted slowly upward with them. It took them with it stubbornly and gradually higher and higher until it had left Salzburg and the Citadel below and had reached the world of mountains which rose and spread and lifted great heads behind each other and beside each other and beyond each other until there seemed no other land on earth but that on mountain sides and backs and shoulders and crowns. And also one felt the absurdity of living upon flat ground, where life must be an insignificant thing. There were only a few sight-seers in the small carriages, and they were going to look at the view from the summit. They were not in search of a ledge. The Rat and Marco were. When the little train stopped at the top, they got out with the rest. They wandered about with them over the short grass on the treeless summit and looked out from this viewpoint and the other. The Rat grew more and more silent, and his silence was not merely a matter of speechlessness but of expression. He _looked_ silent and as if he were no longer aware of the earth. They left the sight-seers at last and wandered away by themselves. They found a ledge where they could sit or lie and where even the world of mountains seemed below them. They had brought some simple food with them, and they laid it behind a jutting bit of rock. When the sight-seers boarded the laboring little train again and were dragged back down the mountain, their night of vigil would begin. That was what it was to be. A night of stillness on the heights, where they could wait and watch and hold themselves ready to hear any thought which spoke to them. The Rat was so thrilled that he would not have been surprised if he had heard a voice from the place of the stars. But Marco only believed that in this great stillness and beauty, if he held his boy-soul quiet enough, he should find himself at last thinking of something that would lead him to the place which held what it was best that he should find. The people returned to the train and it set out upon its way down the steepness. They heard it laboring on its way, as though it was forced to make as much effort to hold itself back as it had made to drag itself upward. Then they were alone, and it was a loneness such as an eagle might feel when it held itself poised high in the curve of blue. And they sat and watched. They saw the sun go down and, shade by shade, deepen and make radiant and then draw away with it the last touches of color--rose-gold, rose-purple, and rose-gray. One mountain-top after another held its blush a few moments and lost it. It took long to gather them all but at length they were gone and the marvel of night fell. The breath of the forests below was sweet about them, and soundlessness enclosed them which was of unearthly peace. The stars began to show themselves, and presently the two who waited found their faces turned upward to the sky and they both were speaking in whispers. "The stars look large here," The Rat said. "Yes," answered Marco. "We are not as high as the Buddhist was, but it seems like the top of the world." "There is a light on the side of the mountain yonder which is not a star," The Rat whispered. "It is a light in a hut where the guides take the climbers to rest and to spend the night," answered Marco. "It is so still," The Rat whispered again after a silence, and Marco whispered back: "It is so still." They had eaten their meal of black bread and cheese after the setting of the sun, and now they lay down on their backs and looked up until the first few stars had multiplied themselves into myriads. They began a little low talk, but the soundlessness was stronger than themselves. "How am I going to hold on to that second law?" The Rat said restlessly. "'Let pass through thy mind only the image thou wouldst see become a truth.' The things that are passing through my mind are not the things I want to come true. What if we don't find him--don't find the right one, I mean!" "Lie still--still--and look up at the stars," whispered Marco. "They give you a _sure_ feeling." There was something in the curious serenity of him which calmed even his aide-de-camp. The Rat lay still and looked--and looked--and thought. And what he thought of was the desire of his heart. The soundlessness enwrapped him and there was no world left. That there was a spark of light in the mountain-climbers' rest-hut was a thing forgotten. They were only two boys, and they had begun their journey on the earliest train and had been walking about all day and thinking of great and anxious things. "It is so still," The Rat whispered again at last. "It is so still," whispered Marco. And the mountains rising behind each other and beside each other and beyond each other in the night, and also the myriads of stars which had so multiplied themselves, looking down knew that they were asleep--as sleep the human things which do not watch forever. * * * * * "Some one is smoking," Marco found himself saying in a dream. After which he awakened and found that the smoke was not part of a dream at all. It came from the pipe of a young man who had an alpenstock and who looked as if he had climbed to see the sun rise. He wore the clothes of a climber and a green hat with a tuft at the back. He looked down at the two boys, surprised. "Good day," he said. "Did you sleep here so that you could see the sun get up?" "Yes," answered Marco. "Were you cold?" "We slept too soundly to know. And we brought our thick coats." "I slept half-way down the mountains," said the smoker. "I am a guide in these days, but I have not been one long enough to miss a sunrise it is no work to reach. My father and brother think I am mad about such things. They would rather stay in their beds. Oh! he is awake, is he?" turning toward The Rat, who had risen on one elbow and was staring at him. "What is the matter? You look as if you were afraid of me." Marco did not wait for The Rat to recover his breath and speak. "I know why he looks at you so," he answered for him. "He is startled. Yesterday we went to a hair-dresser's shop down below there, and we saw a man who was almost exactly like you--only--" he added, looking up, "his eyes were gray and yours are brown." "He was my twin brother," said the guide, puffing at his pipe cheerfully. "My father thought he could make hair-dressers of us both, and I tried it for four years. But I always wanted to be climbing the mountains and there were not holidays enough. So I cut my hair, and washed the pomade out of it, and broke away. I don't look like a hair-dresser now, do I?" He did not. Not at all. But Marco knew him. He was the man. There was no one on the mountain-top but themselves, and the sun was just showing a rim of gold above the farthest and highest giant's shoulders. One need not be afraid to do anything, since there was no one to see or hear. Marco slipped the sketch out of the slit in his sleeve. He looked at it and he looked at the guide, and then he showed it to him. "That is not your brother. It is you!" he said. The man's face changed a little--more than any other face had changed when its owner had been spoken to. On a mountain-top as the sun rises one is not afraid. "The Lamp is lighted," said Marco. "The Lamp is lighted." "God be thanked!" burst forth the man. And he took off his hat and bared his head. Then the rim behind the mountain's shoulder leaped forth into a golden torrent of splendor. And The Rat stood up, resting his weight on his crutches in utter silence, and stared and stared. "That is three!" said Marco. XXIII THE SILVER HORN During the next week, which they spent in journeying towards Vienna, they gave the Sign to three different persons at places which were on the way. In a village across the frontier in Bavaria they found a giant of an old man sitting on a bench under a tree before his mountain "Gasthaus" or inn; and when the four words were uttered, he stood up and bared his head as the guide had done. When Marco gave the Sign in some quiet place to a man who was alone, he noticed that they all did this and said their "God be thanked" devoutly, as if it were part of some religious ceremony. In a small town a few miles away he had to search some hours before he found a stalwart young shoemaker with bright red hair and a horseshoe-shaped scar on his forehead. He was not in his workshop when the boys first passed it, because, as they found out later, he had been climbing a mountain the day before, and had been detained in the descent because his companion had hurt himself. When Marco went in and asked him to measure him for a pair of shoes, he was quite friendly and told them all about it. "There are some good fellows who should not climb," he said. "When they find themselves standing on a bit of rock jutting out over emptiness, their heads begin to whirl round--and then, if they don't turn head over heels a few thousand feet, it is because some comrade is near enough to drag them back. There can be no ceremony then and they sometimes get hurt--as my friend did yesterday." "Did you never get hurt yourself?" The Rat asked. "When I was eight years old I did that," said the young shoemaker, touching the scar on his forehead. "But it was not much. My father was a guide and took me with him. He wanted me to begin early. There is nothing like it--climbing. I shall be at it again. This won't do for me. I tried shoemaking because I was in love with a girl who wanted me to stay at home. She married another man. I am glad of it. Once a guide, always a guide." He knelt down to measure Marco's foot, and Marco bent a little forward. "The Lamp is lighted," he said. There was no one in the shop, but the door was open and people were passing in the narrow street; so the shoemaker did not lift his red head. He went on measuring. "God be thanked!" he said, in a low voice. "Do you want these shoes really, or did you only want me to take your measure?" "I cannot wait until they are made," Marco answered. "I must go on." "Yes, you must go on," answered the shoemaker. "But I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll make them and keep them. Some great day might come when I shall show them to people and swagger about them." He glanced round cautiously, and then ended, still bending over his measuring. "They will be called the shoes of the Bearer of the Sign. And I shall say, 'He was only a lad. This was the size of his foot.'" Then he stood up with a great smile. "There'll be climbing enough to be done now," he said, "and I look to see you again somewhere." When the boys went away, they talked it over. "The hair-dresser didn't want to be a hair-dresser, and the shoemaker didn't want to make shoes," said The Rat. "They both wanted to be mountain-climbers. There are mountains in Samavia and mountains on the way to it. You showed them to me on the map. "Yes; and secret messengers who can climb anywhere, and cross dangerous places, and reconnoiter from points no one else can reach, can find out things and give signals other men cannot," said Marco. "That's what I thought out," The Rat answered. "That was what he meant when he said, 'There will be climbing enough to be done now.'" Strange were the places they went to and curiously unlike each other were the people to whom they carried their message. The most singular of all was an old woman who lived in so remote a place that the road which wound round and round the mountain, wound round it for miles and miles. It was not a bad road and it was an amazing one to travel, dragged in a small cart by a mule, when one could be dragged, and clambering slowly with rests between when one could not: the tree-covered precipices one looked down, the tossing whiteness of waterfalls, or the green foaming of rushing streams, and the immensity of farm- and village-scattered plains spreading themselves to the feet of other mountains shutting them in were breath-taking beauties to look down on, as the road mounted and wound round and round and higher and higher. "How can any one live higher than this?" said The Rat as they sat on the thick moss by the wayside after the mule and cart had left them. "Look at the bare crags looming up above there. Let us look at her again. Her picture looked as if she were a hundred years old." Marco took out his hidden sketch. It seemed surely one of the strangest things in the world that a creature as old as this one seemed could reach such a place, or, having reached it, could ever descend to the world again to give aid to any person or thing. Her old face was crossed and recrossed with a thousand wrinkles. Her profile was splendid yet and she had been a beauty in her day. Her eyes were like an eagle's--and not an old eagle's. And she had a long neck which held her old head high. "How could she get here?" exclaimed The Rat. "Those who sent us know, though we don't," said Marco. "Will you sit here and rest while I go on further?" "No!" The Rat answered stubbornly. "I didn't train myself to stay behind. But we shall come to bare-rock climbing soon and then I shall be obliged to stop," and he said the last bitterly. He knew that, if Marco had come alone, he would have ridden in no cart but would have trudged upward and onward sturdily to the end of his journey. But they did not reach the crags, as they had thought must be inevitable. Suddenly half-way to the sky, as it seemed, they came to a bend in the road and found themselves mounting into a new green world--an astonishing marvel of a world, with green velvet slopes and soft meadows and thick woodland, and cows feeding in velvet pastures, and--as if it had been snowed down from the huge bare mountain crags which still soared above into heaven--a mysterious, ancient, huddled village which, being thus snowed down, might have caught among the rocks and rested there through all time. There it stood. There it huddled itself. And the monsters in the blue above it themselves looked down upon it as if it were an incredible thing--this ancient, steep-roofed, hanging-balconied, crumbling cluster of human nests, which seemed a thousand miles from the world. Marco and The Rat stood and stared at it. Then they sat down and stared at it. "How did it get here?" The Rat cried. Marco shook his head. He certainly could see no explanation of its being there. Perhaps some of the oldest villagers could tell stories of how its first chalets had gathered themselves together. An old peasant driving a cow came down a steep path. He looked with a dull curiosity at The Rat and his crutches; but when Marco advanced and spoke to him in German, he did not seem to understand, but shook his head saying something in a sort of dialect Marco did not know. "If they all speak like that, we shall have to make signs when we want to ask anything," The Rat said. "What will she speak?" "She will know the German for the Sign or we should not have been sent here," answered Marco. "Come on." They made their way to the village, which huddled itself together evidently with the object of keeping itself warm when through the winter months the snows strove to bury it and the winds roared down from the huge mountain crags and tried to tear it from among its rocks. The doors and windows were few and small, and glimpses of the inside of the houses showed earthen floors and dark rooms. It was plain that it was counted a more comfortable thing to live without light than to let in the cold. It was easy enough to reconnoiter. The few people they saw were evidently not surprised that strangers who discovered their unexpected existence should be curious and want to look at them and their houses. The boys wandered about as if they were casual explorers, who having reached the place by chance were interested in all they saw. They went into the little Gasthaus and got some black bread and sausage and some milk. The mountaineer owner was a brawny fellow who understood some German. He told them that few strangers knew of the village but that bold hunters and climbers came for sport. In the forests on the mountain sides were bears and, in the high places, chamois. Now and again, some great gentlemen came with parties of the daring kind--very great gentlemen indeed, he said, shaking his head with pride. There was one who had castles in other mountains, but he liked best to come here. Marco began to wonder if several strange things might not be true if great gentlemen sometimes climbed to the mysterious place. But he had not been sent to give the Sign to a great gentleman. He had been sent to give it to an old woman with eyes like an eagle which was young. He had a sketch in his sleeve, with that of her face, of her steep-roofed, black-beamed, balconied house. If they walked about a little, they would be sure to come upon it in this tiny place. Then he could go in and ask her for a drink of water. They roamed about for an hour after they left the Gasthaus. They went into the little church and looked at the graveyard and wondered if it was not buried out of all sight in the winter. After they had done this, they sauntered out and walked through the huddled clusters of houses, examining each one as they drew near it and passed. "I see it!" The Rat exclaimed at last. "It is that very old-looking one standing a little way from the rest. It is not as tumbled down as most of them. And there are some red flowers on the balcony." "Yes! That's it!" said Marco. They walked up to the low black door and, as he stopped on the threshold, Marco took off his cap. He did this because, sitting in the doorway on a low wooden chair, the old, old woman with the eagle eyes was sitting knitting. There was no one else in the room and no one anywhere within sight. When the old, old woman looked up at him with her young eagle's eyes, holding her head high on her long neck, Marco knew he need not ask for water or for anything else. "The Lamp is lighted," he said, in his low but strong and clear young voice. She dropped her knitting upon her knees and gazed at him a moment in silence. She knew German it was clear, for it was in German she answered him. "God be thanked!" she said. "Come in, young Bearer of the Sign, and bring your friend in with you. I live alone and not a soul is within hearing." She was a wonderful old woman. Neither Marco nor The Rat would live long enough to forget the hours they spent in her strange dark house. She kept them and made them spend the night with her. "It is quite safe," she said. "I live alone since my man fell into the crevasse and was killed because his rope broke when he was trying to save his comrade. So I have two rooms to spare and sometimes climbers are glad to sleep in them. Mine is a good warm house and I am well known in the village. You are very young," she added shaking her head. "You are very young. You must have good blood in your veins to be trusted with this." "I have my father's blood," answered Marco. "You are like some one I once saw," the old woman said, and her eagle eyes set themselves hard upon him. "Tell me your name." There was no reason why he should not tell it to her. "It is Marco Loristan," he said. "What! It is that!" she cried out, not loud but low. To Marco's amazement she got up from her chair and stood before him, showing what a tall old woman she really was. There was a startled, even an agitated, look in her face. And suddenly she actually made a sort of curtsey to him--bending her knee as peasants do when they pass a shrine. "It is that!" she said again. "And yet they dare let you go on a journey like this! That speaks for your courage and for theirs." But Marco did not know what she meant. Her strange obeisance made him feel awkward. He stood up because his training had told him that when a woman stands a man also rises. "The name speaks for the courage," he said, "because it is my father's." She watched him almost anxiously. "You do not even know!" she breathed--and it was an exclamation and not a question. "I know what I have been told to do," he answered. "I do not ask anything else." "Who is that?" she asked, pointing to The Rat. "He is the friend my father sent with me," said Marco smiling. "He called him my aide-de-camp. It was a sort of joke because we had played soldiers together." It seemed as if she were obliged to collect her thoughts. She stood with her hand at her mouth, looking down at the earth floor. "God guard you!" she said at last. "You are very--very young!" "But all his years," The Rat broke in, "he has been in training for just this thing. He did not know it was training, but it was. A soldier who had been trained for thirteen years would know his work." He was so eager that he forgot she could not understand English. Marco translated what he said into German and added: "What he says is true." She nodded her head, still with questioning and anxious eyes. "Yes. Yes," she muttered. "But you are very young." Then she asked in a hesitating way: "Will you not sit down until I do?" "No," answered Marco. "I would not sit while my mother or grandmother stood." "Then I must sit--and forget," she said. She passed her hand over her face as though she were sweeping away the sudden puzzled trouble in her expression. Then she sat down, as if she had obliged herself to become again the old peasant she had been when they entered. "All the way up the mountain you wondered why an old woman should be given the Sign," she said. "You asked each other how she could be of use." Neither Marco nor The Rat said anything. "When I was young and fresh," she went on. "I went to a castle over the frontier to be foster-mother to a child who was born a great noble--one who was near the throne. He loved me and I loved him. He was a strong child and he grew up a great hunter and climber. When he was not ten years old, my man taught him to climb. He always loved these mountains better than his own. He comes to see me as if he were only a young mountaineer. He sleeps in the room there," with a gesture over her shoulder into the darkness. "He has great power and, if he chooses to do a thing, he will do it--just as he will attack the biggest bear or climb the most dangerous peak. He is one who can bring things about. It is very safe to talk in this room." Then all was quite clear. Marco and The Rat understood. No more was said about the Sign. It had been given and that was enough. The old woman told them that they must sleep in one of her bedrooms. The next morning one of her neighbors was going down to the valley with a cart and he would help them on their way. The Rat knew that she was thinking of his crutches and he became restless. "Tell her," he said to Marco, "how I have trained myself until I can do what any one else can. And tell her I am growing stronger every day. Tell her I'll show her what I can do. Your father wouldn't have let me come as your aide if I hadn't proved to him that I wasn't a cripple. Tell her. She thinks I'm no use." Marco explained and the old woman listened attentively. When The Rat got up and swung himself about up and down the steep path near her house she seemed relieved. His extraordinary dexterity and firm swiftness evidently amazed her and gave her a confidence she had not felt at first. "If he has taught himself to be like that just for love of your father, he will go to the end," she said. "It is more than one could believe, that a pair of crutches could do such things." The Rat was pacified and could afterwards give himself up to watching her as closely as he wished to. He was soon "working out" certain things in his mind. What he watched was her way of watching Marco. It was as if she were fascinated and could not keep her eyes from him. She told them stories about the mountains and the strangers who came to climb with guides or to hunt. She told them about the storms, which sometimes seemed about to put an end to the little world among the crags. She described the winter when the snow buried them and the strong ones were forced to dig out the weak and some lived for days under the masses of soft whiteness, glad to keep their cows or goats in their rooms that they might share the warmth of their bodies. The villages were forced to be good neighbors to each other, for the man who was not ready to dig out a hidden chimney or buried door to-day might be left to freeze and starve in his snow tomb next week. Through the worst part of the winter no creature from the world below could make way to them to find out whether they were all dead or alive. While she talked, she watched Marco as if she were always asking herself some question about him. The Rat was sure that she liked him and greatly admired his strong body and good looks. It was not necessary for him to carry himself slouchingly in her presence and he looked glowing and noble. There was a sort of reverence in her manner when she spoke to him. She reminded him of Lazarus more than once. When she gave them their evening meal, she insisted on waiting on him with a certain respectful ceremony. She would not sit at table with him, and The Rat began to realize that she felt that he himself should be standing to serve him. "She thinks I ought to stand behind your chair as Lazarus stands behind your father's," he said to Marco. "Perhaps an aide ought to do it. Shall I? I believe it would please her." "A Bearer of the Sign is not a royal person," answered Marco. "My father would not like it--and I should not. We are only two boys." It was very wonderful when, after their supper was over, they all three sat together before the fire. The red glow of the bed of wood-coal and the orange yellow of the flame from the big logs filled the room with warm light, which made a mellow background for the figure of the old woman as she sat in her low chair and told them more and more enthralling stories. Her eagle eyes glowed and her long neck held her head splendidly high as she described great feats of courage and endurance or almost superhuman daring in aiding those in awesome peril, and, when she glowed most in the telling, they always knew that the hero of the adventure had been her foster-child who was the baby born a great noble and near the throne. To her, he was the most splendid and adorable of human beings. Almost an emperor, but so warm and tender of heart that he never forgot the long-past days when she had held him on her knee and told him tales of chamois- and bear-hunting, and of the mountain-tops in midwinter. He was her sun-god. "Yes! Yes!" she said. "'Good Mother,' he calls me. And I bake him a cake on the hearth, as I did when he was ten years old and my man was teaching him to climb. And when he chooses that a thing shall be done--done it is! He is a great lord." The flames had died down and only the big bed of red coal made the room glow, and they were thinking of going to bed when the old woman started very suddenly, turning her head as if to listen. Marco and The Rat heard nothing, but they saw that she did and they sat so still that each held his breath. So there was utter stillness for a few moments. Utter stillness. Then they did hear something--a clear silver sound, piercing the pure mountain air. The old woman sprang upright with the fire of delight in her eyes. "It is his silver horn!" she cried out striking her hands together. "It is his own call to me when he is coming. He has been hunting somewhere and wants to sleep in his good bed here. Help me to put on more faggots," to The Rat, "so that he will see the flame of them through the open door as he comes." "Shall we be in the way?" said Marco. "We can go at once." She was going towards the door to open it and she stopped a moment and turned. "No, no!" she said. "He must see your face. He will want to see it. I want him to see--how young you are." She threw the door wide open and they heard the silver horn send out its gay call again. The brushwood and faggots The Rat had thrown on the coals crackled and sparkled and roared into fine flames, which cast their light into the road and threw out in fine relief the old figure which stood on the threshold and looked so tall. And in but a few minutes her great lord came to her. And in his green hunting-suit with its green hat and eagle's feather he was as splendid as she had said he was. He was big and royal-looking and laughing and he bent and kissed her as if he had been her own son. "Yes, good Mother," they heard him say. "I want my warm bed and one of your good suppers. I sent the others to the Gasthaus." He came into the redly glowing room and his head almost touched the blackened rafters. Then he saw the two boys. "Who are these, good Mother?" he asked. She lifted his hand and kissed it. "They are the Bearers of the Sign," she said rather softly. "'The Lamp is lighted.'" Then his whole look changed. His laughing face became quite grave and for a moment looked even anxious. Marco knew it was because he was startled to find them only boys. He made a step forward to look at them more closely. "The Lamp is lighted! And you two bear the Sign!" he exclaimed. Marco stood out in the fire glow that he might see him well. He saluted with respect. "My name is Marco Loristan, Highness," he said. "And my father sent me." The change which came upon his face then was even greater than at first. For a second, Marco even felt that there was a flash of alarm in it. But almost at once that passed. "Loristan is a great man and a great patriot," he said. "If he sent you, it is because he knows you are the one safe messenger. He has worked too long for Samavia not to know what he does." Marco saluted again. He knew what it was right to say next. "If we have your Highness's permission to retire," he said, "we will leave you and go to bed. We go down the mountain at sunrise." "Where next?" asked the hunter, looking at him with curious intentness. "To Vienna, Highness," Marco answered. His questioner held out his hand, still with the intent interest in his eyes. "Good night, fine lad," he said. "Samavia has need to vaunt itself on its Sign-bearer. God go with you." He stood and watched him as he went toward the room in which he and his aide-de-camp were to sleep. The Rat followed him closely. At the little back door the old, old woman stood, having opened it for them. As Marco passed and bade her good night, he saw that she again made the strange obeisance, bending the knee as he went by. XXIV "HOW SHALL WE FIND HIM?" In Vienna they came upon a pageant. In celebration of a century-past victory the Emperor drove in state and ceremony to attend at the great cathedral and to do honor to the ancient banners and laurel-wreathed statue of a long-dead soldier-prince. The broad pavements of the huge chief thoroughfare were crowded with a cheering populace watching the martial pomp and splendor as it passed by with marching feet, prancing horses, and glitter of scabbard and chain, which all seemed somehow part of music in triumphant bursts. The Rat was enormously thrilled by the magnificence of the imperial place. Its immense spaces, the squares and gardens, reigned over by statues of emperors, and warriors, and queens made him feel that all things on earth were possible. The palaces and stately piles of architecture, whose surmounting equestrian bronzes ramped high in the air clear cut and beautiful against the sky, seemed to sweep out of his world all atmosphere but that of splendid cities down whose broad avenues emperors rode with waving banners, tramping, jangling soldiery before and behind, and golden trumpets blaring forth. It seemed as if it must always be like this--that lances and cavalry and emperors would never cease to ride by. "I should like to stay here a long time," he said almost as if he were in a dream. "I should like to see it all." He leaned on his crutches in the crowd and watched the glitter of the passing pageant. Now and then he glanced at Marco, who watched also with a steady eye which, The Rat saw, nothing would escape: How absorbed he always was in the Game! How impossible it was for him to forget it or to remember it only as a boy would! Often it seemed that he was not a boy at all. And the Game, The Rat knew in these days, was a game no more but a thing of deep and deadly earnest--a thing which touched kings and thrones, and concerned the ruling and swaying of great countries. And they--two lads pushed about by the crowd as they stood and stared at the soldiers--carried with them that which was even now lighting the Lamp. The blood in The Rat's veins ran quickly and made him feel hot as he remembered certain thoughts which had forced themselves into his mind during the past weeks. As his brain had the trick of "working things out," it had, during the last fortnight at least, been following a wonderful even if rather fantastic and feverish fancy. A mere trifle had set it at work, but, its labor once begun, things which might have once seemed to be trifles appeared so no longer. When Marco was asleep, The Rat lay awake through thrilled and sometimes almost breathless midnight hours, looking backward and recalling every detail of their lives since they had known each other. Sometimes it seemed to him that almost everything he remembered--the Game from first to last above all--had pointed to but one thing. And then again he would all at once feel that he was a fool and had better keep his head steady. Marco, he knew, had no wild fancies. He had learned too much and his mind was too well balanced. He did not try to "work out things." He only thought of what he was under orders to do. "But," said The Rat more than once in these midnight hours, "if it ever comes to a draw whether he is to be saved or I am, he is the one that must come to no harm. Killing can't take long--and his father sent me with him." This thought passed through his mind as the tramping feet went by. As a sudden splendid burst of approaching music broke upon his ear, a queer look twisted his face. He realized the contrast between this day and that first morning behind the churchyard, when he had sat on his platform among the Squad and looked up and saw Marco in the arch at the end of the passage. And because he had been good-looking and had held himself so well, he had thrown a stone at him. Yes--blind gutter-bred fool that he'd been:--his first greeting to Marco had been a stone, just because he was what he was. As they stood here in the crowd in this far-off foreign city, it did not seem as if it could be true that it was he who had done it. He managed to work himself closer to Marco's side. "Isn't it splendid?" he said, "I wish I was an emperor myself. I'd have these fellows out like this every day." He said it only because he wanted to say something, to speak, as a reason for getting closer to him. He wanted to be near enough to touch him and feel that they were really together and that the whole thing was not a sort of magnificent dream from which he might awaken to find himself lying on his heap of rags in his corner of the room in Bone Court. The crowd swayed forward in its eagerness to see the principal feature of the pageant--the Emperor in his carriage. The Rat swayed forward with the rest to look as it passed. A handsome white-haired and mustached personage in splendid uniform decorated with jeweled orders and with a cascade of emerald-green plumes nodding in his military hat gravely saluted the shouting people on either side. By him sat a man uniformed, decorated, and emerald-plumed also, but many years younger. Marco's arm touched The Rat's almost at the same moment that his own touched Marco. Under the nodding plumes each saw the rather tired and cynical pale face, a sketch of which was hidden in the slit in Marco's sleeve. "Is the one who sits with the Emperor an Archduke?" Marco asked the man nearest to him in the crowd. The man answered amiably enough. No, he was not, but he was a certain Prince, a descendant of the one who was the hero of the day. He was a great favorite of the Emperor's and was also a great personage, whose palace contained pictures celebrated throughout Europe. "He pretends it is only pictures he cares for," he went on, shrugging his shoulders and speaking to his wife, who had begun to listen, "but he is a clever one, who amuses himself with things he professes not to concern himself about--big things. It's his way to look bored, and interested in nothing, but it's said he's a wizard for knowing dangerous secrets." "Does he live at the Hofburg with the Emperor?" asked the woman, craning her neck to look after the imperial carriage. "No, but he's often there. The Emperor is lonely and bored too, no doubt, and this one has ways of making him forget his troubles. It's been told me that now and then the two dress themselves roughly, like common men, and go out into the city to see what it's like to rub shoulders with the rest of the world. I daresay it's true. I should like to try it myself once in a while, if I had to sit on a throne and wear a crown." The two boys followed the celebration to its end. They managed to get near enough to see the entrance to the church where the service was held and to get a view of the ceremonies at the banner-draped and laurel-wreathed statue. They saw the man with the pale face several times, but he was always so enclosed that it was not possible to get within yards of him. It happened once, however, that he looked through a temporary break in the crowding people and saw a dark strong-featured and remarkably intent boy's face, whose vivid scrutiny of him caught his eye. There was something in the fixedness of its attention which caused him to look at it curiously for a few seconds, and Marco met his gaze squarely. "Look at me! Look at me!" the boy was saying to him mentally. "I have a message for you. A message!" The tired eyes in the pale face rested on him with a certain growing light of interest and curiosity, but the crowding people moved and the temporary break closed up, so that the two could see each other no more. Marco and The Rat were pushed backward by those taller and stronger than themselves until they were on the outskirts of the crowd. "Let us go to the Hofburg," said Marco. "They will come back there, and we shall see him again even if we can't get near." To the Hofburg they made their way through the less crowded streets, and there they waited as near to the great palace as they could get. They were there when, the ceremonies at an end, the imperial carriages returned, but, though they saw their man again, they were at some distance from him and he did not see them. Then followed four singular days. They were singular days because they were full of tantalizing incidents. Nothing seemed easier than to hear talk of, and see the Emperor's favorite, but nothing was more impossible than to get near to him. He seemed rather a favorite with the populace, and the common people of the shopkeeping or laboring classes were given to talking freely of him--of where he was going and what he was doing. To-night he would be sure to be at this great house or that, at this ball or that banquet. There was no difficulty in discovering that he would be sure to go to the opera, or the theatre, or to drive to Schönbrunn with his imperial master. Marco and The Rat heard casual speech of him again and again, and from one part of the city to the other they followed and waited for him. But it was like chasing a will-o'-the-wisp. He was evidently too brilliant and important a person to be allowed to move about alone. There were always people with him who seemed absorbed in his languid cynical talk. Marco thought that he never seemed to care much for his companions, though they on their part always seemed highly entertained by what he was saying. It was noticeable that they laughed a great deal, though he himself scarcely even smiled. "He's one of those chaps with the trick of saying witty things as if he didn't see the fun in them himself," The Rat summed him up. "Chaps like that are always cleverer than the other kind." "He's too high in favor and too rich not to be followed about," they heard a man in a shop say one day, "but he gets tired of it. Sometimes, when he's too bored to stand it any longer, he gives it out that he's gone into the mountains somewhere, and all the time he's shut up alone with his pictures in his own palace." That very night The Rat came in to their attic looking pale and disappointed. He had been out to buy some food after a long and arduous day in which they had covered much ground, had seen their man three times, and each time under circumstances which made him more inaccessible than ever. They had come back to their poor quarters both tired and ravenously hungry. The Rat threw his purchase on to the table and himself into a chair. "He's gone to Budapest," he said. "_Now_ how shall we find him?" Marco was rather pale also, and for a moment he looked paler. The day had been a hard one, and in their haste to reach places at a long distance from each other they had forgotten their need of food. They sat silent for a few moments because there seemed to be nothing to say. "We are too tired and hungry to be able to think well," Marco said at last. "Let us eat our supper and then go to sleep. Until we've had a rest, we must 'let go.'" "Yes. There's no good in talking when you're tired," The Rat answered a trifle gloomily. "You don't reason straight. We must 'let go.'" Their meal was simple but they ate well and without words. Even when they had finished and undressed for the night, they said very little. "Where do our thoughts go when we are asleep?" The Rat inquired casually after he was stretched out in the darkness. "They must go somewhere. Let's send them to find out what to do next." "It's not as still as it was on the Gaisberg. You can hear the city roaring," said Marco drowsily from his dark corner. "We must make a ledge--for ourselves." Sleep made it for them--deep, restful, healthy sleep. If they had been more resentful of their ill luck and lost labor, it would have come less easily and have been less natural. In their talks of strange things they had learned that one great secret of strength and unflagging courage is to know how to "let go"--to cease thinking over an anxiety until the right moment comes. It was their habit to "let go" for hours sometimes, and wander about looking at places and things--galleries, museums, palaces, giving themselves up with boyish pleasure and eagerness to all they saw. Marco was too intimate with the things worth seeing, and The Rat too curious and feverishly wide-awake to allow of their missing much. The Rat's image of the world had grown until it seemed to know no boundaries which could hold its wealth of wonders. He wanted to go on and on and see them all. When Marco opened his eyes in the morning, he found The Rat lying looking at him. Then they both sat up in bed at the same time. "I believe we are both thinking the same thing," Marco said. They frequently discovered that they were thinking the same things. "So do I," answered The Rat. "It shows how tired we were that we didn't think of it last night." "Yes, we are thinking the same thing," said Marco. "We have both remembered what we heard about his shutting himself up alone with his pictures and making people believe he had gone away." "He's in his palace now," The Rat announced. "Do you feel sure of that, too?" asked Marco. "Did you wake up and feel sure of it the first thing?" "Yes," answered The Rat. "As sure as if I'd heard him say it himself." "So did I," said Marco. "That's what our thoughts brought back to us," said The Rat, "when we 'let go' and sent them off last night." He sat up hugging his knees and looking straight before him for some time after this, and Marco did not interrupt his meditations. The day was a brilliant one, and, though their attic had only one window, the sun shone in through it as they ate their breakfast. After it, they leaned on the window's ledge and talked about the Prince's garden. They talked about it because it was a place open to the public and they had walked round it more than once. The palace, which was not a large one, stood in the midst of it. The Prince was good-natured enough to allow quiet and well-behaved people to saunter through. It was not a fashionable promenade but a pleasant retreat for people who sometimes took their work or books and sat on the seats placed here and there among the shrubs and flowers. "When we were there the first time, I noticed two things," Marco said. "There is a stone balcony which juts out from the side of the palace which looks on the Fountain Garden. That day there were chairs on it as if the Prince and his visitors sometimes sat there. Near it, there was a very large evergreen shrub and I saw that there was a hollow place inside it. If some one wanted to stay in the gardens all night to watch the windows when they were lighted and see if any one came out alone upon the balcony, he could hide himself in the hollow place and stay there until the morning." "Is there room for two inside the shrub?" The Rat asked. "No. I must go alone," said Marco. XXV A VOICE IN THE NIGHT Late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet, inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. They looked at the palace, the shrubs, and the flower-beds, as strangers usually did, and they sat on the seats and talked as people were accustomed to seeing boys talk together. It was a sunny day and exceptionally warm, and there were more saunterers and sitters than usual, which was perhaps the reason why the ___portier___ at the entrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair that he did not observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. He did not, in fact, remember, when he saw The Rat swing by on his crutches at closing-time, that he had entered in company with a dark-haired lad who walked without any aid. It happened that, when The Rat passed out, the ___portier___ at the entrance was much interested in the aspect of the sky, which was curiously threatening. There had been heavy clouds hanging about all day and now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sun had refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the clouds had piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and the sun had been forced to set behind them. "It's been a sort of battle since morning," the ___portier___ said. "There will be some crashes and cataracts to-night." That was what The Rat had thought when they had sat in the Fountain Garden on a seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the big evergreen shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle, though its circumference was so imposing. "If there should be a big storm, the evergreen will not save you much, though it may keep off the worst," The Rat said. "I wish there was room for two." He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marco marching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose and walked round once more, as if on their way out. By the time they had sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in the Fountain Garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward the arched stone entrance to the streets. When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were together. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he was alone! No one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked back. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flower-beds and passed into the street. And the ___portier___ looked at the sky and made his remark about the "crashes" and "cataracts." As the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a very safe place. It was not in the least likely that any one would enter the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant passed through, he would not be in search of people who wished to watch all night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going to bed and to sleep. The hollow was well inclosed with greenery, and there was room to sit down when one was tired of standing. Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see plainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed aside some flexible young boughs. He had managed to discover in his first visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking the Fountain Garden were those which belonged to the Prince's own suite of rooms. Those which opened on to the balcony lighted his favorite apartment, which contained his best-loved books and pictures and in which he spent most of his secluded leisure hours. Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had not gone to Budapest,--if he were really only in retreat, and hiding from his gay world among his treasures,--he would be living in his favorite rooms and lights would show themselves. And if there were lights, he might pass before a window because, since he was inclosed in his garden, he need not fear being seen. The twilight deepened into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds, it was very dense. Faint gleams showed themselves in the lower part of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows Marco watched. He waited so long that it became evident that none was to be lighted at all. At last he loosed his hold on the young boughs and, after standing a few moments in thought, sat down upon the earth in the midst of his embowered tent. The Prince was not in his retreat; he was probably not in Vienna, and the rumor of his journey to Budapest had no doubt been true. So much time lost through making a mistake--but it was best to have made the venture. Not to have made it would have been to lose a chance. The entrance was closed for the night and there was no getting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next day. He must stay in his hiding-place until the time when people began to come and bring their books and knitting and sit on the seats. Then he could stroll out without attracting attention. But he had the night before him to spend as best he could. That would not matter at all. He could tuck his cap under his head and go to sleep on the ground. He could command himself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights. He would not go to sleep until it was long past midnight--so long past that there would not be one chance in a hundred that anything could happen. But the clouds which made the night so dark were giving forth low rumbling growls. At intervals a threatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden swish of wind rushed through the trees in the garden. This happened several times, and then Marco began to hear the patter of raindrops. They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and then there was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged dart of light in the sky, and a tremendous crash. After that the clouds tore themselves open and poured forth their contents in floods. After the protracted struggle of the day it all seemed to happen at once, as if a horde of huge lions had at one moment been let loose: flame after flame of lightning, roar and crash and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of hurricane wind, torrents of rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies had gathered and rushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a storm as people remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen at all. Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blinding roar of it. After the first few minutes he knew he could do nothing to shield himself. Down the garden paths he heard cataracts rushing. He held his cap pressed against his eyes because he seemed to stand in the midst of darting flames. The crashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and the jagged streams of light came so close to one another that he seemed deafened as well as blinded. He wondered if he should ever be able to hear human voices again when it was over. That he was drenched to the skin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he were himself a cataract was so small a detail that he was scarcely aware of it. He stood still, bracing his body, and waited. If he had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a storm had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have braced themselves and waited. This was what he found himself thinking when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There were men who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets. It was not long after this thought had come to him that there occurred the first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhaps reached its height and broke at that moment. A yellow flame had torn its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rending crash had thundered itself into rumblings which actually died away before breaking forth again. Marco took his cap from his eyes and drew a long breath. He drew two long breaths. It was as he began drawing a third and realizing the strange feeling of the almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind of sound at the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. It sounded like the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind the laurel hedge. Some one was coming into the garden by a private entrance. He pushed aside the young boughs again and tried to see, but the darkness was too dense. Yet he could hear if the thunder would not break again. There was the sound of feet on the wet gravel, the footsteps of more than one person coming toward where he stood, but not as if afraid of being heard; merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrance they chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him a shock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hide himself from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out by a private entrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wet gravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the balcony; and them flame lit up the sky again and the thunder burst forth once more. But this was its last great peal. The storm was at an end. Only fainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler darts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts in the paths had rushed themselves silent. But the darkness was still deep. It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marco stood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he was full of thought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept his eyes on the place in the blackness where the windows must be, though he could not see them. It seemed that he waited a long time, but he knew it only seemed so really. He began to breathe quickly because he was waiting for something. Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they were all lighted! His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long. It was true that something had been gained in the certainty that his man had not left Vienna. But what next? It would not be so easy to follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night. What next? To spend the rest of the night watching a lighted window was not enough. To-morrow night it might not be lighted. But he kept his gaze fixed upon it. He tried to fix all his will and thought-power on the person inside the room. Perhaps he could reach him and make him listen, even though he would not know that any one was speaking to him. He knew that thoughts were strong things. If angry thoughts in one man's mind will create anger in the mind of another, why should not sane messages cross the line? "I must speak to you. I must speak to you!" he found himself saying in a low intense voice. "I am outside here waiting. Listen! I must speak to you!" He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window which opened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man's figure cross the room, but he could not be sure who it was. The last distant rumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking. It was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart, and a brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift, suddenly flooding everything with light. Parts of the garden were silver white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet. A silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of Marco's evergreen and struck across his face. Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention of those inside the balconied room. A man's figure appeared at the long windows. Marco saw now that it was the Prince. He opened the windows and stepped out on to the balcony. "It is all over," he said quietly. And he stood with his face lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon. He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the world and himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon. But something brought him back to earth. A low, but strong and clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below. "The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted," it said, and the words sounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. They seemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him. He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent over the balustrade. The moonlight had not broken the darkness below. "That is a boy's voice," he said in a low tone, "but I cannot see who is speaking." "Yes, it is a boy's voice," it answered, in a way which somehow moved him, because it was so ardent. "It is the son of Stefan Loristan. The Lamp is lighted." [Illustration: "It is the son of Stefan Loristan. The Lamp is lighted!"] "Wait. I am coming down to you," the Prince said. In a few minutes Marco heard a door open gently not far from where he stood. Then the man he had been following so many days appeared at his side. "How long have you been here?" he asked. "Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the big shrub there, Highness," Marco answered. "Then you were out in the storm?" "Yes, Highness." The Prince put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I cannot see you--but it is best to stand in the shadow. You are drenched to the skin." "I have been able to give your Highness--the Sign," Marco whispered. "A storm is nothing." There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausing to turn something over in his mind. "So-o?" he said slowly, at length. "The Lamp is lighted. And _you_ are sent to bear the Sign." Something in his voice made Marco feel that he was smiling. "What a race you are! What a race--you Samavian Loristans!" He paused as if to think the thing over again. "I want to see your face," he said next. "Here is a tree with a shaft of moonlight striking through the branches. Let us step aside and stand under it." Marco did as he was told. The shaft of moonlight fell upon his uplifted face and showed its young strength and darkness, quite splendid for the moment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstacles overcome. Raindrops hung on his hair, but he did not look draggled, only very wet and picturesque. He had reached his man. He had given the Sign. The Prince looked him over with interested curiosity. "Yes," he said in his cool, rather dragging voice. "You are the son of Stefan Loristan. Also you must be taken care of. You must come with me. I have trained my household to remain in its own quarters until I require its service. I have attached to my own apartments a good safe little room where I sometimes keep people. You can dry your clothes and sleep there. When the gardens are opened again, the rest will be easy." But though he stepped out from under the trees and began to move towards the palace in the shadow, Marco noticed that he moved hesitatingly, as if he had not quite decided what he should do. He stopped rather suddenly and turned again to Marco, who was following him. "There is some one in the room I just now left," he said, "an old man--whom it might interest to see you. It might also be a good thing for him to feel interest in you. I choose that he shall see you--as you are." "I am at your command, Highness," Marco answered. He knew his companion was smiling again. "You have been in training for more centuries than you know," he said; "and your father has prepared you to encounter the unexpected without surprise." They passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorway hidden behind shrubs. The door was a beautiful one, Marco saw when it was opened, and the corridor disclosed was beautiful also, though it had an air of quiet and aloofness which was not so much secret as private. A perfect though narrow staircase mounted from it to the next floor. After ascending it, the Prince led the way through a short corridor and stopped at the door at the end of it. "We are going in here," he said. It was a wonderful room--the one which opened on to the balcony. Each piece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, and pictures on the wall were all such as might well have found themselves adorning a museum. Marco remembered the common report of his escort's favorite amusement of collecting wonders and furnishing his house with the things others exhibited only as marvels of art and handicraft. The place was rich and mellow with exquisitely chosen beauties. In a massive chair upon the hearth sat a figure with bent head. It was a tall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbows rested upon the arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on his hand as if he were weary. Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking in a lowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he said. He himself stood quite still, waiting. The white-haired man lifted his head and listened. It seemed as though almost at once he was singularly interested. The lowered voice was slightly raised at last and Marco heard the last two sentences: "The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him." The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and with questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had keen and clear blue eyes. Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince had merely said to him, "an old man whom it might interest to see you." He had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told he would see--"an old man." It was for him to show no astonishment or recognition. He had been brought here not to see but to be seen. The power of remaining still under scrutiny, which The Rat had often envied him, stood now in good stead because he had seen the white head and tall form not many days before, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled decorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, and helmets, and following troops whose tramping feet kept time to bursts of military music while the populace bared their heads and cheered. "He is like his father," this personage said to the Prince. "But if any one but Loristan had sent him--His looks please me." Then suddenly to Marco, "You were waiting outside while the storm was going on?" "Yes, sir," Marco answered. Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice. "You read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked. "You know how Samavia stands?" "She does not stand," said Marco. "The Iarovitch and the Maranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the other into fragments--and neither has blood or strength left." The two glanced at each other. "A good simile," said the older person. "You are right. If a strong party rose--and a greater power chose not to interfere--the country might see better days." He looked at him a few moments longer and then waved his hand kindly. "You are a fine Samavian," he said. "I am glad of that. You may go. Good night." Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him out of the room. It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in which he was to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curious glance. "I remember now," he said. "In the room, when you answered the question about Samavia, I was sure that I had seen you before. It was the day of the celebration. There was a break in the crowd and I saw a boy looking at me. It was you." "Yes," said Marco, "I have followed you each time you have gone out since then, but I could never get near enough to speak. To-night seemed only one chance in a thousand." "You are doing your work more like a man than a boy," was the next speech, and it was made reflectively. "No man could have behaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion and composure were necessary." Then, after a moment's pause, "He was deeply interested and deeply pleased. Good night." * * * * * When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and people were passing in and out again, Marco passed out also. He was obliged to tell himself two or three times that he had not wakened from an amazing dream. He quickened his pace after he had crossed the street, because he wanted to get home to the attic and talk to The Rat. There was a narrow side-street it was necessary for him to pass through if he wished to make a short cut. As he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaning on crutches against a wall. It looked damp and forlorn, and he wondered if it could be a beggar. It was not. It was The Rat, who suddenly saw who was approaching and swung forward. His face was pale and haggard and he looked worn and frightened. He dragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was hoarse as a crow's. "God be thanked!" he said. "God be thanked!" as people always said it when they received the Sign, alone. But there was a kind of anguish in his voice as well as relief. "Aide-de-camp!" Marco cried out--The Rat had begged him to call him so. "What have you been doing? How long have you been here?" "Ever since I left you last night," said The Rat clutching tremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real. "If there was not room for two in the hollow, there was room for one in the street. Was it my place to go off duty and leave you alone--was it?" "You were out in the storm?" "Weren't you?" said The Rat fiercely. "I huddled against the wall as well as I could. What did I care? Crutches don't prevent a fellow waiting. I wouldn't have left you if you'd given me orders. And that would have been mutiny. When you did not come out as soon as the gates opened, I felt as if my head got on fire. How could I know what had happened? I've not the nerve and backbone you have. I go half mad." For a second or so Marco did not answer. But when he put his hand on the damp sleeve, The Rat actually started, because it seemed as though he were looking into the eyes of Stefan Loristan. "You look just like your father!" he exclaimed, in spite of himself. "How tall you are!" "When you are near me," Marco said, in Loristan's own voice, "when you are near me, I feel--I feel as if I were a royal prince attended by an army. You _are_ my army." And he pulled off his cap with quick boyishness and added, "God be thanked!" The sun was warm in the attic window when they reached their lodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as Marco told his story. It took some time to relate; and when he ended, he took an envelope from his pocket and showed it to The Rat. It contained a flat package of money. "He gave it to me just before he opened the private door," Marco explained. "And he said to me, 'It will not be long now. After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--_as quickly as you can_!'" "I wonder--what he meant?" The Rat said, slowly. A tremendous thought had shot through his mind. But it was not a thought he could speak of to Marco. "I cannot tell. I thought that it was for some reason he did not expect me to know," Marco said. "We will do as he told us. As quickly as we can." They looked over the newspapers, as they did every day. All that could be gathered from any of them was that the opposing armies of Samavia seemed each to have reached the culmination of disaster and exhaustion. Which party had the power left to take any final step which could call itself a victory, it was impossible to say. Never had a country been in a more desperate case. "It is the time!" said The Rat, glowering over his map. "If the Secret Party rises suddenly now, it can take Melzarr almost without a blow. It can sweep through the country and disarm both armies. They're weakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding to death; they _want_ to be disarmed. Only the Iarovitch and the Maranovitch keep on with the struggle because each is fighting for the power to tax the people and make slaves of them. If the Secret Party does not rise, the people will, and they'll rush on the palaces and kill every Maranovitch and Iarovitch they find. And serve them right!" "Let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-map again," said Marco. "To-night we must be on the way to Samavia!" XXVI ACROSS THE FRONTIER That one day, a week later, two tired and travel-worn boy-mendicants should drag themselves with slow and weary feet across the frontier line between Jiardasia and Samavia, was not an incident to awaken suspicion or even to attract attention. War and hunger and anguish had left the country stunned and broken. Since the worst had happened, no one was curious as to what would befall them next. If Jiardasia herself had become a foe, instead of a friendly neighbor, and had sent across the border galloping hordes of soldiery, there would only have been more shrieks, and home-burnings, and slaughter which no one dare resist. But, so far, Jiardasia had remained peaceful. The two boys--one of them on crutches--had evidently traveled far on foot. Their poor clothes were dusty and travel-stained, and they stopped and asked for water at the first hut across the line. The one who walked without crutches had some coarse bread in a bag slung over his shoulder, and they sat on the roadside and ate it as if they were hungry. The old grandmother who lived alone in the hut sat and stared at them without any curiosity. She may have vaguely wondered why any one crossed into Samavia in these days. But she did not care to know their reason. Her big son had lived in a village which belonged to the Maranovitch and he had been called out to fight for his lords. He had not wanted to fight and had not known what the quarrel was about, but he was forced to obey. He had kissed his handsome wife and four sturdy children, blubbering aloud when he left them. His village and his good crops and his house must be left behind. Then the Iarovitch swept through the pretty little cluster of homesteads which belonged to their enemy. They were mad with rage because they had met with great losses in a battle not far away, and, as they swooped through, they burned and killed, and trampled down fields and vineyards. The old woman's son never saw either the burned walls of his house or the bodies of his wife and children, because he had been killed himself in the battle for which the Iarovitch were revenging themselves. Only the old grandmother who lived in the hut near the frontier line and stared vacantly at the passers-by remained alive. She wearily gazed at people and wondered why she did not hear news from her son and her grandchildren. But that was all. When the boys were over the frontier and well on their way along the roads, it was not difficult to keep out of sight if it seemed necessary. The country was mountainous and there were deep and thick forests by the way--forests so far-reaching and with such thick undergrowth that full-grown men could easily have hidden themselves. It was because of this, perhaps, that this part of the country had seen little fighting. There was too great opportunity for secure ambush for a foe. As the two travelers went on, they heard of burned villages and towns destroyed, but they were towns and villages nearer Melzarr and other fortress-defended cities, or they were in the country surrounding the castles and estates of powerful nobles and leaders. It was true, as Marco had said to the white-haired personage, that the Maranovitch and Iarovitch had fought with the savageness of hyenas until at last the forces of each side lay torn and bleeding, their strength, their resources, their supplies exhausted. Each day left them weaker and more desperate. Europe looked on with small interest in either party but with growing desire that the disorder should end and cease to interfere with commerce. All this and much more Marco and The Rat knew, but, as they made their cautious way through byways of the maimed and tortured little country, they learned other things. They learned that the stories of its beauty and fertility were not romances. Its heaven-reaching mountains, its immense plains of rich verdure on which flocks and herds might have fed by thousands, its splendor of deep forest and broad clear rushing rivers had a primeval majesty such as the first human creatures might have found on earth in the days of the Garden of Eden. The two boys traveled through forest and woodland when it was possible to leave the road. It was safe to thread a way among huge trees and tall ferns and young saplings. It was not always easy but it was safe. Sometimes they saw a charcoal-burner's hut or a shelter where a shepherd was hiding with the few sheep left to him. Each man they met wore the same look of stony suffering in his face; but, when the boys begged for bread and water, as was their habit, no one refused to share the little he had. It soon became plain to them that they were thought to be two young fugitives whose homes had probably been destroyed and who were wandering about with no thought but that of finding safety until the worst was over. That one of them traveled on crutches added to their apparent helplessness, and that he could not speak the language of the country made him more an object of pity. The peasants did not know what language he spoke. Sometimes a foreigner came to find work in this small town or that. The poor lad might have come to the country with his father and mother and then have been caught in the whirlpool of war and tossed out on the world parent-less. But no one asked questions. Even in their desolation they were silent and noble people who were too courteous for curiosity. "In the old days they were simple and stately and kind. All doors were open to travelers. The master of the poorest hut uttered a blessing and a welcome when a stranger crossed his threshold. It was the custom of the country," Marco said. "I read about it in a book of my father's. About most of the doors the welcome was carved in stone. It was this--'The Blessing of the Son of God, and Rest within these Walls.'" "They are big and strong," said The Rat. "And they have good faces. They carry themselves as if they had been drilled--both men and women." It was not through the blood-drenched part of the unhappy land their way led them, but they saw hunger and dread in the villages they passed. Crops which should have fed the people had been taken from them for the use of the army; flocks and herds had been driven away, and faces were gaunt and gray. Those who had as yet only lost crops and herds knew that homes and lives might be torn from them at any moment. Only old men and women and children were left to wait for any fate which the chances of war might deal out to them. When they were given food from some poor store, Marco would offer a little money in return. He dare not excite suspicion by offering much. He was obliged to let it be imagined that in his flight from his ruined home he had been able to snatch at and secrete some poor hoard which might save him from starvation. Often the women would not take what he offered. Their journey was a hard and hungry one. They must make it all on foot and there was little food to be found. But each of them knew how to live on scant fare. They traveled mostly by night and slept among the ferns and undergrowth through the day. They drank from running brooks and bathed in them. Moss and ferns made soft and sweet-smelling beds, and trees roofed them. Sometimes they lay long and talked while they rested. And at length a day came when they knew they were nearing their journey's end. "It is nearly over now," Marco said, after they had thrown themselves down in the forest in the early hours of one dewy morning. "He said 'After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--_as quickly as you can_.' He said it twice. As if--something were going to happen." "Perhaps it will happen more suddenly than we think--the thing he meant," answered The Rat. Suddenly he sat up on his elbow and leaned towards Marco. "We are in Samavia!" he said "We two are in Samavia! And we are near the end!" Marco rose on his elbow also. He was very thin as a result of hard travel and scant feeding. His thinness made his eyes look immense and black as pits. But they burned and were beautiful with their own fire. "Yes," he said, breathing quickly. "And though we do not know what the end will be, we have obeyed orders. The Prince was next to the last one. There is only one more. The old priest." "I have wanted to see him more than I have wanted to see any of the others," The Rat said. "So have I," Marco answered. "His church is built on the side of this mountain. I wonder what he will say to us." Both had the same reason for wanting to see him. In his youth he had served in the monastery over the frontier--the one which, till it was destroyed in a revolt, had treasured the five-hundred-year-old story of the beautiful royal lad brought to be hidden among the brotherhood by the ancient shepherd. In the monastery the memory of the Lost Prince was as the memory of a saint. It had been told that one of the early brothers, who was a decorator and a painter, had made a picture of him with a faint halo shining about his head. The young acolyte who had served there must have heard wonderful legends. But the monastery had been burned, and the young acolyte had in later years crossed the frontier and become the priest of a few mountaineers whose little church clung to the mountain side. He had worked hard and faithfully and was worshipped by his people. Only the secret Forgers of the Sword knew that his most ardent worshippers were those with whom he prayed and to whom he gave blessings in dark caverns under the earth, where arms piled themselves and men with dark strong faces sat together in the dim light and laid plans and wrought schemes. This Marco and The Rat did not know as they talked of their desire to see him. "He may not choose to tell us anything," said Marco. "When we have given him the Sign, he may turn away and say nothing as some of the others did. He may have nothing to say which we should hear. Silence may be the order for him, too." It would not be a long or dangerous climb to the little church on the rock. They could sleep or rest all day and begin it at twilight. So after they had talked of the old priest and had eaten their black bread, they settled themselves to sleep under cover of the thick tall ferns. It was a long and deep sleep which nothing disturbed. So few human beings ever climbed the hill, except by the narrow rough path leading to the church, that the little wild creatures had not learned to be afraid of them. Once, during the afternoon, a hare hopping along under the ferns to make a visit stopped by Marco's head, and, after looking at him a few seconds with his lustrous eyes, began to nibble the ends of his hair. He only did it from curiosity and because he wondered if it might be a new kind of grass, but he did not like it and stopped nibbling almost at once, after which he looked at it again, moving the soft sensitive end of his nose rapidly for a second or so, and then hopped away to attend to his own affairs. A very large and handsome green stag-beetle crawled from one end of The Rat's crutches to the other, but, having done it, he went away also. Two or three times a bird, searching for his dinner under the ferns, was surprised to find the two sleeping figures, but, as they lay so quietly, there seemed nothing to be frightened about. A beautiful little field mouse running past discovered that there were crumbs lying about and ate all she could find on the moss. After that she crept into Marco's pocket and found some excellent ones and had quite a feast. But she disturbed nobody and the boys slept on. It was a bird's evening song which awakened them both. The bird alighted on the branch of a tree near them and her trill was rippling clear and sweet. The evening air had freshened and was fragrant with hillside scents. When Marco first rolled over and opened his eyes, he thought the most delicious thing on earth was to waken from sleep on a hillside at evening and hear a bird singing. It seemed to make exquisitely real to him the fact that he was in Samavia--that the Lamp was lighted and his work was nearly done. The Rat awakened when he did, and for a few minutes both lay on their backs without speaking. At last Marco said, "The stars are coming out. We can begin to climb, Aide-de-camp." Then they both got up and looked at each other. "The last one!" The Rat said. "To-morrow we shall be on our way back to London--Number 7 Philibert Place. After all the places we've been to--what will it look like?" "It will be like wakening out of a dream," said Marco. "It's not beautiful--Philibert Place. But _he_ will be there," And it was as if a light lighted itself in his face and shone through the very darkness of it. And The Rat's face lighted in almost exactly the same way. And he pulled off his cap and stood bare-headed. "We've obeyed orders," he said. "We've not forgotten one. No one has noticed us, no one has thought of us. We've blown through the countries as if we had been grains of dust." Marco's head was bared, too, and his face was still shining. "God be thanked!" he said. "Let us begin to climb." They pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out through trees until they found the little path. The hill was thickly clothed with forest and the little path was sometimes dark and steep; but they knew that, if they followed it, they would at last come out to a place where there were scarcely any trees at all, and on a crag they would find the tiny church waiting for them. The priest might not be there. They might have to wait for him, but he would be sure to come back for morning Mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between times. There were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path showed them the church above them. It was little and built of rough stone. It looked as if the priest himself and his scattered flock might have broken and carried or rolled bits of the hill to put it together. It had the small, round, mosque-like summit the Turks had brought into Europe in centuries past. It was so tiny that it would hold but a very small congregation--and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of course the priest's. The two boys stopped on the path to look at it. "There is a candle burning in one of the little windows," said Marco. "There is a well near the door--and some one is beginning to draw water," said The Rat, next. "It is too dark to see who it is. Listen!" They listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash in the water. Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long. Then they saw a dim figure move forward and stand still. Then they heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to utter solitude, did not think of earthly hearers. "Come," Marco said. And they went forward. Because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heard their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them. He ended his prayer and watched them coming. A lad on crutches, who moved as lightly and easily as a bird--and a lad who, even yards away, was noticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor proud but set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen. A magnificent lad--though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his face thin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger. "And who is this one?" the old priest murmured to himself. "_Who_?" Marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence. Then he lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message for the last time. "The Lamp is lighted, Father," he said. "The Lamp is lighted." The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. The next moment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely. It seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of something. At the moment it flashed through The Rat's mind that the old, old woman on the mountain-top had looked frightened in something the same way. "I am an old man," he said. "My eyes are not good. If I had a light"--and he glanced towards the house. It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that the flare fell on Marco's face. The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. "You are the son of Stefan Loristan!" he cried. "It is _his son_ who brings the Sign." He fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. Both the boys heard him sobbing and praying--praying and sobbing at once. They glanced at each other. The Rat was bursting with excitement, but he felt a little awkward also and wondered what Marco would do. An old fellow on his knees, crying, made a chap feel as if he didn't know what to say. Must you comfort him or must you let him go on? Marco only stood quite still and looked at him with understanding and gravity. "Yes, Father," he said. "I am the son of Stefan Loristan, and I have given the Sign to all. You are the last one. The Lamp is lighted. I could weep for gladness, too." The priest's tears and prayers ended. He rose to his feet--a rugged-faced old man with long and thick white hair which fell on his shoulders--and smiled at Marco while his eyes were still wet. "You have passed from one country to another with the message?" he said. "You were under orders to say those four words?" "Yes, Father," answered Marco. "That was all? You were to say no more?" "I know no more. Silence has been the order since I took my oath of allegiance when I was a child. I was not old enough to fight, or serve, or reason about great things. All I could do was to be silent, and to train myself to remember, and be ready when I was called. When my father saw I was ready, he trusted me to go out and give the Sign. He told me the four words. Nothing else." The old man watched him with a wondering face. "If Stefan Loristan does not know best," he said, "who does?" "He always knows," answered Marco proudly. "Always." He waved his hand like a young king toward The Rat. He wanted each man they met to understand the value of The Rat. "He chose for me this companion," he added. "I have done nothing alone." "He let me call myself his aide-de-camp!" burst forth The Rat. "I would be cut into inch-long strips for him." Marco translated. Then the priest looked at The Rat and slowly nodded his head. "Yes," he said. "He knew best. He always knows best. That I see." "How did you know I was my father's son?" asked Marco. "You have seen him?" "No," was the answer; "but I have seen a picture which is said to be his image--and you are the picture's self. It is, indeed, a strange thing that two of God's creatures should be so alike. There is a purpose in it." He led them into his bare small house and made them rest, and drink goat's milk, and eat food. As he moved about the hut-like place, there was a mysterious and exalted look on his face. "You must be refreshed before we leave here," he said at last. "I am going to take you to a place hidden in the mountains where there are men whose hearts will leap at the sight of you. To see you will give them new power and courage and new resolve. To-night they meet as they or their ancestors have met for centuries, but now they are nearing the end of their waiting. And I shall bring them the son of Stefan Loristan, who is the Bearer of the Sign!" They ate the bread and cheese and drank the goat's milk he gave them, but Marco explained that they did not need rest as they had slept all day. They were prepared to follow him when he was ready. The last faint hint of twilight had died into night and the stars were at their thickest when they set out together. The white-haired old man took a thick knotted staff in his hand and led the way. He knew it well, though it was a rugged and steep one with no track to mark it. Sometimes they seemed to be walking around the mountain, sometimes they were climbing, sometimes they dragged themselves over rocks or fallen trees, or struggled through almost impassable thickets; more than once they descended into ravines and, almost at the risk of their lives, clambered and drew themselves with the aid of the undergrowth up the other side. The Rat was called upon to use all his prowess, and sometimes Marco and the priest helped him across obstacles with the aid of his crutch. "Haven't I shown to-night whether I'm a cripple or not?" he said once to Marco. "You can tell _him_ about this, can't you? And that the crutches helped instead of being in the way?" They had been out nearly two hours when they came to a place where the undergrowth was thick and a huge tree had fallen crashing down among it in some storm. Not far from the tree was an outcropping rock. Only the top of it was to be seen above the heavy tangle. They had pushed their way through the jungle of bushes and young saplings, led by their companion. They did not know where they would be led next and were supposed to push forward further when the priest stopped by the outcropping rock. He stood silent a few minutes--quite motionless--as if he were listening to the forest and the night. But there was utter stillness. There was not even a breeze to stir a leaf, or a half-wakened bird to sleepily chirp. He struck the rock with his staff--twice, and then twice again. Marco and The Rat stood with bated breath. They did not wait long. Presently each of them found himself leaning forward, staring with almost unbelieving eyes, not at the priest or his staff, but at _the rock itself_! It was moving! Yes, it moved. The priest stepped aside and it slowly turned, as if worked by a lever. As it turned, it gradually revealed a chasm of darkness dimly lighted, and the priest spoke to Marco. "There are hiding-places like this all through Samavia," he said. "Patience and misery have waited long in them. They are the caverns of the Forgers of the Sword. Come!" XXVII "IT IS THE LOST PRINCE! IT IS IVOR!" Many times since their journey had begun the boys had found their hearts beating with the thrill and excitement of things. The story of which their lives had been a part was a pulse-quickening experience. But as they carefully made their way down the steep steps leading seemingly into the bowels of the earth, both Marco and The Rat felt as though the old priest must hear the thudding in their young sides. "'The Forgers of the Sword.' Remember every word they say," The Rat whispered, "so that you can tell it to me afterwards. Don't forget anything! I wish I knew Samavian." At the foot of the steps stood the man who was evidently the sentinel who worked the lever that turned the rock. He was a big burly peasant with a good watchful face, and the priest gave him a greeting and a blessing as he took from him the lantern he held out. They went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some more steps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rock and earth. It was a wider corridor, but still dark, so that Marco and The Rat had walked some yards before their eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to see that the walls themselves seemed made of arms stacked closely together. "The Forgers of the Sword!" The Rat was unconsciously mumbling to himself, "The Forgers of the Sword!" It must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage they threaded their way through, and longer years to forge the solid, bristling walls. But The Rat remembered the story the stranger had told his drunken father, of the few mountain herdsmen who, in their savage grief and wrath over the loss of their prince, had banded themselves together with a solemn oath which had been handed down from generation to generation. The Samavians were a long-memoried people, and the fact that their passion must be smothered had made it burn all the more fiercely. Five hundred years ago they had first sworn their oath; and kings had come and gone, had died or been murdered, and dynasties had changed, but the Forgers of the Sword had not changed or forgotten their oath or wavered in their belief that some time--some time, even after the long dark years--the soul of their Lost Prince would be among them once more, and that they would kneel at the feet and kiss the hands of him for whose body that soul had been reborn. And for the last hundred years their number and power and their hiding places had so increased that Samavia was at last honeycombed with them. And they only waited, breathless,--for the Lighting of the Lamp. The old priest knew how breathlessly, and he knew what he was bringing them. Marco and The Rat, in spite of their fond boy-imaginings, were not quite old enough to know how fierce and full of flaming eagerness the breathless waiting of savage full-grown men could be. But there was a tense-strung thrill in knowing that they who were being led to them were the Bearers of the Sign. The Rat went hot and cold; he gnawed his fingers as he went. He could almost have shrieked aloud, in the intensity of his excitement, when the old priest stopped before a big black door! Marco made no sound. Excitement or danger always made him look tall and quite pale. He looked both now. The priest touched the door, and it opened. They were looking into an immense cavern. Its walls and roof were lined with arms--guns, swords, bayonets, javelins, daggers, pistols, every weapon a desperate man might use. The place was full of men, who turned towards the door when it opened. They all made obeisance to the priest, but Marco realized almost at the same instant that they started on seeing that he was not alone. They were a strange and picturesque crowd as they stood under their canopy of weapons in the lurid torchlight. Marco saw at once that they were men of all classes, though all were alike roughly dressed. They were huge mountaineers, and plainsmen young and mature in years. Some of the biggest were men with white hair but with bodies of giants, and with determination in their strong jaws. There were many of these, Marco saw, and in each man's eyes, whether he were young or old, glowed a steady unconquered flame. They had been beaten so often, they had been oppressed and robbed, but in the eyes of each one was this unconquered flame which, throughout all the long tragedy of years had been handed down from father to son. It was this which had gone on through centuries, keeping its oath and forging its swords in the caverns of the earth, and which to-day was--waiting. The old priest laid his hand on Marco's shoulder, and gently pushed him before him through the crowd which parted to make way for them. He did not stop until the two stood in the very midst of the circle, which fell back gazing wonderingly. Marco looked up at the old man because for several seconds he did not speak. It was plain that he did not speak because he also was excited, and could not. He opened his lips and his voice seemed to fail him. Then he tried again and spoke so that all could hear--even the men at the back of the gazing circle. "My children," he said, "this is the son of Stefan Loristan, and he comes to bear the Sign. My son," to Marco, "speak!" Then Marco understood what he wished, and also what he felt. He felt it himself, that magnificent uplifting gladness, as he spoke, holding his black head high and lifting his right hand. "The Lamp is Lighted, brothers!" he cried. "The Lamp is Lighted!" Then The Rat, who stood apart, watching, thought that the strange world within the cavern had gone mad! Wild smothered cries broke forth, men caught each other in passionate embrace, they fell upon their knees, they clutched one another sobbing, they wrung each other's hands, they leaped into the air. It was as if they could not bear the joy of hearing that the end of their waiting had come at last. They rushed upon Marco, and fell at his feet. The Rat saw big peasants kissing his shoes, his hands, every scrap of his clothing they could seize. The wild circle swayed and closed upon him until The Rat was afraid. He did not know that, overpowered by this frenzy of emotion, his own excitement was making him shake from head to foot like a leaf, and that tears were streaming down his cheeks. The swaying crowd hid Marco from him, and he began to fight his way towards him because his excitement increased with fear. The ecstasy-frenzied crowd of men seemed for the moment to have almost ceased to be sane. Marco was only a boy. They did not know how fiercely they were pressing upon him and keeping away the very air. "Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" yelled The Rat, struggling forward. "Stand back, you fools! I'm his aide-de-camp! Let me pass!" And though no one understood his English, one or two suddenly remembered they had seen him enter with the priest and so gave way. But just then the old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and spoke in a voice of stern command. "Stand back, my children!" he cried. "Madness is not the homage you must bring to the son of Stefan Loristan. Obey! Obey!" His voice had a power in it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen. The frenzied mass swayed back and left space about Marco, whose face The Rat could at last see. It was very white with emotion, and in his eyes there was a look which was like awe. The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. He did not know that he almost sobbed as he spoke. "I'm your aide-de-camp," he said. "I'm going to stand here! Your father sent me! I'm under orders! I thought they'd crush you to death." He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippers distraught with adoration, they had been enemies. The old priest seeing him, touched Marco's arm. "Tell him he need not fear," he said. "It was only for the first few moments. The passion of their souls drove them wild. They are your slaves." "Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until they trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" The Rat persisted. "No," said Marco. "They would have stopped if I had spoken." * * * * * "Why didn't you speak then?" snapped The Rat. "All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father," Marco said, "and for the Sign. I felt as they did." The Rat was somewhat softened. It was true, after all. How could he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship of Loristan--of the country he was saving for them--of the Sign which called them to freedom? He could not. Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. The priest went about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man after another--sometimes to a group. A larger circle was formed. As the pale old man moved about, The Rat felt as if some religious ceremony were going to be performed. Watching it from first to last, he was thrilled to the core. At the end of the cavern a block of stone had been cut out to look like an altar. It was covered with white, and against the wall above it hung a large picture veiled by a curtain. From the roof there swung before it an ancient lamp of metal suspended by chains. In front of the altar was a sort of stone dais. There the priest asked Marco to stand, with his aide-de-camp on the lower level in attendance. A knot of the biggest herdsmen went out and returned. Each carried a huge sword which had perhaps been of the earliest made in the dark days gone by. The bearers formed themselves into a line on either side of Marco. They raised their swords and formed a pointed arch above his head and a passage twelve men long. When the points first clashed together The Rat struck himself hard upon his breast. His exultation was too keen to endure. He gazed at Marco standing still--in that curiously splendid way in which both he and his father _could_ stand still--and wondered how he could do it. He looked as if he were prepared for any strange thing which could happen to him--because he was "under orders." The Rat knew that he was doing whatsoever he did merely for his father's sake. It was as if he felt that he was representing his father, though he was a mere boy; and that because of this, boy as he was, he must bear himself nobly and remain outwardly undisturbed. At the end of the arch of swords, the old priest stood and gave a sign to one man after another. When the sign was given to a man he walked under the arch to the dais, and there knelt and, lifting Marco's hand to his lips, kissed it with passionate fervor. Then he returned to the place he had left. One after another passed up the aisle of swords, one after another knelt, one after the other kissed the brown young hand, rose and went away. Sometimes The Rat heard a few words which sounded almost like a murmured prayer, sometimes he heard a sob as a shaggy head bent, again and again he saw eyes wet with tears. Once or twice Marco spoke a few Samavian words, and the face of the man spoken to flamed with joy. The Rat had time to see, as Marco had seen, that many of the faces were not those of peasants. Some of them were clear cut and subtle and of the type of scholars or nobles. It took a long time for them all to kneel and kiss the lad's hand, but no man omitted the ceremony; and when at last it was at an end, a strange silence filled the cavern. They stood and gazed at each other with burning eyes. The priest moved to Marco's side, and stood near the altar. He leaned forward and took in his hand a cord which hung from the veiled picture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. There seemed to stand gazing at them from between its folds a tall kingly youth with deep eyes in which the stars of God were stilly shining, and with a smile wonderful to behold. Around the heavy locks of his black hair the long dead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a halo. "Son of Stefan Loristan," the old priest said, in a shaken voice, "it is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!" Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who had upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash and knelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead for five hundred years, he was their saint still. "Ivor! Ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "Ivor! Ivor!" as if they chanted a litany. Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught in his throat, his lips apart. "But--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young as he is--he would be _like_ him!" "When you are as old as he is, _you_ will be like him--_you_!" said the priest. And he let the curtain fall. The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the picture and from the picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and faster and gnawed his finger ends. But he did not utter a word. He could not have done it, if he tried. Then Marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream, and the old man followed him. The men with swords sprang to their feet and made their archway again with a new clash of steel. The old man and the boy passed under it together. Now every man's eyes were fixed on Marco. At the heavy door by which he had entered, he stopped and turned to meet their glances. He looked very young and thin and pale, but suddenly his father's smile was lighted in his face. He said a few words in Samavian clearly and gravely, saluted, and passed out. "What did you say to them?" gasped The Rat, stumbling after him as the door closed behind them and shut in the murmur of impassioned sound. "There was only one thing to say," was the answer. "They are men--I am only a boy. I thanked them for my father, and told them he would never--never forget." XXVIII "EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!" It was raining in London--pouring. It had been raining for two weeks, more or less, generally more. When the train from Dover drew in at Charing Cross, the weather seemed suddenly to have considered that it had so far been too lenient and must express itself much more vigorously. So it had gathered together its resources and poured them forth in a deluge which surprised even Londoners. The rain so beat against and streamed down the windows of the third-class carriage in which Marco and The Rat sat that they could not see through them. They had made their homeward journey much more rapidly than they had made the one on which they had been outward bound. It had of course taken them some time to tramp back to the frontier, but there had been no reason for stopping anywhere after they had once reached the railroads. They had been tired sometimes, but they had slept heavily on the wooden seats of the railway carriages. Their one desire was to get home. No. 7 Philibert Place rose before them in its noisy dinginess as the one desirable spot on earth. To Marco it held his father. And it was Loristan alone that The Rat saw when he thought of it. Loristan as he would look when he saw him come into the room with Marco, and stand up and salute, and say: "I have brought him back, sir. He has carried out every single order you gave him--every single one. So have I." So he had. He had been sent as his companion and attendant, and he had been faithful in every thought. If Marco would have allowed him, he would have waited upon him like a servant, and have been proud of the service. But Marco would never let him forget that they were only two boys and that one was of no more importance than the other. He had secretly even felt this attitude to be a sort of grievance. It would have been more like a game if one of them had been the mere servitor of the other, and if that other had blustered a little, and issued commands, and demanded sacrifices. If the faithful vassal could have been wounded or cast into a dungeon for his young commander's sake, the adventure would have been more complete. But though their journey had been full of wonders and rich with beauties, though the memory of it hung in The Rat's mind like a background of tapestry embroidered in all the hues of the earth with all the splendors of it, there had been no dungeons and no wounds. After the adventure in Munich their unimportant boyishness had not even been observed by such perils as might have threatened them. As The Rat had said, they had "blown like grains of dust" through Europe and had been as nothing. And this was what Loristan had planned, this was what his grave thought had wrought out. If they had been men, they would not have been so safe. From the time they had left the old priest on the hillside to begin their journey back to the frontier, they both had been given to long silences as they tramped side by side or lay on the moss in the forests. Now that their work was done, a sort of reaction had set in. There were no more plans to be made and no more uncertainties to contemplate. They were on their way back to No. 7 Philibert Place--Marco to his father, The Rat to the man he worshipped. Each of them was thinking of many things. Marco was full of longing to see his father's face and hear his voice again. He wanted to feel the pressure of his hand on his shoulder--to be sure that he was real and not a dream. This last was because during this homeward journey everything that had happened often seemed to be a dream. It had all been so wonderful--the climber standing looking down at them the morning they awakened on the Gaisburg; the mountaineer shoemaker measuring his foot in the small shop; the old, old woman and her noble lord; the Prince with his face turned upward as he stood on the balcony looking at the moon; the old priest kneeling and weeping for joy; the great cavern with the yellow light upon the crowd of passionate faces; the curtain which fell apart and showed the still eyes and the black hair with the halo about it! Now that they were left behind, they all seemed like things he had dreamed. But he had not dreamed them; he was going back to tell his father about them. And how _good_ it would be to feel his hand on his shoulder! The Rat gnawed his finger ends a great deal. His thoughts were more wild and feverish than Marco's. They leaped forward in spite of him. It was no use to pull himself up and tell himself that he was a fool. Now that all was over, he had time to be as great a fool as he was inclined to be. But how he longed to reach London and stand face to face with Loristan! The sign was given. The Lamp was lighted. What would happen next? His crutches were under his arms before the train drew up. "We're there! We're there!" he cried restlessly to Marco. They had no luggage to delay them. They took their bags and followed the crowd along the platform. The rain was rattling like bullets against the high glassed roof. People turned to look at Marco, seeing the glow of exultant eagerness in his face. They thought he must be some boy coming home for the holidays and going to make a visit at a place he delighted in. The rain was dancing on the pavements when they reached the entrance. "A cab won't cost much," Marco said, "and it will take us quickly." They called one and got into it. Each of them had flushed cheeks, and Marco's eyes looked as if he were gazing at something a long way off--gazing at it, and wondering. "We've come back!" said The Rat, in an unsteady voice. "We've been--and we've come back!" Then suddenly turning to look at Marco, "Does it ever seem to you as if, perhaps, it--it wasn't true?" "Yes," Marco answered, "but it was true. And it's done." Then he added after a second or so of silence, just what The Rat had said to himself, "What next?" He said it very low. The way to Philibert Place was not long. When they turned into the roaring, untidy road, where the busses and drays and carts struggled past each other with their loads, and the tired-faced people hurried in crowds along the pavement, they looked at them all feeling that they had left their dream far behind indeed. But they were at home. It was a good thing to see Lazarus open the door and stand waiting before they had time to get out of the cab. Cabs stopped so seldom before houses in Philibert Place that the inmates were always prompt to open their doors. When Lazarus had seen this one stop at the broken iron gate, he had known whom it brought. He had kept an eye on the windows faithfully for many a day--even when he knew that it was too soon, even if all was well, for any travelers to return. He bore himself with an air more than usually military and his salute when Marco crossed the threshold was formal stateliness itself. But his greeting burst from his heart. "God be thanked!" he said in his deep growl of joy. "God be thanked!" When Marco put forth his hand, he bent his grizzled head and kissed it devoutly. "God be thanked!" he said again. "My father?" Marco began, "my father is out?" If he had been in the house, he knew he would not have stayed in the back sitting-room. "Sir," said Lazarus, "will you come with me into his room? You, too, sir," to The Rat. He had never said "sir" to him before. He opened the door of the familiar room, and the boys entered. The room was empty. Marco did not speak; neither did The Rat. They both stood still in the middle of the shabby carpet and looked up at the old soldier. Both had suddenly the same feeling that the earth had dropped from beneath their feet. Lazarus saw it and spoke fast and with tremor. He was almost as agitated as they were. "He left me at your service--at your command"--he began. "Left you?" said Marco. "He left us, all three, under orders--to _wait_," said Lazarus. "The Master has gone." The Rat felt something hot rush into his eyes. He brushed it away that he might look at Marco's face. The shock had changed it very much. Its glowing eager joy had died out, it had turned paler and his brows were drawn together. For a few seconds he did not speak at all, and, when he did speak, The Rat knew that his voice was steady only because he willed that it should be so. "If he has gone," he said, "it is because he had a strong reason. It was because he also was under orders." "He said that you would know that," Lazarus answered. "He was called in such haste that he had not a moment in which to do more than write a few words. He left them for you on his desk there." Marco walked over to the desk and opened the envelope which was lying there. There were only a few lines on the sheet of paper inside and they had evidently been written in the greatest haste. They were these: "The Life of my life--for Samavia." "He was called--to Samavia," Marco said, and the thought sent his blood rushing through his veins. "He has gone to Samavia!" Lazarus drew his hand roughly across his eyes and his voice shook and sounded hoarse. "There has been great disaffection in the camps of the Maranovitch," he said. "The remnant of the army has gone mad. Sir, silence is still the order, but who knows--who knows? God alone." He had not finished speaking before he turned his head as if listening to sounds in the road. They were the kind of sounds which had broken up The Squad, and sent it rushing down the passage into the street to seize on a newspaper. There was to be heard a commotion of newsboys shouting riotously some startling piece of news which had called out an "Extra." The Rat heard it first and dashed to the front door. As he opened it a newsboy running by shouted at the topmost power of his lungs the news he had to sell: "Assassination of King Michael Maranovitch by his own soldiers! Assassination of the Maranovitch! Extra! Extra! Extra!" When The Rat returned with a newspaper, Lazarus interposed between him and Marco with great and respectful ceremony. "Sir," he said to Marco, "I am at your command, but the Master left me with an order which I was to repeat to you. He requested you _not_ to read the newspapers until he himself could see you again." Both boys fell back. "Not read the papers!" they exclaimed together. Lazarus had never before been quite so reverential and ceremonious. "Your pardon, sir," he said. "I may read them at your orders, and report such things as it is well that you should know. There have been dark tales told and there may be darker ones. He asked that you would not read for yourself. If you meet again--when you meet again"--he corrected himself hastily--"when you meet again, he says you will understand. I am your servant. I will read and answer all such questions as I can." The Rat handed him the paper and they returned to the back room together. "You shall tell us what he would wish us to hear," Marco said. The news was soon told. The story was not a long one as exact details had not yet reached London. It was briefly that the head of the Maranovitch party had been put to death by infuriated soldiers of his own army. It was an army drawn chiefly from a peasantry which did not love its leaders, or wish to fight, and suffering and brutal treatment had at last roused it to furious revolt. "What next?" said Marco. "If I were a Samavian--" began The Rat and then he stopped. Lazarus stood biting his lips, but staring stonily at the carpet. Not The Rat alone but Marco also noted a grim change in him. It was grim because it suggested that he was holding himself under an iron control. It was as if while tortured by anxiety he had sworn not to allow himself to look anxious and the resolve set his jaw hard and carved new lines in his rugged face. Each boy thought this in secret, but did not wish to put it into words. If he was anxious, he could only be so for one reason, and each realized what the reason must be. Loristan had gone to Samavia--to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and danger. If he had gone, it could only have been because its danger called him and he went to face it at its worst. Lazarus had been left behind to watch over them. Silence was still the order, and what he knew he could not tell them, and perhaps he knew little more than that a great life might be lost. Because his master was absent, the old soldier seemed to feel that he must comfort himself with a greater ceremonial reverance than he had ever shown before. He held himself within call, and at Marco's orders, as it had been his custom to hold himself with regard to Loristan. The ceremonious service even extended itself to The Rat, who appeared to have taken a new place in his mind. He also seemed now to be a person to be waited upon and replied to with dignity and formal respect. When the evening meal was served, Lazarus drew out Loristan's chair at the head of the table and stood behind it with a majestic air. "Sir," he said to Marco, "the Master requested that you take his seat at the table until--while he is not with you." Marco took the seat in silence. * * * * * At two o'clock in the morning, when the roaring road was still, the light from the street lamp, shining into the small bedroom, fell on two pale boy faces. The Rat sat up on his sofa bed in the old way with his hands clasped round his knees. Marco lay flat on his hard pillow. Neither of them had been to sleep and yet they had not talked a great deal. Each had secretly guessed a good deal of what the other did not say. "There is one thing we must remember," Marco had said, early in the night. "We must not be afraid." "No," answered The Rat, almost fiercely, "we must not be afraid." "We are tired; we came back expecting to be able to tell it all to him. We have always been looking forward to that. We never thought once that he might be gone. And he _was_ gone. Did you feel as if--" he turned towards the sofa, "as if something had struck you on the chest?" "Yes," The Rat answered heavily. "Yes." "We weren't ready," said Marco. "He had never gone before; but we ought to have known he might some day be--called. He went because he was called. He told us to wait. We don't know what we are waiting for, but we know that we must not be afraid. To let ourselves be _afraid_ would be breaking the Law." "The Law!" groaned The Rat, dropping his head on his hands, "I'd forgotten about it." "Let us remember it," said Marco. "This is the time. 'Hate not. _Fear_ not!'" He repeated the last words again and again. "Fear not! Fear not," he said. "_Nothing_ can harm him." The Rat lifted his head, and looked at the bed sideways. "Did you think--" he said slowly--"did you _ever_ think that perhaps _he_ knew where the descendant of the Lost Prince was?" Marco answered even more slowly. "If any one knew--surely he might. He has known so much," he said. "Listen to this!" broke forth The Rat. "I believe he has gone to _tell_ the people. If he does--if he could show them--all the country would run mad with joy. It wouldn't be only the Secret Party. All Samavia would rise and follow any flag he chose to raise. They've prayed for the Lost Prince for five hundred years, and if they believed they'd got him once more, they'd fight like madmen for him. But there would not be any one to fight. They'd _all_ want the same thing! If they could see the man with Ivor's blood in his veins, they'd feel he had come back to them--risen from the dead. They'd believe it!" He beat his fists together in his frenzy of excitement. "It's the time! It's the time!" he cried. "No man could let such a chance go by! He _must_ tell them--he _must_. That _must_ be what he's gone for. He knows--he knows--he's always known!" And he threw himself back on his sofa and flung his arms over his face, lying there panting. "If it is the time," said Marco in a low, strained voice--"if it is, and he knows--he will tell them." And he threw his arms up over his own face and lay quite still. Neither of them said another word, and the street lamp shone in on them as if it were waiting for something to happen. But nothing happened. In time they were asleep. XXIX 'TWIXT NIGHT AND MORNING After this, they waited. They did not know what they waited for, nor could they guess even vaguely how the waiting would end. All that Lazarus could tell them he told. He would have been willing to stand respectfully for hours relating to Marco the story of how the period of their absence had passed for his Master and himself. He told how Loristan had spoken each day of his son, how he had often been pale with anxiousness, how in the evenings he had walked to and fro in his room, deep in thought, as he looked down unseeingly at the carpet. "He permitted me to talk of you, sir," Lazarus said. "I saw that he wished to hear your name often. I reminded him of the times when you had been so young that most children of your age would have been in the hands of nurses, and yet you were strong and silent and sturdy and traveled with us as if you were not a child at all--never crying when you were tired and were not properly fed. As if you understood--as if you understood," he added, proudly. "If, through the power of God a creature can be a man at six years old, you were that one. Many a dark day I have looked into your solemn, watching eyes, and have been half afraid; because that a child should answer one's gaze so gravely seemed almost an unearthly thing." "The chief thing I remember of those days," said Marco, "is that he was with me, and that whenever I was hungry or tired, I knew he must be, too." The feeling that they were "waiting" was so intense that it filled the days with strangeness. When the postman's knock was heard at the door, each of them endeavored not to start. A letter might some day come which would tell them--they did not know what. But no letters came. When they went out into the streets, they found themselves hurrying on their way back in spite of themselves. Something might have happened. Lazarus read the papers faithfully, and in the evening told Marco and The Rat all the news it was "well that they should hear." But the disorders of Samavia had ceased to occupy much space. They had become an old story, and after the excitement of the assassination of Michael Maranovitch had died out, there seemed to be a lull in events. Michael's son had not dared to try to take his father's place, and there were rumors that he also had been killed. The head of the Iarovitch had declared himself king but had not been crowned because of disorders in his own party. The country seemed existing in a nightmare of suffering, famine and suspense. "Samavia is 'waiting' too," The Rat broke forth one night as they talked together, "but it won't wait long--it can't. If I were a Samavian and in Samavia--" "My father is a Samavian and he is in Samavia," Marco's grave young voice interposed. The Rat flushed red as he realized what he had said. "What a fool I am!" he groaned. "I--I beg your pardon--sir." He stood up when he said the last words and added the "sir" as if he suddenly realized that there was a distance between them which was something akin to the distance between youth and maturity--but yet was not the same. "You are a good Samavian but--you forget," was Marco's answer. Lazarus' intense grimness increased with each day that passed. The ceremonious respectfulness of his manner toward Marco increased also. It seemed as if the more anxious he felt the more formal and stately his bearing became. It was as though he braced his own courage by doing the smallest things life in the back sitting-room required as if they were of the dignity of services performed in a much larger place and under much more imposing circumstances. The Rat found himself feeling almost as if he were an equerry in a court, and that dignity and ceremony were necessary on his own part. He began to experience a sense of being somehow a person of rank, for whom doors were opened grandly and who had vassals at his command. The watchful obedience of fifty vassals embodied itself in the manner of Lazarus. "I am glad," The Rat said once, reflectively, "that, after all my father was once--different. It makes it easier to learn things perhaps. If he had not talked to me about people who--well, who had never seen places like Bone Court--this might have been harder for me to understand." When at last they managed to call The Squad together, and went to spend a morning at the Barracks behind the churchyard, that body of armed men stared at their commander in great and amazed uncertainty. They felt that something had happened to him. They did not know what had happened, but it was some experience which had made him mysteriously different. He did not look like Marco, but in some extraordinary way he seemed more akin to him. They only knew that some necessity in Loristan's affairs had taken the two away from London and the Game. Now they had come back, and they seemed older. At first, The Squad felt awkward and shuffled its feet uncomfortably. After the first greetings it did not know exactly what to say. It was Marco who saved the situation. "Drill us first," he said to The Rat, "then we can talk about the Game." "'Tention!" shouted The Rat, magnificently. And then they forgot everything else and sprang into line. After the drill was ended, and they sat in a circle on the broken flags, the Game became more resplendent than it had ever been. "I've had time to read and work out new things," The Rat said. "Reading is like traveling." Marco himself sat and listened, enthralled by the adroitness of the imagination he displayed. Without revealing a single dangerous fact he built up, of their journeyings and experiences, a totally new structure of adventures which would have fired the whole being of any group of lads. It was safe to describe places and people, and he so described them that The Squad squirmed in its delight at feeling itself marching in a procession attending the Emperor in Vienna; standing in line before palaces; climbing, with knapsacks strapped tight, up precipitous mountain roads; defending mountain-fortresses; and storming Samavian castles. The Squad glowed and exulted. The Rat glowed and exulted himself. Marco watched his sharp-featured, burning-eyed face with wonder and admiration. This strange power of making things alive was, he knew, what his father would call "genius." "Let's take the oath of 'legiance again," shouted Cad, when the Game was over for the morning. "The papers never said nothin' more about the Lost Prince, but we are all for him yet! Let's take it!" So they stood in line again, Marco at the head, and renewed their oath. "The sword in my hand--for Samavia! "The heart in my breast--for Samavia! "The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life--for Samavia. "Here grow twelve men--for Samavia. "God be thanked!" It was more solemn than it had been the first time. The Squad felt it tremendously. Both Cad and Ben were conscious that thrills ran down their spines into their boots. When Marco and The Rat left them, they first stood at salute and then broke out into a ringing cheer. On their way home, The Rat asked Marco a question. "Did you see Mrs. Beedle standing at the top of the basement steps and looking after us when we went out this morning?" Mrs. Beedle was the landlady of the lodgings at No. 7 Philibert Place. She was a mysterious and dusty female, who lived in the "cellar kitchen" part of the house and was seldom seen by her lodgers. "Yes," answered Marco, "I have seen her two or three times lately, and I do not think I ever saw her before. My father has never seen her, though Lazarus says she used to watch him round corners. Why is she suddenly so curious about us?" "I'd like to know," said The Rat. "I've been trying to work it out. Ever since we came back, she's been peeping round the door of the kitchen stairs, or over balustrades, or through the cellar-kitchen windows. I believe she wants to speak to you, and knows Lazarus won't let her if he catches her at it. When Lazarus is about, she always darts back." "What does she want to say?" said Marco. "I'd like to know," said The Rat again. When they reached No. 7 Philibert Place, they found out, because when the door opened they saw at the top of cellar-kitchen stairs at the end of the passage, the mysterious Mrs. Beedle, in her dusty black dress and with a dusty black cap on, evidently having that minute mounted from her subterranean hiding-place. She had come up the steps so quickly that Lazarus had not yet seen her. "Young Master Loristan!" she called out authoritatively. Lazarus wheeled about fiercely. "Silence!" he commanded. "How dare you address the young Master?" She snapped her fingers at him, and marched forward folding her arms tightly. "You mind your own business," she said. "It's young Master Loristan I'm speaking to, not his servant. It's time he was talked to about this." "Silence, woman!" shouted Lazarus. "Let her speak," said Marco. "I want to hear. What is it you wish to say, Madam? My father is not here." "That's just what I want to find out about," put in the woman. "When is he coming back?" "I do not know," answered Marco. "That's it," said Mrs. Beedle. "You're old enough to understand that two big lads and a big fellow like that can't have food and lodgin's for nothing. You may say you don't live high--and you don't--but lodgin's are lodgin's and rent is rent. If your father's coming back and you can tell me when, I mayn't be obliged to let the rooms over your heads; but I know too much about foreigners to let bills run when they are out of sight. Your father's out of sight. He," jerking her head towards Lazarus, "paid me for last week. How do I know he will pay me for this week!" "The money is ready," roared Lazarus. The Rat longed to burst forth. He knew what people in Bone Court said to a woman like that; he knew the exact words and phrases. But they were not words and phrases an aide-de-camp might deliver himself of in the presence of his superior officer; they were not words and phrases an equerry uses at court. He dare not _allow_ himself to burst forth. He stood with flaming eyes and a flaming face, and bit his lips till they bled. He wanted to strike with his crutches. The son of Stefan Loristan! The Bearer of the Sign! There sprang up before his furious eyes the picture of the luridly lighted cavern and the frenzied crowd of men kneeling at this same boy's feet, kissing them, kissing his hands, his garments, the very earth he stood upon, worshipping him, while above the altar the kingly young face looked on with the nimbus of light like a halo above it. If he dared speak his mind now, he felt he could have endured it better. But being an aide-de-camp he could not. "Do you want the money now?" asked Marco. "It is only the beginning of the week and we do not owe it to you until the week is over. Is it that you want to have it now?" Lazarus had become deadly pale. He looked huge in his fury, and he looked dangerous. "Young Master," he said slowly, in a voice as deadly as his pallor, and he actually spoke low, "this woman--" Mrs. Beedle drew back towards the cellar-kitchen steps. "There's police outside," she shrilled. "Young Master Loristan, order him to stand back." "No one will hurt you," said Marco. "If you have the money here, Lazarus, please give it to me." Lazarus literally ground his teeth. But he drew himself up and saluted with ceremony. He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced an old leather wallet. There were but a few coins in it. He pointed to a gold one. "I obey you, sir--since I must--" he said, breathing hard. "That one will pay her for the week." Marco took out the sovereign and held it out to the woman. "You hear what he says," he said. "At the end of this week if there is not enough to pay for the next, we will go." Lazarus looked so like a hyena, only held back from springing by chains of steel, that the dusty Mrs. Beedle was afraid to take the money. "If you say that I shall not lose it, I'll wait until the week's ended," she said. "You're nothing but a lad, but you're like your father. You've got a way that a body can trust. If he was here and said he hadn't the money but he'd have it in time, I'd wait if it was for a month. He'd pay it if he said he would. But he's gone; and two boys and a fellow like that one don't seem much to depend on. But I'll trust _you_." "Be good enough to take it," said Marco. And he put the coin in her hand and turned into the back sitting-room as if he did not see her. The Rat and Lazarus followed him. "Is there so little money left?" said Marco. "We have always had very little. When we had less than usual, we lived in poorer places and were hungry if it was necessary. We know how to go hungry. One does not die of it." The big eyes under Lazarus' beetling brows filled with tears. "No, sir," he said, "one does not die of hunger. But the insult--the insult! That is not endurable." "She would not have spoken if my father had been here," Marco said. "And it is true that boys like us have no money. Is there enough to pay for another week?" "Yes, sir," answered Lazarus, swallowing hard as if he had a lump in his throat, "perhaps enough for two--if we eat but little. If--if the Master would accept money from those who would give it, he would always have had enough. But how could such a one as he? How could he? When he went away, he thought--he thought that--" but there he stopped himself suddenly. "Never mind," said Marco. "Never mind. We will go away the day we can pay no more." "I can go out and sell newspapers," said The Rat's sharp voice. "I've done it before. Crutches help you to sell them. The platform would sell 'em faster still. I'll go out on the platform." "I can sell newspapers, too," said Marco. Lazarus uttered an exclamation like a groan. "Sir," he cried, "no, no! Am I not here to go out and look for work? I can carry loads. I can run errands." "We will all three begin to see what we can do," Marco said. Then--exactly as had happened on the day of their return from their journey--there arose in the road outside the sound of newsboys shouting. This time the outcry seemed even more excited than before. The boys were running and yelling and there seemed more of them than usual. And above all other words was heard "Samavia! Samavia!" But to-day The Rat did not rush to the door at the first cry. He stood still--for several seconds they all three stood still--listening. Afterwards each one remembered and told the others that he had stood still because some strange, strong feeling held him _waiting_ as if to hear some great thing. * * * * * It was Lazarus who went out of the room first and The Rat and Marco followed him. One of the upstairs lodgers had run down in haste and opened the door to buy newspapers and ask questions. The newsboys were wild with excitement and danced about as they shouted. The piece of news they were yelling had evidently a popular quality. The lodger bought two papers and was handing out coppers to a lad who was talking loud and fast. "Here's a go!" he was saying. "A Secret Party's risen up and taken Samavia! 'Twixt night and mornin' they done it! That there Lost Prince descendant 'as turned up, an' they've _crowned_ him--'twixt night and mornin' they done it! Clapt 'is crown on 'is 'ead, so's they'd lose no time." And off he bolted, shouting, "'Cendant of Lost Prince! 'Cendant of Lost Prince made King of Samavia!" It was then that Lazarus, forgetting even ceremony, bolted also. He bolted back to the sitting-room, rushed in, and the door fell to behind him. Marco and The Rat found it shut when, having secured a newspaper, they went down the passage. At the closed door, Marco stopped. He did not turn the handle. From the inside of the room there came the sound of big convulsive sobs and passionate Samavian words of prayer and worshipping gratitude. "Let us wait," Marco said, trembling a little. "He will not want any one to see him. Let us wait." His black pits of eyes looked immense, and he stood at his tallest, but he was trembling slightly from head to foot. The Rat had begun to shake, as if from an ague. His face was scarcely human in its fierce unboyish emotion. "Marco! Marco!" his whisper was a cry. "That was what he went for--_because he knew_!" "Yes," answered Marco, "that was what he went for." And his voice was unsteady, as his body was. Presently the sobs inside the room choked themselves back suddenly. Lazarus had remembered. They had guessed he had been leaning against the wall during his outburst. Now it was evident that he stood upright, probably shocked at the forgetfulness of his frenzy. So Marco turned the handle of the door and went into the room. He shut the door behind him, and they all three stood together. When the Samavian gives way to his emotions, he is emotional indeed. Lazarus looked as if a storm had swept over him. He had choked back his sobs, but tears still swept down his cheeks. "Sir," he said hoarsely, "your pardon! It was as if a convulsion seized me. I forgot everything--even my duty. Pardon, pardon!" And there on the worn carpet of the dingy back sitting-room in the Marylebone Road, he actually went on one knee and kissed the boy's hand with adoration. "You mustn't ask pardon," said Marco. "You have waited so long, good friend. You have given your life as my father has. You have known all the suffering a boy has not lived long enough to understand. Your big heart--your faithful heart--" his voice broke and he stood and looked at him with an appeal which seemed to ask him to remember his boyhood and understand the rest. "Don't kneel," he said next. "You mustn't kneel." And Lazarus, kissing his hand again, rose to his feet. "Now--we shall _hear_!" said Marco. "Now the waiting will soon be over." "Yes, sir. Now, we shall receive commands!" Lazarus answered. The Rat held out the newspapers. "May we read them yet?" he asked. "Until further orders, sir," said Lazarus hurriedly and apologetically --"until further orders, it is still better that I should read them first." XXX THE GAME IS AT AN END So long as the history of Europe is written and read, the unparalleled story of the Rising of the Secret Party in Samavia will stand out as one of its most startling and romantic records. Every detail connected with the astonishing episode, from beginning to end, was romantic even when it was most productive of realistic results. When it is related, it always begins with the story of the tall and kingly Samavian youth who walked out of the palace in the early morning sunshine singing the herdsmen's song of beauty of old days. Then comes the outbreak of the ruined and revolting populace; then the legend of the morning on the mountain side, and the old shepherd coming out of his cave and finding the apparently dead body of the beautiful young hunter. Then the secret nursing in the cavern; then the jolting cart piled with sheepskins crossing the frontier, and ending its journey at the barred entrance of the monastery and leaving its mysterious burden behind. And then the bitter hate and struggle of dynasties, and the handful of shepherds and herdsmen meeting in their cavern and binding themselves and their unborn sons and sons' sons by an oath never to be broken. Then the passing of generations and the slaughter of peoples and the changing of kings,--and always that oath remembered, and the Forgers of the Sword, at their secret work, hidden in forests and caves. Then the strange story of the uncrowned kings who, wandering in other lands, lived and died in silence and seclusion, often laboring with their hands for their daily bread, but never forgetting that they must be kings, and ready,--even though Samavia never called. Perhaps the whole story would fill too many volumes to admit of it ever being told fully. But history makes the growing of the Secret Party clear,--though it seems almost to cease to be history, in spite of its efforts to be brief and speak only of dull facts, when it is forced to deal with the Bearing of the Sign by two mere boys, who, being blown as unremarked as any two grains of dust across Europe, lit the Lamp whose flame so flared up to the high heavens that as if from the earth itself there sprang forth Samavians by the thousands ready to feed it--Iarovitch and Maranovitch swept aside forever and only Samavians remaining to cry aloud in ardent praise and worship of the God who had brought back to them their Lost Prince. The battle-cry of his name had ended every battle. Swords fell from hands because swords were not needed. The Iarovitch fled in terror and dismay; the Maranovitch were nowhere to be found. Between night and morning, as the newsboy had said, the standard of Ivor was raised and waved from palace and citadel alike. From mountain, forest and plain, from city, village and town, its followers flocked to swear allegiance; broken and wounded legions staggered along the roads to join and kneel to it; women and children followed, weeping with joy and chanting songs of praise. The Powers held out their scepters to the lately prostrate and ignored country. Train-loads of food and supplies of all things needed began to cross the frontier; the aid of nations was bestowed. Samavia, at peace to till its land, to raise its flocks, to mine its ores, would be able to pay all back. Samavia in past centuries had been rich enough to make great loans, and had stored such harvests as warring countries had been glad to call upon. The story of the crowning of the King had been the wildest of all--the multitude of ecstatic people, famished, in rags, and many of them weak with wounds, kneeling at his feet, praying, as their one salvation and security, that he would go attended by them to their bombarded and broken cathedral, and at its high altar let the crown be placed upon his head, so that even those who perhaps must die of their past sufferings would at least have paid their poor homage to the King Ivor who would rule their children and bring back to Samavia her honor and her peace. "Ivor! Ivor!" they chanted like a prayer,--"Ivor! Ivor!" in their houses, by the roadside, in the streets. "The story of the Coronation in the shattered Cathedral, whose roof had been torn to fragments by bombs," said an important London paper, "reads like a legend of the Middle Ages. But, upon the whole, there is in Samavia's national character, something of the mediaeval, still." * * * * * Lazarus, having bought and read in his top floor room every newspaper recording the details which had reached London, returned to report almost verbatim, standing erect before Marco, the eyes under his shaggy brows sometimes flaming with exultation, sometimes filled with a rush of tears. He could not be made to sit down. His whole big body seemed to have become rigid with magnificence. Meeting Mrs. Beedle in the passage, he strode by her with an air so thunderous that she turned and scuttled back to her cellar kitchen, almost falling down the stone steps in her nervous terror. In such a mood, he was not a person to face without something like awe. In the middle of the night, The Rat suddenly spoke to Marco as if he knew that he was awake and would hear him. "He has given all his life to Samavia!" he said. "When you traveled from country to country, and lived in holes and corners, it was because by doing it he could escape spies, and see the people who must be made to understand. No one else could have made them listen. An emperor would have begun to listen when he had seen his face and heard his voice. And he could be silent, and wait for the right time to speak. He could keep still when other men could not. He could keep his face still--and his hands--and his eyes. Now all Samavia knows what he has done, and that he has been the greatest patriot in the world. We both saw what Samavians were like that night in the cavern. They will go mad with joy when they see his face!" "They have seen it now," said Marco, in a low voice from his bed. Then there was a long silence, though it was not quite silence because The Rat's breathing was so quick and hard. "He--must have been at that coronation!" he said at last. "The King--what will the King do to--repay him?" Marco did not answer. His breathing could be heard also. His mind was picturing that same coronation--the shattered, roofless cathedral, the ruins of the ancient and magnificent high altar, the multitude of kneeling, famine-scourged people, the battle-worn, wounded and bandaged soldiery! And the King! And his father! Where had his father stood when the King was crowned? Surely, he had stood at the King's right hand, and the people had adored and acclaimed them equally! "King Ivor!" he murmured as if he were in a dream. "King Ivor!" The Rat started up on his elbow. "You will see him," he cried out. "He's not a dream any longer. The Game is not a game now--and it is ended--it is won! It was real--_he_ was real! Marco, I don't believe you hear." "Yes, I do," answered Marco, "but it is almost more a dream than when it was one." "The greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!" raved The Rat. "If there is no bigger honor to give him, he will be made a prince--and Commander-in-Chief--and Prime Minister! Can't you hear those Samavians shouting, and singing, and praying? You'll see it all! Do you remember the mountain climber who was going to save the shoes he made for the Bearer of the Sign? He said a great day might come when one could show them to the people. It's come! He'll show them! I know how they'll take it!" His voice suddenly dropped--as if it dropped into a pit. "You'll see it all. But I shall not." Then Marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. "Why not?" he demanded. It sounded like a demand. "Because I know better than to expect it!" The Rat groaned. "You've taken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palace of a king. I'm not such a fool as to think that, even if your father--" He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head. He sat upright. "You bore the Sign as much as I did," he said. "We bore it together." "Who would have listened to _me_?" cried The Rat. "_You_ were the son of Stefan Loristan." "You were the friend of his son," answered Marco. "You went at the command of Stefan Loristan. You were the _army_ of the son of Stefan Loristan. That I have told you. Where I go, you will go. We will say no more of this--not one word." And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood. And The Rat knew that he meant what he said, and that Stefan Loristan also would mean it. And because he was a boy, he began to wonder what Mrs. Beedle would do when she heard what had happened--what had been happening all the time a tall, shabby "foreigner" had lived in her dingy back sitting-room, and been closely watched lest he should go away without paying his rent, as shabby foreigners sometimes did. The Rat saw himself managing to poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told her that the shabby foreigner was--well, was at least the friend of a King, and had given him his crown--and would be made a prince and a Commander-in-Chief--and a Prime Minister--because there was no higher rank or honor to give him. And his son--whom she had insulted--was Samavia's idol because he had borne the Sign. And also that if she were in Samavia, and Marco chose to do it he could batter her wretched lodging-house to the ground and put her in a prison--"and serve her jolly well right!" The next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter. It was from Loristan, and Marco turned pale when Lazarus handed it to him. Lazarus and The Rat went out of the room at once, and left him to read it alone. It was evidently not a long letter, because it was not many minutes before Marco called them again into the room. "In a few days, messengers--friends of my father's--will come to take us to Samavia. You and I and Lazarus are to go," he said to The Rat. "God be thanked!" said Lazarus. "God be thanked!" Before the messengers came, it was the end of the week. Lazarus had packed their few belongings, and on Saturday Mrs. Beedle was to be seen hovering at the top of the cellar steps, when Marco and The Rat left the back sitting-room to go out. "You needn't glare at me!" she said to Lazarus, who stood glowering at the door which he had opened for them. "Young Master Loristan, I want to know if you've heard when your father is coming back?" "He will not come back," said Marco. "He won't, won't he? Well, how about next week's rent?" said Mrs. Beedle. "Your man's been packing up, I notice. He's not got much to carry away, but it won't pass through that front door until I've got what's owing me. People that can pack easy think they can get away easy, and they'll bear watching. The week's up to-day." Lazarus wheeled and faced her with a furious gesture. "Get back to your cellar, woman," he commanded. "Get back under ground and stay there. Look at what is stopping before your miserable gate." A carriage was stopping--a very perfect carriage of dark brown. The coachman and footman wore dark brown and gold liveries, and the footman had leaped down and opened the door with respectful alacrity. "They are friends of the Master's come to pay their respects to his son," said Lazarus. "Are their eyes to be offended by the sight of you?" "Your money is safe," said Marco. "You had better leave us." Mrs. Beedle gave a sharp glance at the two gentlemen who had entered the broken gate. They were of an order which did not belong to Philibert Place. They looked as if the carriage and the dark brown and gold liveries were every-day affairs to them. "At all events, they're two grown men, and not two boys without a penny," she said. "If they're your father's friends, they'll tell me whether my rent's safe or not." The two visitors were upon the threshold. They were both men of a certain self-contained dignity of type; and when Lazarus opened wide the door, they stepped into the shabby entrance hall as if they did not see it. They looked past its dinginess, and past Lazarus, and The Rat, and Mrs. Beedle--_through_ them, as it were,--at Marco. He advanced towards them at once. "You come from my father!" he said, and gave his hand first to the elder man, then to the younger. "Yes, we come from your father. I am Baron Rastka--and this is the Count Vorversk," said the elder man, bowing. "If they're barons and counts, and friends of your father's, they are well-to-do enough to be responsible for you," said Mrs. Beedle, rather fiercely, because she was somewhat over-awed and resented the fact. "It's a matter of next week's rent, gentlemen. I want to know where it's coming from." The elder man looked at her with a swift cold glance. He did not speak to her, but to Lazarus. "What is she doing here?" he demanded. Marco answered him. "She is afraid we cannot pay our rent," he said. "It is of great importance to her that she should be sure." "Take her away," said the gentleman to Lazarus. He did not even glance at her. He drew something from his coat-pocket and handed it to the old soldier. "Take her away," he repeated. And because it seemed as if she were not any longer a person at all, Mrs. Beedle actually shuffled down the passage to the cellar-kitchen steps. Lazarus did not leave her until he, too, had descended into the cellar kitchen, where he stood and towered above her like an infuriated giant. "To-morrow he will be on his way to Samavia, miserable woman!" he said. "Before he goes, it would be well for you to implore his pardon." But Mrs. Beedle's point of view was not his. She had recovered some of her breath. "I don't know where Samavia is," she raged, as she struggled to set her dusty, black cap straight. "I'll warrant it's one of these little foreign countries you can scarcely see on the map--and not a decent English town in it! He can go as soon as he likes, so long as he pays his rent before he does it. Samavia, indeed! You talk as if he was Buckingham Palace!" XXXI "THE SON OF STEFAN LORISTAN" When a party composed of two boys attended by a big soldierly man-servant and accompanied by two distinguished-looking, elderly men, of a marked foreign type, appeared on the platform of Charing Cross Station they attracted a good deal of attention. In fact, the good looks and strong, well-carried body of the handsome lad with the thick black hair would have caused eyes to turn towards him even if he had not seemed to be regarded as so special a charge by those who were with him. But in a country where people are accustomed to seeing a certain manner and certain forms observed in the case of persons--however young--who are set apart by the fortune of rank and distinction, and where the populace also rather enjoys the sight of such demeanor, it was inevitable that more than one quick-sighted looker-on should comment on the fact that this was not an ordinary group of individuals. "See that fine, big lad over there!" said a workman, whose head, with a pipe in its mouth, stuck out of a third-class smoking carriage window. "He's some sort of a young swell, I'll lay a shillin'! Take a look at him," to his mate inside. The mate took a look. The pair were of the decent, polytechnic-educated type, and were shrewd at observation. "Yes, he's some sort of young swell," he summed him up. "But he's not English by a long chalk. He must be a young Turk, or Russian, sent over to be educated. His suite looks like it. All but the ferret-faced chap on crutches. Wonder what he is!" A good-natured looking guard was passing, and the first man hailed him. "Have we got any swells traveling with us this morning?" he asked, jerking his head towards the group. "That looks like it. Any one leaving Windsor or Sandringham to cross from Dover to-day?" The man looked at the group curiously for a moment and then shook his head. "They do look like something or other," he answered, "but no one knows anything about them. Everybody's safe in Buckingham Palace and Marlborough House this week. No one either going or coming." No observer, it is true, could have mistaken Lazarus for an ordinary attendant escorting an ordinary charge. If silence had not still been strictly the order, he could not have restrained himself. As it was, he bore himself like a grenadier, and stood by Marco as if across his dead body alone could any one approach the lad. "Until we reach Melzarr," he had said with passion to the two gentlemen,--"until I can stand before my Master and behold him embrace his son--_behold_ him--I implore that I may not lose sight of him night or day. On my knees, I implore that I may travel, armed, at his side. I am but his servant, and have no right to occupy a place in the same carriage. But put me anywhere. I will be deaf, dumb, blind to all but himself. Only permit me to be near enough to give my life if it is needed. Let me say to my Master, 'I never left him.'" "We will find a place for you," the elder man said, "and if you are so anxious, you may sleep across his threshold when we spend the night at a hotel." "I will not sleep!" said Lazarus. "I will watch. Suppose there should be demons of Maranovitch loose and infuriated in Europe? Who knows!" "The Maranovitch and Iarovitch who have not already sworn allegiance to King Ivor are dead on battlefields. The remainder are now Fedorovitch and praising God for their King," was the answer Baron Rastka made him. But Lazarus kept his guard unbroken. When he occupied the next compartment to the one in which Marco traveled, he stood in the corridor throughout the journey. When they descended at any point to change trains, he followed close at the boy's heels, his fierce eyes on every side at once and his hand on the weapon hidden in his broad leather belt. When they stopped to rest in some city, he planted himself in a chair by the bedroom door of his charge, and if he slept he was not aware that nature had betrayed him into doing so. If the journey made by the young Bearers of the Sign had been a strange one, this was strange by its very contrast. Throughout that pilgrimage, two uncared-for waifs in worn clothes had traveled from one place to another, sometimes in third- or fourth-class continental railroad carriages, sometimes in jolting diligences, sometimes in peasants' carts, sometimes on foot by side roads and mountain paths, and forest ways. Now, two well-dressed boys in the charge of two men of the class whose orders are obeyed, journeyed in compartments reserved for them, their traveling appurtenances supplying every comfort that luxury could provide. The Rat had not known that there were people who traveled in such a manner; that wants could be so perfectly foreseen; that railroad officials, porters at stations, the staff of restaurants, could be by magic transformed into active and eager servants. To lean against the upholstered back of a railway carriage and in luxurious ease look through the window at passing beauties, and then to find books at your elbow and excellent meals appearing at regular hours, these unknown perfections made it necessary for him at times to pull himself together and give all his energies to believing that he was quite awake. Awake he was, and with much on his mind "to work out,"--so much, indeed, that on the first day of the journey he had decided to give up the struggle, and wait until fate made clear to him such things as he was to be allowed to understand of the mystery of Stefan Loristan. What he realized most clearly was that the fact that the son of Stefan Loristan was being escorted in private state to the country his father had given his life's work to, was never for a moment forgotten. The Baron Rastka and Count Vorversk were of the dignity and courteous reserve which marks men of distinction. Marco was not a mere boy to them, he was the son of Stefan Loristan; and they were Samavians. They watched over him, not as Lazarus did, but with a gravity and forethought which somehow seemed to encircle him with a rampart. Without any air of subservience, they constituted themselves his attendants. His comfort, his pleasure, even his entertainment, were their private care. The Rat felt sure they intended that, if possible, he should enjoy his journey, and that he should not be fatigued by it. They conversed with him as The Rat had not known that men ever conversed with boys,--until he had met Loristan. It was plain that they knew what he would be most interested in, and that they were aware he was as familiar with the history of Samavia as they were themselves. When he showed a disposition to hear of events which had occurred, they were as prompt to follow his lead as they would have been to follow the lead of a man. That, The Rat argued with himself, was because Marco had lived so intimately with his father that his life had been more like a man's than a boy's and had trained him in mature thinking. He was very quiet during the journey, and The Rat knew he was thinking all the time. The night before they reached Melzarr, they slept at a town some hours distant from the capital. They arrived at midnight and went to a quiet hotel. "To-morrow," said Marco, when The Rat had left him for the night, "to-morrow, we shall see him! God be thanked!" "God be thanked!" said The Rat, also. And each saluted the other before they parted. In the morning, Lazarus came into the bedroom with an air so solemn that it seemed as if the garments he carried in his hands were part of some religious ceremony. "I am at your command, sir," he said. "And I bring you your uniform." He carried, in fact, a richly decorated Samavian uniform, and the first thing Marco had seen when he entered was that Lazarus himself was in uniform also. His was the uniform of an officer of the King's Body Guard. "The Master," he said, "asks that you wear this on your entrance to Melzarr. I have a uniform, also, for your aide-de-camp." When Rastka and Vorversk appeared, they were in uniforms also. It was a uniform which had a touch of the Orient in its picturesque splendor. A short fur-bordered mantle hung by a jeweled chain from the shoulders, and there was much magnificent embroidery of color and gold. "Sir, we must drive quickly to the station," Baron Rastka said to Marco. "These people are excitable and patriotic, and His Majesty wishes us to remain incognito, and avoid all chance of public demonstration until we reach the capital." They passed rather hurriedly through the hotel to the carriage which awaited them. The Rat saw that something unusual was happening in the place. Servants were scurrying round corners, and guests were coming out of their rooms and even hanging over the balustrades. As Marco got into his carriage, he caught sight of a boy about his own age who was peeping from behind a bush. Suddenly he darted away, and they all saw him tearing down the street towards the station as fast as his legs would carry him. But the horses were faster than he was. The party reached the station, and was escorted quickly to its place in a special saloon-carriage which awaited it. As the train made its way out of the station, Marco saw the boy who had run before them rush on to the platform, waving his arms and shouting something with wild delight. The people who were standing about turned to look at him, and the next instant they had all torn off their caps and thrown them up in the air and were shouting also. But it was not possible to hear what they said. "We were only just in time," said Vorversk, and Baron Rastka nodded. The train went swiftly, and stopped only once before they reached Melzarr. This was at a small station, on the platform of which stood peasants with big baskets of garlanded flowers and evergreens. They put them on the train, and soon both Marco and The Rat saw that something unusual was taking place. At one time, a man standing on the narrow outside platform of the carriage was plainly seen to be securing garlands and handing up flags to men who worked on the roof. "They are doing something with Samavian flags and a lot of flowers and green things!" cried The Rat, in excitement. "Sir, they are decorating the outside of the carriage," Vorversk said. "The villagers on the line obtained permission from His Majesty. The son of Stefan Loristan could not be allowed to pass their homes without their doing homage." "I understand," said Marco, his heart thumping hard against his uniform. "It is for my father's sake." * * * * * At last, embowered, garlanded, and hung with waving banners, the train drew in at the chief station at Melzarr. "Sir," said Rastka, as they were entering, "will you stand up that the people may see you? Those on the outskirts of the crowd will have the merest glimpse, but they will never forget." Marco stood up. The others grouped themselves behind him. There arose a roar of voices, which ended almost in a shriek of joy which was like the shriek of a tempest. Then there burst forth the blare of brazen instruments playing the National Hymn of Samavia, and mad voices joined in it. If Marco had not been a strong boy, and long trained in self-control, what he saw and heard might have been almost too much to be borne. When the train had come to a full stop, and the door was thrown open, even Rastka's dignified voice was unsteady as he said, "Sir, lead the way. It is for us to follow." And Marco, erect in the doorway, stood for a moment, looking out upon the roaring, acclaiming, weeping, singing and swaying multitude--and saluted just as he had saluted The Squad, looking just as much a boy, just as much a man, just as much a thrilling young human being. Then, at the sight of him standing so, it seemed as if the crowd went mad--as the Forgers of the Sword had seemed to go mad on the night in the cavern. The tumult rose and rose, the crowd rocked, and leapt, and, in its frenzy of emotion, threatened to crush itself to death. But for the lines of soldiers, there would have seemed no chance for any one to pass through it alive. "I am the son of Stefan Loristan," Marco said to himself, in order to hold himself steady. "I am on my way to my father." Afterward, he was moving through the line of guarding soldiers to the entrance, where two great state-carriages stood; and there, outside, waited even a huger and more frenzied crowd than that left behind. He saluted there again, and again, and again, on all sides. It was what they had seen the Emperor do in Vienna. He was not an Emperor, but he was the son of Stefan Loristan who had brought back the King. "You must salute, too," he said to The Rat, when they got into the state carriage. "Perhaps my father has told them. It seems as if they knew you." The Rat had been placed beside him on the carriage seat. He was inwardly shuddering with a rapture of exultation which was almost anguish. The people were looking at him--shouting at him--surely it seemed like it when he looked at the faces nearest in the crowd. Perhaps Loristan-- "Listen!" said Marco suddenly, as the carriage rolled on its way. "They are shouting to us in Samavian, 'The Bearers of the Sign!' That is what they are saying now. 'The Bearers of the Sign.'" They were being taken to the Palace. That Baron Rastka and Count Vorversk had explained in the train. His Majesty wished to receive them. Stefan Loristan was there also. The city had once been noble and majestic. It was somewhat Oriental, as its uniforms and national costumes were. There were domed and pillared structures of white stone and marble, there were great arches, and city gates, and churches. But many of them were half in ruins through war, and neglect, and decay. They passed the half-unroofed cathedral, standing in the sunshine in its great square, still in all its disaster one of the most beautiful structures in Europe. In the exultant crowd were still to be seen haggard faces, men with bandaged limbs and heads or hobbling on sticks and crutches. The richly colored native costumes were most of them worn to rags. But their wearers had the faces of creatures plucked from despair to be lifted to heaven. "Ivor! Ivor!" they cried; "Ivor! Ivor!" and sobbed with rapture. The Palace was as wonderful in its way as the white cathedral. The immensely wide steps of marble were guarded by soldiers. The huge square in which it stood was filled with people whom the soldiers held in check. "I am his son," Marco said to himself, as he descended from the state carriage and began to walk up the steps which seemed so enormously wide that they appeared almost like a street. Up he mounted, step by step, The Rat following him. And as he turned from side to side, to salute those who made deep obeisance as he passed, he began to realize that he had seen their faces before. "These who are guarding the steps," he said, quickly under his breath to The Rat, "are the Forgers of the Sword!" There were rich uniforms everywhere when he entered the palace, and people who bowed almost to the ground as he passed. He was very young to be confronted with such an adoring adulation and royal ceremony; but he hoped it would not last too long, and that after he had knelt to the King and kissed his hand, he would see his father and hear his voice. Just to hear his voice again, and feel his hand on his shoulder! Through the vaulted corridors, to the wide-opened doors of a magnificent room he was led at last. The end of it seemed a long way off as he entered. There were many richly dressed people who stood in line as he passed up toward the canopied dais. He felt that he had grown pale with the strain of excitement, and he had begun to feel that he must be walking in a dream, as on each side people bowed low and curtsied to the ground. He realized vaguely that the King himself was standing, awaiting his approach. But as he advanced, each step bearing him nearer to the throne, the light and color about him, the strangeness and magnificence, the wildly joyous acclamation of the populace outside the palace, made him feel rather dazzled, and he did not clearly see any one single face or thing. "His Majesty awaits you," said a voice behind him which seemed to be Baron Rastka's. "Are you faint, sir? You look pale." He drew himself together, and lifted his eyes. For one full moment, after he had so lifted them, he stood quite still and straight, looking into the deep beauty of the royal face. Then he knelt and kissed the hands held out to him--kissed them both with a passion of boy love and worship. The King had the eyes he had longed to see--the King's hands were those he had longed to feel again upon his shoulder--the King was his father! the "Stefan Loristan" who had been the last of those who had waited and labored for Samavia through five hundred years, and who had lived and died kings, though none of them till now had worn a crown! His father was the King! * * * * * It was not that night, nor the next, nor for many nights that the telling of the story was completed. The people knew that their King and his son were rarely separated from each other; that the Prince's suite of apartments were connected by a private passage with his father's. The two were bound together by an affection of singular strength and meaning, and their love for their people added to their feeling for each other. In the history of what their past had been, there was a romance which swelled the emotional Samavian heart near to bursting. By mountain fires, in huts, under the stars, in fields and in forests, all that was known of their story was told and retold a thousand times, with sobs of joy and prayer breaking in upon the tale. But none knew it as it was told in a certain quiet but stately room in the palace, where the man once known only as "Stefan Loristan," but whom history would call the first King Ivor of Samavia, told his share of it to the boy whom Samavians had a strange and superstitious worship for, because he seemed so surely their Lost Prince restored in body and soul--almost the kingly lad in the ancient portrait--some of them half believed when he stood in the sunshine, with the halo about his head. It was a wonderful and intense story, that of the long wanderings and the close hiding of the dangerous secret. Among all those who had known that a man who was an impassioned patriot was laboring for Samavia, and using all the power of a great mind and the delicate ingenuity of a great genius to gain friends and favor for his unhappy country, there had been but one who had known that Stefan Loristan had a claim to the Samavian throne. He had made no claim, he had sought--not a crown--but the final freedom of the nation for which his love had been a religion. "Not the crown!" he said to the two young Bearers of the Sign as they sat at his feet like schoolboys--"not a throne. 'The Life of my life--for Samavia.' That was what I worked for--what we have all worked for. If there had risen a wiser man in Samavia's time of need, it would not have been for me to remind them of their Lost Prince. I could have stood aside. But no man arose. The crucial moment came--and the one man who knew the secret, revealed it. Then--Samavia called, and I answered." He put his hand on the thick, black hair of his boy's head. "There was a thing we never spoke of together," he said. "I believed always that your mother died of her bitter fears for me and the unending strain of them. She was very young and loving, and knew that there was no day when we parted that we were sure of seeing each other alive again. When she died, she begged me to promise that your boyhood and youth should not be burdened by the knowledge she had found it so terrible to bear. I should have kept the secret from you, even if she had not so implored me. I had never meant that you should know the truth until you were a man. If I had died, a certain document would have been sent to you which would have left my task in your hands and made my plans clear. You would have known then that you also were a Prince Ivor, who must take up his country's burden and be ready when Samavia called. I tried to help you to train yourself for any task. You never failed me." "Your Majesty," said The Rat, "I began to work it out, and think it must be true that night when we were with the old woman on the top of the mountain. It was the way she looked at--at His Highness." "Say 'Marco,'" threw in Prince Ivor. "It's easier. He was my army, Father." Stefan Loristan's grave eyes melted. "Say 'Marco,'" he said. "You were his army--and more--when we both needed one. It was you who invented the Game!" "Thanks, Your Majesty," said The Rat, reddening scarlet. "You do me great honor! But he would never let me wait on him when we were traveling. He said we were nothing but two boys. I suppose that's why it's hard to remember, at first. But my mind went on working until sometimes I was afraid I might let something out at the wrong time. When we went down into the cavern, and I saw the Forgers of the Sword go mad over him--I _knew_ it must be true. But I didn't dare to speak. I knew you meant us to wait; so I waited." "You are a faithful friend," said the King, "and you have always obeyed orders!" A great moon was sailing in the sky that night--just such a moon as had sailed among the torn rifts of storm clouds when the Prince at Vienna had come out upon the balcony and the boyish voice had startled him from the darkness of the garden below. The clearer light of this night's splendor drew them out on a balcony also--a broad balcony of white marble which looked like snow. The pure radiance fell upon all they saw spread before them--the lovely but half-ruined city, the great palace square with its broken statues and arches, the splendid ghost of the unroofed cathedral whose High Altar was bare to the sky. They stood and looked at it. There was a stillness in which all the world might have ceased breathing. "What next?" said Prince Ivor, at last speaking quietly and low. "What next, Father?" "Great things which will come, one by one," said the King, "if we hold ourselves ready." Prince Ivor turned his face from the lovely, white, broken city, and put his brown hand on his father's arm. "Upon the ledge that night--" he said, "Father, you remember--?" The King was looking far away, but he bent his head: "Yes. That will come, too," he said. "Can you repeat it?" "Yes," said Ivor, "and so can the aide-de-camp. We've said it a hundred times. We believe it's true. 'If the descendant of the Lost Prince is brought back to rule in Samavia, he will teach his people the Law of the One, from his throne. He will teach his son, and that son will teach his son, and he will teach his. And through such as these, the whole world will learn the Order and the Law.'" 
749	----	Barlaam and Ioasaph by St. John Damascene (?) ("St. John of Damascus") c. 676-749 A.D. It is not known where or when this story was written, but it is believed to have been translated into Greek (possibly from a Georgian original) sometime in the 11th Century A.D. Although the ultimate author is usually referred to as "John the Monk", it has been traditionally ascribed to St. John of Damascus. The text of this edition is based on that published as ST. JOHN DAMASCENE: BARLAAM AND IOASAPH (Trans: G.R. Woodward and H. Mattingly; Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, 1914). This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN in he United States. This electronic edition was edited, proofed, and prepared by Douglas B. Killings (DeTroyes@EnterAct.COM), November, 1996. PREPARER'S NOTE: Readers of this work will note some startling similarities between the story of Ioasaph and the traditional Tale of Buddha. The work seems to be a retelling of the Buddha Legend from within a Christian context, with the singular difference that the "Buddha" in this tale reaches enlightenment through the love of Jesus Christ. The popularity of the Greek version of this story is attested to by the number of translations made of it throughout the Christian world, including versions in Latin, Old Slavonic, Armenian, Christian Arabic, English, Ethiopic, and French. Such was its popularity that both Barlaam and Josaphat (Ioasaph) were eventually recognized by the Roman Catholic Church as Saints, and churches were dedicated in their honor from Portugal to Constantinople. It was only after Europeans began to have increased contacts with India that scholars began to notice the similarities between the two sets of stories. Modern scholars believe that the Buddha story came to Europe from Arabic, Caucasus, and/or Persian sources, all of which were active in trade between the European and Indian worlds. --DBK ***************************************************************** SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY: ORIGINAL TEXT-- Woodward, G.R. & H. Mattingly (Ed. & Trans.): "St. John Damascene: Barlaam and Ioasaph" (Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, 1914). English translation with side-by-side Greek text. RECOMMENDED READING-- Lang, David Marshall (Trans.): "The Balavariani: A Tale from the Christian East" (California University Press, Los Angeles, 1966). Translation of the Georgian work that probably served as a basis for the Greek text. ***************************************************************** BARLAAM AND IOASAPH AN EDIFYING STORY FROM THE INNER LAND OF THE ETHIOPIANS, CALLED THE LAND OF THE INDIANS, THENCE BROUGHT TO THE HOLY CITY, BY JOHN THE MONK (AN HONOURABLE MAN AND A VIRTUOUS, OF THE MONASTERY OF SAINT SABAS); WHEREIN ARE THE LIVES OF THE FAMOUS AND BLESSED BARLAAM AND IOASAPH. INTRODUCTION "As many as are led by the Spirit of God they are sons of God" saith the inspired Apostle. Now to have been accounted worthy of the Holy Spirit and to have become sons of God is of all things most to be coveted; and, as it is written, "They that have become his sons find rest from all enquiry." This marvellous, and above all else desirable, blessedness have the Saints from the beginning won by the practice of the virtues, some having striven as Martyrs, and resisted sin unto blood, and others having struggled in self-discipline, and having trodden the narrow way, proving Martyrs in will. Now, that one should hand down to memory the prowess and virtuous deeds of these, both of them that were made perfect by blood, and of them that by self-denial did emulate the conversation of Angels, and should deliver to the generations that follow a pattern of virtue, this hath the Church of Christ received as a tradition from the inspired Apostles, and the blessed Fathers, who did thus enact for the salvation of our race. For the pathway to virtue is rough and steep, especially for such as have not yet wholly turned unto the Lord, but are still at warfare, through the tyranny of their passions. For this reason also we need many encouragements thereto, whether it be exhortations, or the record of the lives of them that have travelled on the road before us; which latter draweth us towards it the less painfully, and doth accustom us not to despair on account of the difficulty of the journey. For even as with a man that would tread a hard and difficult path; by exhortation and encouragement one may scarce win him to essay it, but rather by pointing to the many who have already completed the course, and at the last have arrived safely. So I too, "walking by this rule," and heedful of the danger hanging over that servant who, having received of his lord the talent, buried it in the earth, and hid out of use that which was given him to trade withal, will in no wise pass over in silence the edifying story that hath come to me, the which devout men from the inner land Of the Ethiopians, whom our tale calleth Indians, delivered unto me, translated from trustworthy records. It readeth thus. I. The country of the Indians, as it is called, is vast and populous, lying far beyond Egypt. On the side of Egypt it is washed by seas and navigable gulphs, but on the mainland it marcheth with the borders of Persia, a land formerly darkened with the gloom of idolatry, barbarous to the last degree, and wholly given up to unlawful practices. But when "the only-begotten Son of God, which is in the bosom of the Father," being grieved to see his own handiwork in bondage unto sin, was moved with compassion for the same, and shewed himself amongst us without sin, and, without leaving his Father's throne, dwelt for a season in the Virgin's womb for our sakes, that we might dwell in heaven, and be re-claimed from the ancient fall, and freed from sin by receiving again the adoption of sons; when he had fulfilled every stage of his life in the flesh for our sake, and endured the death of the Cross, and marvellously united earth and heaven; when he had risen again from the dead, and had been received up into heaven, and was seated at the right hand of the majesty of the Father, whence, according to his promise, he sent down the Comforter, the Holy Ghost, unto his eyewitnesses and disciples, in the shape of fiery tongues, and despatched them unto all nations, for to give light to them that sat in the darkness of ignorance, and to baptize them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, whereby it fell to the lot of some of the Apostles to travel to the far-off East and to some to journey to the West-ward, while others traversed the regions North and South, fulfilling their appointed tasks then it was, I say, that one of the company of Christ's Twelve Apostles, most holy Thomas, was sent out to the land of the Indians, preaching the Gospel of Salvation. "The Lord working with him and confirming the word with signs following," the darkness of superstition was banished; and men were delivered from idolatrous sacrifices and abominations, and added to the true Faith, and being thus transformed by the hands of the Apostle, were made members of Christ's household by Baptism, and, waxing ever with fresh increase, made advancement in the blameless Faith and built churches in all their lands. Now when monasteries began to be formed in Egypt, and numbers of monks banded themselves together, and when the fame of their virtues and Angelic conversation "was gone out into all the ends of the world" and came to the Indians, it stirred them up also to the like zeal, insomuch that many of them forsook everything and withdrew to the deserts; and, though but men in mortal bodies, adopted the spiritual life of Angels. While matters were thus prospering and many were soaring upward to heaven on wings of gold, as the saying is, there arose in that country a king named Abenner, mighty in riches and power, and in victory over his enemies, brave in warfare, vain of his splendid stature and comeliness of face, and boastful of all worldly honours, that pass so soon away. But his soul was utterly crushed by poverty, and choked with many vices, for he was of the Greek way, and sore distraught by the superstitious error of his idol-worship. But, although he lived in luxury, and in the enjoyment of the sweet and pleasant things of life, and was never baulked of any of his wishes and desires, yet one thing there was that marred his happiness, and pierced his soul with care, the curse of childlessness. For being without issue, he took ceaseless thought how he might be rid of this hobble, and be called the father of children, a name greatly coveted by most people. Such was the king, and such his mind. Meanwhile the glorious band of Christians and the companies of monks, paying no regard to the king's majesty, and in no wise terrified by his threats, advanced in the grace of Christ, and grew in number beyond measure, making short account of the king's words, but cleaving closely to everything that led to the service of God. For this reason many, who had adopted the monastic rule, abhorred alike all the sweets of this world, and were enamoured of one thing only, namely godliness, thirsting to lay down their lives for Christ his sake, and yearning for the happiness beyond. Wherefore they preached, not with fear and trembling, but rather even with excess of boldness, the saving Name of God, and naught but Christ was on their lips, as they plainly proclaimed to all men the transitory and fading nature of this present time, and the fixedness and incorruptibility of the life to come, and sowed in men the first seeds, as it were, towards their becoming of the household of God, and winning that life which is hid in Christ. Wherefore many, profiting by this most pleasant teaching, turned away from the bitter darkness of error, and approached the sweet light of Truth; insomuch that certain of their noblemen and senators laid aside all the burthens of life, and thenceforth became monks. But when the king heard thereof, he was filled with wrath, and, boiling over with indignation, passed a decree forthwith, compelling all Christians to renounce their religion. Thereupon he planned and practised new kinds of torture against them, and threatened new forms of death. So throughout all his dominions he sent letters to his rulers and governors ordering penalties against the righteous, and unlawful massacres. But chiefly was his displeasure turned against the ranks of the monastic orders, and against them he waged a truceless and unrelenting warfare. Hence, of a truth, many of the Faithful were shaken in spirit, and others, unable to endure torture, yielded to his ungodly decrees. But of the chiefs and rulers of the monastic order some in rebuking his wickedness ended their lives by suffering martyrdom, and thus attained to everlasting felicity; while others hid themselves in deserts and mountains, not from dread of the threatened tortures, but by a more divine dispensation. II. Now while the land of the Indians lay under the shroud of this moonless night, and while the Faithful were harried on every side, and the champions of ungodliness prospered, the very air reeking with the smell of bloody sacrifices, a certain mall of the royal household, chief satrap in rank, in courage, stature, comeliness, and in all those qualities which mark beauty of body and nobility of soul, far above all his Fellows, hearing of this iniquitous decree, bade farewell to all the grovelling pomps and vanities of the world, joined the ranks of the monks, and retired across the border into the desert. There, by fastings and vigils, and by diligent study of the divine oracles, he throughly purged his senses, and illumined a soul, set free from every passion, with the glorious light of a perfect calm. But when the king, who loved and esteemed him highly, heard thereof, he was grieved in spirit at the loss of his friend, but his anger was the more hotly kindled against the monks. And so he sent everywhere in search of him, leaving "no stone unturned," as the saying is, to find him. After a long while, they that were sent in quest of him, having learnt that he abode in the desert, after diligent search, apprehended him and brought him before the king's judgement seat. When the king saw him in such vile and coarse raiment who before had been clad in rich apparel,--saw him, who had lived in the lap of luxury, shrunken and wasted by the severe practice of discipline, and bearing about in his body outward and visible signs of his hermit-life, he was filled with mingled grief and fury, and, in speech blended of these two passions, he spake unto him thus: "O thou dullard and mad man, wherefore hast thou exchanged thine honour for shame, and thy glorious estate for this unseemly show? To what end hath the president of my kingdom, and chief commander of my realm made himself the laughingstock of boys, and not only forgotten utterly our friendship and fellowship, but revolted against nature herself, and had no pity on his own children, and cared naught for riches and all the splendour of the world, and chosen ignominy such as this rather than the glory that men covet? And what shall it profit thee to have chosen above all gods and men him whom they call Jesus, and to have preferred this rough life of sackcloth to the pleasures and delights of a life of bliss." When the man of God heard these words, he made reply, at once courteous and unruffled: "If it be thy pleasure, O king, to converse with me, remove thine enemies out of mid court; which done, I will answer thee concerning whatsoever thou mayest desire to learn; for while these are here, I cannot speak with thee. But, without speech, torment me, kill me, do as thou wilt, for "the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world,' as saith my divine teacher." The king said, "And who are these enemies whom thou biddest me turn out of court?" The saintly man answered and said, "Anger and Desire. For at the beginning these twain were brought into being by the Creator to be fellow-workers with nature; and such they still are to those 'who walk not after the flesh but after the Spirit.' But in you who are altogether carnal, having nothing of the Spirit, they are adversaries, and play the part of enemies and foemen. For Desire, working in you, stirreth up pleasure, but, when made of none effect, Anger. To-day therefore let these be banished from thee, and let Wisdom and Righteousness sit to hear and judge that which we say. For if thou put Anger and Desire out of court, and in their room bring in Wisdom and Righteousness, I will truthfully tell thee all." Then spake the king, "Lo I yield to thy request, and will banish out of the assembly both Desire and Anger, and make Wisdom and Righteousness to sit between us. So now, tell me without fear, how wast thou so greatly taken with this error, to prefer the bird in the bush to the bird already in the hand?" The hermit answered and said, "O king, if thou askest the cause how I came to despise things temporal, and to devote my whole self to the hope of things eternal, hearken unto me. In former days, when I was still but a stripling, I heard a certain good and wholesome saying, which, by its three took my soul by storm; and the remembrance of it, like some divine seed, being planted in my heart, unmoved, was preserved ever until it took root, blossomed, and bare that fruit which thou seest in me. Now the meaning of that sentence was this: 'It seemed good to the foolish to despise the things that are, as though they were not, and to cleave and cling to the things that are not, as though they were. So he, that hath never tasted the sweetness of the things that are, will not be able to understand the nature of the things that are not. And never having understood them, how shall he despise them?' Now that saying meant by 'things that are' the things eternal and fixed, but by 'things that are not' earthly life, luxury, the prosperity that deceives, whereon, O king, thine heart alas! is fixed amiss. Time was when I also clung thereto myself. But the force of that sentence continually goading my heart, stirred my governing power, my mind, to make the better choice. But 'the law of sin, warring against the law of my mind,' and binding me, as with iron chains, held me captive to the love of things present. "But 'after that the kindness and love of God our Saviour' was pleased to deliver me from that harsh captivity, he enabled my mind to overcome the law of sin, and opened mine eyes to discern good from evil. Thereupon I perceived and looked, and behold! all things present are vanity and vexation of spirit, as somewhere in his writings saith Solomon the wise. Then was the veil of sin lifted from mine heart, and the dullness, proceeding from the grossness of my body, which pressed upon my soul, was scattered, and I perceived the end for which I was created, and how that it behoved me to move upward to my Creator by the keeping of his Commandments. Wherefore I left all and followed him, and I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord that he delivered me out of the mire, and from the making of bricks, and from the harsh and deadly ruler of the darkness of this world, and that he showed me the short and easy road whereby I shall be able, in this earthen body, eagerly to embrace the Angelic life. Seeking to attain to it the sooner, I chose to walk the strait and narrow way, renouncing the vanity of things present and the unstable changes and chances thereof, and refusing to call anything good except the true good, from which thou, O king, art miserably sundered and alienated. Wherefore also we ourselves were alienated and separated from thee, because thou wert falling into plain and manifest destruction, and wouldst constrain us also to descend into like peril. But as long as we were tried in the warfare of this world, we failed in no point of duty. Thou thyself will bear me witness that we were never charged with sloth or heedlessness. "But when thou hast endeavoured to rob us of the chiefest of all blessings, our religion, and to deprive us of God, the worst of deprivations, and, in this intent, dost remind us of past honours and preferments, how should I not rightly tax thee with ignorance of good, seeing that thou dost at all compare these two things, righteousness toward God, and human friendship, and glory, that runneth away like water? And how, in such ease, may we have fellowship with thee, and not the rather deny ourselves friendship and honours and love of children, and if there be any other tie greater than these? When we see thee, O king, the rather forgetting thy reverence toward that God, who giveth thee the power to live and breathe, Christ Jesus, the Lord of all; who, being alike without beginning, and coeternal with the Father, and having created the heavens and the earth by his word, made man with his own hands and endowed him with immortality, and set him king of all on earth and assigned him Paradise, the fairest place of all, as his royal dwelling. But man, beguiled by envy, and (wo is me!) caught by the bait of pleasure, miserably fell from all these blessings. So he that once was enviable became a piteous spectacle, and by his misfortune deserving of tears. Wherefore he, that had made and fashioned us, looked again with eyes of compassion upon the work of his own hands. He, not laying aside his God-head, which he had from the beginning, was made man for our sakes, like ourselves, but without sin, and was content to suffer death upon the Cross. He overthrew the foeman that from the beginning had looked with malice on our race; he rescued us from that bitter captivity; he, of his goodness, restored to us our former freedom, and, of his tender love towards mankind, raised us up again to that place from whence by our disobedience we had fallen, granting us even greater honour than at the first. "Him therefore, who endured such sufferings for our sakes, and again bestowed such blessings upon us, him dost thou reject and scoff at his Cross? And, thyself wholly riveted to carnal delights and deadly passions, dost thou proclaim the idols of shame and dishonour gods? Not only hast thou alienated thyself from the commonwealth of heavenly felicity but thou hast also severed from the same all others who obey thy commands, to the peril of their souls. Know therefore that I will not obey thee, nor join thee in such ingratitude to God-ward; neither will I deny my benefactor and Saviour, though thou slay me by wild beasts, or give me to the fire and sword, as thou hast the power. For I neither fear death, nor desire the present world, having passed judgement on the frailty and vanity thereof. For what is there profitable, abiding or stable therein? Nay, in very existence, great is the misery, great the pain, great and ceaseless the attendant care. Of its gladness and enjoyment the yoke-fellows are dejection and pain. Its riches is poverty; its loftiness die lowest humiliation; and who shall tell the full tale of its miseries, which Saint John the Divine hath shown me in few words? For he saith, 'The whole world lieth in wickedness'; and, 'Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. For all that is in the world is the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof, but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.' Seeking, then, this good will of God, I have forsaken everything, and joined myself to those who possess the same desire, and seek after the same God. Amongst these there is no strife or envy, sorrow or care, but all run the like race that they may obtain those everlasting habitations which the Father of lights hath prepared for them that love him. Them have I gained for my fathers, my brothers, my friends and mine acquaintances. But from my former friends and brethren 'I have got me away far off, and lodged in the wilderness' waiting for the God, who saveth me from faintness of spirit, and from the stormy tempest." When the man of God had made answer thus gently and in good reason, the king was stirred by anger, and was minded cruelly to torment the saint; but again he hesitated and delayed, regarding his venerable and noble mien. So he answered and said: "Unhappy man, that hast contrived thine own utter ruin, driven thereto, I ween, by fate, surely thou hast made thy tongue as sharp as thy wits. Hence thou hast uttered these vain and ambiguous babblings. Had I not promised, at the beginning of our converse, to banish Anger from mid court, I had now given thy body to be burned. But since thou hast prevented and tied me down fast by my words, I bear with thine effrontery, by reason of my former friendship with thee. Now, arise, and flee for ever from my sight, lest I see thee again and miserably destroy thee." So the man of God went out and withdrew to the desert, grieved to have lost the crown of martyrdom, but daily a martyr in his conscience, and 'wrestling against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness'; as saith Blessed Paul. But after his departure, the king waxed yet more wroth, and devised a yet fiercer persecution of the monastic order, while treating with greater honour the ministers and temple-keepers of his idols. While the king was under this terrible delusion and error, there was born unto him a son, a right goodly child, whose beauty from his very birth was prophetic of his future fortunes. Nowhere in that land, they said, had there ever been seen so charming and lovely a babe. Full of the keenest joy at the birth of the child, the king called him Ioasaph, and in his folly went in person to the temples of his idols, for to do sacrifice and offer hymns of praise to his still more foolish gods, unaware of the real giver of all good things, to whom he should have offered the spiritual sacrifice. He then, ascribing the cause Of his son's birth to things lifeless and dumb, sent out into all quarters to gather the people together to celebrate his son's birth-day: and thou mightest have seen all the folk running together for fear of the king, and bringing their offerings ready for the sacrifice, according to the store at each man's hand, and his favour toward his lord. But chiefly the king stirred them up to emulation. He brought full many oxen, of goodly size, for sacrifice, and thus, making a feast for all his people, he bestowed largesses on all his counsellors and officers, and on all his soldiers, and all the poor, and men of low degree. III. Now on his son's birth-day feast there came unto the king some five and fifty chosen men, schooled in the star-lore of the Chaldaeans. These the king called into his presence, and asked them, severally, to tell him the future of the new-born babe. After long counsel held, they said that he should be mighty in riches and power, and should surpass all that had reigned before him. But one of the astrologers, the most learned of all his fellows, spake thus: "From that which I learn from the courses of the stars, O king, the advancement of the child, now born unto thee, will not be in thy kingdom, but in another, a better and a greater one beyond compare. Methinketh also that he will embrace the Christian religion, which thou persecutest, and I trow that he will not be disappointed of his aim and hope." Thus spake the astrologer, like Balaam of old, not that his star-lore told him true, but because God signifieth the truth by the mouth of his enemies, that all excuse may be taken from the ungodly. But when the king heard thereof, he received the tidings with a heavy heart, and sorrow cut short his joy. Howsoever he built, in a city set apart, an exceeding beautiful palace, with cunningly devised gorgeous chambers, and there set his son to dwell, after he had ended his first infancy; and he forbade any to approach him, appointing, for instructors and servants, youths right seemly to behold. These he charged to reveal to him none of the annoys of life, neither death, nor old age, nor disease, nor poverty, nor anything else grievous that might break his happiness: but to place before him everything pleasant and enjoyable, that his heart, revelling in these delights, might not gain strength to consider the future, nor ever hear the bare mention of the tale of Christ and his doctrines. For he was heedful of the astrologer's warning, and it was this most that he was minded to conceal from his son. And if any of the attendants chanced to fall sick, he commanded to have him speedily removed, and put another plump and well-favoured servant in his place, that the boy's eyes might never once behold anything to disquiet them. Such then was the intent and doing of the king, for, 'seeing, he did not see, and hearing, he did not understand.' But, learning that some monks still remained, of whom he fondly imagined that not a trace was left, he became angry above measure, and his fury was hotly kindled against them. And he commanded heralds to scour all the city and all the country, proclaiming that after three days no monk whatsoever should be found therein. But and if any were discovered after the set time, they should be delivered to destruction by fire and sword. "For," said he, "these be they that persuade the people to worship the Crucified as God." Meanwhile a thing befell, that made the king still more angry and bitter against the monks. IV. There was at court a man pre-eminent among the rulers, of virtuous life and devout in religion. But while working out his own salvation, as best he might, he kept it secret for fear of the king. Wherefore certain men, looking enviously on his free converse with the king, studied how they might slander him; and this was all their thought. On a day, when the king went forth a-hunting with his bodyguard, as was his wont, this good man was of the hunting party. While he was walking alone, by divine providence, as I believe, he found a man in a covert, cast to the ground, his foot grievously crushed by a wild-beast. Seeing him passing by, the wounded man importuned him not to go his way, but to pity his misfortune, and take him to his own home, adding thereto: "I hope that I shall not be found unprofitable, nor altogether useless unto thee." Our nobleman said unto him, "For very charity I will take thee up, and render thee such service as I may. But what is this profit which thou saidest that I should receive of thee?" The poor sick man answered, "I am a physician of words. If ever in speech or converse any wound or damage be found, I will heal it with befitting medicines, that so the evil spread no further." The devout man gave no heed to his word, but on account of the commandment, ordered him to be carried home, and grudged him not that tending which he required. But the aforesaid envious and malignant persons, bringing forth to light that ungodliness with which they had long been in travail, slandered this good man to the king; that not only did he forget his friendship with the king, and neglect the worship of the gods, and incline to Christianity, but more, that he was grievously intriguing against the kingly power, and was turning aside the common people, and stealing all hearts for himself. "But," said they, "if thou wilt prove that our charge is not ungrounded, call him to thee privately; and, to try him, say that thou desirest to leave thy fathers' religion, and the glory of thy kingship, and to become a Christian, and to put on the monkish habit which formerly thou didst persecute, having, thou shalt tell him, found thine old course evil." The authors of this villainous charge against the Christian knew the tenderness of his heart, how that, if he heard such speech from the king, he would advise him, who had made this better choice, not to put off his good determinations, and so they would be found just accusers. But the king, not forgetful of his friend's great kindness toward him, thought these accusations incredible and false; and because he might not accept them without proof, he resolved to try the fact and the charge. So he called the man apart and said, to prove him, "Friend, thou knowest of all my past dealings with them that are called monks and with all the Christians. But now, I have repented in this matter, and, lightly esteeming the present world, would fain become partaker of those hopes whereof I have heard them speak, of some immortal kingdom in the life to come; for the present is of a surety cut short by death. And in none other way, methinks, can I succeed herein and not miss the mark except I become a Christian, and, bidding farewell to the glory of my kingdom and all the pleasures and joys of life, go seek those hermits and monks, wheresoever they be, whom I have banished, and join myself to their number. Now what sayest thou thereto, and what is thine advice? Say on; I adjure thee in the name of truth; for I know thee to be true and wise above all men." The worthy man, hearing this, but never guessing the hidden pitfall, was pricked in spirit, and, melting into tears, answered in his simplicity, "O king, live for ever! Good and sound is the determination that thou hast determined; for though the kingdom of heaven be difficult to find, yet must a man seek it with all his might, for it is written, 'He that seeketh shall find it.' The enjoyment of the present life, though in seeming it give delight and sweetness, is well thrust from us. At the very moment of its being it ceaseth to be, and for our joy repayeth us with sorrow sevenfold. Its happiness and its sorrow are more frail than a shadow, and, like the traces of a ship passing over the sea, or of a bird flying through the air, quickly disappear. But the hope of the life to come which the Christians preach is certain, and as surety sure; howbeit in this world it hath tribulation, whereas our pleasures now are short-lived, and in the beyond they only win us correction and everlasting punishment without release. For the pleasures of such life are temporary, but its pains eternal; while the Christians' labours are temporary, but their pleasure and gain immortal. Therefore well befall this good determination of the king! for right good it is to exchange the corruptible for the eternal." The king heard these words and waxed exceeding wroth: nevertheless he restrained his anger, and for the season let no word fall. But the other, being shrewd and quick of wit, perceived that the king took his word ill, and was craftily sounding him. So, on his coming home, he fell into much grief and distress in his perplexity how to conciliate the king and to escape the peril hanging over his own head. But as he lay awake all the night long, there came to his remembrance the man with the crushed foot; so he had him brought before him, and said, "I remember thy saying that thou weft an healer of injured speech." "Yea," quoth he, "and if thou wilt I will give thee proof of my skill." The senator answered and told him of his aforetime friendship with the king, and of the confidence which he had enjoyed, and of the snare laid for him in his late converse with the king; how he had given a good answer, but the king had taken his words amiss, and by his change of countenance betrayed the anger lurking within his heart. The sick beggar-man considered and said, "Be it known unto thee, most noble sir, that the king harboureth against thee the suspicion, that thou wouldest usurp his kingdom, and he spake, as he spake, to sound thee. Arise therefore, and crop thy hair. Doff these thy fine garments, and don an hair-shirt, and at daybreak present thyself before the king. And when he asketh thee, 'What meaneth this apparel?' answer him, 'It hath to do with thy communing with me yesterday, O king. Behold, I am ready to follow thee along the road that thou art eager to travel; for though luxury be desirable and passing sweet, God forbid that I embrace it after thou art gone! Though the path of virtue, which thou art about to tread, be difficult and rough, yet in thy company I shall find it easy and pleasant, for as I have shared with thee this thy prosperity so now will I share thy distresses, that in the future, as in the past, I may be thy fellow.'" Our nobleman, approving of the sick man's saying, did as he said. When the king saw and heard him, he was delighted, and beyond measure gratified by his devotion towards him. He saw that the accusations against his senator were false, and promoted him to more honour and to a greater enjoyment of his confidence. But against the monks he again raged above measure, declaring that this was of their teaching, that men should abstain from the pleasures of life, and rock themselves in visionary hopes. Another day, when he was gone a-hunting, he espied two monks crossing the desert. These he ordered to be apprehended and brought to his chariot. Looking angrily upon them, and breathing fire, as they say, "Ye vagabonds and deceivers," he cried, "have ye not heard the plain proclamation of the heralds, that if any of your execrable religion were found, after three days, in any city or country within my realm, he should be burned with fire?" The monks answered, "Lo! obedient to thine order, we be coming out of thy cities and coasts. But as the journey before us is long, to get us away to our brethren, being in want of victuals, we were making provision for the way, that we perish not with hunger." Said the king, "He that dreadeth menace of death busieth not himself with the purveyante of victuals." "Well spoken, O king," cried the monks. "They that dread death have concern how to escape it. And who are these but such as cling to things temporary and are enamoured of them, who, having no good hopes yonder, find it hard to be wrenched from this present world, and therefore dread death? But we, who have long since hated the world and the things of the world, and are walking along the narrow and strait road, for Christ his sake, neither dread death, nor desire the present world, but only long for the world to come. Therefore, forasmuch the death that thou art bringing upon us proveth but the passage to that everlasting and better life, it is rather to be desired of us than feared." Hereupon the king, wishing to entrap the monks, as I ween, shrewdly said, "How now? Said ye not but this instant, that ye were withdrawing even as I commanded you? And, if ye fear not death, how came ye to be fleeing? Lo! this is but another of your idle boasts and lies." The monks answered, "Tis not because we dread the death wherewith thou dost threaten us that we flee, but because we pity thee. 'Twas in order that we might not bring on thee greater condemnation, that we were eager to escape. Else for ourselves we are never a whit terrified by thy threats." At this the king waxed wroth and bade burn them with fire. So by fire were these servants of God made perfect, and received the Martyr's crown. And the king published a decree that, should any be found leading a monk's life, he should be put to death without trial. Thus was there left in that country none of the monastic order, save those that had hid them in mountains and caverns and holes of the earth. So much then concerning this matter. V. But meanwhile, the king's son, of whom our tale began to tell, never departing from the palace prepared for him, attained to the age of manhood. He had pursued all the learning of the Ethiopians and Persians, and was as fair and well favoured in mind as in body, intelligent and prudent, and shining in all excellencies. To his teachers he would propound such questions of natural history that even they marvelled at the boy's quickness and understanding, while the king was astounded at the charm of his countenance and the disposition of his soul. He charged the attendants of the young prince on no account to make known unto him any of the annoys of life, least of all to tell him that death ensueth on the pleasures of this world. But vain was the hope whereon he stayed, and he was like the archer in the tale that would shoot at the sky. For how could death have remained unknown to any human creature? Nor did it to this boy; for his mind was fertile of wit, and he would reason within himself, why his father had condemned him never to go abroad, and had forbidden access to all. He knew, without hearing it, that this was his father's express command. Nevertheless he feared to ask him; it was not to be believed that his father intended aught but his good; and again, if it were so by his father's will, his father would not reveal the true reason, for all his asking. Wherefore he determined to learn the secret from some other source. There was one of his tutors nearer and dearer to him than the rest, whose devotion he won even further by handsome gifts. To him he put the question what his father might mean by thus enclosing him within those walls, adding, "If thou wilt plainly tell me this, of all thou shalt stand first in my favour, and I will make with thee a covenant of everlasting friendship." The tutor, himself a prudent man, knowing how bright and mature was the boy's wit and that he would not betray him, to his peril, discovered to him the whole matter the persecution of the Christians and especially of the anchorets decreed by the king, and how they were driven forth and banished from the country round about; also the prophecies of the astrologers at his birth. "'Twas in order," said he, "that thou mightest never hear of their teaching, and choose it before our religion, that the king hath thus devised that none but a small company should dwell with thee, and hath commanded us to acquaint thee with none of the woes of life." When the young prince heard this he said never a word more, but the word of salvation took hold of his heart, and the grace of the Comforter began to open wide the eyes of his understanding, leading him by the hand to the true God, as our tale in its course shall tell. Now the king his father came oftentimes to see his boy, for he loved him passing well. On a day his son said unto him, "There is something that I long to learn from thee, my lord the king, by reason of which continual grief and unceasing care consumeth my soul." His father was grieved at heart at the very word, and said, "Tell me, darling child, what is the sadness that constraineth thee, and straightway I will do my diligence to turn it into gladness." The boy said, "What is the reason of mine imprisonment here? Wily hast thou barred me within walls and doors, never going forth and seen of none?" His father replied, "Because I will not, my son, that thou shouldest behold anything to embitter thy heart or mar thy happiness. I intend that thou shalt spend all thy days in luxury unbroken, and in all manner joy and pleasaunce." "But," said the son unto his father, "know well, Sir, that thus I live not in joy and pleasaunce, but rather in affliction and great straits, so that my very meat and drink seem distasteful unto me and bitter. I yearn to see all that lieth without these gates. If then thou wouldest not have me live in anguish of mind, bid me go abroad as I desire, and let me rejoice my soul with sights hitherto unseen by mine eyes." Grieved was the king to hear these words, but, perceiving that to deny this request would but increase his boy's pain and grief, he answered, "My son, I will grant thee thy heart's desire." And immediately he ordered that choice steeds, and an escort fit for a king, be made ready, and gave him license to go abroad whensoever he would, charging his companions to suffer nothing unpleasant to come in his way, but to show him all that was beautiful and gladsome. He bade them muster in the way troops of folk intuning melodies in every mode, and presenting divers mimic shows, that these might occupy and delight his mind. So thus it came to pass that the king's son often went abroad. One day, through the negligence of his attendants, he descried two men, the one maimed, and the other blind. In abhorrence of the sight, he cried to his esquires, "Who are these, and what is this distressing spectacle?" They, unable to conceal what he had with his own eyes seen, answered, "These be human sufferings, which spring from corrupt matter, and from a body full of evil humours." The young prince asked, "Are these the fortune of all men?" They answered, "Not of all, but of those in whom the principle of health is turned away by the badness of the humours." Again the youth asked, "If then this is wont to happen not to all, but only to some, can they be known on whom this terrible calamity shall fall? or is it undefined and unforeseeable?" "What man," said they, "can discern the future, and accurately ascertain it? This is beyond human nature, and is reserved for the immortal gods alone." The young prince ceased from his questioning, but his heart was grieved at the sight that he had witnessed, and the form of his visage was changed by the strangeness of the matter. Not many days after, as he was again taking his walks abroad, he happened with an old man, well stricken in years, shrivelled in countenance, feeble-kneed, bent double, grey-haired, toothless, and with broken utterance. The prince was seized with astonishment, and, calling the old man near, desired to know the meaning of this strange sight. His companions answered, "This man is now well advanced in years, and his gradual decrease of strength, with increase of weakness, hath brought him to the misery that thou seest." "And," said he, "what will be his end?" They answered, "Naught but death will relieve him." "But," said he, "is this the appointed doom of all mankind? Or doth it happen only to some?" They answered, "Unless death come before hand to remove him, no dweller on earth, but, as life advanceth, must make trial of this lot." Then the young prince asked in how many years this overtook a man, and whether the doom of death was without reprieve, and whether there was no way to escape it, and avoid coming to such misery. They answered him, "In eighty or an hundred years men arrive at this old age, and then they die, since there is none other way; for death is a debt due to nature, laid on man from the beginning, and its approach is inexorable." When our wise and sagacious young prince saw and heard all this, he sighed from the bottom of his heart. "Bitter is this life," cried he, "and fulfilled of all pain and anguish, if this be so. And how can a body be careless in the expectation of an unknown death, whose approach (ye say) is as uncertain as it is inexorable?" So he went away, restlessly turning over all these things in his mind, pondering without end, and ever calling up remembrances of death. Wherefore trouble and despondency were his companions, and his grief knew no ease; for he said to himself, "And is it true that death shall one day overtake me? And who is he that shall make mention of me after death, when time delivereth all things to forgetfulness? When dead, shall I dissolve into nothingness? Or is there life beyond, and another world?" Ever fretting over these and the like considerations, he waxed pale and wasted away, but in the presence of his father, whenever he chanced to come to him, he made as though he were cheerful and without trouble, unwilling that his cares should come to his father's knowledge. But he longed with an unrestrainable yearning, to meet with the man that might accomplish his heart's desire, and fill his ears with the sound of good tidings. Again he enquired of the tutor of whom we have spoken, whether he knew of anybody able to help him towards his desire, and to establish a mind, dazed and shuddering at its cogitations, and unable to throw off its burden. He, recollecting their former communications, said, "I have told thee already how thy father hath dealt with the wise men and anchorets who spend their lives in such philosophies. Some hath he slain, and others he hath wrathfully persecuted, and I wot not whether any of this sort be in this country side." Thereat the prince was overwhelmed with woe, and grievously wounded in spirit. He was like unto a man that hath lost a great treasure, whose whole heart is occupied in seeking after it. Thenceforth he lived in perpetual conflict and distress of mind, and all the pleasures and delights of this world were in his eyes an abomination and a curse. While the youth was in this way, and his soul was crying out to discover that which is good, the eye that beholdeth all things looked upon him, and he that willeth that 'all men should be saved, and come to the knowledge of the truth,' passed him not by, but showed this man also the tender love that he hath toward mankind, and made known upon him the path whereon he needs must go. Befel it thus. VI. There was at that time a certain monk, learned in heavenly things, graced in word and deed, a model follower of every monastic rule. Whence he sprang, and what his race, I cannot say, but he dwelt in a waste howling wilderness in the land of Senaar, and had been perfected through the grace of the priesthood. Barlaam was this elder's name. He, learning by divine revelation the state of the king's son, left the desert and returned to the world. Changing his habit, he put on lay attire, and, embarking on ship board, arrived at the seat of the empire of the Indians. Disguised as a merchant man, he entered the city, where was the palace of the king's son. There he tarried many days, and enquired diligently concerning the prince's affairs, and those that had access to him. Learning that the tutor, of whom we have spoken, was the prince's most familiar friend, he privily approached him, saying, "I would have thee understand, my lord, that I am a merchant man, come from a far country; and I possess a precious gem, the like of which was never yet found, and hitherto I have shewed it to no man. But now I reveal the secret to thee, seeing thee to be wise and prudent, that thou mayest bring me before the king's son, and I will present it to him. Beyond compare, it surpasseth all beautiful things; for on the blind in heart it hath virtue to bestow the light of wisdom, to open the ears of the deaf, to give speech to the dumb and strength to the ailing. It maketh the foolish wise and driveth away devils, and without stint furnisheth its possessor with everything that is lovely and desirable." The tutor said, "Though, to all seeming, thou art a man of staid and steadfast judgment, yet thy words prove thee to be boastful beyond measure. Time would fail me to tell thee the full tale of the costly and precious gems and pearls that I have seen. But gems, with such power as thou tellest of, I never saw nor heard of yet. Nevertheless shew me the stone; and if it be as thou affirmest, I immediately bear it to the king's son, from whom thou shalt receive most high honours and rewards. But, before I be assured by the certain witness of mine own eyes, I may not carry to my lord and master so swollen a tale about so doubtful a thing." Quoth Barlaam, "Well hast thou said that thou hast never seen or heard of such powers and virtues; for my speech to thee is on no ordinary matter, but on a wondrous and a great. But, as thou desiredst to behold it, listen to my words. "This exceeding precious gem, amongst these its powers and virtues, possesseth this property besides. It cannot be seen out of hand, save by one whose eyesight is strong and sound, and his body pure and thoroughly undefiled. If any man, lacking in these two good qualities, do rashly gaze upon this precious stone, he shall, I suppose lose even the eyesight that he hath, and his wits as well. Now I, that am initiated in the physician's art, observe that thine eyes are not healthy, and I fear lest I may cause thee to lose even the eyesight that thou hast. But of the king's son, I have heard that he leadeth a sober life, and that his eyes are young and fair, and healthy. Wherefore to him I make bold to display this treasure. Be not thou then negligent herein, nor rob thy master of so wondrous a boon." The other answered, "If this be so, in no wise show me the gem; for my life hath been polluted by many sins, and also, as thou sayest, I am not possest of good eyesight. But I am won by thy words, and will not hesitate to make known these things unto my lord the prince." So saying, he went in, and, word by word, reported everything to the king's son. He, hearing his tutor's words, felt a strange joy and spiritual gladness breathing into his heart, and, like one inspired, bade bring in the man forthwith. So when Barlaam was come in, and had in due order wished him Peace!, the prince bade him be seated. Then his tutor withdrew, and Ioasaph said unto the elder, "Shew me the precious gem, concerning which, as my tutor hath narrated, thou tellest such great and marvellous tales." Then began Barlaam to discourse with him thus: "It is not fitting, O prince, that I should say anything falsely or unadvisedly to thine excellent majesty. All that hath been signified to thee from me is true and may not be gainsaid. But, except I first make trial of thy mind, it is not lawful to declare to thee this mystery; for my master saith, 'There went out a sower to sow his seed: and, as he sowed, some seeds fell by the wayside, and the fowls of the air came and devoured them up: some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprang up, because they had no deepness of earth: and when the sun was up, they were scorched: and because they had no root, they withered away. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up and choked them: but others fell upon good ground, and brought forth fruit an hundredfold.' Now, if I find in thine heart fruit-bearing ground, and good, I shall not be slow to plant therein the heavenly seed, and manifest to thee the mighty mystery. But and if the ground be stony and thorny, and the wayside trodden down by all who will, it were better never to let fall this seed of salvation, nor to cast it for a prey to fowls and beasts, before which I have been charged not to cast pearls. But I am 'persuaded better things of thee, and things that accompany salvation,'--how that thou shalt see the priceless stone, and it shall be given thee in the light of that stone to become light, and bring forth fruit an hundredfold. Aye, for thy sake I gave diligence and accomplished a long journey, to shew thee things which thou hast never seen, and teach thee things which thou hast never heard." Ioasaph said unto him, "For myself, reverend elder, I have a longing, all irresistible passion to hear some new and goodly word, and in mine heart there is kindled fire, cruelly burning and urging me to learn the answer to some questions that will not rest. But until now I never happened on one that could satisfy me as touching them. But if I meet with some wise and understanding man, and hear the word of salvation, I shall not deliver it to the fowls of the air, I trow, nor yet to the beasts of the field; nor shall I be found either stony or thorny-hearted, as thou saidest, but I shall receive the word kindly, and guard it wisely. So if thou knowest any such like thing, conceal it not from me, but declare it. When I heard that thou were come from a far country, my spirit rejoiced, and I had good hope of obtaining through thee that which I desire. Wherefore I called thee straightway into my presence, and received thee in friendly wise as one of my companions and peers, if so be that I may not be disappointed of my hope." Barlaam answered, "Fair are thy deeds, and worthy of thy royal majesty; seeing that thou hast paid no heed to my mean show, but hast devoted thyself to the hope that lieth within. "There was once a great and famous king: and it came to pass, when he was riding on a day in his golden chariot, with his royal guard, that there met him two men, clad in filthy rags, with fallen-in faces, and pale as death. Now the king knew that it was by buffetings of the body and by the sweats of the monastic life that they had thus wasted their miserable flesh. So, seeing them, he leapt anon from his chariot, fell on the ground, and did obeisance. Then rising, he embraced and greeted them tenderly. But his noblemen and counsellors took offence thereat, deeming that their sovran had disgraced his kingly honour. But not daring to reprove him to the face, they bade the king's own brother tell the king not thus to insult the majesty of his crown. When he had told the king thereof, and had upbraided him for his untimely humility, the king gave his brother an answer which he failed to understand. "It was the custom of that king, whenever he sentenced anyone to death, to send a herald to his door, with a trumpet reserved for that purpose, and at the sound of this trumpet all understood that that man was liable to the penalty of death. So when evening was come, the king sent the death-trumpet to sound at his brother's door; who, when he heard its blast, despaired of his life, and all night long set his house in order. At day-break, robed in black and garments of mourning, with wife and children, he went to the palace gate, weeping and lamenting. The king fetched him in, and seeing him in tears, said, 'O fool, and slow of understanding, how didst thou, who hast had such dread of the herald of thy peer and brother (against whom thy conscience doth not accuse thee of having committed any trespass) blame me for my humility in greeting the heralds of my God, when they warned me, in gentler tones than those of the trumpet, of my death and fearful meeting with that Master against whom I know that I have often grievously offended? Lo! then, it was in reproof of thy folly that I played thee this turn, even as I will shortly convict of vanity those that prompted thy reproof.' Thus he comforted his brother and sent him home with a gift. "Then he ordered four wooden caskets to be made. Two of these he covered over all with gold, and, placing dead men's mouldering bones therein, secured them with golden clasps. The other two he smeared over with pitch and tar, but filled them with costly stones and precious pearls, and all manner of aromatic sweet perfume. He bound them fast with cords of hair, and called for the noblemen who had blamed him for his manner of accosting the men by the wayside. Before them he set the four caskets, that they might appraise the value of these and those. They decided that the golden ones were of greatest value, for, peradventure, they contained kingly diadems and girdles. But those, that were be-smeared with pitch and tar, were cheap and of paltry worth, said they. Then said the king to them, 'I know that such is your answer, for with the eyes of sense ye judge the objects of sense, but so ought ye not to do, but ye should rather see with the inner eye the hidden worthlessness or value.' Whereupon he ordered the golden chests to be opened. And when they were thrown open, they gave out a loathsome smell and presented a hideous sight. "Said the king, 'Here is a figure of those who are clothed in glory and honour, and make great display of power and glory, but within is the stink of dead men's bones and works of iniquity.' Next, he commanded the pitched and tarred caskets also to be opened, and delighted the company with the beauty and sweet savour of their stores. And he said unto them, 'Know ye to whom these are like? They are like those lowly men, clad in vile apparel, whose outward form alone ye beheld, and deemed it outrageous that I bowed down to do them obeisance. But through the eyes of my mind I perceived the value and exceeding beauty of their souls, and was glorified by their touch, and I counted them more honourable than any chaplet or royal purple.' Thus he shamed his courtiers, and taught them not to be deceived by outward appearances, but to give heed to the things of the soul. After the example of that devout and wise king hast thou also done, in that thou hast received me in good hope, wherein, as I ween, thou shalt not be disappointed." Ioasaph said unto him, "Fair and fitting hath been all thy speech; but now I fain would learn who is thy Master, who, as thou saidest at the first, spake concerning the Sower." VII. Again therefore Barlaam took up his parable and said, "If thou wilt learn who is my Master, it is Jesus Christ the Lord, the only-begotten Son of God, 'the blessed and only potentate, the King of kings, and Lords of lords; who only hath immortality, dwelling in the light which no man can approach unto'; who with the Father and the Holy Ghost is glorified. I am not one of those who proclaim from the house-top their wild rout of gods, and worship lifeless and dumb idols, but one God do I acknowledge and confess, in three persons glorified, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but in one nature and substance, in one glory and kingdom undivided. He then is in three persons one God, without beginning, and without end, eternal and everlasting, increate, immutable and incorporeal, invisible, infinite, incomprehensible, alone good and righteous, who created all things out of nothing, whether visible or invisible. First, he made the heavenly and invisible powers, countless multitudes, immaterial and bodiless, ministering spirits of the majesty of God. Afterward he created this visible world, heaven and earth and sea, which also he made glorious with light and richly adorned it; the heavens with the sun, moon and stars, and the earth with all manner of herbs and divers living beasts, and the sea in turn with all kinds of fishes. 'He spake the word and these all were made; he commanded and they were created.' Then with his own hands he created man, taking dust of the ground for the fashioning of his body, but by his own in-breathing giving him a reasonable and intelligent soul, which, as it is written, was made after the image and likeness of God: after his image, because of reason and free will; after his likeness, because of the likeness of virtue, in its degree, to God. Him he endowed with free will and immortality and appointed sovran over everything upon earth; and from man he made woman, to be an helpmeet of like nature for him. "And he planted a garden eastward in Eden, full of delight and all heart's ease, and set thereto the man whom he had formed, and commanded him freely to eat of all the heavenly trees therein, but forbade him wholly the taste of a certain one which was called the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thus saying, 'In the day that ye eat thereof ye shall surely die.' But one of the aforesaid angel powers, the marshall of one host, though he bore in himself no trace of natural evil from his Maker's hand but had been created for good, yet by his own free and deliberate choice turned aside from good to evil, and was stirred up by madness to the desire to take up arms against his Lord God. Wherefore he was cast out of his rank and dignity, and in the stead of his former blissful glory and angelick name received the name of the 'Devil' and 'Satan' for his title. God banished him as unworthy of the glory above. And together with him there was drawn away and hurled forth a great multitude of the company of angels under him, who were evil of choice, and chose in place of good, to follow in the rebellion of their leader. These were called Devils, as being deluders and deceivers. "Thus then did the devil utterly renounce the good, and assume an evil nature; and he conceived spite against man, seeing himself hurled from such glory, and man raised to such honour; and he schemed to oust him from that blissful state. So he took the serpent for the workshop of his own guile. Through him he conversed with the woman, and persuaded her to eat of that forbidden tree in the hope of being as God, and through her he deceived Adam also, for that was the first man's name. So Adam ate of the tree of disobedience, and was banished by his maker from that paradise of delight, and, in lieu of those happy days and that immortal life, fell alas! into this life of misery and woe, and at the last received sentence of death. Thenceforth the devil waxed strong and boastful through his victory; and, as the race of man multiplied, he prompted them in all manner of wickedness. So, wishing to cut short the growth of sin, God brought a deluge on the earth, and destroyed every living soul. But one single righteous man did God find in that generation; and him, with wife and children, he saved alive in an Ark, and set him utterly desolate on earth. But, when the human race again began to multiply, they forgat God, and ran into worse excess of wickedness, being in subjection to divers sins and ruined in strange delusions, and wandering apart into many branches of error. "Some deemed that everything moved by mere chance, and taught that there was no Providence, since there was no master to govern. Others brought in fate, and committed everything to the stars at birth. Others worshipped many evil deities subject to many passions, to the end that they might have them to advocate their own passions and shameful deeds, whose forms they moulded, and whose dumb figures and senseless idols they set up, and enclosed them in temples, and did homage to them, 'serving the creature more than the Creator.' Some worshipped the sun, moon and stars which God fixed, for to give light to our earthly sphere; things without soul or sense, enlightened and sustained by the providence of God, but unable to accomplish anything of themselves. Others again worshipped fire and water, and the other elements, things without soul or sense; and men, possest of soul and reason, were not ashamed to worship the like of these. Others assigned worship to beasts, creeping and four-footed things, proving themselves more beastly than the things that they worshipped. Others made them images of vile and worthless men, and named them gods, some of whom they called males, and some females, and they themselves set them forth as adulterers, murderers, victims of anger, jealousy, wrath, slayers of fathers, slayers of brothers, thieves and robbers, lame and maim, sorcerers and madmen. Others they showed dead, struck by thunderbolts, or beating their breasts, or being mourned over, or in enslavement to mankind, or exiled, or, for foul and shameful unions, taking the forms of animals. Whence men, taking occasion by the gods themselves, took heart to pollute themselves in all manner of uncleanness. So an horrible darkness overspread our race in those times, and 'there was none that did understand and seek after God.' "Now in that generation one Abraham alone was found strong in his spiritual senses; and by contemplation of Creation he recognized the Creator. When he considered heaven, earth and sea, the sun, moon and the like, he marvelled at their harmonious ordering. Seeing the world, and all that therein is, he could not believe that it had been created, and was upheld, by its own power, nor did he ascribe such a fair ordering to earthly elements or lifeless idols. But therein he recognized the true God, and understood him to be the maker and sustainer of the whole. And God, approving his fair wisdom and right judgement, manifested himself unto him, not as he essentially is (for it is impossible for a created being to see God), but by certain manifestations in material forms, as he alone can, and he planted in Abraham more perfect knowledge; he magnified him and made him his own servant. Which Abraham in turn handed down to his children his own righteousness, and taught them to know the true God. Wherefore also the Lord was pleased to multiply his seed beyond measure, and called them 'a peculiar people,' and brought them forth out of bondage to the Egyptian nation, and to one Pharaoh a tyrant, by strange and terrible signs and wonders wrought by the hand of Moses and Aaron, holy men, honoured with the gift of prophecy; by whom also he punished the Egyptians in fashion worthy of their wickedness, and led the Israelites (for thus the people descended from Abraham were called) through the Red Sea upon dry land, the waters dividing and making a wall on the right hand and a wall on the left. But when Pharaoh and the Egyptians pursued and went in after them, the waters returned and utterly destroyed them. Then with exceeding mighty miracles and divine manifestations by the space of forty years he led the people in the wilderness, and fed them with bread from heaven, and gave the Law divinely written on tables of stone, which he delivered unto Moses on the mount, 'a type and shadow of things to come' leading men away from idols and all manner of wickedness, and teaching them to worship only the one true God, and to cleave to good works. By such wondrous deeds, he brought them into a certain goodly land, the which he had promised aforetime to Abraham the patriarch, that he would give it unto his seed. And the task were long, to tell of all the mighty and marvellous works full of glory and wonder, without number, which he shewed unto them, by which it was his purpose to pluck the human race from all unlawful worship and practice, and to bring men back to their first estate. But even so our nature was in bondage by its freedom to err, and death had dominion over mankind, delivering all to the tyranny of the devil, and to the damnation of hell. "So when we had sunk to this depth of misfortune and misery, we were not forgotten by him that formed and brought us out of nothing into being, nor did he suffer his own handiwork utterly to perish. By the good pleasure of our God and Father, and the co-operation of the Holy Ghost, the only-begotten Son, even the Word of God, which is in the bosom of the Father, being of one substance with the Father and with the Holy Ghost, he that was before all worlds, without beginning, who was in the beginning, and was with God even the Father, and was God, he, I say, condescended toward his servants with an unspeakable and incomprehensible condescension; and, being perfect God, was made perfect man, of the Holy Ghost, and of Mary the Holy Virgin and Mother of God, not of the seed of man, nor of the will of man, nor by carnal union, being conceived in the Virgin's undefiled womb, of the Holy Ghost; as also, before his conception, one of the Archangels was sent to announce to the Virgin that miraculous conception and ineffable birth. For without seed was the Son of God conceived of the Holy Ghost, and in the Virgin's womb he formed for himself a fleshy body, animate with a reasonable and intelligent soul, and thence came forth in one substance, but in two natures, perfect God and perfect man, and preserved undefiled, even after birth, the virginity of her that bore him. He, being made of like passions with ourselves in all things, yet without sin, took our infirmities and bare our sicknesses. For, since by sin death entered into the world, need was that he, that should redeem the world, should be without sin, and not by sin subject unto death. "When he had lived thirty years among men, he was baptized in the river Jordan by John, an holy man, and great above all the prophets. And when he was baptized there came a voice from heaven, from God, even the Father, saying, 'This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased,' and the Holy Ghost descended upon him in likeness of a dove. From that time forth he began to do great signs and wonders, raising the dead, giving sight to the blind, casting out devils, healing the lame and maim, cleansing lepers, and everywhere renewing our out-worn nature, instructing men both by word and deed, and teaching the way of virtue, turning men from destruction and guiding their feet toward life eternal. Wherefore also he chose twelve disciples, whom he called Apostles, and commanded them to preach the kingdom of heaven which he came upon earth to declare, and to make heavenly us who are low and earthly, by virtue of his Incarnation. "But, through envy of his marvellous and divine conversation and endless miracles, the chief priests and rulers of the Jews (amongst whom also he dwelt, on whom he had wrought his aforesaid signs and miracles), in their madness forgetting all, condemned him to death, having seized one of the Twelve to betray him. And, when they had taken him, they delivered him to the Gentiles, him that was the life of the world, he of his free will consenting thereto; for he came for our sakes to suffer all things, that he might free us from sufferings. But when they had done him much despite, at the last they condemned him to the Cross. All this he endured in the nature of that flesh which he took from us, his divine nature remaining free of suffering: for, being of two natures, both the divine and that which he took from us, his human nature suffered, while his Godhead continued free from suffering and death. So our Lord Jesus Christ, being without sin, was crucified in the flesh, for he did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth; and he was not subject unto death, for by sin, as I have said before, came death into the world; but for our sakes he suffered death in the flesh, that he might redeem us from the tyranny of death. He descended into hell, and having harrowed it, he delivered thence souls that had been imprisoned therein for ages long. He was buried, and on the third day he rose again, vanquishing death and granting us the victory over death: and he, the giver of immortality, having made flesh immortal, was seen of his disciples, and bestowed upon them peace, and, through them, peace on the whole human race. "After forty days he ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of the Father. And he shall come again to judge the quick and the dead, and to reward every man according to his works. After his glorious Ascension into heaven he sent forth upon his disciples the Holy Ghost in likeness of fire, and they began to speak with other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance. From thence by his grace they were scattered abroad among all nations, and preached the true Catholic Faith, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and teaching them to observe all the commandments of the Saviour. So they gave light to the people that wandered in darkness, and abolished the superstitious error of idolatry. Though the enemy chafeth under his defeat, and even now stirreth up war against us, the faithful, persuading the fools and unwise to cling to the worship of idols, yet is his power grown feeble, and his swords have at last failed him by the power of Christ. Lo, in few words I have made known unto thee my Master, my God, and my Saviour; but thou shalt know him more perfectly, if thou wilt receive his grace into thy soul, and gain the blessing to become his servant." VIII. When the king's son had heard these words, there flashed a light upon his soul. Rising from his seat in the fulness of his joy, he embraced Barlaam, saying: "Most honoured sir, methinks this might be that priceless stone which thou dost rightly keep secret, not displaying it to all that would see it, but only to these whose spiritual sense is strong. For lo, as these words dropped upon mine ear, sweetest light entered into my heart, and the heavy veil of sorrow, that hath now this long time enveloped my heart, was in an instant removed. Tell me if my guess be true: or if thou knowest aught better than that which thou hast spoken, delay not to declare it to me." Again, therefore, Barlaam answered, "Yea, my lord and prince, this is the mighty mystery which hath been hid from ages and generations, but in these last days hath been made known unto mankind; the manifestation whereof, by the grace of the Holy Ghost, was foretold by many prophets and righteous men, instructed at sundry times and in divers manners. In trumpet tones they proclaimed it, and all looked forward to the salvation that should be: this they desired to see, but saw it not. But this latest generation was counted worthy to receive salvation. Wherefore he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned." Said Ioasaph, "All that thou hast told me I believe without question, and him whom thou declarest I glorify as God. Only make all plain to me, and teach me clearly what I must do. But especially go on to tell me what is that Baptism which thou sayest that the Faithful receive." The other answered him thus, "The root mid sure foundation of this holy and perfect Christian Faith is the grace of heavenly Baptism, fraught with the cleansing from all original sins, and complete purification of all defilements of evil that come after. For thus the Saviour commanded a man to be born again of water and of the spirit, and be restored to his first dignity, to wit, by supplication and by calling on the Saving Name, the Holy Spirit brooding on the water. We are baptized, then, according to the word of the Lord, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and thus the grace of the Holy Ghost dwelleth in the soul of the baptized, illuminating and making it God-like and renewing that which was made after his own image and likeness. And for the time to come we cast away all the old works of wickedness, and we make covenant with God of a second life and begin a purer conversation, that we may also become fellow-heirs with them that are born again to incorruption and lay hold of everlasting salvation. But without Baptism it is impossible to attain to that good hope, even though a man be more pious than piety itself. For thus spake God, the Word, who was incarnate for the salvation of our race, 'Verily I say unto you, except ye be born of water and of the Spirit, ye shall in no wise enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.' Wherefore before all things I require thee to receive faith within thy soul, and to draw near to Baptism anon with hearty desire, and on no account to delay herein, for delay is parlous, because of the uncertainty of the appointed day of death." Ioasaph said unto him, "And what is this good hope whereto thou sayest it is impossible without baptism to attain? And what this kingdom which thou callest the kingdom of Heaven? And how cometh it that thou hast heard the words of God incarnate? And what is the uncertain day of death? For on this account much anxiety hath fallen on my heart, and consumeth my flesh in pain and grief, and fasteneth on my very bones. And shall we men, appointed to die, return to nothing, or is there some other life after our departure hence? These and kindred questions I have been longing to resolve." Thus questioned he; and Barlaam answered thus: "The good hope, whereof I spake, is that of the kingdom of Heaven. But that kingdom is far beyond the utterance of mortal tongue; for the Scripture saith, 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.' But when we have shuffled off this gross flesh, and attained to that blessedness, then will that Master, which hath granted to us not to fail of this hope, teach and make known unto us the glory of those good things, whose glory passeth all understanding:--that light ineffable, that life that hath no ending, that converse with Angels. For if it be granted us to hold communion with God, so far as is attainable to human nature, then shall we know all things from his lips which now we know not. This doth my initiation into the teaching of the divine Scriptures teach me to be the real meaning of the kingdom of Heaven; to approach the vision of the blessed and life-giving Trinity, and to be illumined with his unapproachable light, and with clearer and purer sight, and with unveiled face, to behold as in a glass his unspeakable glory. But, if it be impossible to express in language that glory, that light, and those mysterious blessings, what marvel? For they had not been mighty and singular, if they had been comprehended by reason and expressed in words by us who are earthly, and corruptible, and clothed in this heavy garment of sinful flesh. Holding then such knowledge in simple faith, believe thou undoubtingly, that these are no fictions; but by good works be urgent to lay hold on that immortal kingdom, to which when thou hast attained, thou shalt have perfect knowledge. "As touching thy question, How it is that we have heard the words of the Incarnate God, know thou that we have been taught all that appertaineth to the divine Incarnation by the Holy Gospels, for thus that holy book is called, because it telleth us, who are corruptible and earthly, the 'good spell' of immortality and incorruption, of life eternal, of the remission of sins, and of the kingdom of heaven. This book was written by the eyewitnesses and ministers of the Word, and of these I have already said that our Lord Jesus Christ chose them for disciples and apostles; and they delivered it unto us in writing, after the glorious Ascension of our Master into Heaven, a record of his life on earth, his teachings and miracles, so far as it was possible to commit them to writing. For thus, toward the end of his volume, saith he that is the flower of the holy Evangelists, 'And there are also many other things which Jesus did, the which, if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written.' "So in this heavenly Gospel, written by the Spirit of God, is recorded the history of his Incarnation, his manifestation, his miracles and acts. Afterward, it telleth of the innocent suffering which the Lord endured for our sake, of his holy Resurrection on the third day, his Ascent into the heavens, and of his glorious and dreadful second coming; for the Son of God shall come again on earth, with unspeakable glory, and with a multitude of the heavenly host to judge our race, and to reward every man according to his works. For, at the beginning, God created man out of earth, as I have already told thee, and breathed into him breath, which is called a reasonable and understanding soul. But since we were sentenced to death, we die all: and it is not possible for this cup to pass any man by. Now death is the separation of the soul from the body. And that body which was formed out of earth, when severed from the soul, returneth to earth from whence also it was taken, and, decaying, perisheth; but the soul, being immortal, fareth whither her Maker calleth, or rather to the place where she, while still in the body, hath prepared for herself lodgement. For as a man hath lived here, so shall he receive reward there. "Then, after long seasons, Christ our God shall come to judge the world in awful glory, beyond words to tell; and for fear of him the powers of heaven shall be shaken, and all the angel hosts stand beside him in dread. Then, at the voice of the archangel, and at the trump of God, shall the dead arise and stand before his awful throne. Now the Resurrection is the re-uniting of soul and body. So that very body, which decayeth and perisheth, shall arise incorruptible. And concerning this, beware lest the reasoning of unbelief overtake thee; for it is not impossible for him, who at the beginning formed the body out of earth, when according to its Maker's doom it hath returned to earth whence it was taken, to raise the same again. If thou wilt but consider how many things God hath made out of nothing, this proof shall suffice thee. He took earth and made man, though earth was not man before. How then did earth become man? And how was earth, that did not exist, produced? And what foundation hath it? And how were countless kind of things without reason, of seeds and plants, produced out of it! Nay, now also consider the manner of our birth. Is not a little seed thrown into the womb that receiveth it? Whence then cometh such a marvellous fashioning of a living creature? "So for him, who hath made everything out of nothing, and still doth make, it is not impossible to raise deadened and corrupt bodies from the earth, that every man may be rewarded according to his works; for he saith, 'The present is the time for work, the future for recompense.' Else, where were the justice of God, if there were no Resurrection? Many righteous men in this present life have suffered much ill-usage and torment, and have died violent deaths; and the impious and the law-breaker hath spent his days here in luxury and prosperity. But God, who is good and just, hath appointed a day of resurrection and inquisition, that each soul may receive her own body, and that the wicked, who received his good things here, may there be punished for his misdeeds, and that the good, who was here chastised for his misdeeds, may there inherit his bliss. For, saith the Lord, 'They that are in the graves shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and shall come forth; they that have done good unto the resurrection of life, and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of doom.' Then also shall thrones be set, and the Ancient of days and Maker of all things shall sit as Judge, and there shall be opened books with records of the deeds and words and thoughts of all of us, and a fiery stream shall issue, and all hidden things shall be revealed. There can no advocate, no persuasive words, no false excuse, no mightiness of riches, no pomp of rank, no lavishment of bribes, avail to pervert righteous judgement. For he, the uncorrupt and truthful Judge, shall weigh everything in the balance of justice, every act, word and thought. And they that have done good shall go into life everlasting, into light unspeakable, rejoicing in the fellowship of the Angels, to enjoy bliss ineffable, standing in purity before the Holy Trinity. But they that have done evil, and all the ungodly and sinners, shall go into everlasting punishment, which is called Gehenna, and outer darkness, and the worm that dieth not, and the gnashing of teeth, and a thousand other names of punishment; which meaneth rather--bitterest of all,--alienation from God, the being cast away from the sweetness of his presence, the being deprived of that glory which baffleth description, the being made a spectacle unto the whole creation, and the being put to shame, and shame that hath no ending. For, after the passing of that terrible sentence, all things shall abide immutable and unchangeable. The blissful life of the righteous shall have no close, neither shall the misery and punishment of sinners find an end: because, after him, there is no higher Judge, and no defence by after-works, no time for amendment, no other way for them that are punished, their vengeance being co-eternal with them. "Seeing that this is so, what manner of persons ought we to be in all holy conversation and godliness, that we may be counted worthy to escape the wrath to come, and to be ranged on the right hand of the Son of God? For this is the station of the righteous: but to sinners is allotted the station of misery on the left. Then shall the Lord call the righteous 'Blessed,' and shall lead them into his everlasting kingdom. But, as for sinners, with anger and curse he will banish them from his serene and gentle countenance the bitterest and hardest lot of all and will send them away into everlasting punishment." IX. Ioasaph said unto him, "Great and marvellous, sir, are the things whereof thou tellest me, fearful and terrible, if indeed these things be so, and, if there be after death and dissolution into dust and ashes, a resurrection and re-birth, and rewards and punishments for the deeds done during life. But what is the proof thereof? And how have ye come to learn that which ye have not seen, that ye have so steadfastly and undoubtingly believed it? As for things that have already been done and made manifest in deed, though ye saw them not, yet have ye heard them from the writers of history. But, when it is of the future that ye preach tidings of such vast import, how have ye made your conviction on these matters sure?" Quoth Barlaam, "From the past I gain certainty about the future; for they that preached the Gospel, without erring from the truth, but establishing their sayings by signs and wonders and divers miracles, themselves also spake of the future. So, as in the one case they taught us nothing amiss or false, but made all that they said and did to shine clearer than the sun, so also in the other matter they gave us true doctrine, even that which our Lord and Master Jesus Christ himself confirmed both by word and deed. 'Verily,' he spake, 'I say unto you, the hour is coming in the which all that are in the graves shall hear the voice of the Son of God and they that hear shall live:' and again, 'The hour cometh when the dead shall hear his voice, and shall come forth, they that have done good unto the resurrection of life, and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of damnation.' And again he said concerning the resurrection of the dead, 'Have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying, I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. God is not the God of the dead but of the living.' 'For as the tares are gathered and burned in the fire, so shall it be in the end of this age. The Son of God shall send forth his Angels, and they shall gather all things that offend, and them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into the furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their father.' Thus spake he and added this thereto, 'Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.' "In such words and many more did the Lord make manifest the resurrection of our bodies, and confirm his words in deed, by raising many that were dead. And, toward the end of his life upon earth, he called from the grave one Lazarus his friend, that had already been four days dead and stank, and thus he restored the lifeless to life. Moreover, the Lord himself became the first-fruits of that resurrection which is final and no longer subject unto death, after he had in the flesh tasted of death; and on the third day he rose again, and became the first-born from the dead. For other men also were raised from the dead, but died once more, and might not yet attain to the likeness of the future true resurrection. But he alone was the leader of that resurrection, the first to be raised to the resurrection immortal. "This was the preaching also of them that from the beginning were eye-witnesses and ministers of the word; for thus saith blessed Paul, whose calling was not of men, but from heaven, 'Brethren, I declare unto you the Gospel which I preached unto you. For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures. Now if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead? For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ raised. And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain, ye are yet in your sins. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable. But now is Christ risen from the dead and become the first-fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.' And after a little while, 'For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?' For then the power of death is utterly annulled and destroyed, no longer working in us, but for the future there is given unto men immortality and incorruption for evermore. "Beyond all question, therefore, there shall be a resurrection of the dead, and this we believe undoubtingly. Moreover we know that there shall be rewards and punishments for the deeds done in our life-time, on the dreadful day of Christ's coming, 'wherein the heavens shall be dissolved in fire and the elements shall melt with fervent heat,' as saith one of the inspired clerks of God; 'nevertheless we, according to his promise, look for new heavens and a new earth.' For that there shall be rewards and punishments for men's works, and that absolutely nothing, good or bad, shall be overlooked, but that there is reserved a requital for words, deeds and thoughts, is plain. The Lord saith, 'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, he shall in no wise lose his reward.' And again he saith, 'When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy Angels with him, then before him shall be gathered all nations, and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, 'Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was anhungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.' Wherefore saith he this, except he count the kind acts we do unto the needy as done unto himself? And in another place he saith, 'Whosoever shall confess me before men, him will I also confess before my Father which is in heaven.' "Lo, by all these examples and many more he proveth that the rewards of good works are certain and sure. Further, that punishments are in store for the bad, he foretold by parables strange and wonderful, which he, the Well of Wisdom most wisely put forth. At one time he brought into his tale a certain rich man which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day, but who was so niggardly and pitiless toward the destitute as to overlook a certain beggar named Lazarus laid at his gate, and not even to give him of the crumbs from his table. So when one and other were dead, the poor man, full of sores, was carried away, he saith, into Abraham's bosom, for thus he describeth the habitation of the righteous--but the rich man was delivered to the fire of bitter torment in hell. To him said Abraham, 'Thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus his evil things, but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented." "And otherwhere he likeneth the kingdom of heaven to a certain king which made a marriage-feast for his son and thereby he declared future happiness and splendour. For as he was wont to speak to humble and earthly minded men, he would draw his parables from homely and familiar things. Not that he meant that marriages and feasts exist in that world; but in condescension to men's grossness, he employed these names when he would make known to them the future. So, as he telleth, the king with high proclamation called all to come to the marriage to take their fill of his wondrous store of good things. But many of them that were bidden made light of it and came not, and busied themselves: some went to their farms, some to their merchandize, and others to their newly wedded wives, and thus deprived themselves of the splendour of the bride chamber. Now when these had, of their own choice, absented themselves from this joyous merriment, others were bidden thereto, and the wedding was furnished with guests. And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which had not on a wedding garment, and he said unto him, "Friend, how camest thou in hither, not having a wedding garment?" And he was speechless. Then said the king to the servants, "Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' Now they who made excuses and paid no heed to the call are they that hasten not to the faith of Christ, but continue in idolatry or heresy. But he that had no wedding garment is he that believeth, but hath soiled his spiritual garment with unclean acts, and was rightly cast forth from the joy of the bride chamber. "And he put forth yet another parable, in harmony with this, in his picture of the Ten Virgins, 'five of whom were wise, and five were foolish. They that were foolish took their lamps and took no oil with them, but the wise took oil.' By the oil he signifieth the acquiring of good works. 'And at midnight,' he saith, 'there was a cry made, "Behold the bridegroom cometh, go ye out to meet him."' By midnight he denoteth the uncertainty of that time. Then all those virgins arose. 'They that were ready went forth to meet the bridegroom and went in with him to the marriage, and the door was shut.' But they that were un-ready (whom rightly he calleth foolish), seeing that their lamps were going out, went forth to buy oil. Afterward they drew nigh, the door being now shut, and cried, saying, 'Lord, Lord, open to us.' But he answered and said, 'Verily I say unto you, I know you not.' Wherefore from all this it is manifest that there is a requital not only for overt acts, but also for words and even secret thoughts; for the Saviour said, 'I say unto you, that for every idle word that men shall speak they shall give account thereof in the day of judgement.' And again he saith, 'But the very hairs of your head are numbered,' by the hairs meaning the smallest and slightest phantasy or thought. And in harmony herewith is the teaching of blessed Paul, 'For the word of God,' saith he, 'is quick and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and laid bare unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do." "These things also were proclaimed with wondrous clearness by the prophets of old time, illumined by the grace of the Spirit. For Esay saith, 'I know their works and their thoughts,' and will repay them. 'Behold, I come to gather all nations and all tongues; and they shall come and see my glory. And the heaven shall be new, and the earth, which I make before me. And all flesh shall come to worship before me, saith the Lord. And they shall go forth, and look upon the carcasses of the men that have transgressed against me: for their worm shall not die, neither shall their fire be quenched; and they shall be a spectacle unto all flesh." And again he saith concerning that day, "And the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll, and all the stars shall fall down as leaves from the vine. For behold, the day of the Lord cometh, cruel with wrath and fierce anger, to lay the whole world desolate and to destroy the sinners out of it. For the stars of heaven and Orion and all the constellations of heaven shall not give their light, and there shall be darkness at the sun's rising, and the moon shall not give her light. And I will cause the arrogancy of the sinners to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the proud.' And again he saith, 'Wo unto them that draw their iniquities as with a long cord, and their sins as with an heifer's cart-rope! Wo unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Wo unto those of you that are mighty, that are princes, that mingle strong drink, which justify the wicked for reward, and take justice from the just, and turn aside the judgement from the needy, and take away the right from the poor, that the widow may be their spoil and the fatherless their prey! And what will they do in the day of visitation, and to whom will they flee for help? And where will they leave their glory, that they fall not into arrest? Like as stubble shall be burnt by live coal of fire, and consumed by kindled flame, so their root shall be as foam, and their blossom shall go up as dust, for they would not the law of the Lord of hosts, and provoked the oracle of the Holy One of Israel." "In tune therewith saith also another prophet, 'The great day of the Lord is near, and hasteth greatly. The bitter and austere voice of the day of the Lord hath been appointed. A mighty day of wrath is that day, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of blackness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm. And I will bring distress upon the wicked, and they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the Lord. Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in the day of the Lord's wrath; for the whole land shall be devoured by the fire of his jealousy, for he shall make a riddance of all them that dwell in the land.' Moreover David, the king and prophet, crieth thus, 'God shall come visibly, even our God, and shall not keep silence: a fire shall be kindled before him, and a mighty tempest round about him. He shall call the heaven from above, and the earth, that he may judge his people.' And again he saith, 'Arise, O God, judge thou the earth, because "the fierceness of man shall turn to thy praise." And thou shalt "reward every man according to his works."' And many other such things have been spoken by the Psalmist, and all the Prophets inspired by the Holy Ghost, concerning the judgement and the recompense to come. Their words also have been most surely confirmed by the Saviour who hath taught us to believe the resurrection of the dead, and the recompense of the deeds done in the flesh, and the unending life of the world to come." X But Ioasaph was filled hereby with deep compunction, and was melted into tears; and he said to the elder, "Thou hast told me everything plainly, and hast completed unerringly thy terrible and marvellous tale. With such truths set before us, what must we do to escape the punishments in store for sinners, and to gain the joy of the righteous?" Barlaam answered: "It is written of Peter, who was also called chief of the Apostles, that once when he was preaching the people were pricked in their heart, like thyself to-day: and when they asked, 'What shall we do?', Peter said unto them, 'Repent, and be baptized every one of you for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. For to you is the promise, and to your children, and to all that are afar off even as many as the Lord our God shall call.' Behold therefore upon thee also hath he poured forth the riches of his mercy, and hath called thee that wert afar off from him in heart, and didst serve others, not Gods, but pernicious devils and dumb and senseless wooden images. Wherefore before all things approach thou him who hath called thee, and from him shalt thou receive the true knowledge of things visible and invisible. But if, after thy calling, thou be loth or slack, thou shalt be disherited by the just judgement of God, and by thy rejection of him thou shalt be rejected. For thus too spake the same Apostle Peter to a certain disciple. But I believe that thou hast heard the call, and that, when thou hast heard it more plainly, thou wilt take up thy Cross, and follow that God and Master that calleth thee, calleth thee to himself from death unto life, and from darkness unto light. For, soothly, ignorance of God is darkness and death of the soul; and to serve idols, to the destruction of all nature, is to my thinking the extreme of all senselessness. "But idolaters--to whom shall I compare them, and to what likeness shall I liken their silliness? Well, I will set before thee an example which I heard from the lips of one most wise. "'Idol worshippers,' said he, 'are like a fowler who caught a tiny bird, called nightingale. He took a knife, for to kill and eat her; but the nightingale, being given the power of articulate speech, said to the fowler, 'Man, what advantageth it thee to slay me? for thou shalt not be able by my means to fill thy belly. Now free me of my fetters, and I will give thee three precepts, by the keeping of which thou shalt be greatly benefited all thy life long.' He, astonied at her speech, promised that, if he heard anything new from her, he would quickly free her from her captivity. The nightingale turned towards our friend and said, 'Never try to attain to the unattainable: never regret the thing past and gone: and never believe the word that passeth belief. Keep these three precepts, and may it be well with thee.' The man, admiring the lucidity and sense of her words, freed the bird from her captivity, and sent her forth aloft. She, therefore, desirous to know whether the man had understood the force of her words, and whether he had gleaned any profit therefrom, said, as she flew aloft, 'Shame, sir, on thy fecklessness! What a treasure that hast lost to-day! For I have inside me a pearl larger than an ostrich-egg.' When the fowler heard thereof, he was distraught with grief, regretting that the bird had escaped out of his hands. And he would fain have taken her again. 'Come hither,' said he, 'into my house: I will make thee right welcome, and send thee forth with honour.' But the nightingale said unto him, 'Now I know thee to be a mighty fool. Though thou didst receive my words readily and gladly, thou hast gained no profit thereby. I bade thee never regret the thing past and gone; and behold thou art distraught with grief because I have escaped out of thy hands there thou regrettest a thing past and gone. I charged thee not to try to attain to the unattainable, and thou triest to catch me, though thou canst not attain to my path. Besides which, I bade thee never believe a word past belief, and behold thou hast believed that I had inside me a pearl exceeding the measure of my size, and hadst not the sense to see that my whole body doth not attain to the bulk of ostrich eggs. How then could I contain such a pearl?"' "Thus senseless, then, are also they that trust in idols: for these be their handiwork, and they worship that which their fingers made, saying, 'These be our creators.' How then deem they their creators those which have been formed and fashioned by themselves? Nay more, they safeguard their gods, lest they be stolen by thieves, and yet they call them guardians of their safety. And yet what folly not to know that they, which be unable to guard and aid themselves, can in no wise guard and save others! 'For' saith he, 'why, on behalf of the living, should they seek unto the dead?' They expend wealth, for to raise statues and images to devils, and vainly boast that these give them good gifts, and crave to receive of their hands things which those idols never possessed, nor ever shall possess. Wherefore it is written, 'May they that make them be like unto them, and so be all such as put their trust in them, who,' he saith, 'hire a goldsmith, and make them gods, and they fall down, yea, they worship them. They bear them upon the shoulders, and go forward. And if they set them in their place, they stand therein: they shall not remove. Yea, one shall cry unto them, yet call they not answer him, nor save him out of his trouble.' 'Wherefore be ye ashamed with everlasting shame, ye that trust in graven images, that say to the molten images, Ye are our gods.' 'For they sacrificed,' he saith, 'unto devils, and not to God; to gods whom their fathers knew not. There came new and fresh gods; because it is a froward generation, and there is no faith in them.' "Wherefore out of this wicked and faithless generation the Lord calleth thee to him, saying, 'Come out from among them, and be thou separate, and touch no unclean thing,' but 'save thyself from this untoward generation.' 'Arise thou, and depart, for this is not thy rest;' for that divided lordship, which your gods hold, is a thing of confusion and strife and hath no real being whatsoever. But with us it is not so, neither have we many gods and lords, but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and we unto him: and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things and we by him, 'who is the image of the invisible God, the first born of every creature' and of all ages, 'for in him were all things created that are in the heavens and that are upon the earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers.' 'All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made:' and one Holy Ghost, in whom are all things, 'the Lord and Giver of life,' God and making God, the good Spirit, the right Spirit, 'the Spirit the Comforter,' 'the Spirit of adoption.' Of these each person, severally, is God. As the Father is, so also is the Son, and as the Son, so also the Holy Ghost. And there is one God in three, one nature, one kingdom, one power, one glory, one substance, distinct in persons, and so only distinct. One is the Father, whose property it is not to have been begotten; one is the only-begotten Son, and his property it is to have been begotten; and one is the Holy Ghost, and his property it is that he proceedeth. Thus illuminated by that light, which is the Father, with that light, which is the Son, in that light, which is the Holy Ghost, we glorify one Godhead in three persons. And he is one very and only God, known in the Trinity: for of him and through him, and unto him are all things. "By his grace also, I came to know thy ease, and was sent to teach thee the lessons that I have learned and observed from my youth even to these grey hairs. If then thou shalt believe and be baptized, thou shalt be saved; but if thou believe not, thou shalt be damned. All the things that thou seest to-day, wherein thou gloriest,--pomp, luxury, riches, and all the deceitfulness of life,--quickly pass away; and they shall cast thee hence whether thou wilt or no. And thy body will be imprisoned in a tiny grave, left in utter loneliness, and bereft of all company of kith and kin. And all the pleasant things of the world shall perish; and instead of the beauty and fragrance of to-day, thou shalt be encompassed with horror and the stink of corruption. But thy soul shall they hurl into the nether-regions of the earth, into the condemnation of Hades, until the final resurrection, when re-united to her body, she shall be cast forth from the presence of the Lord and be delivered to hell fire, which burneth everlastingly. These, and far worse haps than these, shall be thy destiny, if thou continue in unbelief. "But and if thou readily obey him that calleth thee to salvation, and if thou run unto him with desire and joy, and be signed with his light, and follow him without turn, renouncing every thing, and cleaving only unto him, hear what manner of security and happiness shall be thine. 'When thou sittest down, thou shall not be afraid of sudden fear. When thou liest down, sweet shall be thy sleep.' And thou shalt not be afraid of terror coming or the assaults of evil spirits, but shalt go thy way bold as any lion, and shalt live in bliss and everlasting joyaunce. For joy and praise shall crown thy head, and gladness shall befall thee there, where pain and sorrow and wailing shall flee away.' 'Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall rise speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee, and the glory of the Lord shall be thy reward.' Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer; while thou art yet speaking, he shall say, 'Here am I.' 'I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions, and will not remember them. Put me in remembrance: let us plead together: declare thou thy sins that thou mayst be justified.' 'Though thy sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow: though they be red as crimson I will make them white as wool, for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.'" XI. Ioasaph said unto him, "All thy words are fair and wonderful, and, while thou spakest, I believed them and still believe them; and I hate all idolatry with all my heart. And indeed, even before thy coming hither, my soul was, in uncertain fashion, doubtful of it. But now I hate it with a perfect hatred, since I have learned from thy lips the vanity thereof, and the folly of those who worship idols; and I yearn to become the servant of the true God, if haply he will not refuse me, that am unworthy by reason of my sins, and I trust that he will forgive me everything, because he is a lover of men, and compassionate, as thou tellest me, and will count me worthy to become his servant. So I am ready anon to receive baptism, and to observe all thy sayings. But what must I do after baptism? And is this alone sufficient for salvation, to believe and be baptized, or must one add other services thereto?" Barlaam answered him, "Hear what thou must do after baptism. Thou must abstain from all sin, and every evil affection, and build upon the foundation of the Catholick Faith the practice of the virtues; for faith without works is dead, as also are works without faith. For, saith the Apostle, 'Walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfil the lust of the flesh.' Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, love of money, railing, love of pleasure, drunkenness, revelling, arrogance, and such like, of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the Kingdom of God. But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance, sanctification of soul and body, lowliness of heart and contrition, almsgiving, forgiveness of injuries, loving-kindness, watchings, perfect repentance of all past offences, tears of compunction, sorrow for our own sins and those of our neighbours, and the like. These, even as steps and ladders that support one another and are clinched together, conduct the soul to heaven. Lo, to these we are commanded to cleave after baptism, and to abstain from their contraries. "But if, after receiving the knowledge of the truth, we again lay hold on dead works, and, like a dog, return to our vomit, it shall happen unto us according to the word of the Lord; 'for,' saith he, 'when the unclean spirit is gone out of a man' (to wit, by the grace of baptism) 'he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and finding none.' But enduring not for long to wander homeless and hearthless, he saith, 'I will return to my house whence I came out.' And, when he cometh, he findeth it swept and garnished, but empty and unoccupied, not having received the operation of grace, nor having filled itself with the riches of the virtues. Then goeth he, and taketh to him seven other spirits more wicked than himself; and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man becometh worse than the first.' For baptism burieth in the water and completely blotteth out the hand-writing of all former sins, and is to us for the future a sure fortress and tower of defence, and a strong weapon against the marshalled host of the enemy; but it taketh not away free will, nor alloweth the forgiving of sins after baptism, or immersion in the font a second time. For it is one baptism that we confess, and need is that we keep ourselves with all watchfulness that so we fall not into defilement a second time, but hold fast to the commandments of the Lord. For when he said to the Apostles, 'Go make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,' he did not stop there, but added, 'teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you.' "Now he commanded men to be poor in spirit, and such he calleth blessed and worthy of the kingdom of heaven. Again he chargeth us to mourn in the present life, that we may obtain comfort hereafter, and to be meek, and to be ever hungering and thirsting after righteousness: to be merciful, and ready to distribute, pitiful and compassionate, pure in heart, abstaining from all defilement of flesh and spirit, peacemakers with our neighbours and with our own souls, by bringing the worse into subjection to the better, and thus by a just decision making peace in that continual warfare betwixt the twain; also to endure all persecution and tribulation and reviling, inflicted upon us for righteousness' sake in defence of his name, that we may obtain everlasting felicity in the glorious distribution of his rewards. Ay, and in this world he exhorteth us to let our 'light so shine before men, that they may see,' he saith, 'your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.' "For the law of Moses, formerly given to the Israelites, saith, 'Thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness:' but Christ saith 'Whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgement; and whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire:' and, 'if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way and first be reconciled to thy brother.' And he also saith, 'Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her in his heart.' And hereby he calleth the defilement and consent of the affection adultery. Furthermore, where the law forbade a man to forswear himself, Christ commanded him to swear not at all beyond Yea and Nay. There we read, 'Eye for eye and tooth for tooth': here, 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. Give to him that asketh time, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away. Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on: for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.' He therefore that gave life and body will assuredly give food and raiment: he that feedeth the fowls of the air and arrayeth with such beauty the lilies of the field. 'But, seek ye first,' saith Christ, 'the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat. Strait and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life and few there be that find it. Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son and daughter more than me is not worthy of me. And he that taketh not up his cross and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.' Lo these and the like of these be the things which the Saviour commanded his Apostles to teach the Faithful: and all these things we are bound to observe, if we desire to attain to perfection and receive the incorruptible crowns of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give at that day unto all them that have loved his appearing." Ioasaph said unto the elder, "Well then, as the strictness of these doctrines demandeth such chaste conversation, if, after baptism, I chance to fail in one or two of these commandments, shall I therefore utterly miss the goal, and shall all my hope be vain?" Barlaam answered, "Deem not so. God, the Word, made man for the salvation of our race, aware of the exceeding frailty and misery of our nature, hath not even here suffered our sickness to be without remedy. But, like a skilful leech, he hath mixed for our unsteady and sin-loving heart the potion of repentance, prescribing this for the remission of sins. For after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, and have been sanctified by water and the Spirit, and cleansed without effort from all sin and all defilement, if we should fortune to fall into any transgression, there is, it is true, no second regeneration made within us by the spirit through baptism in the water of the font, and wholly re-creating us (that gift is given once for all); but, by means of painful repentance, hot tears, toils and sweats, there is a purifying and pardoning of our offences through the tender mercy of our God. For the fount of tears is also called baptism, according to the grace of the Master, but it needeth labour and time; and many hath it saved after many a fall; because there is no sin too great for the clemency of God, if we be quick to repent, and purge the shame of our offences, and death overtake us not, and depart us not from this life still defiled; for in the grave there is no confession nor repentance. But as long as we are 'among the living, while the foundation of our true faith continueth unshattered, even if somewhat of the outer roof-work or inner building be disabled, it is allowed to renew by repentance the part rotted by sins. It is impossible to count the multitude of the mercies of God, or measure the greatness of his compassion: whereas sins and offences, of whatever kind, are subject to measure and may be numbered. So our offences, being subject to measure and number, cannot overcome the immeasurable compassion, and innumerable mercies of God. "Wherefore we are commanded not to despair for our trespasses, but to acknowledge the goodness of God, and condemn the sins whereof forgiveness is offered us by reason of the loving-kindness of Christ, who for our sins shed his precious blood. In many places of Scripture we are taught the power of repentance, and especially by the precepts and parables of our Lord Jesus Christ. For it saith, 'From that time began Jesus to preach and to say, "Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."' Moreover he setteth before us, in a parable, a certain son that had received his father's substance, and taken his journey into a far country, and there spent all in riotous living. Then, when there arose a famine in that land, he went and joined himself to one of the citizens of that land of iniquity, who sent him into his fields to feed swine,--thus doth he designate the most coarse and loathsome sin. When, after much labour, he had come to the utmost misery, and might not even fill his belly with the husks that the swine did eat, at last he came to perceive his shameful plight, and, bemoaning himself, said, 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants."' And he arose, and came to his father. But, when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and embraced him, and kissed him tenderly, and, restoring him to his former rank, made a feast of joyaunce because his son was found again, and killed the fatted calf. Lo, this parable, that Jesus spake to us, concerneth such as turn again from sin, and fall at his feet in repentance. Again, he representeth a certain good shepherd that had an hundred sheep, and, when one was lost, left the ninety and nine, and went forth to seek that which was gone astray, until he found it: and he laid it on his shoulders, and folded it with those that had not gone astray, and called together his friends and neighbours to a banquet, because that it was found. 'Likewise,' saith the Saviour, 'joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance.' "And, in sooth, even the chief of the disciples, Peter, the Rock of the Faith, in the very season of the Saviour's Passion, failing for a little while in his stewardship, that he might understand the worthlessness and misery of human frailty, fell under the guilt of denial. Then he straightway remembered the Lord's words, and went out and wept bitterly, and with those hot tears made good his defeat, and transferred the victory to his own side. Like a skilful man of war, though fallen, he was not undone, nor did he despair, but, springing to his feet, he brought up, as a reserve, bitter tears from the agony of his soul; and straightway, when the enemy saw that sight, like a man whose eyes are scorched with a fierce flame, he leaped off and fled afar, howling horribly. So the chief became chief again, as he had before been chosen teacher of the whole world, being now become its pattern of penitence. And after his holy resurrection Christ made good this three-fold denial with the three-fold question, 'Peter, lovest thou me?', the Apostle answering, 'Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee.' "So from all these and many other examples beyond count we learn the virtue of tears and repentance. Only the manner thereof must be noted it must arise from a heart that abominateth sin and weepeth, as saith the prophet David, 'I am weary of my groaning: every night will I wash my bed and water my couch with my tears.' Again the cleansing of sins will be wrought by the blood of Christ, in the greatness of his compassion and the multitude of the mercies of that God who saith, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow,' and so forth. "Thus therefore it is, and thus we believe. But after receiving the knowledge of the truth and winning regeneration and adoption as sons, and tasting of the divine mysteries, we must strive hard to keep our feet lest we fall. For to fall becometh not the athlete, since many have fallen and been unable to rise. Some, opening a door to sinful lusts, and clinging obstinately to them, have no more had strength to hasten back to repentance; and others, being untimely snatched by death, and having not made speed enough to wash them from the pollution of their sin, have been damned. And for this cause it is parlous to fall into any kind of sinful affection whatsoever. But if any man fall, he must at once leap up, and stand again to fight the good fight: and, as often as there cometh a fall, so often must there at once ensue this rising and standing, unto the end. For, 'Turn ye unto me, and I will turn unto you,' saith the Lord God." XII. To this said Ioasaph, "But how, after baptism, shall a man keep himself clear from all sin? For even if there be, as thou sayest, repentance for them that stumble, yet it is attended with toil and trouble, with weeping and mourning; things which, methinks, are not easy for the many to accomplish. But I desired rather to find a way to keep strictly the commandments of God, and not swerve from them, and, after his pardoning of my past misdeeds, never again to provoke that most sweet God and Master." Barlaam answered, "Well said, my lord and king. That also is my desire; but it is hard, nay quite impossible, for a man living with fire not to be blackened with smoke: for it is an uphill task, and one not easy of accomplishment, for a man that is tied to the matters of this life and busied with its cares and troubles, and liveth in riches and luxury, to walk unswervingly in the way of the commandments of the Lord, and to preserve his life pure of these evils. 'For,' saith the Lord, 'no man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.' So also writeth the beloved Evangelist and Divine in his Epistle, thus saying, 'Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.' "These things were well understood by our holy and inspired fathers; and mindful of the Apostle's word that we must through much tribulation enter into the Kingdom of Heaven, they strove, after holy baptism, to keep their garment of immortality spotless and undefiled. Whence some of them also thought fit to receive yet another baptism; I mean that which is by blood and martyrdom. For this too is called baptism, the most honourable, and reverend of all, inasmuch as its waters are not polluted by fresh sin; which also our Lord underwent for our sakes, and rightly called it baptism. So as imitators and followers of him, first his eyewitness, disciples, and Apostles, and then the whole band of holy martyrs yielded themselves, for the name of Christ, to kings and tyrants that worshipped idols, and endured every form of torment, being exposed to wild beasts, fire and sword, confessing the good confession, running the course and keeping the faith. Thus they gained the prizes of righteousness, and became the companions of Angels, and fellow-heirs with Christ. Their virtue shone so bright that their sound went out into all lands, and the splendour of their good deeds flashed like lightning into the ends of the earth. Of these men, not only the words and works, but even the very blood and bones are full of all sanctity, mightily casting out devils, and giving to such as touch them in faith the healing of incurable diseases: yea, and even their garments, and anything else that hath been brought near their honoured bodies, are always worthy of the reverence of all creation. And it were a long tale to tell one by one their deeds of prowess. "But when those cruel and brutal tyrants brought their miserable lives to a miserable end, and persecution ceased, and Christian kings ruled throughout the world, then others too in succession emulated the Martyrs' zeal and divine desire, and, wounded at heart with the same love, considered well how they might present soul and body without blemish unto God, by cutting off all the workings of sinful lusts and purifying themselves of every defilement of flesh and spirit. But, as they perceived that this could only be accomplished by the keeping of the commandments of Christ, and that the keeping of his commandments and the practice of the virtues was difficult to attain in the midst of the turmoils of the world, they adopted for themselves a strange and changed manner of life, and, obedient to the voice divine, forsook all, parents, children, friends, kinsfolk, riches and luxury, and, hating everything in the world, withdrew, as exiles, into the deserts, being destitute, afflicted, evil entreated, wandering in wildernesses and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth, self-banished from all the pleasures and delights upon earth, and standing in sore need even of bread and shelter. This they did for two causes: firstly, that never seeing the objects of sinful lust, they might pluck such desires by the root out of their soul, and blot out the memory thereof, and plant within themselves the love and desire of divine and heavenly things: and secondly, that, by exhausting the flesh by austerities, and becoming Martyrs in will, they might not miss the glory of them that were made perfect by blood, but might be themselves, in their degree, imitators of the sufferings of Christ, and become partakers of the kingdom that hath no end. Having then come to this wise resolve, they adopted the quiet of monastic life, some facing the rigours of the open air, and braving the blaze of the scorching heat and fierce frosts and rain-storms and tempestuous winds, others spending their lives in the hovels which they had builded them, or in the hiding of holes and caverns. Thus, in pursuit of virtue, they utterly denied themselves all fleshly comfort and repose, submitting to a diet of uncooked herbs and worts, or acorns, or hard dry bread, not merely saying good-bye to delights in their quality, but, in very excess of temperance, extending their zeal to limit even the quantity of enjoyment. For even of those common and necessary meats they took only so much as was sufficient to sustain life. Some of them continued fasting the whole week, and partook of victuals only of a Sunday: others thought of food twice only in the week: others ate every other day, or daily at eventide, that is, took but a taste of food. In prayers and watchings they almost rivalled the life of Angels, bidding a long farewell to the possession of gold and silver, and quite forgetting that buyings and sellings are concerns of men. "But envy and pride, the evils most prone to follow good works, had no place amongst them. He that was weaker in ascetic exercises entertained no thought of malice against him of brighter example. Nor again was he, that had accomplished great feats, deceived and puffed up by arrogance to despise his weaker brethren, or set at nought his neighbour, or boast of his rigours, or glory in his achievements. He that excelled in virtue ascribed nothing to his own labours, but all to the power of God, in humility of mind persuading himself that his labours were nought and that he was debtor even for more, as saith the Lord, 'When ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say, "We are unprofitable servants: we have done that which was our duty to do."' Others again persuaded themselves that they had not done even the things which they were commanded to do, but that the things left undone outnumbered the things already well done. Again, he that was far behind in austerity, perchance through bodily weakness, would disparage and blame himself, attributing his failure to slothfulness of mind rather than to natural frailty. So each excelled each, and all excelled all in this sweet reasonableness. But the spirit of vain glory and pleasing of men--what place had it among them? For they had fled from the world, and were dwelling in the desert, to the end that they might show their virtues not to men, but to God, from whom also they hope to receive the rewards of their good deeds, well aware that religious exercises performed for vain glory go without recompense; for these are done for the praise of men and not for God. Whence all that do thus are doubly defrauded: they waste their body, and receive no reward. But they who yearn for glory above, and strive thereafter, despise all earthly and human glory. "As to their dwellings, some monks finish the contest in utter retirement and solitude, having removed themselves far from the haunts of men throughout the whole of their earthly life-time, and having drawn nigh to God. Others build their homes at a distance one from another, but meet on the Lord's Day at one Church, and communicate of the Holy Mysteries, I mean the unbloody Sacrifice of the undefiled Body and precious Blood of Christ, which the Lord gave to the Faithful for the remission of sins, for the enlightenment and sanctification of soul and body. They entertain one another with the exercises of the divine Oracles and moral exhortations, and make public the secret wiles of their adversaries, that none, through ignorance of the manner of wrestling, may be caught thus. Then turn they again, each to his own home, eagerly storing the honey of virtue in the cells of their hearts, and husbanding sweet fruits worthy of the heavenly board. "Others again spend their life in monasteries. These gather in multitudes in one spot, and range themselves under one superior and president, the best of their number, slaying all self-will with the sword of obedience. Of their own free choice they consider themselves as slaves bought at a price, and no longer live for themselves, but for him, to whom, for Christ his sake, they have become obedient; or rather, to speak more properly, they live no more for themselves, but Christ liveth in them, whom to follow, they renounce all. This is retirement, a voluntary hatred of the world, and denial of nature by desire of things above nature. These men therefore live the lives of Angels on earth, chanting psalms and hymns with one consent unto the Lord, and purchasing for themselves the title of Confessors by labours of obedience. And in them is fulfilled the word of the Lord, when he saith, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.' By this number he limiteth not the gathering together in his name, but by 'two or three' signifieth that the number is indefinite. For, whether there be many, or few, gathered together because of his holy name, serving him with fervent zeal, there we believe him to be present in the midst of his servants. "By these ensamples and such like assemblies men of earth and clay imitate the life of heavenly beings, in fastings and prayers and watchings, in hot tears and sober sorrow, as soldiers in the field with death before their eyes, in meekness and gentleness, in silence of the lips, in poverty and want, in chastity and temperance, in humbleness and quietude of mind, in perfect charity toward God and their neighbour, carrying their present life down to the grave, and becoming Angels in their ways. Wherefore God hath graced them with miracles, signs and various virtues and made the voice of their marvellous life to be sounded forth to the ends of the world. If I open my mouth to declare in every point the life of one of them who is said to have been the founder of the monastic life, Antony by name, by this one tree thou shalt assuredly know the sweet fruits of other trees of the like kind and form, and shalt know what a foundation of religious life that great man laid, and what a roof he built, and what gifts he merited to receive from the Saviour. After him many fought the like fight and won like crowns and guerdons. "Blessed, yea, thrice blessed, are they that have loved God, and, for his love's sake, have counted every thing as nothing worth. For they wept and mourned, day and night, that they might gain everlasting comfort: they humbled themselves willingly, that there they might be exalted: they afflicted the flesh with hunger and thirst and vigil, that there they might come to the pleasures and joys of Paradise. By their purity of heart they became a tabernacle of the Holy Ghost, as it is written, 'I will dwell in them and walk in them.' They crucified themselves unto the world, that they might stand at the right hand of the Crucified: they girt their loins with truth, and alway had their lamps ready, looking for the coming of the immortal bridegroom. The eye of their mind being enlightened, they continually looked forward to that awful hour, and kept the contemplation of future happiness and everlasting punishment immovable from their hearts, and pained themselves to labour, that they might not lose eternal glory. They became passionless as the Angels, and now they weave the dance in their fellowship, whose lives also they imitated. Blessed, yea, thrice blessed are they, because with sure spiritual vision they discerned the vanity of this present world and the uncertainty and inconstancy of mortal fortune, and cast it aside, and laid up for themselves everlasting blessings, and laid hold of that life which never faileth, nor is broken by death. "These then are the marvellous holy men whose examples we, that are poor and vile, strive to imitate, but cannot attain to the high level of the life of these heavenly citizens. Nevertheless, so far as is possible for our weakness and feeble power, we take the stamp of their lives, and wear their habit: even though we fail to equal their works; for we are assured that this holy profession is a means to perfection and an aid to the incorruption given us by holy baptism. So, following the teachings of these blessed Saints, we utterly renounce these corruptible and perishable things of life, wherein may be found nothing stable or constant, or that continueth in one stay; but all things are vanity and vexation of spirit, and many are the changes that they bring in a moment; for they are slighter than dreams and a shadow, or the breeze that bloweth the air. Small and short-lived is their charm, that is after all no charm, but illusion and deception of the wickedness of the world; which world we have been taught to love not at all, but rather to hate with all our heart. Yea, and verily it is worthy of hatred and abhorrence; for whatsoever gifts it giveth to its friends, these in turn in passion it taketh away, and shall hand over its victims, stripped of all good things, clad in the garment of shame, and bound under heavy burdens, to eternal tribulation. And those again whom it exalteth, it quickly abaseth to the utmost wretchedness, making them a foot-stool and a laughing stock for their enemies. Such are its charms, such its bounties. For it is an enemy of its friends, and traitor to such as carry out its wishes: dasheth to dire destruction all them that lean upon it, and enervateth those that put their trust therein. It maketh covenants with fools and fair false promises, only that it may allure them to itself. But, as they have dealt treacherously, it proveth itself treacherous and false in fulfilling none of its pledges. To-day it tickleth their gullet with pleasant dainties; to-morrow it maketh them nought but a gobbet for their enemies. To-day it maketh a man a king: to-morrow it delivereth him into bitter servitude. To-day its thrall is fattening on a thousand good things; to-morrow he is a beggar, and drudge of drudges. To-day it placeth on his head a crown of glory; to-morrow it dasheth his face upon the ground. To-day it adorneth his neck with brilliant badges of dignity; to-morrow it humbleth him with a collar of iron. For a little while it causeth him to be the desire of all men; but after a time it maketh him their hate and abomination. To-day it gladdeneth him: but to-morrow it weareth him to a shadow with lamentations and wailings. What is the end thereof, thou shalt hear. Ruthlessly it bringeth its former lovers to dwell in hell. Such is ever its mind, such its purposes. It lamenteth not its departed, nor pitieth the survivor. For after that it hath cruelly duped and entangled in its meshes the one party, it immediately transferreth the resources of its ingenuity against the other, not willing that any should escape its cruel snares, "These men that have foolishly alienated themselves from a good and kind master, to seek the service of so harsh and savage a lord, that are all agog for present joys and are glued thereto, that take never a thought for the future, that always grasp after bodily enjoyments, but suffer their souls to waste with hunger, and to be worn with myriad ills, these I consider to be like a man flying before the face of a rampant unicorn, who, unable to endure the sound of the beast's cry, and its terrible bellowing, to avoid being devoured, ran away at full speed. But while he ran hastily, he fell into a great pit; and as he fell, he stretched forth his hands, and laid hold on a tree, to which he held tightly. There he established some sort of foot-hold and thought himself from that moment in peace and safety. But he looked and descried two mice, the one white, the other black, that never ceased to gnaw the root of the tree whereon he hung, and were all but on the point of severing it. Then he looked down to the bottom of the pit and espied below a dragon, breathing fire, fearful for eye to see, exceeding fierce and grim, with terrible wide jaws, all agape to swallow him. Again looking closely at the ledge whereon his feet rested, he discerned four heads of asps projecting from the wall whereon he was perched. Then he lift up his eyes and saw that from the branches of the tree there dropped a little honey. And thereat he ceased to think of the troubles whereby he was surrounded; how, outside, the unicorn was madly raging to devour him: how, below, the fierce dragon was yawning to swallow him: how the tree, which he had clutched, was all but severed; and how his feet rested on slippery, treacherous ground. Yea, he forgat, without care, all those sights of awe and terror, and his whole mind hung on the sweetness of that tiny drop of honey. "This is the likeness of those who cleave to the deceitfulness of this present life,--the interpretation whereof I will declare to thee anon. The unicorn is the type of death, ever in eager pursuit to overtake the race of Adam. The pit is the world, full of all manner of ills and deadly snares. The tree, which was being continually fretted by the two mice, to which the man clung, is the course of every man's life, that spendeth and consuming itself hour by hour, day and night, and gradually draweth nigh its severance. The fourfold asps signify the structure of man's body upon four treacherous and unstable elements which, being disordered and disturbed, bring that body to destruction. Furthermore, the fiery cruel dragon betokeneth the maw of hell that is hungry to receive those who choose present pleasures rather than future blessings. The dropping of honey denoteth the sweetness of the delights of the world, whereby it deceiveth its own friends, nor suffereth them to take timely thought for their salvation." XIII. Ioasaph received this parable with great joy and said, "How true this story is, and most apt! Grudge not, then, to shew me other such like figures, that I may know for certain what the manner of our life is, and what it hath in store for its friends." The elder answered, "Again, those who are enamoured of the pleasures of life, and glamoured by the sweetness thereof, who prefer fleeting and paltry objects to those which are future and stable, are like a certain man who had three friends. On the first two of these he was extravagantly lavish of his honours, and clave passionately to their love, fighting to the death and deliberately hazarding his life for their sakes. But to the third he bore himself right arrogantly, never once granting him the honour nor the love that was his due, but only making show of some slight and inconsiderable regard for him. Now one day he was apprehended by certain dread and strange soldiers, that made speed to hale him to the king, there to render account for a debt of ten thousand talents. Being in a great strait, this debtor sought for a helper, able to take his part in this terrible reckoning with the king. So he ran to his first and truest friend of all, and said, 'Thou wottest, friend, that I ever jeopardied my life for thy sake. Now to-day I require help in a necessity that presseth me sore. In how many talents wilt thou undertake to assist me now? What is the hope that I may count upon at thy hands, O my dearest friend?' The other answered and said unto him, 'Man, I am not thy friend: I know not who thou art. Other friends I have, with whom I must needs make merry to-day, and so win their friendship for the time to come. But, see, I present thee with two ragged garments, that thou mayest have them on the way whereon thou goest, though they will do thee no manner of good. Further help from me thou mayest expect none.' The other, hearing this, despaired of the succour whereon he had reckoned, and went to his second friend, saying, 'Friend, thou rememberest how much honour and kindness thou hast enjoyed at my hands. To-day I have fallen into tribulation and sorrow, and need a helping hand. To what extent then canst thou share my labour? Tell me at once.' Said he, 'I have on leisure today to share thy troubles. I too have fallen among cares and perils, and am myself in tribulation. Howbeit, I will go a little way with thee, even if I shall fail to be of service to thee. Then will I turn quickly homeward, and busy myself with mine own anxieties.' So the man returned from him too empty-handed and baulked at every turn; and he cried misery on himself for his vain hope in those ungrateful friends, and the unavailing hardships that he had endured through love of them. At the last he went away to the third friend, whom he had never courted, nor invited to share his happiness. With countenance ashamed and downcast, he said unto him, 'I can scarce open my lips to speak with thee, knowing full well that I have never done thee service, or shown thee any kindness that thou mightest now remember. But seeing that a heavy misfortune hath overtaken me, and that I have found nowhere among my friends any hope of deliverance, I address myself to thee, praying thee, if it lie in thy power, to afford me some little aid. Bear no grudge for my past unkindness, and refuse me not.' The other with a smiling and gracious countenance answered, 'Assuredly I own thee my very true friend. I have not forgotten those slight services of thine: and I will repay them to-day with interest. Fear not therefore, neither be afraid. I will go before thee and entreat the king for thee, and will by no means deliver thee into the hands of thine enemies. Wherefore be of good courage, dear friend, and fret not thyself.' Then, pricked at heart, the other said with tears, 'Wo is me! Which shall I first lament, or which first deplore? Condemn my vain preference for my forgetful, thankless and false friends, or blame the mad ingratitude that I have shown to thee, the sincere and true?'" Ioasaph heard this tale also with amazement and asked the interpretation thereof. Then said Barlaam, "The first friend is the abundance of riches, and love of money, by reason of which a man falleth into the midst of ten thousand perils, and endureth many miseries: but when at last the appointed day of death is come, of all these things he carrieth away nothing but the useless burial cloths. By the second friend is signified our wife and children and the remnant of kinsfolk and acquaintance, to whom we are passionately attached, and from whom with difficulty we tear ourselves away, neglecting our very soul and body for the love of them. But no help did man ever derive from these in the hour of death, save only that they will accompany and follow him to the sepulchre, and then straightway turning them homeward again they are occupied with their own cares and matters, and bury his memory in oblivion as they have buried his body in the grave. But the third friend, that was altogether neglected and held cheap, whom the man never approached, but rather shunned and fled in horror, is the company of good deeds,--faith, hope, charity, alms, kindliness, and the whole band of virtues, that can go before us, when we quit the body, and may plead with the Lord on our behalf, and deliver us from our enemies and dread creditors, who urge that strict rendering of account in the air, and try bitterly to get the mastery of us. This is the grateful and true friend, who beareth in mind those small kindnesses that we have shown him and repayeth the whole with interest." XIV. Again said Ioasaph, "The Lord God prosper thee, O thou Wisest of men! For thou hast gladdened my soul with thine apt and excellent sayings. Wherefore sketch me yet another picture of the vanity of the world, and how a man may pass through it in peace and safety." Barlaam took up his parable and said, "Hear then a similitude of this matter too. I once heard tell of a great city whose citizens had, from old time, the custom of taking some foreigner and stranger, who knew nothing of their laws and traditions, and of making him their king, to enjoy absolute power, and follow his own will and pleasure without hindrance, until the completion of a year. Then suddenly, while he was living with never a care in rioting and wantonness, without fear, and alway supposing that his reign would only terminate with his life, they would rise up against him, strip him bare of his royal robes, lead him in triumph up and down the city, and thence dispatch him beyond their borders into a distant great island; there, for lack of food and raiment, in hunger and nakedness he would waste miserably away, the luxury and pleasure so unexpectedly showered upon him changed as unexpectedly into woe. In accordance therefore with the unbroken custom of these citizens, a certain man was ordained to the kingship. But his mind was fertile of understanding, and he was not carried away by this sudden access of prosperity, nor did he emulate the heedlessness of the kings that had gone before him, and had been miserably expelled, but his soul was plunged in care and trouble how he might order his affairs well. After long and careful search, he learned from a wise counsellor the custom of the citizens, and the place of perpetual banishment, and was taught of him without guile how to ensure himself against this fate. So with this knowledge that within a very little while he must reach that island and leave to strangers this chance kingdom among strangers, he opened the treasures whereof he had awhile absolute and unforbidden use, and took a great store of money and huge masses of gold and silver and precious stones and delivered the same to trusty servants and sent them before him to the island whither he was bound. When the appointed year came to an end, the citizens rose against him, and sent him naked into banishment like those that went before him. But while the rest of these foolish kings, kings only for a season, were sore anhungred, he, that had timely deposited his wealth, passed his time in continual plenty mid dainties free of expense, and, rid of all fear of those mutinous and evil citizens, could count himself happy on his wise forethought. "Understand thou, therefore, that the city is this vain and deceitful world; that the citizens are the principalities and powers of the devils, the rulers of the darkness of this world, who entice us by the soft bait of pleasure, and counsel us to consider corruptible and perishable things as incorruptible, as though the enjoyment that cometh from them were co-existent with us, and immortal as we. Thus then are we deceived; we have taken no thought concerning the things which are abiding and eternal, and have laid up in store for ourselves no treasure for that life beyond, when of a sudden there standeth over us the doom of death. Then, then at last do those evil and cruel citizens of darkness, that received us, dispatch us stript of all worldly goods,--for all our time has been wasted on their service--and carry us off 'to a dark land and a gloomy, to a land of eternal darkness, where there is no light, nor can one behold the life of men.' As for that good counsellor, who made known all the truth and taught that sagacious and wise king the way of salvation, understand thou that I, thy poor and humble servant, am he, who am come hither for to shew thee the good and infallible way to lead thee to things eternal and unending, and to counsel thee to lay up all thy treasure there; and I am come to lead thee away from the error of this world, which, to my woe, I also loved, and clave to its pleasures and delights. But, when I perceived, with the unerring eyes of my mind how all human life is wasted in these things that come and go; when I saw that no man hath aught that is stable and steadfast, neither the rich in his wealth, nor the mighty in his strength, nor the wise in his wisdom, nor the prosperous in his prosperity, nor the luxurious in his wantonness, nor he that dreameth of security of life in that vain and feeble security of his dreams, nor any man in any of those things that men on earth commend ('tis like the boundless rush of torrents that discharge themselves into the deep sea, thus fleeting and temporary are all present things); then, I say, I understood that all such things are vanity, and that their enjoyment is naught; and, that even as the past is all buried in oblivion, be it past glory, or past kingship, or the splendour of rank, or amplitude of power, or arrogance of tyranny, or aught else like them, so also present things will vanish in the darkness of the days to come. And, as I am myself of the present, I also shall doubtless be subject to its accustomed change; and, even as my fathers before me were not allowed to take delight for ever in the present world, so also shall it be with me. For I have observed how this tyrannical and troublesome world treateth mankind, shifting men hither and thither, from wealth to poverty, and from poverty to honour, carrying some out of life and bringing others in, rejecting some that are wise and understanding, making the honourable and illustrious dishonoured and despised, but seating others who are unwise and of no understanding upon a throne of honour, and making the dishonoured and obscure to be honoured of all. "One may see how the race of mankind may never abide before the face of the cruel tyranny of the world. But, as when a dove fleeing from an eagle or a hawk flitteth from place to place, now beating against this tree, now against that bush, and then anon against the clefts of the rocks and all manner of bramble-thorns, and, nowhere finding any safe place of refuge, is wearied with continual tossing and crossing to and fro, so are they which are flustered by the present world. They labour painfully under unreasoning impulse, on no sure or firm bases: they know not to what goal they are driving, nor whither this vain life leadeth them this vain life, whereto they have in miserable folly subjected themselves, choosing evil instead of good, and pursuing vice instead of goodness; and they know not who shall inherit the cold fruits of their many heavy labours, whether it be a kinsman or a stranger, and, as oft times it haps, not even a friend or acquaintance at all, but an enemy and foeman. "On all these things, and others akin to them, I held judgement in the tribunal of my soul, and I came to hate my whole life that had been wasted in these vanities, while I still lived engrossed in earthly things. But when I had put off from my soul the lust thereof, and cast it from me, then was there revealed unto me the true good, to fear God and do his will; for this I saw to be the sum of all good. This also is called the beginning of wisdom, and perfect wisdom. For life is without pain and reproach to those that hold by her, and safe to those who lean upon her as upon the Lord. So, when I had set my reason on the unerring way of the commandments of the Lord, and had surely learned that there is nothing froward or perverse therein, and that it is not full of chasms and rocks, nor of thorns and thistles, but lieth altogether smooth and even, rejoicing the eyes of the traveller with the brightest sights, making beautiful his feet, and shoeing them with 'the preparation of the Gospel of peace,' that he may walk safely and without delay, this way, then, I rightly chose above all others, and began to rebuild my soul's habitation, which had fallen into ruin and decay. "In such wise was I devising mine estate, and establishing mine unstable mind, when I heard the words of a wise teacher calling loudly to me thus, 'Come ye out,' said he, 'all ye that will to be saved. Be ye separate from the vanity of the world, for the fashion thereof quickly passeth away, and behold it shall not be. Come ye out, without turning back, not for nothing and without reward, but winning supplies for travelling to life eternal, for ye are like to journey a long road, needing much supplies from hence, and ye shall arrive at the place eternal that hath two regions, wherein are many mansions; one of which places God hath prepared for them that love him and keep his commandments, full of all manner of good things; and they that attain thereto shall live for ever in incorruption, enjoying immortality without death, where pain and sorrow and sighing are fled away. But the other place is full of darkness and tribulation and pain, prepared for the devil and his angels, wherein also shall be cast they who by evil deeds have deserved it, who have bartered the incorruptible and eternal for the present world, and have made themselves fuel for eternal fire.' "When I heard this voice, and recognized the truth, I did my diligence to attain to that abode, that is free from all pain and sorrow, and full of security and all good things, whereof I have knowledge now only in part, being but a babe in my spiritual life, and seeing the sights yonder as through mirrors and riddles; but when that which is perfect is come, and I shall see face to face, then that which is in part shall be done away. Wherefore I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord; for the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and of death, and hath opened mine eyes to see clearly that the will of the flesh is death, but the will of the Spirit is life and peace. And even as I did discern the vanity of present things and hate them with a perfect hatred, so likewise I counsel thee to decide thereon, that thou mayest treat them as something alien and quickly passing away, and mayest remove all thy store from earth and lay up for thyself in the incorruptible world a treasure that can not be stolen, wealth inexhaustible, in that place whither thou must shortly fare, that when thou comest thither thou mayest not be destitute, but be laden with riches, after the manner of that aptest of parables that I lately showed thee." XV. Said Ioasaph unto the elder, "How then shall I be able to send before me thither treasures of money and riches, that, when I depart hence, I may find these unharmed and unwasted for my enjoyment? How must I show my hatred for things present and lay hold on things eternal? This make thou right plain unto me." Quoth Barlaam, "The sending before thee of money to that eternal home is wrought by the hands of the poor. For thus saith one of the prophets, Daniel the wise, unto the king of Babylon, 'Wherefore, O Prince, let my counsel be acceptable unto thee, and redeem thy sins by almsgiving, and thine iniquities by showing mercy to the poor.' The Saviour also saith, 'Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; that, when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations.' And, in divers places, the Master maketh much mention of almsgiving and liberality to the poor, as we learn in the Gospel. Thus shalt thou most surely send all thy treasure before thee by the hands of the needy, for whatsoever thou shalt do unto these the Master counteth done unto himself, and will reward thee manifold; for, in the recompense of benefits, he ever surpasseth them that love him. So in this manner by seizing for awhile the treasures of the darkness of this world, in whose slavery for a long time past thou hast been miserable, thou shalt by these means make good provision for thy journey, and by plundering another's goods thou shalt store all up for thyself, with things fleeting and transient purchasing for thyself things that are stable and enduring. Afterwards, God working with thee, thou shalt perceive the uncertainty and inconstancy of the world, and saying farewell to all, shalt remove thy barque to anchor in the future, and, passing by the things that pass away, thou shalt hold to the things that we look for, the things that abide. Thou shalt depart from darkness and the shadow of death, and hate the world and the ruler of the world; and, counting thy perishable flesh thine enemy, thou shalt run toward the light that is unapproachable, and taking the Cross on thy shoulders, shalt follow Christ without looking back, that thou mayest also be glorified with him, and be made inheritor of the life that never changeth nor deceiveth." Ioasaph said, "When thou spakest a minute past of despising all things, and taking up such a life of toil, was that an old tradition handed down from the teaching of the Apostles, or is this a late invention of your wits, which ye have chosen for yourselves as a more excellent way?" The elder answered and said, "I teach thee no law introduced but yesterday, God forbid! but one given unto us of old. For when a certain rich young man asked the Lord, 'What shall I do to inherit eternal life?' and boasted that he had observed all that was written in the Law, Jesus said unto him, 'One thing thou lackest yet. Go sell all that thou hast and distribute unto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come, take up thy cross and follow me. But when the young man heard this he was very sorrowful, for he was very rich. And when Jesus saw that he was very sorrowful, he said, 'How hardly shall they which have riches enter into the kingdom of God! For it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God!' So, when all the Saints heard this command, they thought fit by all means to withdraw from this hardness of riches. They parted with all their goods, and by this distribution of their riches to the poor laid up for themselves eternal riches; and they took up their Cross and followed Christ, some being made perfect by martyrdom, even as I have already told thee; and some by the practice of self-denial falling not a whit short of those others in the life of the true philosophy. Know thou, then, that this is a command of Christ our King and God, which leadeth us from things corruptible and maketh us partakers of things everlasting." Said Ioasaph, "If, then, this kind of philosophy be so ancient and so salutary, how cometh it that so few folk now-a-days follow it?" The elder answered, "Many have followed, and do follow it; but the greatest part hesitate and draw back. For few, saith the Lord, are the travellers along the strait and narrow way, but along the wide and broad way many. For they that have once been taken prisoners by the love of money, and the evils that come from the love of pleasure, and are given up to idle and vain glory, are hardly to be torn therefrom, seeing that they have of their own free will sold themselves as slaves to a strange master, and setting themselves on the opposite side to God, who gave these commands, are held in bondage to that other. For the soul that hath once rejected her own salvation, and given the reins to unreasonable lusts, is carried about hither and thither. Therefore saith the prophet, mourning the folly that encompasseth such souls, and lamenting the thick darkness that lieth on them, 'O ye sons of men, how long will ye be of heavy heart? Why love ye vanity, and seek after leasing?' And in the same tone as he, but adding thereto some thing of his own, one of our wise teachers, a most excellent divine, crieth aloud to all, as from some exceeding high place of vantage, 'O ye sons of men, how long will ye be of heavy heart? Why love ye vanity and seek after leasing? Trow ye that this present life, and luxury, and these shreds of glory, and petty lordship and false prosperity are any great thing?'--things which no more belong to those that possess them than to them that hope for them, nor to these latter any more than to those who never thought of them: things like the dust carried and whirled about to and fro by the tempest, or vanishing as the smoke, or delusive as a dream, or intangible as a shadow; which, when absent, need not be despaired of by them that have them not, and, when present, cannot be trusted by their owners. "This then was the commandment of the Saviour; this the preaching of the Prophets and Apostles; in such wise do all the Saints, by word and deed, constrain us to enter the unerring road of virtue. And though few walk therein and more choose the broad way that leadeth to destruction, yet not for this shall the life of this divine philosophy be minished in fame. But as the sun, rising to shine on all, doth bounteously send forth his beams, inviting all to enjoy his light, even so doth our true philosophy, like the sun, lead with her light those that are her lovers, and warmeth and brighteneth them. But if any shut their eyes, and will not behold the light thereof, not for that must the sun be blamed, or scorned by others: still less shall the glory of his brightness be dishonoured through their silliness. But while they, self-deprived of light, grope like blind men along a wall, and fall into many a ditch, and scratch out their eyes on many a bramble bush, the sun, firmly established on his own glory, shall illuminate them that gaze upon his beams with unveiled face. Even so shineth the light of Christ on all men abundantly, imparting to us of his lustre. But every man shareth thereof in proportion to his desire and zeal. For the Sun of righteousness disappointeth none of them that would fix their gaze on him, yet doth he not compel those who willingly choose darkness; but every man, so long as he is in this present life, is committed to his own free will and choice." Ioasaph asked, "What is free will and what is choice?" The elder answered, "Free will is the willing of a reasonable soul, moving without hindrance toward whatever it wisheth, whether to virtue or to vice, the soul being thus constituted by the Creator. Free will again is the sovran motion of an intelligent soul. Choice is desire accompanied by deliberation, or deliberation accompanied by desire for things that lie in our power; for in choosing we desire that which we have deliberately preferred. Deliberation is a motion towards enquiry about actions possible to us; a man deliberateth whether he ought to pursue an object or no. Then he judgeth which is the better, and so ariseth judgement. Then he is inclined towards it, and loveth that which was so judged by the deliberative faculty, and this is called resolve; for, if he judge a thing, and yet be not inclined toward the thing that he hath judged, and love it not, it is not called resolve. Then, after inclination toward it, there ariseth choice or rather selection. For choice is to choose one or other of two things in view, and to select this rather than that. And it is manifest that choice is deliberation plus discrimination, and this from the very etymology. For that which is the 'object of choice' is the thing chosen before the other thing. And no man preferreth a thing without deliberation, nor makeeth a choice without having conceived a preference. For, since we are not zealous to carry into action all that seemeth good to us, choice only ariseth and the deliberately preferred only becometh the chosen, when desire is added thereto. Thus we conclude that choice is desire accompanied by deliberation for things that lie in our power; in choosing we desire that which we have deliberately preferred. All deliberation aimeth at action and dependeth on action; and thus deliberation goeth before all choice, and choice before all action. For this reason not only our actions, but also our thoughts, inasmuch as they give occasion for choice, bring in their train crowns or punishments. For the beginning of sin and righteous dealing is choice, exercised in action possible to us. Where the power of activity is ours, there too are the actions that follow that activity in our power. Virtuous activities are in our power, therefore in our power are virtues also; for we are absolute masters over all our souls' affairs and all our deliberations. Since then it is of free will that men deliberate, and of free will that men choose, a man partaketh of the light divine, and advanceth in the practice of this philosophy in exact measure of his choice, for there are differences of choice. And even as water-springs, issuing from the hollows of the earth, sometimes gush forth from the surface soil, and sometimes from a lower source, and at other times from a great depth, and even as some of these waters bubble forth continuously, and their taste is sweet, while others that come from deep wells are brackish or sulphurous, even as some pour forth in abundance while others flow drop by drop, thus, understand thou, is it also with our choices. Some choices are swift and exceeding fervent, others languid and cold: some have a bias entirely toward virtue, while others incline with all their force to its opposite. And like in nature to these choices are the ensuing impulses to action." XVI. Ioasaph said unto the elder, "Are there now others, too, who preach the same doctrines as thou? Or art thou to-day the only one that teacheth this hatred of the present world?" The other answered and said, "In this your most unhappy country I know of none: the tyranny of thy father hath netted all such in a thousand forms of death; and he hath made it his aim that the preaching of the knowledge of God be not once heard in your midst. But in all other tongues these doctrines are sung and glorified, by some in perfect truth, but by others perversely; for the enemy of our souls hath made them decline from the straight road, and divided them by strange teachings, and taught them to interpret certain sayings of the Scriptures falsely, and not after the sense contained therein. But the truth is one, even that which was preached by the glorious Apostles and inspired Fathers, and shineth in the Catholick Church above the brightness of the sun from the one end of the world unto the other; and as an herald and teacher of that truth have I been sent to thee." Ioasaph said unto him, "Hath my father then, learned naught of these things?" The elder answered, "Clearly and duly he hath learned naught; for he stoppeth up his senses, and will not admit that which is good, being of his own free choice inclined to evil." "Would God," said Ioasaph, "that he too were instructed in these mysteries?" The elder answered, "The things that are impossible with men are possible with God. For how knowest thou whether thou shalt save thy sire, and in wondrous fashion be styled the spiritual father of thy father? "I have heard that, once upon a time, there was a king who governed his kingdom right well, and dealt kindly and gently with his subjects, only failing in this point, that he was not rich in the light of the knowledge of God, but held fast to the errors of idolatry. Now he had a counsellor, which was a good man and endued with righteousness toward God and with all other virtuous wisdom. Grieved and vexed though he was at the error of the king, and willing to convince him thereof, he nevertheless drew back from the attempt, for fear that he might earn trouble for himself and his friends, and cut short those services which he rendered to others. Yet sought he a convenient season to draw his sovereign toward that which was good. One night the king said unto him, "Come now, let us go forth and walk about the city, if haply we may see something to edify us." Now while they were walking about the city, they saw a ray of light shining through an aperture. Fixing their eyes thereon, they descried an underground cavernous chamber, in the forefront of which there sat a man, plunged in poverty, and clad in rags and tatters. Beside him stood his wife, mixing wine. When the man took the cup in his hands, she sung a clear sweet melody, and delighted him by dancing and cozening him with flatteries. The king's companions observed this for a time, and marvelled that people, pinched by such poverty as not to afford house and raiment, yet passed their lives in such good cheer. The king said to his chief counsellor, 'Friend, how marvellous a thing it is, that our life, though bright with such honour and luxury, hath never pleased us so well as this poor and miserable life doth delight and rejoice these fools: and that this life, which appeareth to us so cruel and abominable, is to them sweet and alluring!' The chief counsellor seized the happy moment and said, 'But to thee, O king, how seemeth their life?' 'Of all that I have ever seen,' quoth the king, 'the most hateful and wretched, the most loathsome and abhorrent.' Then spake the chief counsellor unto him, "Such, know thou well, O king, and even more unendurable is our life reckoned by those who are initiated into the sight of the mysteries of yonder everlasting glory, and the blessings that pass all understanding. Your palaces glittering with gold, and these splendid garments, and all the delights of this life are more loathsome than dung and filth in the eyes of those that know the unspeakable beauties of the tabernacles in heaven made without hands, and the apparel woven by God, and the incorruptible diadems which God, the Creator and Lord of all, hath prepared for them that love him. For like as this couple were accounted fools by us, so much the more are we, who go astray in this world and please ourselves in this false glory and senseless pleasure, worthy of lamentation and tears in the eyes of those who have tasted of the sweets of the bliss beyond.' "When the king heard this, he became as one dumb. He said, 'Who then are these men that live a life better than ours?' 'All,' said the chief-counsellor 'who prefer the eternal to the temporal.' Again, when the king desired to know what the eternal might be the other replied, 'A kingdom that knoweth no succession, a life that is not subject unto death, riches that dread no poverty: joy and gladness that have no share of grief and vexation; perpetual peace free from all hatred and love of strife. Blessed, thrice blessed are they that are found worthy of these enjoyments! Free from pain and free from toil is the life that they shall live for ever, enjoying without labour all the sweets and pleasaunce of the kingdom of God, and reigning with Christ world without end.' "'And who is worthy to obtain this?' asked the king. The other answered, 'All they that hold on the road that leadeth thither; for none forbiddeth entrance, if a man but will.' "Said the king, 'And what is the way that beareth thither?' That bright spirit answered, 'To know the only true God, and Jesus Christ, his only-begotten Son, and the Holy and quickening Spirit.' "The king, endowed with understanding worthy of the purple, said unto him, 'What hath hindered thee until now from doing me to wit of these things? For they appear to me too good to be put off or passed over, if they indeed be true; and, if they be doubtful, I must search diligently, until I find the truth without shadow of doubt.' "The chief counsellor said, 'It was not from negligence or indifference that I delayed to make this known unto thee, for it is true and beyond question, but 'twas because I reverenced the excellency of thy majesty, lest thou mightest think me a meddler. If therefore thou bid thy servant put thee in mind of these things for the future, I shall obey thy behest.' 'Yea,' said the king, 'not every day only, but every hour, renew in me the remembrance thereof: for it behoveth us not to turn our mind inattentively to these things, but with very fervent zeal.' "We have heard," said Barlaam, "that this king lived, for the time to come, a godly life, and, having brought his days without tempest to an end, failed not to gain the felicity of the world to come. If then at a convenient season one shall call these things to thy father's mind also, peradventure he shall understand and know the dire evil in which he is held, and turn therefrom and choose the good; since, for the present at least, 'he is blind and cannot see afar off,' having deprived himself of the true light and being a deserter of his own accord to the darkness of ungodliness." Ioasaph said unto him, "The Lord undertake my father's matters, as he ordereth! For, even as thou sayest, the things that are impossible with men, are possible with him. But for myself, thanks to thine unsurpassable speech, I renounce the vanity of things present, and am resolved to withdraw from them altogether, and to spend the rest of my life with thee, lest, by means of these transitory and fleeting things, I lose the enjoyment of the eternal and incorruptible." The elder answered him, "This do, and thou shalt be like unto a youth of great understanding of whom I have heard tell, that was born of rich and distinguished parents. For him his father sought in marriage the exceeding fair young daughter of a man of high rank and wealth. But when he communed with his son concerning the espousals, and informed him of his plans, the son thought it strange and ill-sounding, and cast it off, and left his father and went into exile. On his journey he found entertainment in the house of a poor old man, where he rested awhile during the heat of the day. "Now this poor man's daughter, his only child, a virgin, was sitting before the door, and, while she wrought with her hands, with her lips she loudly sang the praises of God with thanksgiving from the ground of her heart. The young man heard her hymn of praise and said, 'Damsel, what is thine employment? and wherefore, poor and needy as thou art, givest thou thanks as though for great blessings, singing praise to the Giver?' She answered, 'Knowest thou not that, as a little medicine often times delivereth a man from great ailments, even so the giving of thanks to God for small mercies winneth great ones? Therefore I, the daughter of a poor old man, thank and bless God for these small mercies, knowing that the Giver thereof is able to give even greater gifts. And this applieth but to those external things that are not our own from whence there accrueth no gain to those who possess much (not to mention the loss that often ariseth), nor cometh there harm to those who have less; for both sorts journey along the same road, and hasten to the same end. But, in things most necessary and vital, many and great the blessings I have enjoyed of my Lord, though indeed they are without number and beyond compare. I have been made in the image of God, and have gained the knowledge of him, and have been endowed with reason beyond all the beasts, and have been called again from death unto life, through the tender mercy of our God, and have received power to share in his mysteries; and the gate of Paradise hath been opened to me, allowing me to enter without hindrance, if I will. Wherefore for gifts so many and so fine, shared alike by rich and poor, I can indeed in no wise praise him as I ought, yet if I fail to render to the Giver this little hymn of praise, what excuse shall I have?' "The youth, astonished at her wit, called to her father, and said unto him, 'Give me thy daughter: for I love her wisdom and piety.' But the elder said, 'It is not possible for thee, the son of wealthy parents, to take this a beggar's daughter.' Again the young man said, 'Yea, but I will take her, unless thou forbid: for a daughter of noble and wealthy family hath been betrothed unto me in marriage, and her I have cast off and taken to flight. But I have fallen in love with thy daughter because of her righteousness to God-ward, and her discreet wisdom, and I heartily desire to wed-her.' But the old man said unto him, 'I cannot give her unto thee, to carry away to thy father's house, and depart her from mine arms, for she is mine only child.' 'But,' said the youth, 'I will abide here with your folk and adopt your manner of life.' Thereupon he stripped him of his own goodly raiment, and asked for the old man's clothes and put them on. When the father had much tried his purpose, and proved him in manifold ways, and knew that his intent was fixed, and that it was no light passion that led him to ask for his daughter, but love of godliness that constrained him to embrace a life of poverty, preferring it to his own glory and noble birth, he took him by the hand, and brought him into his treasure-house, where he showed him much riches laid up, and a vast heap of money, such as the young man had never beheld. And he said unto him, 'Son, all these things give I unto thee, forasmuch as thou hast chosen to become the husband to my daughter, and also thereby the heir of all my substance.' So the young man acquired the inheritance, and surpassed all the famous and wealthy men of the land." XVII. Said Ioasaph unto Barlaam, "This story also fitly setteth forth mine own estate. Whence also me thinketh that thou hadst me in mind when thou spakest it. But what is the proof whereby thou seekest to know the steadfastness of my purpose?" Said the elder, "I have already proved thee, and know how wise and steadfast is thy purpose, and how truly upright is thine heart. But the end of thy fortune shall confirm it. For this cause I bow my knees unto our God glorified in Three Persons, the Maker of all things visible and invisible, who verily is, and is for ever, that never had beginning of his glorious being, nor hath end, the terrible and almighty, the good and pitiful, that he may enlighten the eyes of thine heart, and give thee the spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of him, that thou mayest know what is the hope of his calling, and what the riches of the glory of his inheritance in the Saints, and what is the exceeding greatness of his power to us-ward who believe; that thou mayest be no more a stranger and sojourner, but a fellow-citizen with the Saints, and of the household of God, being built upon the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, Jesus Christ our Lord himself being the chief corner-stone, in whom all the building fitly framed together groweth unto an holy temple in the Lord." Ioasaph, keenly pricked at the heart, said, "All this I too long to learn: and I beseech thee make known to me the riches of the glory of God, and the exceeding greatness of his power." Barlaam said unto him, "I pray God to teach thee this, and to plant in thy soul the knowledge of the same; since with men it is impossible that his glory and power be told, yea, even if the tongues of all men that now are and have ever been were combined in one. For, as saith the Evangelist and Divine, 'No man hath seen God at any time; the only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared him.' But the glory and majesty of the invisible and infinite God, what son of earth shall skill to comprehend it, save he to whom he himself shall reveal it, in so far as he will, as he hath revealed it, to his Prophets and Apostles? But we learn it, so far as in us lieth, by their teaching, and from the very nature of the world. For the Scripture saith, 'The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handiwork;' and, 'The invisible things of him from the creation Of the world are clearly understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead.' "Even as a man, beholding an house splendidly and skilfully builded, or a vessel fairly framed, taketh note of the builder or workman and marvelleth thereat, even so I that was fashioned out of nothing and brought into being, though I cannot see the maker and provider, yet from his harmonious and marvellous fashioning of me have come to the knowledge of his wisdom, not to the full measure of that wisdom, but to the full compass of my powers; yea I have seen that I was not brought forth by chance, nor made of myself, but that he fashioned me, as it pleased him, and set me to have dominion over his creatures, howbeit making me lower than some; that, when I was broken, he re-created me with a better renewal; and that he shall draw me by his divine will from this world and place me in that other life that is endless and eternal; and that in nothing I could withstand the might of his providence, nor add anything to myself nor take anything away, whether in stature or bodily form, and that I am not able to renew for myself that which is waxen old, nor raise that which hath been destroyed. For never was man able to accomplish aught of these things, neither king, nor wise man, nor rich man, nor ruler, nor any other that pursueth the tasks of men. For he saith, 'There is no king, or mighty man, that had any other beginning of birth. For all men have one entrance into life, and the like going out.' "So from mine own nature, I am led by the hand to the knowledge of the mighty working of the Creator; and at the same time I think upon the well-ordered structure and preservation of the whole creation, how that in itself it is subject everywhere to variableness and change, in the world of thought by choice, whether by advance in the good, or departure from it, in the world of sense by birth and decay, increase and decrease, and change in quality and motion in space. And thus all things proclaim, by voices that cannot be heard, that they were created, and are held together, and preserved, and ever watched over by the providence of the uncreate, unturning and unchanging God. Else how could diverse elements have met, for the consummation of a single world, one with another, and remained inseparable, unless some almighty power had knit them together, and still were keeping them from dissolution? 'For how could anything have endured, if it had not been his will? or been preserved, if not called by him?' as saith the Scripture. "A ship holdeth not together without a steersman, but easily foundereth; and a small house shall not stand without a protector. How then could the world have subsisted for long ages, a work so great, and so fair and wondrous,--without some glorious mighty and marvellous steersmanship and all-wise providence? Behold the heavens, how long they have stood, and have not been darkened: and the earth hath not been exhausted, though she hath been bearing offspring so long. The water-springs have not failed to gush out since they were made. The sea, that receiveth so many rivers, hath not exceeded her measure. The courses of Sun and Moon have not varied: the order of day and night hath not changed. From all these objects is declared unto us the unspeakable power and magnificence of God, witnessed by Prophets and Apostles. But no man can fitly conceive or sound forth his glory. For the holy Apostle, that had Christ speaking within him, after perceiving all objects of thought and sense, still said, 'We know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.' Wherefore also, astonied at the infinite riches of his wisdom and knowledge, he cried for all to understand, 'O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!' "Now, if he, that attained unto the third heaven and heard such unspeakable words, uttered such sentences, what man of my sort shall have strength to look eye to eye upon the abysses of such mysteries, or speak rightly thereof, or think meetly of the things whereof we speak, unless the very giver of wisdom, and the amender of the unwise, vouchsafe that power? For in his hand are we and our words, and all prudence and knowledge of wisdom is with him. And he himself hath given us the true understanding of the things that are; to know the structure of the world, the working of the elements, the beginning, end and middle of times, the changes of the solstices, the succession of seasons, and how he hath ordered all things by measure and weight. For he can shew his great strength at all times, and who may withstand the power of his arm? For the whole world before him is as a little grain of the balance, yea, as a drop of the morning dew that falleth down upon the earth. But he hath mercy upon all; for he can do all things, and winketh at the sins of men, because they should amend. For he abhorreth nothing, nor turneth away from them that run unto him, he, the only good Lord and lover of souls. Blessed be the holy name of his glory, praised and exalted above all for ever! Amen." XVIII. Ioasaph said unto him, "If thou hadst for a long time considered, most wise Sir, how thou mightest best declare to me the explanation of the questions that I propounded, methinks thou couldest not have done it better than by uttering such words as thou hast now spoken unto me. Thou hast taught me that God is the Maker and preserver of all things; and in unanswerable language thou hast shown me that the glory of his majesty is incomprehensible to human reasonings, and that no man is able to attain thereto, except those to whom, by his behest, he revealeth it. Wherefore am I lost in amaze at thine eloquent wisdom. "But tell me, good Sir, of what age thou art, and in what manner of place is thy dwelling, and who are thy fellow philosophers; for my soul hangeth fast on thine, and fain would I never be parted from thee all the days of my life." The elder said, "Mine age is, as I reckon, forty and five years, and in the deserts of the land of Senaar do I dwell. For my fellow combatants I have those who labour and contend together with me on the course of the heavenly journey." "What sayest thou?" quoth Ioasaph. "Thou seemest to me upwards of seventy years old. How speakest thou of forty and five? Herein methinks thou tellest not the truth." Barlaam said unto him, "If it be the number of years from my birth that thou askest, thou hast well reckoned them at upwards of seventy. But, for myself, I count not amongst the number of my days the years that I wasted in the vanity of the world. When I lived to the flesh in the bondage of sin, I was dead in the inner man; and those years of deadness I can never call years of life. But now the world hath been crucified to me, and I to the world, and I have put off the old man, which is corrupt according to the deceitful lusts, and live no longer to the flesh, but Christ liveth in me; and the life that I live, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. And the years, that have passed since then, I may rightly call years of life, and days of salvation. And in numbering these at about forty and five, I reckoned by the true tale, and not off the mark. So do thou also alway hold by this reckoning; and be sure that there is no true life for them that are dead to all good works, and live in sin, and serve the world-ruler of them that are dragged downward, and waste their time in pleasures and lusts: but rather be well assured that these are dead and defunct in the activity of life. For a wise man hath fitly called sin the death of the immortal soul. And the Apostle also saith, 'When ye were the servants of sin, ye were free from righteousness. What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death. But now being made free from sin, and become servants to God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life. For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life.'" Ioasaph said unto him, "Since thou reckonest not the life in the flesh in the measure of life, neither canst thou reckon that death, which all men undergo, as death." The elder answered, "Without doubt thus think I of these matters also, and fear this temporal death never a whit, nor do I call it death at all, if only it overtake me walking in the way of the commandments of God, but rather a passage from death to the better and more perfect life, which is hid in Christ, in desire to obtain which the Saints were impatient of the present. Wherefore saith the Apostle, 'We know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven: if so be that being clothed we shall not be found naked. For we that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened: not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality might be swallowed up of life.' And again, 'O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' And once more, 'I desire to depart and be with Christ.' And the prophet saith, 'When shall I come and appear before the presence of God?' Now that I the least of all men, choose not to fear bodily death, thou mayest learn by this, that I have set at nought thy father's threat, and come boldly unto thee, and have preached to thee the tidings of salvation, though I knew for sure that, if this came to his knowledge, he would, were that possible, put me to a thousand deaths. But I, honouring the word of God afore all things, and longing to win it, dread not temporal death, nor reek on it at all worthy of such an appellation, in obedience to my Lord's command, which saith, 'Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.'" "These then," said Ioasaph, "are the good deeds of that true philosophy, that far surpass the nature of these earthly men who cleave fast to the present life. Blessed are ye that hold to so noble a purpose! But tell me truly what is thy manner of life and that of thy companions in the desert, and from whence cometh your raiment and of what sort may it be? Tell me as thou lovest truth." Said Barlaam, "Our sustenance consisteth of acorns and herbs that we find in the desert, watered by the dew of heaven, and in obedience to the Creator's command; and for this there is none to fight and quarrel with us, seeking by the rule and law of covetousness to snatch more than his share, but in abundance for all is food provided from unploughed lands, and a ready table spread. But, should any of the faithful brethren in the neighbourhood bring a blessed dole of bread, we receive it as sent by providence, and bless the faith that brought it. Our raiment is of hair, sheepskins or shirts of palm fibre, all thread-bare and much patched, to mortify the frailty of the flesh. We wear the same clothing winter and summer, which, once put on, we may on no account put off until it be old and quite outworn. For by thus afflicting our bodies with the constraints of cold and heat we purvey for ourselves the vesture of our future robes of immortality." Ioasaph said, "But whence cometh this garment that thou wearest?" The elder answered, "I received it as a loan from one of our faithful brethren, when about to make my journey unto thee; for it behoved me not to arrive in mine ordinary dress. If one had a beloved kinsman carried captive into a foreign land, and wished to recover him thence, one would lay aside one's own clothing, and put on the guise of the enemy, and pass into their country and by divers crafts deliver one's friend from that cruel tyranny. Even so I also, having been made aware of thine estate, clad myself in this dress, and came to sow the seed of the divine message in thine heart, and ransom thee from the slavery of the dread ruler of this world. And now behold by the power of God, as far as in me lay, I have accomplished my ministry, announcing to thee the knowledge of him, and making known unto thee the preaching of the Prophets and Apostles, and teaching thee unerringly and soothly the vanity of the present life, and the evils with which this world teems, which cruelly deceiveth them that trust therein, and taketh them in many a gin. Now must I return thither whence I came, and thereupon doff this robe belonging to another, and don mine own again." Ioasaph therefore begged the elder to shew himself in his wonted apparel. Then did Barlaam strip off the mantle that he wore, and lo, a terrible sight met Ioasaph's eyes: for all the fashion of his flesh was wasted away, and his skin blackened by the scorching sun, and drawn tight over his bones like an hide stretched over thin canes. And he wore an hair shirt, stiff and rough, from his loins to his knees, and over his shoulders there hung a coat of like sort. But Ioasaph, being sore amazed at the hardship of his austere life, and astonished at his excess of endurance, burst into tears, and said to the elder, "Since thou art come to deliver me from the slavery of the devil, crown thy good service to me, and 'bring my soul out of prison,' and take me with thee, and let us go hence, that I may be fully ransomed from this deceitful world and then receive the seal of saving Baptism, and share with thee this thy marvellous philosophy, and this more than human discipline." But Barlaam said unto him, "A certain rich man once reared the fawn of a gazelle; which, when grown up, was impelled by natural desire to long for the desert. So on a day she went out and found an herd of gazelles browsing; and, joining them, she would roam through the glades of the forest, returning at evenfall, but issuing forth at dawn, through the heedlessness of her keepers, to herd with her wild companions. When these removed, to graze further afield, she followed them. But the rich man's servants, when they learned thereof, mounted on horseback, and gave chase, and caught the pet fawn, and brought her home again, and set her in captivity for the time to come. But of the residue of the herd, some they killed, and roughly handled others. Even so I fear that it may happen unto us also if thou follow me; that I may be deprived of thy fellowship, and bring many ills to my comrades, and everlasting damnation to thy father. But this is the will of the Lord concerning time; thou now indeed must be signed with the seal of holy Baptism, and abide in this country, cleaving to all righteousness, and the fulfilling of the commandments of Christ; but when the Giver of all good things shall give thee opportunity, then shalt thou come to us, and for the remainder of this present life we shall dwell together; and I trust in the Lord also that in the world to come we shall not be parted asunder." Again Ioasaph, in tears, said unto him, "If this be the Lord's pleasure, his will be done! For the rest, perfect me in holy Baptism. Then receive at my hands money and garments for the support and clothing both of thyself and thy companions, and depart to the place of thy monastic life, and the peace of God be thy guard! But cease not to make supplications on my behalf, that I may not fall away from my hope, but may soon be able to reach thee, and in peace profound may enjoy thy ministration." Barlaam answered, "Nought forbiddeth thee to receive the seal of Christ. Make thee ready now; and, the Lord working with thee, thou shalt be perfected. But as concerning the money that thou didst promise to bestow on my companions, how shall this be, that thou, a poor man, shouldest give alms to the rich? The rich always help the poor, not the needy the wealthy. And the least of all my comrades is incomparably richer than thou. But I trust in the mercies of God that thou too shalt soon be passing rich as never afore: and then thou wilt not be ready to distribute." Ioasaph said unto him, "Make plain to me this saying; how the least of all thy companions surpasseth me in riches--thou saidest but now that they lived in utter penury, and were pinched by extreme poverty and why thou callest me a poor man, but sayest that, when I shall be passing rich, I, who am ready to distribute, shall be ready to distribute no more." Barlaam answered, "I said not that these men were pinched by poverty, but that they plume themselves on their inexhaustible wealth. For to be ever adding money to money, and never to curb the passion for it, but insatiably to covet more and more, betokeneth the extreme of poverty. But those who despise the present for love of the eternal and count it but dung, if only they win Christ, who have laid aside all care for meat and raiment and cast that care on the Lord, and rejoice in penury as no lover of the world could rejoice, were he rolling in riches, who have laid up for themselves plenteously the riches of virtue, and are fed by the hope of good things without end, may more fitly be termed rich than thou, or any other earthly kingdom. But, God working with thee, thou shalt lay hold on such spiritual abundance that, if thou keep it in safety and ever rightfully desire more, thou shalt never wish to dispend any part of it. This is true abundance: but the mass of material riches will damage rather than benefit its friends. Meetly therefore called I it the extreme of poverty, which the lovers of heavenly blessings utterly renounce and eschew, and flee from it, as a man fleeth from an adder. But if I take from thee and so bring back to life that foe, whom my comrades in discipline and battle have slain and trampled under foot, and carry him back to them, and so be the occasion of wars and lusts, then shall I verily be unto them an evil angel, which heaven forfend! "Let the same, I pray thee, be thy thoughts about raiment. As for them that have put off the corruption of the old man, and, as far as possible, cast away the robe of disobedience, and put on Christ as a coat of salvation and garment of gladness, how shall I again clothe these in their coats of hide, and gird them about with the covering of shame? But be assured that my companions have no need of such things, but are content with their hard life in the desert, and reckon it the truest luxury; and bestow thou on the poor the money and garments which thou promisedst to give unto our monks, and lay up for thyself, for the time to come, treasure that cannot be stolen, and by the orisons of these poor folk make God thine ally; for thus shalt thou employ thy riches as an help toward noble things. Then also put on the whole armour of the Spirit, having thy loins girt about with truth, and having on the breast-plate of righteousness, and wearing the helmet of salvation, and having thy feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace, and taking in thine hands the shield of faith, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God. And, being thus excellently armed and guarded on every side, in this confidence go forth to the warfare against ungodliness, until, this put to flight, and its prince, the devil, dashed headlong to the earth, thou be adorned with the crowns of victory from the right hand of thy master, the Lord of life." XIX. With such like doctrines and saving words did Barlaam instruct the king's son, and fit him for holy Baptism, charging him to fast and pray, according to custom, several days: and he ceased not to resort unto him, teaching him every article of the Catholick Faith and expounding him the holy Gospel. Moreover he interpreted the Apostolick exhortations and the sayings of the Prophets: for, taught of God, Barlaam had alway ready on his lips the Old and New Scripture; and, being stirred by the Spirit, he enlightened his young disciple to see the true knowledge of God. But on the day, whereon the prince should be baptized, he taught him, saying, "Behold thou art moved to receive the seal of Christ, and be signed with the light of the countenance of the Lord: and thou becomest a son of God, and temple of the Holy Ghost, the giver of life. Believe thou therefore in the Father, and in the Son, and in the Holy Ghost, the holy and life-giving Trinity, glorified in three persons and one Godhead, different indeed in persons and personal properties, but united in substance; acknowledging one God unbegotten, the Father; and one begotten Lord, the Son, light of light, very God of very God, begotten before all worlds; for of the good Father is begotten the good Son, and of the unbegotten light shone forth the everlasting light; and from very life came forth the life-giving spring, and from original might shone forth the might of the Son, who is the brightness of his glory and the Word in personality, who was in the beginning with God, and God without beginning and without end, by whom all things, visible and invisible, were made: knowing also one Holy Ghost, which proceedeth from the Father, perfect, life-giving and sanctifying God, with the same will, the same power, coeternal and impersonate. Thus therefore worship thou the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, in three persons or properties and one Godhead. For the Godhead is common of the three, and one is their nature, one their substance, one their glory, one their kingdom, one their might, one their authority; but it is common of the Son and of the Holy Ghost that they are of the Father; and it is proper of the Father that he is unbegotten, and of the Son that he is begotten, and of the Holy Ghost that he proceedeth. "This therefore be thy belief; but seek not to understand the manner of the generation or procession, for it is incomprehensible. In uprightness of heart and without question accept the truth that the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, are in all points one except in the being unbegotten, and begotten, and proceeding; and that the only begotten Son, the Word of God, and God, for our salvation came down upon earth, by the good pleasure of the Father, and, by the operation of the Holy Ghost, was conceived without seed in the womb of Mary the holy Virgin and Mother of God, by the Holy Ghost, and was born of her without defilement and was made perfect man and that he is perfect God and perfect man, being of two natures, the Godhead and the manhood, and in two natures, endowed with reason, will, activity, and free will, and in all points perfect according to the proper rule and law in either case, that is in the Godhead and the manhood, and in one united person. And do thou receive these things without question, never seeking to know the manner, how the Son of God emptied himself, and was made man of the blood of the Virgin, without seed and without defilement; or what is this meeting in one person of two natures. For by faith we are taught to hold fast those things that have been divinely taught us out of Holy Scripture; but of the manner we are ignorant, and cannot declare it. "Believe thou that the Son of God, who, of his tender mercy was made man, took upon him all the affections that are natural to man, and are blameless (he hungered and thirsted and slept and was weary and endured agony in his human nature, and for our transgressions was led to death, was crucified and was buried, and tasted of death, his Godhead continuing without suffering and without change; for we attach no sufferings whatsoever to that nature which is free from suffering, but we recognize him as suffering and buried in that nature which he assumed, and in his heavenly glory rising again from the dead, and in immortality ascending into heaven); and believe that he shall come again, with glory, to judge quick and dead, and by the words which himself knoweth, of that diviner body, and to reward every man by his own just standards. For the dead shall rise again, and they that are in their graves shall awake: and they that have kept the commandments of Christ, and have departed this life in the true faith shall inherit eternal life, and they, that have died in their sins, and have turned aside from the right faith, shall go away into eternal punishment. Believe not that there is any true being or kingdom of evil, nor suppose that it is without beginning, or self-originate, or born of God: out on such an absurdity! but believe rather that it is 'the work of us and the devil, come upon us through our heedlessness, because we were endowed with free-will, and we make our choice, of deliberate purpose, whether it be good or evil. Beside this, acknowledge one Baptism, by water and the Spirit, for the remission of sins. "Receive also the Communion of the spotless Mysteries of Christ, believing in truth that they are the Body and Blood of Christ our God, which he hath given unto the faithful for the remission of sins. For in the same night in which he was betrayed he ordained a new testament with his holy disciples and Apostles, and through them for all that should believe on him, saying, 'Take, eat: this is my Body, which is broken for you, for the remission of sins.' After the same manner also he took the cup, and gave unto them saying, 'Drink ye all of this: this is my Blood, of the new testament, which is shed for you for the remission of sins: this do in remembrance of me.' He then, the Word of God, being quick and powerful, and, working all things by his might, maketh and transformeth, through his divine operation, the bread and wine of the oblation into his own Body and Blood, by the visitation of the Holy Ghost, for the sanctification and enlightenment of them that with desire partake thereof. "Faithfully worship, with honour and reverence, the venerable likeness of the features of the Lord, the Word of God, who for our sake was made man, thinking to behold in the Image thy Creator himself. 'For the honour of the Image, saith one of the Saints, passeth over to the original.' The original is the thing imaged, and from it cometh the derivation. For when we see the drawing in the Image, in our mind's eye we pass over to the true form of which it is an Image, and devoutly worship the form of him who for our sake was made flesh, not making a god of it, but saluting it as an image of God made flesh, with desire and love of him who for us men emptied himself, and even took the form of a servant. Likewise also for this reason we salute the pictures of his undefiled Mother, and of all the Saints. In the same spirit also faithfully worship and salute the emblem of the life-giving and venerable Cross, for the sake of him that hung thereon in the flesh, for the salvation of our race, Christ the God and Saviour of the world, who gave it to us as the sign of victory over the devil; for the devil trembleth and quaketh at the virtue thereof, and endureth not to behold it. In such doctrines and in such faith shalt thou be baptized, keeping thy faith unwavering and pure of all heresy until thy latest breath. But all teaching and every speech of doctrine contrary to this blameless faith abhor, and consider it an alienation from God. For, as saith the Apostle, 'Though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed.' For there is none other Gospel or none other Faith than that which hath been preached by the Apostles, and established by the inspired Fathers at divers Councils, and delivered to the Catholick Church." When Barlaam had thus spoken, and taught the king's son the Creed which was set forth at the Council of Nicaea, he baptized him in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, in the pool of water which was in his garden. And there came upon him the grace of the Holy Spirit. Then did Barlaam come back to his chamber, and offer the holy Mysteries of the unbloody Sacrifice, and communicate him with the undefiled Mysteries of Christ: and Ioasaph rejoiced in spirit, giving thanks to Christ his God. Then said Barlaam unto him, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten thee again unto a lively hope, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven in Christ Jesus our Lord by the Holy Ghost; for to-day thou hast been made free from sin, and hast become the servant of God, and hast received the earnest of everlasting life: thou hast left darkness and put on light, being enrolled in the glorious liberty of the children of God. For he saith, 'As many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name.' Wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son and an heir of God through Jesus Christ in the Holy Ghost. Wherefore, beloved, give diligence that thou mayest be found of him without spot and blameless, working that which is good upon the foundation of faith: for faith without works is dead, as also are works without faith; even as I remember to have told thee afore. Put off therefore now all malice, and hate all the works of the old man, which are corrupt according to the deceitful lusts; and, as new-born babe, desire to drink the reasonable and sincere milk of the virtues, that thou mayest grow thereby, and attain unto the knowledge of the commandments of the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ: that thou mayest henceforth be no more a child in mind, tossed to and fro, and carried about on the wild and raging waves of thy passions: or rather in malice be a child, but have thy mind settled and made steadfast toward that which is good, and walk worthy of the vocation wherewith thou wast called, in the keeping of the commandments of the Lord, casting off and putting far from thee the vanity of thy former conversation, henceforth walking not as the Gentiles walk in the vanity of their mind, having their understanding darkened, alienated from the glory of God, in subjection to their lusts and unreasonable affections. But as for thee, even as thou hast approached the living and true God, so walk thou as a child of light; for the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness and righteousness and truth; and no longer destroy by the works of the old man the new man, which thou hast to-day put on. But day by day renew thyself in righteousness and holiness and truth: for this is possible with every man that willeth, as thou hearest that unto them that believe on his name he hath given power to become the sons of God; so that we can no longer say that the acquiring of virtues is impossible for us, for the road is plain and easy. For, though with respect to the buffeting of the body, it hath been called a strait and narrow way, yet through the hope of future blessings is it desirable and divine for such as walk, not as fools but circumspectly, understanding what the will of God is, clad in the whole armour of God to stand in battle against the wiles of the adversary, and with all prayer and supplication watching thereunto, in all patience and hope. Therefore, even as thou hast heard from me, and been instructed, and hast laid a sure foundation, do thou abound therein, increasing and advancing, and warring the good warfare, holding faith and a good conscience, witnessed by good works, following after righteousness, godliness, faith, charity, patience, meekness, laying hold on eternal life whereunto thou wast called. But remove far from thee all pleasure and lust of the affections, not only in act and operation, but even in the thoughts of thine heart, that thou mayest present thy soul without blemish to God. For not our actions only, but our thoughts also are recorded, and procure us crowns or punishments: and we know that Christ, with the Father and the Holy Ghost, dwelleth in pure hearts. But, just as smoke driveth away bees, so, we learn, do evil imaginations drive out of us the Holy Spirit's grace. Wherefore take good heed hereto, that thou blot out every imagination of sinful passion from thy soul, and plant good thoughts therein, making thyself a temple of the Holy Ghost. For from imaginations we come also to actual deeds, and every work, advancing from thought and reflection, catcheth at small beginnings, and then, by small increases, arriveth at great endings. "Wherefore on no account suffer any evil habit to master thee; but, while it is yet young, pluck the evil root out of thine heart, lest it fasten on and strike root so deep that time and labour be required to uproot it. And the reason that greater sins assault us and get the mastery of our souls is that those which appear to be less, such as wicked thoughts, unseemly words and evil communications, fail to receive proper correction. For as in the case of the body, they that neglect small wounds often bring mortification and death upon themselves, so too with the soul: thus they that overlook little passions and sins bring on greater ones. And the more those greater sins grow on them, the more cloth the soul become accustomed therto and think light of them. For he saith, 'When the wicked cometh to the depth of evil things, he thinketh light of them': and finally, like the hog, that delighteth to wallow in mire, the soul, that hath been buried in evil habits, doth not even perceive the stink of her sin, but rather delighteth and rejoiceth therein, cleaving to wickedness as it were good. And even if at last she issue from the mire and come to herself again, she is delivered only by much labour and sweat from the bondage of those sins, to which she hath by evil custom enslaved herself. "Wherefore with all thy might remove thyself far from every evil thought and fancy, and every sinful custom; and school thyself the rather in virtuous deeds, and form the habit of practising them. For if thou labour but a little therein, and have strength to form the habit, at the last, God helping thee, thou shalt advance without labour. For the habit of virtue, taking its quality from the soul, seeing that it hath some natural kinship therewith and claimeth God for an help-mate, becometh hard to alter and exceeding strong; as thou seest, courage and prudence, temperance and righteousness are hard to alter, being deeply seated habits, qualities and activities of the soul. For if the evil affections, not being natural to us, but attacking us from without, be hard to alter when they become habits, how much harder shall it be to shift virtue, which hath been by nature planted in us by our Maker, and hath him for an help-mate, if so be, through our brief endeavour, it shall have been rooted in habit in the soul?" XX. "Wherefore a practician of virtue once spake to me on this wise: 'After I had made divine meditation my constant habit, and through the practice of it my soul had received her right quality, I once resolved to make trial of her, and put a check upon her, not allowing her to devote herself to her wonted exercises. I felt that she was chafing and fretting, and yearning for meditation with an ungovernable desire, and was utterly unable to incline to any contrary thought. No sooner had I given her the reins than immediately she ran in hot haste to her own task, as saith the Prophet, 'Like as the hart desireth the water brooks, so longeth my soul after the strong, the living God.' Wherefore from all these proofs it is evident that the acquirement of virtue is within our reach, and that we are lords over it, whether we will embrace or else the rather choose sin. They then, that are in the thraldom of wickedness, can hardly be torn away therefrom, as I have already said. "But thou, who hast been delivered therefrom, through the tender mercy of our God, and hast put on Christ by the grace of the Holy Ghost, now transfer thyself wholly to the Lord's side, and never open a door to thy passions, but adorn thy soul with the sweet savour and splendour of virtue, and make her a temple of the Holy Trinity, and to his contemplation see thou devote all the powers of thy mind. He that liveth and converseth with an earthly king is pointed out by all as a right happy man: what happiness then must be his who is privileged to converse and be in spirit with God! Behold thou then his likeness alway, and converse with him. How shalt thou converse with God? By drawing near him in prayer and supplication. He that prayeth with exceeding fervent desire and pure heart, his mind estranged from all that is earthly and grovelling, and standeth before God, eye to eye, and presenteth his prayers to him in fear and trembling, such an one hath converse and speaketh with him face to face. "Our good Master is present everywhere, hearkening to them that approach him in purity and truth, as saith the Prophet, 'The eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and his ears are open unto their cry.' For this reason the Fathers define Prayer as 'the union of man with God,' and call it 'Angels' work,' and 'the prelude of gladness to come.' For since they lay down before all things that 'the kingdom of heaven' consisteth in nearness to and contemplation of the Holy Trinity, and since all the importunity of prayer leadeth the mind thither, prayer is rightly called 'the prelude' and, as it were, the 'fore-glimpse' of that blessedness. But not all prayer is of this nature, but only such prayer as is worthy of the name, which hath God for its teacher, who giveth prayer to him that prayeth; prayer which soareth above all things on earth and entreateth directly with God. "This acquire thou for thyself, and strive to advance thereto, for it is able to exalt thee from earth to heaven. But without preparation and at hap-hazard thou shalt not advance therein. But first purify thy soul from all passion, and cleanse it like a bright and newly cleansed mirrour from every evil thought, and banish far all remembrance of injury and anger, which most of all hindereth our prayers from ascending to God-ward: and from the heart forgive all those that have trespassed against thee, and with alms and charities to the poor lend wings to thy prayer, and so bring it before God with fervent tears. Thus praying thou shalt be able to say with blessed David, who, for all that he was king, and distraught with ten thousand cares, yet cleansed his soul from all passions, and could say unto God, 'As for iniquity, I hate and abhor it, but thy law do I love. Seven times a day do I praise thee, because of thy righteous judgements. My soul hath kept thy testimonies, and loved them exceedingly. Let my complaint come before thee, O Lord: give me understanding according to thy word.' "While thou art calling thus, the Lord hear thee: while thou art yet speaking, he shall say, 'Behold I am here.' If then thou attain to such prayer, blessed shalt thou be; for it is impossible for a man praying and calling upon God with such purpose not to advance daily in that which is good, and soar over all the snares of the enemy. For, as saith one of the Saints, 'He that hath made fervent his understanding, and hath lift up his soul and migrated to heaven, and hath thus called upon his Master, and remembered his own sins, and spoken concerning the forgiveness of the same, and with hot tears hath besought the Lover of mankind to be merciful to him: such an one, I say, by his continuance in such words and considerations, layeth aside every care of this life, and waxeth superior to human passions, and meriteth to be called an associate of God.' Than which state what can be more blessed and higher? May the Lord vouchsafe thee to attain to this blessedness! "Lo I have shown thee the way of the commandments of the Lord, and have not shunned to declare unto thee all the counsel of God. And now I, have fulfilled my ministry unto thee. It remaineth that thou gird up the loins of thy mind, obedient to the Holy One that hath called thee, and be thou thyself holy in all manner of conversation: for, 'Be ye holy: for I am holy,' saith the Lord. And the chief prince of the Apostles also writeth, saying, 'If ye call on the Father, who without respect of persons judgeth according to every man's work, pass the time of your sojourning here in fear; knowing that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold, from your vain conversation received by tradition from your fathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot.' "All these things therefore store thou up in thine heart, and remember them unceasingly, ever keeping before thine eyes the fear of God, and his terrible judgement seat, and the splendour of the righteous which they shall receive in the world to come, and the shame of sinners in the depths of darkness, and the frailty and vanity of things present, and the eternity of things hereafter; for, 'All flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever.' Meditate upon these things alway and the peace of God be with thee, enlightening and informing thee, and leading thee into the way of salvation, chasing afar out of thy mind every evil wish, and sealing thy soul with the sign of the Cross, that no stumbling block of the evil one come nigh thee, but that thou mayest merit, in all fulness of virtue, to obtain the kingdom that is to come, without end or successor, and be illumined with the light of the blessed life-giving Trinity, which, in the Father, and in the Son, and in the Holy Ghost, is glorified." XXI. With such moral words did the reverend elder exhort the king's son, and then withdrew to his own hospice. But the young prince's servants and tutors marvelled to see the frequency of Barlaam's visits to the palace; and one of the chiefest among them, whom, for his fidelity and prudence, the king had set over his son's palace, named Zardan, said to the prince, "Thou knowest well, sir, how much I dread thy father, and how great is my faith toward him: wherefore he ordered me, for my faithfulness, to wait upon thee. Now, when I see this stranger constantly conversing with thee, I fear he may be of the Christian religion, toward which thy father hath a deadly hate; and I shall be found subject to the penalty of death. Either then make known to thy father this man's business, or in future cease to converse with him. Else cast me forth from thy presence, that I be not blameable, and ask thy father to appoint another in my room." The king's son said unto him, "This do, Zardan, first of all. Sit thou down behind the curtain, and hear his communication with me: and then thus will I tell thee what thou oughtest to do." So when Barlaam was about to enter into his presence, Ioasaph hid Zardan within the curtain, and said to the elder, "Sum me up the matter of thy divine teaching, that it may the more firmly be implanted in my heart." Barlaam took up his parable and uttered many sayings touching God, and righteousness toward him, and how we must love him alone with all our heart, and with all our soul, and with all our mind, and keep his commandments with fear and love-and how he is the Maker of all things visible and invisible. Thereon he called to remembrance the creation of the first man, the command given unto him, and his transgression thereof, and the sentence pronounced by the Creator for this transgression. Then he reckoned up in order the good things wherefrom we excluded ourselves by the disannulling of his commandment. Again he made mention of the many grievous misfortunes that unhappily overtook man, after the loss of the blessings. Besides this he brought forward God's love toward mankind; how our Maker, heedful of our salvation, sent forth teachers and prophets proclaiming the Incarnation of the Only-begotten. Then he spake of the Son, his dwelling among men, his deeds of kindness, his miracles, his sufferings for us thankless creatures, his Cross, his spear, his voluntary death; finally, of our recovery and recall, our return to our first good estate; after this, of the kingdom of heaven awaiting such as are worthy thereof; of the torment in store for the wicked; the fire that is not quenched, the never ending darkness, the undying worm, and all the other tortures which the slaves of sin have laid up in store for themselves. When he had fully related these matters, he ended his speech with moral instruction, and dwelt much upon purity of life, and utterly condemned the vanity of things present, and proved the utter misery of such as cleave thereto, and finally made an end with prayer. And therewith he prayed for the prince, that he might hold fast the profession of the Catholick Faith without turning and without wavering, and keep his life blameless and his conversation pure, and so ending with prayer again withdrew to his hospice. But the king's son called Zardan forth, and, to try his disposition, said unto him, "Thou hast heard what sort of discourses this babbler maketh me, endeavouring to be-jape me with his specious follies, and rob me of this pleasing happiness and enjoyment, to worship a strange God." Zardan answered, "Why hath it pleased thee, O prince, to prove me that am thy servant? I wot that the words of that man have sunk deep into thine heart; for, otherwise, thou hadst not listened gladly and unceasingly to his words. Yea, and we also are not ignorant of this preaching. But from the time when thy father stirred up truceless warfare against the Christians, the men have been banished hence, and their teaching is silenced. But if now their doctrine commend itself unto thee, and if thou have the strength to accept its austerity, may thy wishes be guided straight toward the good! But for myself, what shall I do, that am unable to bear the very sight of such austerity, and through fear of the King am divided in soul with pain and anguish? What excuse shall I make, for neglecting his orders, and giving this fellow access unto thee?" The King's son said unto him, "I knew full well that in none other wise could I requite thee worthily for thy much kindness, and therefore have I tasked myself to make known unto thee this more than human good, which doth even exceed the worth of thy good service, that thou mightest know to what end thou wast born, and acknowledge thy Creator, and, leaving darkness, run to the light. And I hoped that when thou heardest thereof thou wouldst follow it with irresistible desire. But, as I perceive, I am disappointed of my hope, seeing that thou art listless to that which hath been spoken. But if thou reveal these secrets to the king my father, thou shalt but distress his mind with sorrows and griefs. If thou be well disposed to him, on no account reveal this matter to him until a convenient season." Speaking thus, he seemed to be only casting seed upon the water; for wisdom shall not enter into a soul void of understanding. Upon the morrow came Barlaam and spake of his departure: but Ioasaph, unable to bear the separation, was distressed at heart, and his eyes filled with tears. The elder made a long discourse, and adjured him to continue unshaken in good works, and with words of exhortation established his heart, and begged him to send him cheerfully on his way; and at the same time he foretold that they should shortly be at one, never to be parted more. But Ioasaph, unable to impose fresh labours on the elder, and to restrain his desire to be on his way, and suspecting moreover that the man Zardan might make known his case to the King and subject him to punishment, said unto Barlaam, "Since it seemeth thee good, my spiritual father, best of teachers and minister of all good to me, to leave me to live in the vanity of the world, while thou journeyest to thy place of spiritual rest, I dare no longer let and hinder thee. Depart therefore, with the peace of God for thy guardian, and ever in thy worthy prayers, for the Lord's sake, think upon my misery, that I may be enabled to overtake thee, and behold thine honoured face for ever. But fulfil this my one request; since thou couldest not receive aught for thy fellow monks, yet for thyself accept a little money for sustenance, and a cloak to cover thee." But Barlaam answered and said unto him, "Seeing that I would not receive aught for my brethren (for they need not grasp at the world's chattels which they have chosen to forsake), how shall I acquire for myself that which I have denied them? If the possession of money were a good thing, I should have let them share it before me. But, as I understand that the possession thereof is deadly, I will hazard neither them nor myself in such snares." But when Ioasaph had failed once again to persuade Barlaam, 'twas but a sign for a second petition, and he made yet another request, that Barlaam should not altogether overlook his prayer, nor plunge him in utter despair, but should leave him that stiff shirt and rough mantle, both to remind him of his teacher's austerities and to safe-guard him from all the workings of Satan, and should take from him another cloak instead, in order that "When thou seest my gift," said he, "thou mayest bear my lowliness in remembrance." But the elder said, "It is not lawful for me to give thee my old and worn out vestment, and take one that is new, lest I be condemned to receive here the recompense of my slight labour. But, not to thwart thy willing mind, let the garments given me by thee be old ones, nothing different from mine own." So the king's son sought for old shirts of hair, which he gave the aged man, rejoicing to receive his in exchange, deeming them beyond compare more precious than any regal purple. Now saintly Barlaam, all but ready for to start, spake concerning his journey, and delivered Ioasaph his last lesson, saying, "Brother beloved, and dearest son, whom I have begotten through the Gospel, thou knowest of what King thou art the soldier, and with whom thou hast made thy covenant. This thou must keep steadfastly, and readily perform the duties of thy service, even as thou didst promise the Lord of all in the script of thy covenant, with the whole heavenly host present to attest it, and record the terms; which if thou keep, thou shalt be blessed. Esteem therefore nought in the present world above God and his blessings. For what terror of this life can be so terrible as the Gehenna of eternal fire, that burneth and yet hath no light, that punisheth and never ceaseth? And which of the goodly things of this world can give such gladness as that which the great God giveth to those that love him? Whose beauty is unspeakable, and power invincible, and glory everlasting; whose good things, prepared for his friends, exceed beyond comparison all that is seen; which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man: whereof mayest thou be shown an inheritor, preserved by the mighty hand of God!" Here the king's son burst into tears of pain and vexation, unable to bear the parting from a loving father and excellent teacher. "And who," quoth he, "shall fill thy place, O my father? And whom like unto thee shall I find to be shepherd and guide of my soul's salvation? What consolation may I find in my loss of thee? Behold thou hast brought me, the wicked and rebellious servant, back to God, and set me in the place of son and heir! Thou hast sought me that was lost and astray on the mountain, a prey for every evil beast, and folded me amongst the sheep that had never wandered. Thou hast shown me the direct road to truth, bringing me out of darkness and the shadow of death, and, changing the course of my feet from the slippery, deadly, crooked and winding pathway, hast ministered to me great and marvellous blessings, whereof speech would fail to recount the exceeding excellence. Great be the gifts that thou receivest at God's hand, on account of me who am small! And may the Lord, who in the rewards of his gifts alone overpasseth them that love him, supply that which is lacking to my gratitude!" Here Barlaam cut short his lamentation, and rose and stood up to pray, lifting up his either hand, and saying, "O God and Father of our Lord Jesu Christ, which didst illuminate the things that once were darkened, and bring this visible and invisible creation out of nothing, and didst turn again this thine handiwork, and sufferedst us not to walk after our foolishness, we give thanks to thee and to thy Wisdom and Might, our Lord Jesu Christ, by whom thou didst make the worlds, didst raise us from our fall, didst forgive us our trespasses, didst restore us from wandering, didst ransom us from captivity, didst quicken us from death by the precious blood of thy Son our Lord. Upon thee I call, and upon thine only begotten Son, and upon the Holy Ghost. Look upon this thy spiritual sheep that hath come to be a sacrifice unto thee through me thine unworthy servant, and do thou sanctify his soul with thy might and grace. Visit this vine, which was planted by thy Holy Spirit, and grant it to bear fruit, the fruit of righteousness. Strengthen him, and confirm in him thy covenant, and rescue him from the deceit of the devil. With the wisdom of thy good Spirit teach him to do thy will, and take not thy succour from him, but grant unto him, with me thine unprofitable servant, to become an inheritor of thine everlasting bliss, because thou art blessed and glorified for ever, Amen." When that he had ended his prayer, he turned him round and embraced Ioasaph, now a son of his heavenly father, wishing him eternal peace and salvation, and he departed out of the palace, and went his way, rejoicing and giving thanks to God, who had well ordered his steps for good. XXII. After Barlaam was gone forth, Ioasaph gave himself unto prayer and bitter tears, and said, "O God, haste thee to help me: O Lord, make speed to help me, because the poor hath committed himself unto thee; thou art the helper of the orphan. Look upon me, and have mercy upon me; thou who willest have all men to be saved and to come unto the knowledge of the truth, save me, and strengthen me, unworthy though I be, to walk the way of thy holy commandments, for I am weak and miserable, and not able to do the thing that is good. But thou art mighty to save me, who sustainest and holdest together all things visible and invisible. Suffer me not to walk after the evil will of the flesh, but teach me to do thy will, and preserve me unto thine eternal and blissful life. O Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the consubstantial and undivided Godhead, I call upon thee and glorify thee. Thou art praised by all creation; thou art glorified by the intelligent powers of the Angels for ever and ever. Amen." From that time forth he kept himself with all vigilance, seeking to attain purity of soul and body, and living in continency and prayers and intercessions all night long. In the day-time he was often interrupted by the company of his fellows, and at times by a visit from the king, or a call to the king's presence, but the night would then make good the shortcomings of the day, whilst he stood, in prayer and weeping until daybreak, calling upon God. Whence in him was fulfilled the saying of the prophet, "In nights raise your hands unto holy things; and bless ye the Lord." But Zardan observed Ioasaph's way of life, and was full of sorrow, and his soul was pierced with grievous anxieties; and he knew not what to do. At the last, worn down with pain, he withdrew to his own home, feigning sickness. When this had come to the knowledge of the king he appointed in his place another of his trusty men to minister unto his son, while he himself, being concerned for Zardan's health, sent a physician of reputation, and took great pains that he should be healed. The physician, seeing that Zardan was in favour with the king, attended him diligently, and, having right well judged his ease, soon made this report to the king; "I have been unable to discover any root of disease in the man: wherefore I suppose that this weakness is to be ascribed to distress of spirit." But, on hearing his words, the king suspected that his son had been wroth with Zardan, and that this slight had caused his retirement. So, wishing to search the matter, he sent Zardan word, saying "To-morrow I shall come to see thee, and judge of the malady that hath befallen thee." But Zardan, on hearing this message, at daybreak wrapt his cloak around him and went to the king, and entered and fell in obeisance on the ground. The king spake unto him, "Why hast thou forced thyself to appear? I was minded to visit thee myself, and so make known to all my friendship for thee." He answered, "My sickness, O king, is no malady common to man; but pain of heart, arising from an anxious and careful mind, hath caused my body to suffer in sympathy. It had been folly in me, being as I am, not to attend as a slave before thy might, but to wait for thy Majesty to be troubled to come to me thy servant." Then the king enquired after the cause of his despondency; Zardan answered and said, "Mighty is my peril, and mighty are the penalties that I deserve, and many deaths do I merit, for that I have been guilty of neglect of thy behests, and have brought on thee such sorrow as never before." Again said the king, "And of what neglect hast thou been guilty? And what is the dread that encompasseth thee?" "I have been guilty," said he, "of negligence in my close care of my lord thy son. There came an evil man and a sorcerer, and communicated to him the precepts of the Christian religion." Then he related to the king, point by point, the words which the old man spake with his son, and how gladly Ioasaph received his word, and how he had altogether become Christ's. Moreover he gave the old man's name, saying that it was Barlaam. Even before then the king had heard tell of Barlaam's ways and his extreme severity of life; but, when this came to the ears of the king, he was straightway astonied by the dismay that fell on him, and was filled with anger, and his blood well-nigh curdled at the tidings. Immediately he bade call one Araches, who held the second rank after the king, and was the chief in all his private councils: besides which the man was learned in star-lore. When he was come, with much despondency and dejection the king told him of that which had happened. He, seeing the king's trouble and confusion of mind, said, "O king, trouble and distress thyself no more. We are not without hope that the prince will yet change for the better: nay, I know for very certain that he will speedily renounce the teaching of this deceiver, and conform to thy will." By these words then did Araches set the king in happier frame of mind; and they turned their thoughts to the thorough sifting of the matter. "This, O king," said Araches, "do we first of all. Make we haste to apprehend that infamous Barlaam. If we take him, I am assured that we shall not miss the mark, nor be cheated of our hope. Barlaam himself shall be persuaded, either by persuasion or by divers engines of torture, against his will to confess that he hath been talking falsely and at random, and shall persuade my lord, thy son, to cleave to his father's creed. But if we fail to take Barlaam, I know of an eremite, Nachor by name, in every way like unto him: it is impossible to distinguish the one from the other. He is of our opinion, and was my teacher in studies. I will give him the hint, and go by night, and tell him the full tale. Then will we blazon it abroad that Barlaam hath been caught; but we shall exhibit Nachor, who, calling himself Barlaam, shall feign that he is pleading the cause of the Christians and standing forth as their champion. Then, after much disputation, he shall be worsted and utterly discomfited. The prince, seeing Barlaam worsted, and our side victorious, will doubtless join the victors; the more so that he counteth it a great duty to reverence thy majesty, and do thy pleasure. Also the man who hath played the part of Barlaam shall be converted, and stoutly proclaim that he hath been in error." Tim king was delighted with his words, and rocked himself on idle hopes, and thought it excellent counsel. Thereupon, learning that Barlaam was but lately departed, he was zealous to take him prisoner. He therefore occupied most of the passes with troops and captains, and, himself, mounting his chariot, gave furious chase along the one road of which he was especially suspicious, being minded to surprise Barlaam at all costs. But though he toiled by the space of six full days, his labour was but spent in vain. Then he himself remained behind in one of his palaces situate in the country, but sent forward Araches, with horsemen not a few, as far as the wilderness of Senaar, in quest of Barlaam. When Araches arrived in that place, he threw all the neighbour folk into commotion: and when they constantly affirmed that they had never seen the man, he went forth into the desert places, for to hunt out the Faithful. When he had gone through a great tract of desert, and made the circuit of the fells around, and journeyed a-foot over untrodden and pathless ravines, he and his hosts arrived at a plateau. Standing thereon, he descried at the foot of the mountain a company of hermits a-walking. Straightway at their governor's word of command all his men ran upon them in breathless haste, vying one with another, who should arrive first. When they arrived, they came about the monks like so many dogs, or evil beasts that plague mankind. And they seized these men of reverend mien and mind, that bore on their faces the hall-mark of their hermit life, and haled them before the governor; but the monks showed no sign of alarm, no sign of meanness or sullenness, and spake never a word. Their leader and captain bore a wallet of hair, charged with the relics of some holy Fathers departed this life. When Araches beheld them, but saw no Barlaam--for he knew him by sight--he was overwhelmed with grief, and said unto them, "Where is that deceiver who hath led the king's son astray?" The bearer of the wallet answered, "He is not amongst us, God forbid! For, driven forth by the grace of Christ, he avoideth us; but amongst you he hath his dwelling." The governor said, "Thou knowest him then?" "Yea," said the hermit, "I know him that is called the deceiver, which is the devil, who dwelleth in your midst and is worshipped and served by you." The governor said, "It is for Barlaam that I make search, and I asked thee of him, to learn where he is." The monk answered, "And wherefore then spakest thou in this ambiguous manner, asking about him that had deceived the king's son? If thou wast seeking Barlaam, thou shouldest certainly have said, 'Where is he that hath turned from error and saved the king's son?' Barlaam is our brother and fellow-monk. But now for many days past we have not seen his face." Said Araches, "Show me his abode." The monk answered, "Had he wished to see you, he would have come forth to meet you. As for us, it is not lawful to make known to you his hermitage." Thereupon the governor waxed full of indignation, and, casting a haughty and savage glance upon him, said, "Ye shall die no ordinary death, except ye immediately bring Barlaam before me." "What," said the monk, "seest thou in our case that should by its attractions cause us to cling to life, and be afraid of death at thy hands? Whereas we should the rather feel grateful to thee for removing us from life in the close adherence to virtue. For we dread, not a little, the uncertainty of the end, knowing not in what state death shall overtake us, lest perchance a slip of the inclination, or some despiteful dealing of the devil, may alter the constancy of our choice, and mis-persuade us to think or do contrary to our covenants with God. Wherefore abandon all hope of gaining the knowledge that ye desire, and shrink not to work your will. We shall neither reveal the dwelling-place of our brother, whom God loveth, although we know it, nor shall we betray any other monasteries unbeknown to ye. We will not endure to escape death by such cowardice. Nay, liefer would we die honourably, and offer unto God, after the sweats of virtue, the life-blood of courage." That man of sin could not brook this boldness of speech, and was moved to the keenest passion against this high and noble spirit, and afflicted the monks with many stripes and tortures. Their courage and nobility won admiration even from that tyrant. But, when after many punishments he failed to persuade them, and none of them consented to discover Barlaam, he took and ordered them to be led to the king, bearing with them the wallet with the relics, and to be beaten and shamefully entreated as they went. XXIII. After many days Araches brought them to the king, and declared their case. Then he set them before the bitterly incensed king: and he, when he saw them, boiled over with fury and was like to one mad. He ordered them to be beaten without mercy, and, when he saw them cruelly mangled with scourges, could scarcely restrain his madness, and order the tormentors to cease. Then said he unto them, "Why bear ye about these dead men's bones? If ye carry these bones through affection for those men to whom they belong, this very hour I will set you in their company, that ye may meet your lost friends and be duly grateful to me." The captain and leader of that godly band, setting at naught the king's threats, showing no sign of the torment that he had undergone, with free voice and radiant countenance that signified the grace that dwelt in his soul, cried out, "We carry about these clean and holy bones, O king, because we attest in due form our love of those marvellous men to whom they belong: and because we would bring ourselves to remember their wrestlings and lovely conversation, to rouse up ourselves to the like zeal; and because we would catch some vision of the rest and felicity wherein they now live, and thus, as we call them blessed, and provoke one another to emulate them, strive to follow in their footsteps: because moreover, we find thereby that the thought of death, which is right profitable, lendeth wings of zeal to our religious exercises; and lastly, because we derive sanctification from their touch." Again said the king, "If the thought of death be profitable, as ye say, why should ye not reach that thought of death by the bones of the bodies that are now your own, and are soon to perish, rather than by the bones of other men which have already perished?" The monk said, "Five reasons I gave thee, why we carry about these relics; and thou, making answer to one only, art like to be mocking us. But know thou well that the bones of them, that have already departed this life, bring the thought of death more vividly before us than do the bones of the living. But since thou judgest otherwise, and since the bones of thine own body are to thee a type of death, why dost thou not recollect thy latter end so shortly to come, and set thine house in order, instead of giving up thy soul to all kinds of iniquities, and violently and unmercifully murdering the servants of God and lovers of righteousness, who have done thee no wrong, and seek not to share with thee in present goods, nor are ambitious to rob thee of them?" Said the king, "I do well to punish you, ye clever misleaders of the folk, because ye deceive all men, counselling them to abstain from the enjoyments of life; and because, instead of the sweets of life and the allures of appetite and pleasure, ye constrain them to choose the rough, filthy and squalid way, and preach that they should render to Jesus the honour due unto the gods. Accordingly, in order that the people may not follow your deceits and leave the land desolate, and, forsaking the gods of their fathers, serve another, I think it just to subject you to punishment and death." The monk answered, "If thou art eager that all should partake of the good things of life, why dost thou not distribute dainties and riches equally amongst all? And why is it that the common herd are pinched with poverty, while thou addest ever to thy store by seizing for thyself the goods of others? Nay, thou carest not for the weal of the many, but fattenest thine own flesh, to be meat for the worms to feed on. Wherefore also thou hast denied the God of all, and called them gods that are not, the inventors of all wickedness, in order that, by wantonness and wickedness after their example, thou mayest gain the title of imitator of the gods. For, as your gods have done, why should not also the men that follow them do? Great then is the error that thou hast erred, O king. Thou fearest that we should persuade certain of the people to join with us, and revolt from thy hand, and place themselves in that hand that holdeth all things, for thou willest the ministers of thy covetousness to be many, that they may be miserable while thou reapest profit from their toil; just as a man, who keepeth hounds or falcons tamed for hunting, before the hunt may be seen to pet them, but, when they have once seized the quarry, taketh the game with violence out of their mouths. So also thou, willing that there should be many to pay thee tribute and toll from land and water, pretendest to care for their welfare, but in truth bringest on them and above all on thyself eternal ruin; and simply to pile up gold, more worthless than dung or rottenness, thou hast been deluded into taking darkness for light. But recover thy wits from this earthly sleep: open thy sealed eyes, and behold the glory of God that shineth round about us all; and come at length to thyself. For saith the prophet, 'Take heed, ye unwise among the people, and, O ye fools, understand at last.' Understand thou that there is no God except our God, and no salvation except in him." But the king said, "Cease this foolish babbling, and anon discover to me Barlaam: else shalt thou taste instruments of torture such as thou hast never tasted before." That noble-minded, great-hearted monk, that lover of the heavenly philosophy, was not moved by the king's threats, but stood unflinching, and said, "We are not commanded to fulfil thy hest, O king, but the orders of our Lord and God who teacheth us temperance, that we should be lords over all pleasures and passions, and practise fortitude, so as to endure all toil and all ill-treatment for righteousness' sake. The more perils that thou subjectest us to for the sake of our religion, the more shalt thou be our benefactor. Do therefore as thou wilt: for we shall not consent to do aught outside our duty, nor shall we surrender ourselves to sin. Deem not that it is a slight sin to betray a fellow-combatant and fellow-soldier into thy hands. Nay, but thou shalt not have that scoff to make at us; no, not if thou put us to ten thousand deaths. We be not such cowards as to betray our religion through dread of thy torments, or to disgrace the law divine. So then, if such be thy purpose, make ready every weapon to defend thy claim; for to us to live is Christ, and to die for him is the best gain." Incensed with anger thereat, the monarch ordered the tongues of these Confessors to be rooted out, and their eyes digged out, and likewise their hands and feet lopped off. Sentence passed, the henchmen and guards surrounded and mutilated them, without pity and without ruth. And they plucked out their tongues from their mouths with prongs, and severed them with brutal severity, and they digged out their eyes with iron claws, and stretched their arms and legs on the rack, and lopped them off. But those blessed, shamefast, noble-hearted men went bravely to torture like guests to a banquet, exhorting one another to meet death for Christ his sake undaunted. In such divers tortures did these holy monks lay down their lives for the Lord. They were in all seventeen. By common consent, the pious mind is superior to sufferings, as hath been said by one, but not of us, when narrating the martydom of the aged priest, and of the seven sons with their equally brave mother when contending for the law of their fathers: whose bravery and lofty spirit, however, was equalled by these marvellous fathers and citizens and heirs of Hierusalem that is above. XXIV. After the monks had made this godly end, the king bade Araches, his chief councillor, now that they had failed of their first plan, to look to the second and summon the man Nachor. At dead of night Araches repaired to his cave (he dwelt in the desert practising the arts of divination), and told him of their plans, and returned to the king at day-break. Again he demanded horsemen, and made as though he went in quest of Barlaam. When he was gone forth, and was walking the desert, a man was seen to issue from a ravine. Araches gave command to his men to pursue him. They took and brought him before their master. When asked who he was, what his religion and what his name, the man declared himself a Christian and gave his name as Barlaam, even as he had been instructed. Araches made great show of joy, apprehended him and returned quickly to the king, and told his tale and produced his man. Then said the king in the hearing of all present, "Art thou the devil's workman, Barlaam?" But he denied it, saying, "I am God's workman, not the devil's. Revile me not; for I am thy debtor to render me much thanks, because I have taught thy son to serve God, and have turned him from error to the true God, and have schooled him in all manner of virtue." Feigning anger, again spake the king, "Though I ought to allow thee never a word, and give thee no room for defence, but rather do thee to death without question, yet such is my humanity that I will bear with thine effrontery until on a set day I try thy cause. If thou be persuaded by me, thou shalt receive pardon: if not, thou shalt die the death." With these words he delivered him to Araches, commanding that he should be most strictly guarded. On the morrow the king removed thence, and came back to his own palace, and it was blazoned abroad that Barlaam was captured, so that the king's son heard thereof and was exceeding sad at heart, and could in no wise refrain from weeping. With groans and lamentations he importuned God, and called upon him to succour the aged man. Nor did the good God despise his complaint, for he is loving with them that abide him in the day of trouble, and knoweth them that fear him. Wherefore in a night-vision he made known the whole plot to the young prince, and strengthened and cheered him for the trial of his righteousness. So, when the prince awoke from sleep, he found that his heart, erstwhile so sore and heavy, was now full of joyaunce, courage and pleasant light. But the king rejoiced at that which he had done and planned, imagining that he was well advised, and showering thanks on Araches. But wickedness lied to itself, to use the words of holy David, and righteousness overcame iniquity, completely overthrowing it, and causing the memorial thereof to perish with sound, as our tale in its sequel shall show. After two days the king visited his son's palace. When his son came forth for to meet him, instead of kissing him, as was his wont, the father put on a show of distress and anger, and entered the royal chamber, and there sat down frowning. Then calling to his son, he said, "Child, what is this report that soundeth in mine ears, and weareth away my soul with despondency? Never, I ween, was man more filled with gladness of heart at the birth of a son than was I at thine; and, I trow, never was man so distressed and cruelly treated by child as I have now been by thee. Thou hast dishonoured my grey hairs, and taken away the light of mine eyes, and loosed the strength of my sinews; 'for the thing which I greatly feared concerning thee is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of hath come unto me.' Thou art become a joy to mine enemies, and a laughing-stock to mine adversaries. With untutored mind and childish judgement thou hast followed the teaching of the deceivers and esteemed the counsel of the malicious above mine; thou hast forsaken the worship of our gods and become the servant of a strange God. Child, wherefore hast thou done this? I hoped to bring thee up in all safety, and have thee for the staff and support of mine old age, and leave thee, as is most meet, to succeed me in my kingdom, but thou wast not ashamed to play against me the part of a relentless foe. And shouldst thou not rather have listened to me, and followed my injunctions, than have obeyed the idle and foolish pratings of that crafty old knave, who taught thee to choose a sour life instead of a sweet, and abandon the charms of dalliance, to tread the hard and rough road, which the Son of Mary ordereth men to go? Dost thou not fear the displeasure of the most puissant gods, lest they strike thee with lightning, or quell thee with thunderbolt, or overwhelm thee in the yawning earth, because thou hast rejected and scorned those deities that have so richly blessed us, and adorned our brow with the kingly diadem, and made populous nations to be our servants, that, beyond my hope, in answer to my prayer and supplication, allowed thee to be born, and see the sweet life of day, and hast joined thyself unto the Crucified, duped by the hopes of his servants who tell thee fables of worlds to come, and drivel about the resurrection of dead bodies, and bring in a thousand more absurdities to catch fools? But now, dearest son, if thou hast any regard for me thy father, bid a long farewell to these longwinded follies, and come sacrifice to the gracious gods, and let us propitiate them with hecatombs and drink-offerings, that they may grant thee pardon for thy fall; for they be able and strong to bless and to punish. And wouldst thou have an example of that which I say? Behold us, who by them have been advanced to this honour, repaying them for their kindness by honouring their worshippers and chastising the runagates." Now when the king had ended all this idle parleying, gainsaying and slandering of our religion, and belauding and praising of his idolatry, the saintly young prince saw that the matter needed no further to be hid in a corner, but to be lighted and made plain to the eyes of all; and, full of boldness and courage, he said: "That which I have done, sir, I will not deny. I have fled from darkness and run to the light: I have left error and joined the household of truth: I have deserted the service of devils, and joined the service of Christ, the Son and Word of God the Father, at whose decree the world was brought out of nothing; who, after forming man out of clay, breathed into him the breath of life, and set him to live in a paradise of delight, and, when he had broken his commandment and was become subject unto death, and had fallen into the power of the dread ruler of this world, did not fail him, but wrought diligently to bring him back to his former honour. Wherefore he, the framer of all Creation and maker of our race, became man for our sake, and, coming from a holy Virgin's womb; on earth conversed with men: for us ungrateful servants did the master endure death, even the death of the Cross, that the tyranny of sin might be destroyed, that the former condemnation might be abolished, that the gates of heaven might be open to us again. Thither he hath exalted our nature, and set it on the throne of glory, and granted to them that love him an everlasting kingdom and joys beyond all that tongue can tell, or ear can hear. He is the mighty and only potentate, King of kings and Lord of lords, whose might is invincible, and whose lordship is beyond compare, who only is holy and dwelleth in holiness, who with the Father and with the Holy Ghost is glorified; into this faith I have been baptized. And I acknowledge and glorify and worship One God in Three persons, of one substance, and not to be confounded, increate and immortal, eternal, infinite, boundless, without body, without passions, immutable, unchangeable, undefinable, the fountain of goodness, righteousness and everlasting light, maker of all things visible and invisible, containing and sustaining all things, provident for all, ruler and King of all. Without him was there nothing made, nor without his providence can aught subsist. He is the life of all, the support of all, the light of all, being wholly sweetness and insatiable desire, the summit of aspiration. To leave God, then, who is so good, so wise, so mighty, and to serve impure devils, makers of all sinful lusts, and to assign worship to deaf and dumb images, that are not, and never shall be, were not that the extreme of folly and madness? When was there ever heard utterance or language from their lips? When have they given even the smallest answer to their bedesmen? When have they walked, or received any impression of sense? Those of them that stand have never thought of sitting down; and those that sit have never been seen to rise. From an holy man have I learned the ugliness, ill savour and insensibility of these idols, and, moreover, the rottenness and weakness of the devils that operate in them and by them deceive you; and I loathe their wickednesses and, hating them with a perfect hatred, have joined myself to the living and true God, and him will I serve until my latest breath, that my spirit also may return into his hands. When these unspeakable blessings came in my path I rejoiced to be freed from the bondage of evil devils, and to be reclaimed from dire captivity and to be illumined with the light of the countenance of the Lord. But my soul was distressed and divided asunder, that thou, my lord and father, didst not share in my blessings. Yet I feared the stubbornness of thy mind, and kept my grief to myself, not wishing to anger thee; but, without ceasing, I prayed God to draw thee to himself, and call thee back from the long exile that thou hast imposed upon thyself, a runagate alas! from righteousness, and a servant of all sin and wickedness. But sith thou thyself, O my father, hast brought mine affairs to light, hear the sum of my resolve: I will not be false to my covenant with Christ; no, I swear it by him that bought me out of slavery with his own precious blood; even if I must needs die a thousand deaths for his sake, die I will. Knowing then how matters now stand with me, prithee, no longer trouble thyself in endeavouring to persuade me to change my good confession. For as it were a thankless and never ending task for thee to try to grasp the heavens with thy hand, or to dry up the waters of the sea, so hard were it for thee to change me. Either then now listen to my counsel, and join the household of Christ, and so thou shalt gain blessings past man's understanding, and we shall be fellows with one another by faith, even as by nature; or else, be well assured, I shall depart thy sonship, and serve my God with a clear conscience." Now when the king heard all these words, he was furiously enraged: and, seized with ungovernable anger, he cried out wrathfully against him, and gnashed his teeth fiercely, like any madman. "And who," said he, "is blameable for all my misfortunes but myself, who have dealt with thee so kindly, and cared for thee as no father before? Hence the perversity and contrariness of thy mind, gathering strength by the licence that I gave thee, hath made thy madness to fall upon mine own pate. Rightly prophesied the astrologers in thy nativity that thou shouldest prove a knave and villain, an impostor and rebellious son. But now, if thou wilt make void my counsel, and cease to be my son, I will become thine enemy, and entreat thee worse than ever man yet entreated his foes." Again said Ioasaph, "Why, O king, hast thou been kindled to wrath? Art thou grieved that I have gained such bliss? Why, what father was ever seen to be sorrowful in the prosperity of his son? Would not such an one be called an enemy rather than a father? Therefore will I no more call thee my father, but will withdraw from thee, as a man fleeth from a snake, if I know that thou grudgest me my salvation, and with violent hand forcest me to destruction. If thou wilt force me, and play the tyrant, as thou hast threatened, be assured that thou shalt gain nought thereby save to exchange the name of father for that of tyrant and murderer. It were easier for thee to attain to the ways Of the eagle, and, like him, cleave the air, than to alter my loyalty to Christ, and that good confession that I have confessed in him. But be wise, O my father, and shake off the rheum and mist from the eyes of thy mind, lift them aloft and look upward to view the light of my God that enlighteneth all around, and be thyself, at last, enlightened with this light most sweet. Why art thou wholly given up to the passions and desires of the flesh, and why is there no looking upward? Know thou that all flesh is grass and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; but the word of my Lord, which by the gospel is preached unto all, shall endure for ever. Why then dost thou thus madly cling to and embrace that glory, which, like spring flowers, fadeth and perisheth, and to beastly unsavoury wantonness, and to the abominable passions of the belly and the members thereunder, which for a season please the senses of fools, but afterwards make returns more bitter than gall, when the shadows and dreams of this vain life are passed away, and the lovers thereof, and workers of iniquity are imprisoned in the perpetual pain of dark and unquenchable fire, where the worm that sleepeth not gnaweth for ever, and where the fire burneth without ceasing and without quenching through endless ages? And with these sinners alas! thou too shalt be imprisoned and grievously tormented, and shalt bitterly rue thy wicked counsels, and bitterly regret thy days that now are, and think upon my words, but there shall be no advantage in repentance; for in death there is no confession and repentance. But the present is the set time for work: the future for reward. Even if the pleasures of the present world were not evanescent and fleeting, but were to endure for ever with their owners, not even thus should any man choose them before the gifts of Christ, and the good things that pass man's understanding. Soothly, as the sun surpasseth in radiance and brightness the dead of night, even so, and much more so, doth the happiness promised to those that love God excel in glory and magnificence all earthly kinship and glory; and there is utter need for a man to choose the more excellent before the more worthless. And forasmuch as everything here is fleeting and subject to decay, and passeth and vanisheth as a dream, and as a shadow and vision of sleep; and as one may sooner trust the unstable breezes, or the tracks of a ship passing over the waves, than the prosperity of men, what simplicity, nay, what folly and madness it is to choose the corruptible and perishable, the weak things of no worth, rather than the incorruptible and everlasting, the imperishable and endless, and, by the temporal enjoyment of these things, to forfeit the eternal fruition of the happiness to come! Wilt thou not understand this, my father? Wilt thou not haste past the things which haste pass thee, and attach thyself to that which endureth? Wilt thou not prefer a home land to a foreign land, light to darkness, the spirit to the flesh, eternal life to the shadow of death, the indestructible to the fleeting? Wilt thou not escape from the grievous bondage of the cruel prince of this world, I mean the evil one, the devil, and become the servant of the good, tenderhearted, and all merciful Lord? Wilt thou not break away from serving thy many gods, falsely so called, and serve the one, true and living God? Though thou hast sinned against him often times by blaspheming him, and often times by slaying his servants with dread torments, yet, I know well, that if thou turn again, he shall in his kindness receive thee, and no more remember thine offences: because he willeth not the death of a sinner but rather that he may turn and live--he, who came down from the unspeakable heights, to seek us that had gone astray: who endured for us Cross, scourge and death: who bought with his precious blood us who had been sold in bondage under sin. Unto him be glory and praise for ever and ever! Amen." The king was overwhelmed with astonishment and anger; with astonishment, at his son's wisdom and unanswerable words; with anger, at the persistence with which he denounced his father's gods, and mocked and ridiculed the whole tenour of his life. He could not admit the glory of his discourse because of the grossness of the darkness within, but natural affection forbad him to punish his son, or evilly to entreat him, and he utterly despaired of moving him by threats. Fearing then that, if he argued further with him, his son's boldness and bitter satire of the gods might kindle him to hotter anger, and lead him to do him a mischief, he arose in wrath and withdrew. "Would that thou hadst never been born," he cried, "nor hadst come to the light of day, destined as thou weft to be such an one, a blasphemer of the gods, and a renegade from thy father's love and admonition." But thou shalt not alway mock the invincible gods, nor shall their enemies rejoice for long, nor shall these knavish sorceries prevail. For except thou become obedient unto me, and right-minded toward the gods, I will first deliver time to sundry tortures, and then put thee to the cruellest death, dealing with thee not as with a son, but as with an enemy and rebel." XXV. In such wise did the father threaten and wrathfully retire. But the son entered his own bedchamber, and lifted up his eyes to the proper judge of his cause, and cried out of the depth of his heart, "O Lord my God, my sweet hope and unerring promise, the sure refuge of them that are wholly given up to thee, with gracious and kindly eye look upon the contrition of my heart, and leave me not, neither forsake me. But, according to thine unerring pledge, be thou with me, thine unworthy and sorry servant. Thee I acknowledge and confess, the maker and provider of all creation. Therefore do thou thyself enable me to continue in this good confession, until my dying breath: look upon me, and pity me; and stand by and keep me unhurt by any working of Satan. Look upon me, O King: for my heart is enkindled with longing after thee, and is parched as with burning thirst in the desert, desiring thee, the well of immortality. Deliver not to the wild beasts my soul that confesseth thee: forget not the soul of the poor for ever; but grant me that am a sinner throughout my length of days to suffer all things for thy name's sake and in the confession of thee, and to sacrifice my whole self unto thee. For, with thy might working in them, even the feeble shall wax exceeding strong; for thou only art the unconquerable ally and merciful God, whom all creation blesseth, glorified for ever and ever. Amen." When he had thus prayed, he felt divine comfort stealing over his heart, and, fulfilled with courage, he spent the whole night in prayer. Meanwhile the king communed with Araches, his friend, as touching his son's matters, and signified to him his son's sheer audacity and unchangeable resolution. Araches gave counsel that he should, in his dealings with him, show the utmost kindness and courtesy, in the hope, perchance, of alluring him by flattering attentions. The day following, the king came to his son, and sat down, and called him to his side. He embraced and kissed him affectionately, coaxing him gently and tenderly, and said, "O my darling and well-beloved son, honour thou thy father's grey hairs: listen to my entreaty, and come, do sacrifice to the gods; thus shalt thou win their favour, and receive at their hands length of days, and the enjoyment of all glory and of an undisputed kingdom, and happiness of every sort. Thus shalt thou be well pleasing to me thy father throughout life and be honoured and lauded of all men. It is a great count in the score of praise to be obedient to thy father, especially in a good cause, and to gain the goodwill of the gods. What thinkest thou, my son? Is it that I have willingly declined from the right, and chosen to travel on the wrong road: or that, from ignorance and inexperience of the good, I have given myself to destruction? Well, if thou thinkest that I willingly prefer the evil to the profitable, and choose death before life, thou seemest to me, son, completely to have missed the goal in judging. Dost thou not see to what discomfort and trouble I often expose myself in mine expeditions against my foes, or when I am engaged in divers other business for the public good, not sparing myself even hunger and thirst, if need be, the march on foot, or the couch on the ground? As for riches and money, such is my contempt and scorn thereof, that I have at times ungrudgingly lavished all the stores of my palace, to build mighty temples for the gods, and to adorn them with all manner of splendour, or else to distribute liberal largess to my soldiers. Possessing then, as I also do, this contempt of pleasure and this courage in danger, what zeal would I not have devoted to contemning all else, and winning my salvation, had I only found that the religion of the Galileans were better than mine own? But, if thou condemnest me for ignorance and inexperience of the good, consider how many sleepless nights I have spent, with some problem before me, oft-times no very important one, giving myself no rest until I had found the clear and most apt solution. Seeing then that I reckon that not even the least of these temporal concerns is unworthy of thought until all be fitly completed for the advantage of all and seeing that all (I ween) bear me witness that no man under the sun can search out secrets with more diligence than I, how then could I have considered divine things, that call for worship and serious consideration, unworthy of thought, and not rather have devoted all my zeal and might, all my mind and soul to the investigation thereof, to find out the right and the true? Aye, and I have laboriously sought thereafter. Many nights and days have I spent thus: many wise and learned men have I called to my council; and with many of them that are called Christians have I conversed. By untiring enquiry and ardent search I have discovered the pathway of truth, witnessed by wise men honoured for their intelligence and wit,--that there is none other faith than ours. This is the path that we tread to-day, worshipping the most puissant gods, and holding fast to that sweet and delightsome life, given by them to all men, fulfilled with all manner of pleasure and gladness of heart, which the leaders and priests of the Galileans have in their folly rejected; so that, in hope of some other uncertain life, they have readily cast away this sweet light, and all those pleasures which the gods have bestowed on us for enjoyment, and all the while know not what they say, nor whereof they confidently affirm. "But thou, dearest son, obey thy father, who, by diligent and honest search, hath found the real good. Lo, I have shown thee that, neither willingly, I no, nor by way of ignorance, have I failed of the good, but rather that I have found and laid hold thereon. And I earnestly desire that thou too shouldest not wander as a fool, but shouldest follow me. Have respect then unto thy father. Dost thou not know how lovely a thing it is to obey one's father, and please him in all ways? Contrariwise, how deadly and cursed a thing it is to provoke a father and despise his commands? As many as have done so, have come to a miserable end. But be not thou, my son, one of their number. Rather do that which is well pleasing to thy sire, and so mayest thou obtain all happiness and inherit my blessing and my kingdom!" The high-minded and noble youth listened to his father's windy discourse and foolish opposition, and recognized therein the devices of the crooked serpent, and how standing at his right hand he had prepared a snare for his feet, and was scheming how to overthrow his righteous soul, and hinder him of the prize laid up in store. Therefore the prince set before his eyes the commandment of the Lord, which saith, "I came not to send peace, but strife and a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and so forth; and "He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me"; and "Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven." When he had considered these things, and fettered his soul with divine fear, and strengthened it with longing desire and love, right opportunely he remembered the saying of Solomon, "There is a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." First of all he prayed in silence, and said, "Have mercy of me, Lord God, have mercy of me; for my soul trusteth in thee; and under the shadow of thy wings I shall hope till wickedness overpass. I shall cry to the highest God; to God that did well to me," and the rest of the psalm. Then said Ioasaph to the king, "To honour one's father, and to obey his commands, and to serve him with good will and affection is taught us by the Lord of us all, who hath implanted in our hearts this natural affection. But, when loving devotion to our parents bringeth our soul into peril, and separateth her from her Maker, then we are commanded, at all costs, to cut it out, and, on no account, to yield to them that would depart us from God, but to hate and avoid them, even if it be our father that issueth the abominable command, or our mother, or our king, or the master of our very life. Wherefore it is impossible for me, out of devotion to my father, to forfeit God. So, prithee, trouble not thyself, nor me: but be persuaded, and let us both serve the true and living God, for the objects of thy present worship are idols, the works of men's hands, devoid of breath, and deaf, and give nought but destruction and eternal punishment to their worshippers. "But if this be not thy pleasure, deal with me even as thou wilt: for I am a servant of Christ, and neither flatteries nor torments shall separate me from his love, as I told thee yesterday, swearing it by my Master's name, and confirming the word with surest oath. But, whereas thou saidest that thou didst neither wilfully do wrong, nor didst fail of the mark through ignorance, but after much laborious enquiry hadst ascertained that it was truly a good thing to worship idols and to be riveted to the pleasures of the passions--that thou art wilfully a wrong doer, I may not say. But this I know full well, and would have thee know, O my father, that thou art surrounded with a dense mist of ignorance, and, walking in darkness that may be felt, seest not even one small glimmer of light. Wherefore thou hast lost the right pathway, and wanderest over terrible cliffs and chasms. Holding darkness for light, and clinging to death as it were life, thou deemest that thou art well advised, and hast reflected to good effect: but it is not so, not so. The objects of thy veneration are not gods but statues of devils, charged with all their filthy power; nor is the life, which thou pronouncest sweet and pleasant, and thinkest to be full of delight and gladness of heart, such in kind: but the same is abominable, according to the word of truth, and to be abhorred. For for a time it sweeteneth and tickleth the gullet, but afterwards it maketh the risings more bitter than gall (as said my teacher), and is sharper than any two-edged sword. "How shall I describe to thee the evils of this life? I will tell them, and they shall be more in number than the sand. For such life is the fishhook of the devil, baited with beastly pleasure, whereby he deceiveth and draggeth his prey into the depth of hell. Whereas the good things, promised by my Master, which thou callest 'the hope of some other uncertain life,' are true and unchangeable; they know no end, and are not subject to decay. There is no language that can declare the greatness of yonder glory and delight, of the joy unspeakable, and the everlasting gladness. As thou thyself seest, we all die; and there is no man that shall live and not see death. But one day we shall all rise again, when our Lord Jesus Christ shall come, the Son of God, in unspeakable glory and dread power, the only King of kings, and Lord of lords; to whom every knee shall bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth. Such terror shall he then inspire that the very powers of heaven shall be shaken: and before him there shall stand in fear thousand thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand of Angels and Archangels, and the whole world shall be full of fear and terror. For one of the Archangels shall sound with the trump of God, and immediately the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll; and the earth shall be rent, and shall give up the dead bodies of all men that ever were since the first man Adam until that day. And then shall all men that have died since the beginning of the world in the twinkling of an eye stand alive before the judgement seat of the immortal Lord, and every man shall give account of his deeds. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun; they that believed in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and ended this present life in good works. And how can I describe to thee the glory that shall receive them at that day? For though I compare their brightness and beauty to the light of the sun or to the brightest lightning flash, yet should I fail to do justice to their brightness. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him, in the kingdom of heaven, in the light which no man can approach unto, in his unspeakable and unending glory. "Such joys and such bliss shall the righteous obtain, but they that have denied the only true God and not known their Maker and Creator, but have worshipped foul devils, and rendered homage to dumb idols, and loved the pleasures of this vain world, and, like swine, wallowed in the mire of sinful lusts, and made their lives a headquarters for all wickedness, shall stand naked and laid bare, downright ashamed and downcast, pitiable in appearance and in fact, set forth for a reproach to all creation. All their life in word, deed and thought shall come before their faces. Then, after this bitter disgrace and unbearable reproach, shall they be sentenced to the unquenchable and light-less fire of Gehenna, unto the outer darkness, the gnashing of teeth and the venomous worm. This is their portion, this their lot, in the which they shall dwell together in punishment for endless ages, because they rejected the good things offered them in promise, and, for the sake of the pleasure of sin for a season, made choice of eternal punishment. For these reasons--to obtain that unspeakable bliss, to enjoy that ineffable glory, to equal the Angels in splendour, and to stand with boldness before the good and most sweetest Lord, to escape those bitter and unending punishments and that galling shame--time after time, were it not worth men's while to sacrifice their riches and bodies, nay, even their very lives? Who is so cowardly, who so foolish, as not to endure a thousand temporal deaths, to escape eternal and everlasting death, and to inherit life, blissful and imperishable, and to shine in the light of the blessed and life-giving Trinity?" XXVI. When the king heard these words, and saw the steadfastness, and unbuxomness of his son, who yielded neither to flattery, nor persuasion, nor threat, he marvelled indeed at the persuasiveness of his speech and his irrefutable answers, and was convicted by his own conscience secretly assuring him that Ioasaph spake truly and aright. But he was dragged back by his evil habit and passions, which, from long use, had taken firm grip on him, and held him in as with bit and bridle, and suffered him not to behold the light of truth. So he left no stone unturned, as the saying is, and adhered to his old purpose, determining to put into action the plot which he and Araches had between them devised. Said he to his son, "Although, child, thou oughtest in all points simply to give in to my commands, yet, because thou art stubborn and disobedient, and hast thus stiffly opposed me, insisting that thine own opinion should prevail over all, bid we now farewell to vain insistance, and let persuasion be now our policy. And, forasmuch as Barlaam, thy deceiver, is here, my prisoner in iron chains, I will make a great assembly, and summon all our people and your Galileans, to one place; and I will charge heralds to proclaim expressly that none of the Christians shall fear, but that all shall muster without dread; and we will hold debate together. If your side win, then shall ye and your Barlaam gain your desires; but if ye lose, then shall ye with right good will yield yourselves to my commands." But this truly wise and prudent youth, forewarned, by the heavenly vision sent him, of his father's mischief, replied, "The Lord's will be done! Be it according to thy command! May our good God and Lord himself vouchsafe that we wander not from the right way, for my soul trusteth in him, and he shall be merciful unto me." There and then did the king command all, whether idolaters or Christians, to assemble. Letters were despatched in all quarters: heralds proclaimed it in every village town that no Christian need fear any secret surprise, but all might come together without fear, as friends and kindred, for the honest and unrestrained enquiry that should be held with their chief and captain, Barlaam. In like manner also he summoned the initiate and the temple-keepers of his idols, and wise men of the Chaldeans and Indians that were in all his kingdom, beside certain augurs, sorcerers and seers, that they might get the better of the Christians. Then were there gathered together multitudes that held his loathly religion; but of the Christians was there found one only that came to the help of the supposed Barlaam. His name was Barachias. For of the Faithful, some were dead, having fallen victims to the fury of the governors of the cities; and some were hiding in mountains and dens, in dread of the terrors hanging over them; while others had feared the threats of the king, and durst not adventure themselves into the light of day, but were worshippers by night, serving Christ in secret, and in no wise boldly confessing him. So noble-hearted Barachias came alone to the contest, to help and champion the truth. The king sat down before all on a doom-stool high and exalted, and bade his son sit beside him. He, in reverence and awe of his father, consented not thereto, but sat near him on the ground. There stood the learned in the wisdom which God hath made foolish, whose unwise hearts had gone astray, as saith the Apostle; for, "professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things." These were assembled for to join argument with the king's son and his fellows, and on them was fulfilled the proverb, "Gazelle against lion." The one made the most High his house of defence, and his hope was under the shadow of his wings; while the others trusted in the princes of this world, who are made of none effect, and in the ruler of the darkness of this world, to whom they have subjected themselves miserably and wretchedly. Now came on Nachor, in the disguise of Barlaam; and the king's side were like to reach their goal; but, once again, very different was the ordering of the wise providence of God. When all the company was come, thus spake the king to his orators and philosophers, or rather to the deceivers of his people, and fools at heart, "Behold now, there lieth before you a contest, even the mightiest of contests; for one of two things shall befall you. If ye establish our cause, and prove Barlaam and his friends to be in error, ye shall have your fill of glory and honour from us and all the senate, and shall be crowned with crowns of victory. But if ye be worsted, in all ignominy ye shall pitiably perish, and all your goods shall be given to the people, that your memorial may be clean blotted out from off the earth. Your bodies will I give to be devoured by wild beasts and your children will I deliver to perpetual slavery." When the king had thus spoken, his son said, "A righteous doom hast thou judged this day, O king. The Lord establish this thy mind! I too have the same bidding for my teacher." And, turning round to Nachor, who was supposed to be Barlaam, he said, "Thou knowest, Barlaam, in what splendour and luxury thou foundest me. With many a speech thou persuadedst me to leave my father's laws and customs, and to serve an unknown God, drawn by the promise of some unspeakable and eternal blessings, to follow thy doctrines and to provoke to anger my father and lord. Now therefore consider that thou art weighed in the balance. If thou overcome in the wrestling, and prove that the doctrines, which thou hast taught me, be true, and show that they, that try a fall with us, be in error, thou shalt be magnified as no man heretofore, and shalt be entitled 'herald of truth'; and I will abide in thy doctrine and serve Christ, even as thou didst preach, until my dying breath. But if thou be worsted, by foul play or fair, and thus bring shame on me to-day, speedily will I avenge me of mine injury; with mine own hands will I quickly tear out thy heart and thy tongue, and throw them with the residue of thy carcase to be meat for the dogs, that others may be lessoned by thee not to cozen the sons of kings." When Nachor heard these words, he was exceeding sorrowful and downcast, seeing himself falling into the destruction that he had made for other, and being drawn into the net that he had laid privily, and feeling the sword entering into his own soul. So he took counsel with himself, and determined rather to take the side of the king's son, and make it to prevail, that he might avoid the danger hanging over him, because the prince was doubtless able to requite him, should he be found to provoke him. But this was all the work of divine providence that was wisely establishing our cause by the mouth of our adversaries. For when these idol-priests and Nachor crossed words, like another Barlaam, who, of old in the time of Balak, when purposing to curse Israel, loaded him with manifold blessings, so did Nachor mightily resist these unwise and unlearned wise men. There sat the king upon his throne, his son beside him, as we have said. There beside him stood these unwise orators who had whetted their tongues like a sharp sword, to destroy truth, and who (as saith Esay) conceive mischief and bring forth iniquity. There were gathered innumerable multitudes, come to view the contest and see which side should carry oft the victory. Then one of the orators, the most eminent of all his fellows, said unto Nachor, "Art thou that Barlaam which hath so shamelessly and audaciously blasphemed our gods, and hath enmeshed our king's well beloved son in the net of error, and taught him to serve the Crucified?" Nachor answered, "I am he, I am Barlaam, that, as thou sayest, doth set your gods at nought: but the king's son have I not enmeshed in error; but rather from error have I delivered him, and brought him to the true God." The orator replied, "When the great and marvellous men, who have discovered all knowledge of wisdom, do call them high and immortal gods, and when all the kings and honourable men upon earth do worship and adore them, how waggest thou tongue against them, and, in brief, how durst thou be so mighty brazen-faced? What is the manner of thy proof that the Crucified is God, and these be none?" Then replied Nachor, disdaining even to answer the speaker. He beckoned with his hand to the multitude to keep silence, and opening his mouth, like Balaam's ass, spake that which he had not purposed to say, and thus addressed the king. XXVII. "By the providence of God, O king, came I into the world; and when I contemplated heaven and earth and sea, the sun and moon, and the other heavenly bodies, I was led to marvel at their fair order. And, when I beheld the world and all that therein is, how it is moved by law, I understood that he who moveth and sustaineth it is God. That which moveth is ever stronger than that which is moved, and that which sustaineth is stronger than that which is sustained. Him therefore I call God, who constructed all things and sustaineth them, without beginning, without end, immortal, without want, above all passions, and failings, such as anger, forgetfulness, ignorance, and the like. By him all things consist. He hath no need of sacrifice, or drink-offering, or of any of the things that we see, but all men have need of him. "Now that I have said thus much concerning God, according as he hath granted me to speak concerning himself, come we now to the human race, that we may know which of them partake of truth, and which of error. It is manifiest to us, O king, that there are three races of men in this world: those that are worshippers of them whom ye call gods, and Jews, and Christians. And again those who serve many gods are divided into three races, Chaldeans, Greeks and Egyptians, for these are to the other nations the leaders and teachers of the service and worship of the gods whose name is legion. Let us therefore see which of these hold the truth, and which error. "The Chaldeans, which knew not God, went astray after the elements and began to worship the creature rather than their Creator, and they made figures of these creatures and called them likenesses of heaven, and earth and sea, of sun and moon, and of the other elements or luminaries. And they enclose them in temples, and worship them under the title of gods, and guard them in safety lest they be stolen by robbers. They have not understood how that which guardeth is ever greater than that which is guarded, and that the maker is greater than the thing that is made; for, if the gods be unable to take care of themselves, how can they take care of others? Great then is the error that the Chaldeans have erred in worshipping lifeless and useless images. And I am moved to wonder, O king, how they, who are called philosophers among them, fail to understand that even the very elements are corruptible. But if the elements are corruptible and subject to necessity, how are they gods? And if the elements are not gods, how are the images, created to their honour, gods? "Come we then, O king, to the elements themselves, that we may prove concerning them, that they are not gods, but corruptible and changeable things, brought out of non-existence by the command of him who is God indeed, who is incorruptible, and unchangeable, and invisible, but yet himself seeth all things, and, as he willeth, changeth and altereth the same. What then must I say about the elements? "They, who ween that the Heaven is a god, are in error. For we see it turning and mowing by law, and consisting of many parts, whence also it is called Cosmos! Now a 'Cosmos' is the handiwork of some artificer; and that which is wrought by handiwork hath beginning and end. And the firmament is moved by law together with its luminaries. The stars are borne from Sign to Sign, each in his order and place: some rise, while others set: and they run their journey according to fixed seasons, to fulfil summer and winter, as it hath been ordained for them by God, nor do they transgress their proper bounds, according to the inexorable law of nature, in common with the heavenly firmament. Whence it is evident that the heaven is not a god, but only a work of God. "They again that think that the Earth is a goddess have gone astray. We behold it dishonoured, mastered, defiled and rendered useless by mankind. If it be baked by the sun, it becometh dead, for nothing groweth from a potsherd. And again, if it be soaked overmuch, it rotteth, fruit and all. It is trodden under foot of men and the residue of the beasts: it is polluted with the blood of the murdered, it is digged and made a grave for dead bodies. This being so, Earth can in no wise be a goddess, but only the work of God for the use of men. "They that think that Water is a god have gone astray. It also hath been made for the use of men. It is under their lordship: it is polluted, and perisheth: it is altered by boiling, by dyeing, by congealment, or by being brought to the cleansing of all defilements. Wherefore Water cannot be a god, but only the work of God. "They that think that Fire is a god are in error. It too was made for the use of men. It is subject to their lordship, being carried about from place to place, for the seething and roasting of all manner of meats, yea, and for the burning of dead corpses. Moreover, it perisheth in divers ways, when it is quenched by mankind. Wherefore Fire cannot be a god, but only the work of God. "They that think that the breath of the Winds is a goddess are in error. This, as is evident, is subject to another, and hath been prepared by God, for the sake of mankind, for the carriage of ships, and the conveyance of victuals, and for other uses of men, it riseth and falleth according to the ordinance of God. Wherefore it is not to be supposed that the breath of the Winds is a goddess, but only the work of God. "They that think that the Sun is a god are in error. We see him moving and turning by law, and passing from Sign to Sign, setting and rising, to warm herbs and trees for the use of men, sharing power with the other stars, being much less than the heaven, and falling into eclipse and possessed of no sovranty of his own. Wherefore we may not consider that the Sun is a god, but only the work of God. "They that think that the Moon is a goddess are in error. We behold her moving and turning by law, and passing from Sign to Sign, setting and rising for the use of men, lesser than the sun, waxing and waning, suffering eclipse. Wherefore we do not consider that the Moon is a goddess, but only the work of God. "They that think that Man is a god are in error. We see man moving by law, growing up, and waxing old, even against his will. Now he rejoiceth, now he grieveth, requiring meat and drink and raiment. Besides he is passionate, envious, lustful, fickle, and full of failings: and he perisheth in many a way, by the elements, by wild beasts, and by the death that ever awaiteth him. So Man cannot be a god, but only the work of God. Great then is the error that the Chaldeans have erred in following their own lusts; for they worship corruptible elements and dead images, neither do they perceive that they are making gods of these. "Now come we to the Greeks that we may see whether they have any understanding concerning God. The Greeks, then, professing themselves to be wise, fell into greater folly than the Chaldeans, alleging the existence of many gods, some male, others female, creators of all passions and sins of every kind. Wherefore the Greeks, O king, introduced an absurd, foolish and ungodly fashion of talk, calling them gods that were not, according to their own evil passions; that, having these gods for advocates of their wickedness, they might commit adultery, theft, murder and all manner of iniquity. For if their gods did so, how should they not themselves do the like? Therefore from these practices of error it came to pass that men suffered frequent wars and slaughters and cruel captivities. But if now we choose to pass in review each one of these gods, what a strange sight shalt thou see! "First and foremost they introduce the god whom they call Kronos, and to him they sacrifice their own children, to him who had many sons by Rhea, and in a fit of madness ate his own children. And they say that Zeus cut off his privy parts, and cast them into the sea, whence, as fable telleth, was born Aphrodite. So Zeus bound his own father, and cast him into Tartarus. Dost thou mark the delusion and lasciviousness that they allege against their gods? Is it possible then that one who was prisoner and mutilated should be a god? What folly? What man in his senses could admit it? "Next they introduce Zeus, who, they say, became king of the gods, and would take the shape of animals, that he might defile mortal women. They show him transformed into a bull, for Europa; into gold, for Danae; into a swan, for Leda; into a satyr, for Antiope; and into a thunder-bolt, for Semele. Then of these were born many children, Dionysus, Zethus, Amphion, Herakles, Apollo, Artemis, Perseus, Castor, Helen, Polydeukes, Minos, Rhadamanthos, Sarpedon, and the nine daughters whom they call the Muses. "In like manner they introduce the story of Ganymede. And so befel it, O king, that men imitated all these things, and became adulterers, and defilers of themselves with mankind, and doers of other monstrous deeds, in imitation of their god. How then can an adulterer, one that defileth himself by unnatural lust, a slayer of his father be a god? "With Zeus also they represent one Hephaestus as a god, and him lame, holding hammer and fire-tongs, and working as a coppersmith for hire. So it appeareth that he is needy. But it is impossible for one who is lame and wanteth men's aid to be a God. "After him, they represent as a god Hermes, a lusty fellow, a thief, and a covetous, a sorcerer, bowlegged, and an interpreter of speech. It is impossible for such an one to be a God. "They also exhibit Asklepius as god, a physician, a maker of medicines, a compounder of plasters for his livelihood (for he is a needy wight), and in the end, they say that he was struck by Zeus with a thunder-bolt, because of Tyndareus, son of Lakedaemon, and thus perished. Now if Asklepius, though a god, when struck by a thunder-bolt, could not help himself, how can he help others? "Ares is represented as a warlike god, emulous, and covetous of sheep and other things. But in the end they say he was taken in adultery with Aphrodite by the child Eros and Hephaestus and was bound by them. How then can the covetous, the warrior, the bondman and adulterer be a god? "Dionysus they show as a god, who leadeth nightly orgies, and teacheth drunkenness, and carrieth off his neighbours' wives, a madman and an exile, finally slain by the Titans. If then Dionysus was slain and unable to help himself, nay, further was a madman, a drunkard, and vagabond, how could he be a god? "Herakles, too, is represented as drunken and mad, as slaying his own children, then consuming with fire and thus dying. How then could a drunkard and slayer of his own children, burnt to death by fire, be a god? Or how can he help others who could not help himself? "Apollo they represent as an emulous god, holding bow and quiver, and, at times, harp and flute, and prophesying to men for pay. Soothly he is needy: but one that is needy and emulous and a minstrel cannot be a god. "Artemis, his sister, they represent as an huntress, with bow and quiver, ranging the mountains alone, with her hounds, in chase of stag or boar. How can such an one, that is an huntress and a ranger with hounds, be a goddess? "Of Aphrodite, adulteress though she be, they say that she is herself a goddess. Once she had for leman Ares, once Anchises, once Adonis, whose death she lamenteth, seeking her lost lover. They say that she even descended into Hades to ransom Adonis from Persephone. Didst thou, O king, ever see madness greater than this? They represent this weeping and wailing adulteress as a goddess. "Adonis they show as an hunter-god, violently killed by a boar-tusk, and unable to help his own distress. How then shall he take thought for mankind, he the adulterer, the hunter who died a violent death? "All such tales, and many like them, and many wicked tales more shameful still, have the Greeks introduced, O king, concerning their gods; tales, whereof it is unlawful to speak, or even to have them in remembrance. Hence men, taking occasion from their gods, wrought all lawlessness, lasciviousness and ungodliness, polluting earth and air with their horrible deeds. "But the Egyptians, more fatuous and foolish than they, have erred worse than any other nation. They were not satisfied with the idols worshipped by the Chaldeans and Greeks, but further introduced as gods brute beasts of land and water, and herbs and trees, and were defiled in all madness and lasciviousness worse than all people upon earth. From the beginning they worshipped Isis, which had for her brother and husband that Osiris which was slain by his brother Typhon. And for this reason Isis fled with Horus her son to Byblos in Syria, seeking Osiris and bitterly wailing, until Horus was grown up and killed Typhon. Isis then was not able to help her own brother and husband; nor had Osiris, who was slain by Typhon, power to succour himself; nor had Typhon, who killed his brother and was himself destroyed by Horus and Isis, any resource to save himself from death. And yet, although famous for all these misadventures, these be they that were considered gods by the senseless Egyptians. "The same people, not content therewith, nor with the rest of the idols of the heathen, also introduced brute beasts as gods. Some of them worshipped the sheep, some the goat, and others the calf and the hog; while certain of them worshipped the raven, the kite, the vulture, and the eagle. Others again worshipped the crocodile, and some the cat and dog, the wolf and ape, the dragon and serpent, and others the onion, garlic and thorns, and every other creature. And the poor fools do not perceive, concerning these things, that they have no power at all. Though they see their gods being devoured, burnt and killed by other men, and rotting away, they cannot grasp the fact that they are no gods. "Great, then, is the error that the Egyptians, the Chaldeans, and the Greeks have erred in introducing such gods as these, and making images thereof, and deifying dumb and senseless idols. I marvel how, when they behold their gods being sawn and chiselled by workmen's axes, growing old and dissolving through lapse of time, and molten in the pot, they never reflected concerning them that they are no gods. For when these skill not to work their own salvation, how can they take care of mankind? Nay, even the poets and philosophers among the Chaldeans, Greeks and Egyptians, although by their poems and histories they desired to glorify their people's gods, yet they rather revealed and exposed their shame before all men. If the body of a man, consisting of many parts, loseth not any of its proper members, but, having an unbroken union with all its members, is in harmony with itself, how in the nature of God shall there be such warfare and discord? For if the nature of the gods were one, then ought not one god to persecute, slay or injure another. But if the gods were persecuted by other gods, and slain and plundered and killed with thunder-stones, then is their nature no longer one, but their wills are divided, and are all mischievous, so that not one among them is God. So it is manifest, O king, that all this history of the nature of the gods is error. "Furthermore, how do the wise and eloquent among the Greeks fail to perceive that law-givers themselves are judged by their own laws? For if their laws are just, then are their gods assuredly unjust, in that they have offended against law by murders, sorceries, adulteries, thefts and unnatural crimes. But, if they did well in so doing, then are their laws unjust, seeing that they have been framed in condemnation of the gods. But now the laws are good and just, because they encourage good and forbid evil; whereas the deeds of their gods offend against law. Their gods then are offenders against law; and all that introduce such gods as these are worthy of death and are ungodly. If the stories of the gods be myths, then are the gods mere words: but if the stories be natural, then are they that wrought or endured such things no longer gods: if the stories be allegorical, then are the gods myths and nothing else. Therefore it hath been proven, O king, that all these idols, belonging to many gods, are works of error and destruction. So it is not meet to call those gods that are seen, but cannot see: but it is right to worship as God him who is unseen and is the Maker of all mankind. "Come we now, O king, to the Jews, that we may see what they also think concerning God. The Jews are the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and went once to sojourn in Egypt. From thence God brought them out with a mighty hand and stretched out arm by Moses their lawgiver; and with many miracles and signs made he known unto them his power. But, like the rest, these proved ungrateful and unprofitable, and often worshipped images of the heathen, and killed the prophets and righteous men that were sent unto them. Then, when it pleased the Son of God to come on earth, they did shamefully entreat him and deliver him to Pilate the Roman governor, and condemn him to the Cross, regardless of his benefits and the countless miracles that he had worked amongst them. Wherefore by their own lawlessness they perished. For though to this day they worship the One Omnipotent God, yet it is not according unto knowledge; for they deny Christ the Son of God, and are like the heathen, although they seem to approach the truth from which they have estranged themselves. So much for the Jews. "As for the Christians, they trace their line from the Lord Jesus Christ. He is confessed to be the Son of the most high God, who came down from heaven, by the Holy Ghost, for the salvation of mankind, and was born of a pure Virgin, without seed of man, and without defilement, and took flesh, and appeared among men, that he might recall them from the error of worshipping many gods. When he had accomplished his marvellous dispensation, of his own free will by a mighty dispensation he tasted of death upon the Cross. But after three days he came to life again, and ascended into the heavens, the glory of whose coming thou mayest learn, O king, by the reading of the holy Scripture, which the Christians call the Gospel, shouldst thou meet therewith. This Jesus had twelve disciples, who, after his ascent into the heavens, went out into all the kingdoms of the world, telling of his greatness. Even so one of them visited our coasts, preaching the doctrine of truth; whence they who still serve the righteousness of his preaching are called Christians. And these are they who, above all the nations of the earth, have found the truth: for they acknowledge God the Creator and Maker of all things in the only begotten Son, and in the Holy Ghost, and other God than him they worship none. They have the commandments of the Lord Jesus Christ himself engraven on their hearts, and these they observe, looking for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. They neither commit adultery nor fornication; nor do they bear false witness, nor covet other men's goods: they honour father and mother, and love their neighbours: they give right judgement. They do not unto other that which they would not have done unto themselves. They comfort such as wrong them, and make friends of them: they labour to do good to their enemies: they are meek and gentle. They refrain themselves from all unlawful intercourse and all uncleanness. They despise not the widow, and grieve not the orphan. He that hath distributeth liberally to him that hath not. If they see a stranger, they bring him under their roof, and rejoice over him, as it were their own brother: for they call themselves brethren, not after the flesh, but after the spirit. For Christ his sake they are ready to lay down their lives: they keep his commandments faithfully, living righteous and holy lives, as the Lord their God commanded them, giving him thanks every hour, for meat and drink and every blessing. Verily, then, this is the way of truth which leadeth its wayfarers unto the eternal kingdom promised by Christ in the life to come. "And that thou mayest know, O king, that I speak nought of myself, look thou into the writings of the Christians, and thou shalt find that I speak nothing but the truth. Well, therefore, hath thy son understood it, and rightly hath he been taught to serve the living God, and to be saved for the world to come. Great and marvellous are the things spoken and wrought by the Christians, because they speak not the words of men but the words of God. But all other nations are deceived, and deceive themselves. Walking in darkness they stagger one against another like drunken men. This is the end of my speech spoken unto thee, O king, prompted by the truth that is in my mind. Wherefore let thy foolish wise-acres refrain from babbling idly against the Lord; for it is profitable to you to worship God the Creator, and hearken to his incorruptible sayings, in order that ye may escape judgement and punishment, and be found partakers of deathless life." XXVIII. When Nachor had fully delivered this oration, the king changed countenance for very anger, but his orators and temple-keepers stood speechless, having nothing but a few weak and rotten shreds of argument in reply. But the king's son rejoiced in spirit and with glad countenance magnified the Lord, who had made a path, where no path was, for them tat trusted in him, who by the mouth of a foeman and enemy was establishing the truth; and the leader of error had proved a defender of the right cause. But the king, although furiously enraged with Nachor, was nevertheless unable to do him any mischief, because of the proclamation already read before all, wherein he urged him to plead without fear in behalf of the Christians. So he himself made answer in many words, and by dark speeches hinted that Nachor should relax his resistance, and be worsted by the argument of the orators. But Nachor the more mightily prevailed, tearing to pieces all their propositions and conclusions and exposing the fallacy of their error. After the debate had been prolonged till well-nigh eventide, the king dismissed the assembly, making as though he would renew the discussion on the morrow. Then said Ioasaph to the king his father, "As at the beginning, Sir, thou commandedst that the trial should be just, so too crown the end thereof with justice, by doing one or other of these two things. Either allow my teacher to tarry with me to-night, that we may take counsel together as touching those things which we must say unto our adversaries tomorrow: and do thou in turn take thine advisers unto thee, and duly practise yourselves as ye will. Or else deliver thy counsellors to me this night, and take mine to thyself. But if both sides be with thee, mine advocate in tribulation and fear, but thine in joy and refreshment, me thinketh it is not a fair trial, but a tyrannical misuse of power, and a breaking of the covenants." The king, compelled to yield by the gracefulness of this speech took his wise men and priests to himself, and delivered Nachor to his son, still having hopes of him and thinking fit to keep his agreement. The king's son, therefore, departed unto his own palace, like a conqueror in the Olympic games, and with him went Nachor. When alone, the prince called him and said, "Think not that I am ignorant of thy tale, for I wot, of a surety, that thou art not saintly Barlaam, but Nachor the astrologer; and I marvel how it seemed thee good to act this play, and to think that thou couldst so dull my sight at mid-day, that I should mistake a wolf for a sheep. But well sung is the proverb, 'The heart of a fool will conceive folly.' So this your device and counsel was stale and utterly senseless; but the work that thou hast accomplished is full of wisdom. Wherefore, rejoice, Nachor, and be exceeding glad. I render thee many thanks, that thou hast been to-day advocate of the truth, and hast not polluted thy lips with foul words and crafty simulation, but hast rather cleansed them from many defilements, and thoroughly proven the error of the gods, as they be wrongly called, and hast established the truth of the Christian faith. I have been zealous to bring thee hither with me for two reasons; that the king might not privily seize and punish thee, because thou spakest not after his heart, and next that I might recompense thee for the favour that thou hast done me to-day. And what is my recompense for thee? To show thee how to turn from the evil and slippery road which thou hast trodden until now, and to journey along the straight and saving pathway which thou hast avoided, not in ignorance, but by wilful wrongdoing, throwing thyself into depths and precipices of iniquity. Understand then, Nachor, man of understanding as thou art, and be thou zealous to gain Christ only, and the life that is hid with him, and despise this fleeting and corruptible world. Thou shalt not live for ever, but, being mortal, shalt depart hence ere long, even as all that have been before thee. And wo betide thee, if, with the heavy load of sin on thy shoulders, thou depart thither where there is righteous judgement and recompense for thy works, and cast it not off, while it is easy to rid thyself thereof!" Pricked at heart by these words, spake Nachor, "Well said! Sir prince, well said! I do know the true and very God, by whom all things were made, and I wot of the judgement to come, having heard thereof from many texts of the Scriptures. But evil habit and the insolence of the ancient supplanter hath blinded the eyes of my heart, and shed a thick darkness over my reason. But now, at thy word, I will cast away the veil of gloom, and run unto the light of the countenance of the Lord. May be, he will have mercy on me, and will open a door of repentance to his wicked and rebellious servant, even if it seem impossible to me that my sins, which are heavier than the sand, be forgiven; sins, which, wittingly or unwittingly, I have sinned from childhood upwards to this my hoary age." When the king's son heard these words, immediately he arose, and his heart waxed warm, and he began to try to raise Nachor's courage which was drooping to despair, and to confirm it in the faith of Christ, saying, "Let no doubt about this, Nachor, find place in thy mind. For it is written, God is able of these very stones to raise up children unto Abraham. What meaneth this (as father Barlaam said) except that men beyond hope, stained with all manner of wickedness, can be saved, and become servants of Christ, who, in the exceeding greatness of his love toward mankind, hath opened the gates of heaven to all that turn, barring the way of salvation to none, and receiving with compassion them that repent? Wherefore to all that have entered the vineyard at the first, third, sixth, ninth or eleventh hour there is apportioned equal pay, as saith the holy Gospel: so that even if, until this present time, thou hast waxen old in thy sins, yet if thou draw nigh with a fervent heart, thou shalt gain the same rewards as they who have laboured from their youth upwards." With these and many other words did that saintly youth speak of repentance to that aged sinner Nachor, promising him that Christ was merciful, and pledging him forgiveness, and satisfying him that the good God is alway ready to receive the penitent, and with these words, as it were with ointments, did he mollify that ailing soul and give it perfect health. Nachor at once said unto him, "O prince, more noble in soul even than in outward show, well instructed in these marvellous mysteries, mayst thou continue in thy good confession until the end, and may neither time nor tide ever pluck it out of thine heart! For myself, I will depart straightway in search of my salvation, and will by penance pacify that God whom I have angered: for, except thou will it, I shall see the king's face no more." Then was the prince exceeding glad, and joyfully heard his saying. And he embraced and kissed him affectionately; and, when he had prayed earnestly to God, he sent him forth from the palace. So Nachor stepped forth with a contrite heart, and went bounding into the depths of the desert, like as doth an hart, and came to a den belonging to a monk that had attained to the dignity of the priesthood, and was hiding there for fear of the pressing danger. With a right warm heart knelt Nachor down before him, and washed his feet with his tears, like the harlot of old, and craved holy Baptism. The priest, full of heavenly grace, was passing glad, and did at once begin to instruct him, as the custom is, and after many days, perfected him with baptism in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. And Nachor abode with him, always repentant of his sins, and blessing that God who never willeth that ally should perish, but receiveth all that turn again unto him, and lovingly accepteth the penitent. Now on the morrow when the king heard what had befallen Nachor, he despaired of the hopes that he once had in him: and, seeing those wise and foolish orators of his mightily discomfited, he was at his wits' end. Them he visited with terrible outrage and dishonour, scourging some severely with whips of oxhide, besmearing their eyes with soot, and casting them away from his presence. He himself began to condemn the impotence of the gods falsely so called, although as yet he refused to look fully at the light of Christ, for the dense cloud of darkness, that enveloped him, still bound the eyes of his heart. Howbeit he no longer honoured his temple-keepers, nor would he keep feasts, nor make drink offerings to his idols, but his mind was tossed between two opinions. On the one hand, he poured scorn on the impotence of his gods; on the other, he dreaded the strictness of the profession of the Gospel, and was hardly to be torn from his evil ways, being completely in slavery to the pleasures of the body, and like a captive drawn towards sinful lusts, and being drunken, as saith Esay, but not with wine, and led as it were with the bridle of evil habit. While the king was thus wrestling with two opinions, his noble and truly royal-hearted son dwelt at peace in his palace, proving to all men by his deeds the nobility, order and steadfastness of his nature. Theatres, horse-races, riding to hounds, and all the vain pleasures of youth, the baits that take foolish souls, were reckoned by him as nothing worth. But he hung wholly on the commands of Christ for whom he yearned, his heart being wounded with love divine. For him he longed, who alone is to be longed for, who is all sweetness and desire and aspiration insatiable. Now, when he came to think upon his teacher Barlaam, and as in a mirror saw his life, his soul was enchanted with love, and he much occupied himself a-thinking how he might see him; and ever carrying his sayings in his heart, he was like the tree in the Psalms planted by the river side, unceasingly watered, and bringing forth unto the Lords his fruits in due season. Many were the souls that he delivered from the snares of the devil, and brought safely unto Christ; for many resorted unto him, and profited by his wholesome words. And not a few left the way of error, and ran toward the word of salvation; while others bade a long farewell to the concerns of the world, and came to the wrestling-school of the monastic life. He himself spent his time in prayers and fastings, and would often offer up this prayer, "O Lord, my Lord and King, in whom I have trusted, to whom I have fled and been delivered from my error, render thou due recompense to Barlaam thy servant, because when I was in error he pointed thee to me, who art the way of truth and life. Forbid me not to behold once more that angel in bodily shape, of whom the world is not worthy, but grant me in his company to finish the residue of my life, that, treading in the footsteps of his conversation, I may be well-pleasing to thee my God and Lord." XXIX. Now about the same time there was in that city a public assembly in honour of the false gods, and the king must needs be present at the feast, and grace it with lavish sacrifices. But the temple-keepers, seeing that he was careless and lukewarm with regard to their worship, feared that he might neglect to be present in their temple, and that they might lose the royal largess, and the rest of their revenues. So they arose, and withdrew to a cavern situate in the depth of the desert, where dwelt a man who busied himself with magical arts, and was a fervent champion of the error of idolatry. Theudas was his name. Him the king honoured exceedingly, and counted him his friend and teacher, because, he said, it was by the guidance of his prophecies that his kingdom ever prospered. So these idol-priests, that were no priests, came to him, and appealed to him for help, and made known to him the evil opinion of their gods which was growing on their king, and all that the king's son had done, and all the eloquent discourse that Nachor had held against them. And they said, "Except thou come thyself to our succour, gone is all hope! and lost is all the reverence of the gods. Thou only art left to be our comfort in this misfortune, and upon thee we fix our hopes." So forth marched Theudas, in company with his Satanic host; and he armed himself against the truth, invoking many of his evil spirits, who knew how to lend ready aid for evil ends, and whom he alway used for his ministers; and with these allies he came to the king. When his arrival had been announced to the king, and he had entered in, with a palm-staff in his hand and a sheep-skin girt about his loins, the king arose from his throne, and met and welcomed him; and, fetching a seat, he made him to sit down beside him. Then spake Theudas unto the king, "O king, live for ever under the shelter of the favour of the most puissant gods! I have heard that thou hast foughten a mighty fight with the Galileans, and hast been crowned with right glorious diadems of victory. Wherefore I am come, that we may celebrate together a feast of thanksgiving, and sacrifice to the immortal gods young men in the bloom of youth and well-favoured damsels, and eke offer them an hecatomb of bullocks and herds of beasts, that we may have them from henceforth for our allies invincible, making plain our path of life before us." Hereto the king made answer, "We have not conquered, aged sir, we have not conquered: nay, rather have we been defeated in open fight. They that were for us turned suddenly against us. They found our host a wild, half-drunken, feeble folk, and utterly overthrew it. But now, if there be with thee any power and strength to help our fallen religion and set it up again, declare it." Theudas replied in this wise, "Dread not, O king, the oppositions and vain babblings of the Galileans: for of what worth against reasonable and sensible men are the arguments that they use? These methinks shall be more easily overthrown than a leaf shaken with the wind. They shall not endure to face me, far less join argument, or come to propositions and oppositions with me. But, in order that the coming contest and all our wishes may prosper, and that our matters may run smoothly with the stream, adorn thou with thy presence this public festival, and gird on for thy strong sword the favour of the gods, and well befall thee!" When the mighty in wickedness had thus boasted himself and thought of mischief all the day long (let David bear his part in our chorus), and when, as saith Esay, he had given his neighbour a drink of turbid dregs, by the help of the evil spirits his comrades he made the king utterly to forget the thoughts that inclined him to salvation, and caused him again to cleave to his wonted ways. Then the king despatched letters hither and thither, that all men should gather together to this loathsome assembly. Then mightest thou have seen multitudes streaming in, and bringing with them sheep and oxen and divers kinds of beasts. So when all were assembled, the king arose, with that deceiver Theudas, and proceeded to the temple, bringing one hundred and twenty bullocks and many animals for sacrifice. And they celebrated their accursed feast till the city resounded with the cry of the brute beasts and the very air was polluted with the reek of sacrifice. This done, when the spirits of wickedness had greatly vaunted them over Theudas' victory, and when the temple-keepers had rendered him thanks, the king went up again unto his palace, and said milo Theudas, "Behold now, as thou badest us, we have spared no pains over the splendour of this gathering and the lavishness of the sacrifice. Now, therefore, it is time for thee to fulfil thy promises, and to deliver from the error of the Christians my son that hath rebelled against our religion, and to reconcile him to our gracious gods. For, though I have left no device and deed untried, yet have I found no remedy for the mischief, but I perceive that his will is stronger than all. When I have dealt gently and kindly with him, I have found that he payeth me no regard whatsoever. When I have treated him harshly and severely, I have seen him driven the quicker to desperation. To thy wisdom for the future I leave the care of this calamity that hath befallen me. If then I be delivered from this trouble by thy means, and once more behold my son worshipping my gods with me, and enjoying the gratification of this life of pleasure, and this royal estate, I will set up unto thee a golden statue, and make thee to receive divine honours from all men for all time to come." Hereupon Theudas, bowing an attentive ear to the evil one, and learning from him the secret of his evil and deadly counsel, became himself the devil's tongue and mouthpiece, and spake unto the king, "If thou wilt get the better of thy son, and make his opposition vain, I have discovered a plan, which he shall in no wise be able to resist, but his hard and obdurate mind shall melt quicker than wax before the hottest fire." The king, seeing this foolish fellow swelling with empty pride, immediately grew merry and joyful, hoping that the unbridled and boastful tongue would get the mastery of that divinely instructed and philosophic soul. "And what is the plan?" he asked. Then began Theudas to weave his web. He made his villainy sharp as any razor and did cunningly prepare his drugs. Now behold this malicious device and suggestion of the evil one. "Remove, O king," said he, "all thy son's waiting men and servants far from him, and order that comely damsels, of exceeding beauty, and bedizened to be the more winsome, be continually with him and minister to him, and be his companions day and night. For myself, I will send him one of the spirits told off for such duties, and I will thus kindle all the more fiercely the coals of sensual desire. After that he hath once only had intercourse with but one of these women, if all go not as thou wilt, then disdain me for ever, as unprofitable, and worthy not of honour but of dire punishment. For there is nothing like the sight of women to allure and enchant the minds of men. Listen to a story that beareth witness to my word." XXX. "A certain king was grieved and exceeding sad at heart, because that he had no male issue, deeming this no small misfortune. While he was in this condition, there was born to him a son, and the king's soul was filled with joy thereat. Then they that were learned amongst his physicians told him that, if for the first twelve years the boy saw the sun or fire, he should entirely lose his sight, for this was proved by the condition of his eyes. Hearing this, the king, they say, caused a little house, full of dark chambers, to be hewn out of the rock, and therein enclosed his child together with the men that nursed him, and, until the twelve years were past, never suffered him to see the least ray of light. After the fulfilment of the twelve years, the king brought forth from his little house his son that had never seen a single object, and ordered his waiting men to show the boy everything after his kind; men in one place, women in another; elsewhere gold and silver; in another place, pearls and precious stones, fine and ornamental vestments, splendid chariots with horses from the royal stables, with golden bridles and purple caparisons, mounted by armed soldiers; also droves of oxen and flocks of sheep. In brief, row after row, they showed the boy everything. Now, as he asked what each ox these was called, the king's esquires and guards made known unto him each by name: but, when he desired to learn what women were called, the king's spearman, they say, wittily replied that they were called, "Devils that deceive men." But the boy's heart was smitten with the love of these above all the rest. So, when they had gone round everywhere and brought him again unto the king, the king asked, which of all these sights had pleased him most. "What," answered the boy, "but the Devils that deceive men? Nothing that I have seen to-day hath fired my heart with such love as these." The king was astonished at the saying of the boy, to think how masterful a thing the love of women is. Therefore think not to subdue thy son in any other way than this." The king heard this tale gladly; and there were brought before him some chosen damsels, young and exceeding beautiful. These he bedizened with dazzling ornaments and trained in all winsome ways: and then he turned out of the palace all his son's squires and serving men, and set these women in their stead. These flocked around the prince, embraced him, and provoked him to filthy wantonness, by their walk and talk inviting him to dalliaunce. Besides these, he had no man at whom to look, or with whom to converse or break his fast, for these damsels were his all. Thus did the king. But Theudas went home to his evil den, and, dipping into his books that had virtue to work such magic, he called up one of his wicked spirits and sent him forth, for to battle with the soldier of the army of Christ. But the wretch little knew what laughter he should create against himself, and to what shame he should be put, with the whole devilish troop under him. So the evil spirit, taking to him other spirits more wicked than himself, entered the bed-chamber of this noble youth, and attacked him by kindling right furiously the furnace of his flesh. The evil one plied the bellows from within, while the damsels, fair of face, but uncomely of soul, supplied the evil fuel from without. But Ioasaph's pure soul was disturbed to feel the touch of evil, and to see the warlike host of strange thoughts that was charging down upon him. And he sought to find deliverance from this great mischief, and to present himself pure unto Christ, and not defile in the mire of sinful lust that holy apparel, wherein the grace of holy Baptism had clothed him. Immediately he set love against love, the divine against the lascivious; and he called to remembrance the beauty and unspeakable glory of Christ, the immortal bridegroom of virgin souls, and of that bride chamber and marriage, from whence they that have stained their wedding-garment are piteously cast out, bound hand and foot, into outer darkness. When he had thought thereon, and shed bitter tears, he smote upon his breast, driving out evil thoughts, as good-for-nothing drones from the hive. When he rose, and spread out his hands unto heaven, with fervent tears and groans calling upon God to help him, and he said, "Lord Almighty, who alone art powerful and merciful, the hope of the hopeless, and the help of the helpless, remember me thine unprofitable servant at this hour, and look upon me with a gracious countenance, and deliver my soul from the sword of the devil, and my darling from the paw of the dog: suffer me not to fall into the hands of mine enemies, and let not them that hate me triumph over me. Leave me not to be destroyed in iniquities, and to dishonour my body which I swore to present unto thee chaste. For for thee I yearn; thee I worship, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, now and for evermore, and world without end." When he had added the Amen, he felt heavenly comfort stealing over him from above, and the evil thoughts withdrew, and he continued in prayer until early morn. Being ware of the devices of the crafty foe, he began more and more to afflict his body by abstinence from meat and drink, and by other severities, standing in prayer all the night long, and reminding himself of his covenants made with God, and picturing in his mind the glory of the righteous yonder, and recounting to himself the full terrors of the Gehenna wherewith the wicked are threatened; all this, that the enemy might not find his soul lying fallow and untilled, and thus easily sow therein the seeds of evil thoughts, and befoul the cleanness of his mind. So, when the enemy was in great straits on every side, and altogether in despair of taking this noble youth, like a cunning knave, he proceeded to another more subtil device, he that is for ever wicked, and never stinteth to contrive mischief and hurt. For he made furious endeavour to carry out the orders that Theudas had given him, and once more prepared his drugs, and on this wise. The devil entered into the heart of one of the young damsels. Of all she was the most seemly, a king's daughter, carried away captive from her own country, given to king Abenner as a great prize, and sent by him, being of ripe beauty, to his own son, for to cause him to slip or to trip. Of her the deceiver took possession, and whispered in her ear suggestions that plainly showed the wisdom and understanding of her mind; for the evil one easily pursueth all devices that make for wickedness. Then the evil spirit attacked the king's son on the right hand, and gave him a potion to make him love the maiden, by reason--so he pretended--of her prudence and discretion and of her nobility and royal blood that yet had not saved her from banishment and loss of glory. Moreover the devil secretly sowed in Ioasaph's heart thoughts that he might recover her from idolatry, and make her a Christian. But these were all stratagems of the wily serpent. For the king's son, being in this frame of mind, could see in himself no unclean thought or passionate affection for the damsel, but only sympathy and pity for her misfortune, and the ruin of her soul, and knew not that this matter was a device of the devil; for verily he is darkness, and feigneth to be light. So he began to commune with the damsel, and talk with her over the oracles of the knowledge of God, and said, "Lady, be thou acquainted with the ever-living God, and perish not in the error of these idols; but know thy Lord, and the Maker of all this world, and thou shalt be happy, the bride of the immortal bridegroom." While he exhorted her with many such-like words, immediately the evil spirit whispered to the girl that she should spread under his feet the nets of deceit to drag his blessed soul into the pit of lust, as he once did to our first parent by means of Eve, thus miserably banishing him, alas! from Paradise and God, and making him to become subject to death in lieu of bliss and everlasting life. When the damsel heard Ioasaph's words fulfilled with all wisdom, being without understanding, she understood them not, but made answer thus, becoming the tongue and mouth-piece of the evil one: "If, sir, thou takest thought for my salvation, and desirest to bring me to thy God, and to save my poor soul, do thou also thyself grant me one request, and straightway I will bid good-bye to my fathers' gods, and join thy God, serving him until my last breath; and thou shalt receive recompense for my salvation, and for my turning to God-ward." "Lady, and what is thy request?" said he. But she, setting her whole self, figure, look and voice in a fashion to charm him, answered, "Be thou joined with me in the bonds of wedlock, and I will joyfully follow out thy behests." "In vain, O Lady," said he, "hast thou made this hard request. For though I earnestly care for thy salvation, and long to heave thee from the depth of perdition, yet to pollute my body through unclean union is grievous for me, and utterly impossible." She, seeking to make the way straight and smooth for him, cried, "Why dost thou, who are so wise, talk thus? Wherefore speakest thou of it as of defilement and shameful intercourse? I am not unacquainted with the Christian books: nay, I have met with many volumes in mine own country, and have heard the discourses of many Christians. What, is it not written in one of your books, 'Marriage is honourable, and the bed undefiled'? and, 'It is better to marry than to burn'? and again, 'What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder'? Do not your Scriptures teach that all the righteous men of old, patriarchs and prophets, were wedded? Is it not written that the mighty Peter, whom ye call Prince of the Apostles, was a married man? Who, then, hath persuaded thee to call this defilement? Methink, sir, thou strayest utterly away from the truth of your doctrines." "Yea, Lady," said he, "all this is even as thou sayest. It is permitted to all who will to live in wedlock, but not to them that have once made promise to Christ to be virgins. For myself, ever since I was cleansed in the laver of Holy Baptism from the sins of my youth and ignorance, I have resolved to present myself pure to Christ, and how shall I dare break my covenants with God?" Again quoth the damsel, "Let this also be thy pleasure, as thou wilt. But fulfil me one other small and trivial desire of mine, if thou art in very truth minded for to save my soul. Keep company with me this one night only, and grant me to revel in thy beauty, and do thou in turn take thy fill of my comeliness. And I give thee my word, that, with daybreak, I will become a Christian, and forsake all the worship of my gods. Not only shalt thou be pardoned for this dealing, but thou shalt receive recompense from thy God because of my salvation, for thy Scripture saith, 'There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.' If, therefore, there is joy in heaven over the conversion of a sinner, shall not great recompense be due to the causer of that conversion? Yea, so it is: and dispute it not. Did not even the Apostles, the leaders of your religion, do many a thing by dispensation, at times transgressing a commandment on account of a greater one? Is not Paul said to have circumcised Timothy on account of a greater dispensation? And yet circumcision hath been reckoned by Christians as unlawful, but yet he did not decline so to do. And many other such things shalt thou find in thy Scriptures. If then in very sooth, as thou sayest, thou seekest to save my soul, fulfil me this my small desire. And although I seek to be joined with thee in the full estate of matrimony, yet, sith this is contrary to thy mind, I will never constrain thee again, but will do everything that liketh thee. For the rest, do not thou utterly abhor me; but hearken to me for the nonce, and thou shalt deliver me from superstitious error, and thou shalt do whatever seemeth thee good hereafter all the days of thy life." Thus spake she; for indeed she had, for her adviser, one to whom she lent a privy ear, and the pirate was well versed in Scripture, being verily the creator and teacher of iniquity. Thus then she spake with fawning words entangling him, right and left, around with her toils and meshes, and she began to shake the citadel of his soul, and to slacken his tension of purpose, and to soften the temper of his mind. Then the sower of these evil tares, and enemy of the righteous, when he saw the young man's heart wavering, was full of joy, and straightway called to the evil spirits that were with him, crying, "Look you how yond damsel hasteth to bring to pass all that we were unable to accomplish! Hither! fall we now furiously upon him: for we shall find none other season so favourable to perform the will of him that sent us." Thus spake this crafty spirit to his hounds: and straightway they lept on that soldier of Christ, disquieting all the powers of his soul, inspiring him with vehement love for the damsel, and kindling within him the fiercest fire of lust. When Ioasaph saw that he was greatly inflamed, and was being led captive into sin, and perceived that his thoughts about the salvation of the damsel and her conversion to God had been set like bait on hook to hide the deed which she purposed, and were troubling him with the suggestion of the enemy, that, for the salvation of a soul, it was not sin for once to lie with a woman, then in the agony of his soul he drew a deep and lamentable groan, and nerved himself to pray, and, with streams of tears running down his cheeks, he cried aloud to him that is able to save them that trust in him, saying, "On thee, O Lord, have I set my trust: let me not be confounded for ever; neither let mine enemies triumph over me, that hold by thy right hand. But stand thou by me at this hour, and according to thy will make straight my path, that thy glorious and dreadful name may be glorified in me thy servant, because thou art blessed for ever. Amen." Now when he had prayed in tears for many hours, and often bent the knee, he sunk down upon the pavement. After he had slumbered awhile, he saw himself carried off by certain dread men, and passing through places which he had never heretofore beheld. He stood in a mighty plain, all a-bloom with fresh and fragrant flowers, where he descried all manner of plants of divers colours, charged with strange and marvellous fruits, pleasant to the eye and inviting to the touch. The leaves of the trees rustled clearly in a gentle breeze, and, as they shook, sent forth a gracious perfume that cloyed not the sense. Thrones were set there, fashioned of the purest gold and costly stones, throwing out never so bright a lustre, and radiant settles among wondrous couches too beautiful to be described. And beside them there were running waters exceeding clear, and delightful to the eye. When these dread men had led him through this great and wondrous plain, they brought him to a city that glistered with light unspeakable, whose walls were of dazzling gold, with high uprear'd parapets, built of gems such as man hath never seen. Ah! who could describe the beauty and brightness of that city? Light, ever shooting from above, filled all her streets with bright rays; and winged squadrons, each of them itself a light, dwelt in this city, making such melody as mortal ear ne'er heard. And Ioasaph heard a voice crying, "This is the rest of the righteous: this the gladness of them that have pleased the Lord." When these dread men had carried him out from thence, they spake of taking him back to earth. But he, that had lost his heart to that scene of joyaunce and heartsease, exclaimed, "Reave me not, reave me not, I pray you, of this unspeakable joy, but grant me also to dwell in one corner of this mighty city." But they said, "It is impossible for thee to be there now; but, with much toil and sweat, thou shalt come hither, if thou constrain thyself." Thus spake they; and again they crossed that mighty plain, and bare him to regions of darkness and utter woe, where sorrow matched the brightness which he had seen above. There was darkness without a ray of light, and utter gloom, and the whole place was full of tribulation and trouble. There blazed a glowing furnace of fire, and there crept the worm of torment. Revengeful powers were set over the furnace, and there were some that were burning piteously in the fire, and a voice was heard, saying, "This is the place of sinners; this the punishment for them that have defiled themselves by foul practices." Hereupon Ioasaph was carried thence by his guides; and, when he came to himself, immediately he trembled from head to foot, and, like a river, his eyes dropped tears, and all the comeliness of that wanton damsel and her fellows was grown more loathsome to him than filth and rottenness. And as he mused in his heart on the memory of the visions, in longing for the good and in terror of the evil, he lay on his bed utterly unable to arise. Then was the king informed of his son's sickness; and he came and asked what ailed him. And Ioasaph told him his vision, and said, "Wherefore hast thou laid a net for my feet, and bowed down my soul? If the Lord had not helped me, my soul had well nigh dwelt in hell. But how loving is God unto Israel, even unto such as are of a true heart! He hath delivered me that am lowly from the midst of the dogs. For I was sore troubled and I fell on sleep: but God my Saviour from on high hath visited me, and showed me what joy they lose that provoke him and to what punishments they subject themselves. And now, O my father, since thou hast stopped thine ears not to hear the voice that will charm thee to good, at least forbid me not to walk the straight road. For this I desire, this I long for, to forsake all, and reach that place, where Barlaam the servant of Christ hath his dwelling, and with him to finish what remaineth of my life. But if thou keep me back by force, thou shalt quickly see me die of grief and despair, and thou shalt be no more called father, nor have me to thy son." XXXI. Again therefore the king was seized with despondency, and again he was like to abjure his whole way of life; and with strange thoughts he went again unto his own palace. But the evil spirits, that had been sent out by Theudas for to attack the young saint, returned to him, and, lovers of leasing though they were, confessed their shameful defeat, for they bare visible tokens of their defeat, upon their evil countenance. Said Theudas, "And be ye so weak and puny that ye cannot get the better of one young stripling?" Then did the evil spirits, constrained, to their sorrow, by the might of God, bring to light the truth, saying, "We cannot abide even the sight of the might of Christ, and the symbol of his Passion, which they call the Cross. For, when that sign is made, immediately all we, the princes of the air, and the rulers of the darkness of the world, are utterly routed and discomfited, even before the sign is completed. When we first fell upon this youth, we vexed him sore; but when he called on Christ for help, and armed him with the sign of the Cross, he routed us in angry wise, and stablished himself in safety. So incontinent we found a weapon, wherewith our chief did once confront the first-made man and prevailed against him. And verily we should have made this young man's hope vain; but again Christ was called on for help, and he consumed us in the fire of his wrath from above, and put us to flight. We have determined to approach the prince no more." Thus, then, did the evil spirits plainly make known unto Theudas all that was come to pass. But the king, perplexed on every side, again summoned Theudas, and said, "Most wisest of men, all that seemed good to thee have we fulfilled, but have found no help therein. But now, if thou hast any device left, we will make trial thereof. Peradventure I shall find some escape from this evil." Then did Theudas ask for a meeting with his son; and on the morrow the king took him and went forth to visit the prince. The king sat down and provoked debate, upbraiding and chiding him for his disobedience and stubbornness of mind. When Ioasaph again maintained his ease, and loudly declared that he valued nothing so much as the love of Christ, Theudas came forward and said, "Wherefore, Ioasaph, dost thou despise our immortal gods, that thou hast departed from their worship, and, thus incensing thy father the king, art become hateful to all the people? Dost thou not owe thy life to the gods? And did they not present thee to the king in answer to his prayer, thus redeeming him from the bondage of childlessness?" While this Theudas, waxen old in wickedness, was putting forth these many vain arguments and useless propositions, and weaving words about the preaching of the Gospel, desiring to turn it into mockery, and magnify idolatry, Ioasaph, the son of the heavenly king, and citizen of that city which the Lord hath builded and not man, waited a while and then said unto him, "Give ear, thou abyss of error, blacker than the darkness that may be felt, thou seed of Babylon, child of the building of the tower of Chalane, whereby the world was confounded, foolish and pitiable dotard, whose sins out-weigh the iniquity of the five cities that were destroyed by fire and brimstone. Why wouldest thou mock at the preaching of salvation, whereby darkness hath been made light, the wanderers have found the way, they that were lost in dire captivity have been recalled. Tell me whether is better? To worship God Almighty, with the only-begotten Son and the Holy Ghost, God increate and immortal, the beginning and well-spring of good, whose power is beyond compare, and his glory incomprehensible, before whom stand thousand thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand of Angels and heavenly hosts, and heaven and earth are full of his glow, by whom all things were brought into being out of nothing, by whom everything is upheld and sustained and ordered by his providence; or to serve deadly devils and lifeless idols, whose glory and boast is in adultery and the corrupting of boys, and other works of iniquity that have been recorded concerning your gods in the books of your superstition? Have ye no modesty, ye miserable men, fuel for unquenchable fire, true copy of the Chaldean race, have ye no shame to worship dead images, the works of men's hands? Ye have carved stone and graven wood and called it God. Next ye take the best bullock out of your folds, or (may be) some other of your fairest beasts, and in your folly make sacrifice to your dead divinity. Your sacrifice is of more value than your idol; for the image was fashioned by man, but the beast was created by God. How much wiser is the unreasonable beast than thou the reasonable man? For it knoweth the hand that feedeth it, but thou knowest not that God by whom thou wast created out of nothing, by whom thou livest, and art preserved; and thou callest God that which thou sawest, but now, smitten by steel, and burnt and moulded in the fire, and beaten with hammers, which thou hast covered around with silver and gold, and raised from the ground, and set on high. Then, falling upon the earth, thou liest baser than the base stone, worshipping not God but thine own dead and lifeless handiwork. Or rather, the idol hath no right to be called even dead, for how can that have died which never lived? Thou shouldest invent some new name worthy of such madness. Thy stone god is broken asunder; thy potsherd god shattered; thy brazen god rusteth; thy gold or silver god is melted down. Aye, and thy gods are sold, some for a paltry, others for a great price. Not their divinity but their material giveth them value. But who buyeth God? Who offereth God for sale? And how is that god that cannot move called God? Seest thou not that the god that standeth cannot sit, and the god that sitteth cannot stand? "Be ashamed, thou fool, and lay thine hand upon thy mouth, thou victim of folly, that commendest such things as these. Estranged from the truth, thou hast been led astray by false images, fashioning statues and attaching to the works of thine own hands the name of God. O wretched man, return to thy senses, and learn that thou art older than the god made by thee. This is downright madness. Being a man, thou hast persuaded thyself that thou canst make God. How can this be? Thou makest not God, but the likeness of a man, or of some beast, sans tongue, sans throat, sans brains, sans inwards, so that it is the similitude neither of a man, nor of a beast, but only a thing of no use and sheer vanity. Why therefore flatterest thou things that cannot feel? Why sittest thou at the feet of things that cannot move and help thee? But for the skill of the mason, or timber-wright, or hammer-smith, thou hadst not had a god. Had there been no warders nigh at hand, thou hadst lost thy god. He, to whom many a populous city of fools prayeth as God to guard it, the same hath suite of guards at hand to save him from being stolen. And if he be of silver or gold, he is carefully guarded; but if of stone or clay or any other less costly ware, he guardeth himself, for with you, no doubt, a god of clay is stronger than one of gold. "Do we not, then, well to laugh you to scorn, or rather to weep over you, as men blind and without understanding? Your deeds are deeds of madness and not of piety. Your man of war maketh to himself an image after the similitude of a warrior, and calleth it Ares. And the lecher, making a symbol of his own soul, deifieth his vice and calleth it Aphrodite. Another, in honour of his own love of wine, fashioneth an idol which he calleth Dionysus. Likewise lovers of all other evil things set up idols of their own lusts; for they name their lusts their gods. And therefore, before their altars, there are lascivious dances, and strains of lewd songs and mad revelries. Who could recount in order their abominable doings? Who could endure to defile his lips by the repeating of their filthy communications? But these are manifest to all, even if we hold our peace. These be thine objects of worship, O Theudas, who art more senseless than thine idols. Before these thou biddest me fall down and worship. This verily is the counsel of thine iniquity and senseless mind. But thou thyself shalt be like unto them, and all such as put their trust in them. "As for me, I will serve my God, and to him will I wholly sacrifice myself, to God, the Creator and protector of all things through our Lord Jesus Christ, my hope, by whom we have access unto the Father of lights, in the Holy Ghost: by whom we have been redeemed from bitter slavery by his blood. For if he had not humbled himself so far as to take the form of a servant, we had not received the adoption of sons. But he humbled himself for our sake, not considering the Godhead a thing to be grasped, but he remained that which he was, and took on himself that which he was not, and conversed with men, and mounted the Cross in his flesh, and was laid in the sepulchre by the space of three days; he descended into hell, and brought out from thence them whom the fierce prince of this world held prisoners, sold into bondage by sin. What harm then befell him thereby that thou thinkest to make mock of him? Seest thou not yonder sun, into how many a barren and filthy place he darteth his rays? Upon how many a stinking corpse doth he cast his eye? Hath he therefore any stain of reproach? Doth he not dry and shrivel up filth and rottenness, and give light to dark places, himself the while unharmed and incapable of receiving any defilement? And what of fire? Doth it not take iron, which is black and cold in itself, and work it into white heat and harden it? Doth it receive any of the properties of the iron? When the iron is smitten and beaten with hammers is the fire any the worse, or doth it in any way suffer harm? "If, then, these created and corruptible things take no hurt from contact with things commoner than themselves, with what reason dost thou, O foolish and stony-hearted man, presume to mock at me for saying that the Son, the Word of God, never departing from the Father's glory, but remaining the same God, for the salvation of men hath taken upon him the flesh of man, to the end that he may make men partakers of his divine and intelligent nature and may lead our substance out of the nether parts of hell, and honour it with heavenly glory; to the end that by taking of our flesh he may ensnare and defeat the ruler of the darkness of this world, and free our race from his tyranny. Wherefore, I tell thee, without suffering he met the suffering of the Cross, presenting therein his two natures. For, as man, he was crucified; but, as God, he darkened the sun, shook the earth, and raised from their graves many bodies that had fallen asleep. Again, as man, he died; but, as God, after that he had harried hell, he rose again. Wherefore also the prophet cried, Hell is in bitterness at having met thee below: for it was put to bitter derision, supposing that it had received a mere man, but finding God, and being made suddenly empty and led captive. Therefore, as God, he rose again, and ascended into heaven, from whence he was never parted. And our nature, so worthless and senseless beyond everything, so graceless and dishonoured, hath he made higher than all things, and established it upon a throne of honour, with immortal honour shining round. What harm therefore came to God, the Word, that thou blasphemest without a blush? Go to! Better were it to make this confession, and to worship such a God, who is good and a lover of mankind, who commandeth righteousness, enjoineth continency, ordaineth chastity, teacheth mercy, giveth faith, preacheth peace; who is called and is himself the very truth, the very love, the very goodness. Him were it not better to worship than thy gods of many evil passions, of shameful names and shameful lives? Woe unto you that are more stony-hearted than the stones, and more senseless than the senseless, sons of perdition, inheritors of darkness! But blessed am I, and all Christian folk, having a good God and a lover of mankind! They that serve him, though, for a season in this life they endure evil, yet shall they reap the immortal harvest of recompense in the kingdom of unending and divine felicity." XXXII. Theudas said unto him, "Behold, it is evident that our religion was instituted by many mighty wise men, and interpreters, marvellous in virtue and learning; and all the kings and rulers of the earth have received it as good and sure in every point. But that of the Galileans was preached by some country peasants, poor and common men, a mere handful, not exceeding twelve in number. How then should one prefer the preaching of these few obscure countrymen to the ordinance of the many that are mighty and brilliantly wise? What is the proof that your teachers be right and the others wrong?" Again the king's son made answer, "Belike, Theudas, thou art the ass of the proverb, that heard but heeded not the harp; or rather the adder that stoppeth her ears, that she may not hear the voice of the charmers. Well, therefore, spake the prophet concerning thee, If the Ethiopian can change his skin, or the leopard his spots, then mayest thou also do good, that hast been taught to do evil. Thou fool and blind, why doth not the force of truth bring thee to thy senses? The very fact that your foul idols are commended by many men of marvellous wisdom, and established by kings, while the Gospel is preached by a few men of no mark, sheweth the might of our religion and the weakness and deadliness of your wicked doctrines. Because your side, despite its having wise advocates and mighty champions, is dying down, and waxing weak, whilst our religion, though possessed of no human help, shineth from afar brighter than the sun, and hath won the fulness of the world. If it had been set up by orators and philosophers, and had had kings for its succour, thou that art evil wouldst have found occasion to declare that it was wholly of human power. But now, seeing, as thou dost, that the holy Gospel, though composed but by common fishermen, and persecuted by every tyrant, hath after this won the whole world for its sound hath gone out into all lands, and its words into the ends of the world--what canst thou say but that it is a divine and unconquerable power establishing its own cause for the salvation of mankind? But what proof seekest thou, O fool, that thy prophets are liars and ours true, better than the truths I have told thee? Except thy cause had been vain talk and falsehood, it could not, possessing such human support as it did, have suffered loss and decline. For he saith, 'I have seen the ungodly in great power, and exalted like the cedars of Libanus: and I went by and lo, he was gone: and I sought him but his place could nowhere be found.' "Concerning you, the defenders of idolatry, were these words spoken by the prophet. For a very, very little while and your place shall not be found: but, like as the smoke vanisheth, and like as wax melteth in face of the fire, so shall ye fail. But, as touching the divine wisdom of the Gospel, thus saith the Lord, 'Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.' And again the Psalmist saith, 'Thou, Lord, in the beginning hast laid the foundation of the earth; and the heavens are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou endurest; and they all shall wax old as doth a garment, and as a vesture shalt thou fold them up, and they shall be changed, but thou art the same, and thy years shall not fail!' And those divine preachers of the coming of Christ, those wise fishers of the world, whose nets drew all men from the depths of deceit, whom thou, in thy vileness and bondage to sin, dost vilify, did by signs and wonders and manifold powers shine as the sun in the world, giving sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, motion to the lame, and life to the dead. Their shadows alone healed all the ailments of men. The devils, whom ye dread as gods, they not only cast forth from men's bodies, but even drave out of the world itself by the sign of the cross, whereby they destroyed all sorcery, and rendered witchcraft powerless. And these men, by curing every disease of man by the power of Christ, and renewing all creation, are rightly admired as preachers of truth by all men of sound mind. But what hast thou thyself to say of thy wise men and orators, whose wisdom God hath made foolish, the advocates of the devil? What worthy memorial have they bequeathed to the world? Tell me. And what canst thou tell of them but unreason and shamefulness, and vain craft that with glosing words concealeth the mire of their unsavoury worship? "Moreover such of your poets as have been able to soar a little above this great madness have said, with more truth, that they, which are called gods, were men; and because certain of them had been rulers of regions and cities, and others had done something of no great account in their lifetime, men were so deceived as to call them gods. It standeth on record that the man Seruch was the first to bring in the use of images. For it is said that in the old times he honoured those who had achieved some memorable deed of courage, friendship, or any other such virtue with statues and pillars. But after generations forgat the intention of their ancestors: and, whereas it was only for remembrance sake that they had set up statues and pillars to the doers of noble deeds, now they were, little by little, led astray through the working of the prince of evil, the devil, and treated as immortal gods men of like passions and corruptible as themselves and further devised sacrifices and drink-offerings for them,--the devils, thou mayest know, taking up their abode in these images and diverting to themselves these honours and sacrifices. Accordingly these devils persuade men, who refuse to have God in their knowledge, to consider them as gods for two reasons: first, that they may be glorified by this title (for they are puffed up with arrogance, and delight to be honoured as gods) next, that they may drag their poor dupes into the unquenchable fire prepared for themselves. Hence they teach men all iniquity and filthiness, seeing that they have once subjected themselves to their deceit. So when men had arrived at this pinnacle of evil, they, being darkened, set up every man an idol of his own vice and his own lust, and call it a god. They were abominable in their error, more abominable in the absurdity of the objects that they chose to worship, until the Lord came, and of his tender mercy redeemed us that trust in him from this wicked and deadly error, and taught men the true knowledge of God. For there is no salvation except in him, and there is none other God, neither in heaven, nor in earth, except him only, the Maker of all, who moveth all things by the word of his power: for he saith, 'By the word of the Lord were the heavens made stedfast, and all the power of them by the breath of his mouth,' and, 'All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made.'" When Theudas had heard these sayings, and seen that the word was full of divine wisdom, like one thunder-struck, he was smitten dumb. Now late in time, and with difficulty, came he to understand his own misery, for the word of salvation had touched the darkened vision of his heart, and there fell upon him deep remorse for his past sins. He renounced the error of his idols, and ran towards the light of godliness, and from henceforth departed from his miserable life, and made himself as bitter an enemy of vile affections and sorceries as he before had pledged himself their devoted friend, For at this season he stood up in the midst of the assembly, and cried with a loud voice, saying, "Verily, O king, the Spirit of God dwelleth in thy son. Verily, we are defeated, and have no further apology, and have no strength to face the words that he hath uttered. Mighty therefore, in sooth, is the God of the Christians: mighty is their faith: mighty are their mysteries." Then he turned him round toward the king's son and said, "Tell me now, thou man, whose soul is enlightened, will Christ accept me, if I forsake my evil deeds and turn to him?" "Yea," said that preacher of truth; "Yea, he receiveth thee and all that turn to him. And he not only receiveth thee, but he goeth out to meet thee returning out of the way of iniquity, as though it were a son returning from a far country. And he falleth on his neck and kisseth him, and he strippeth him of the shameful robe of sin, and putteth on him a cloak of brightest glory, making mystic gladness for the powers on high, keeping feast for the return of the lost sheep. The Lord himself saith, 'There is exceeding great joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth': and again, 'I am not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.' And he saith also by the Prophet, 'As I live, saith the Lord, I have no pleasure in the death of the sinner, and the ungodly, but that he should turn from his way and live. Turn ye, turn ye from your evil way. And why will ye die, O house of Israel?' For the wickedness of the wicked shall not hurt him in the day that he turneth from his wickedness, if he do righteousness and walk in the statutes of life, he shall surely live; he shall not die. None of his sins which he hath committed shall be remembered against him. Because he hath done the decree of righteousness, he shall live thereby. And again he crieth by the mouth of another prophet, 'Wash you, make you clean; put away the evil of your doings from before mine eyes; cease to do evil: learn to do well. Come now, and let us reason together: though your sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow; though they be red like crimson, I will make them white as wool.' Such therefore being the promises made by God to them that turn to him, tarry not, O thou man, nor make delay: but draw nigh to Christ, our loving God, and be enlightened, and thy face shall not be ashamed. For as soon as thou goest down into the laver of Holy Baptism, all the defilement of the old man, and all the burden of thy many sins, is buried in the water, and passeth into nothingness, and thou comest up from thence a new man, pure from all pollution, with no spot or wrinkle of sin upon thee; and thenceforward it is in thy power ever to keep for thyself the purity that thou gainest hereby through the tender mercy of our God." When Theudas had been thus instructed, he went out immediately and gat him to his evil den, and took his magical books, and, because they were the beginnings of all evil, and the storehouses of devilish mysteries, burnt them with fire. And he betook himself to the cave of that same holy man, to whom Nachor also had resorted, and told him that which had befallen him, casting dust upon his head, and groaning deeply, and watering himself with his tears, and telling the aged man the full tale of his loathly deeds. He, well skilled in the saving of a soul and the snatching it from the jaw of the wily serpent, charmed away his sorrow with words of salvation, and pledged him forgiveness and promised him a merciful Judge. Then, after he had instructed and charged him to fast many days, he cleansed him in Holy Baptism. And all the days of his life Theudas heartily repented him of his misdeeds, with tears and sighs seeking the favour of God. XXXIII. As for the king, when things fortuned thus, he was completely bewildered, and plainly showed his sore vexation and tumult of soul. So again he called all his senators together, and considered what means were still his to deal with his son. Many men put forward many counsels, but that Araches, of whom we have spoken, the most famous in his office, and first of his councillors, spake unto the king, saying, "What was there to be done with thy son, O king, that we have not done, to induce him to follow our doctrines and serve our gods? But, as I perceive, we aim at the impossible. By nature, or, it may be, by chance, he is contentious and implacable. Now, if it be thy purpose to deliver him to torture and punishment, thou shalt do contrary to nature, and be no more called a father; and thou shalt lose thy son, willing, as he is, to lay down his life for Christ his sake. This, then, alone remaineth: to divide thy kingdom with him, and entrust him with the dominion of that part which falleth to his lot; and if the course of events, and the care of the business of life, draw him to embrace our aim and way, then the thing shall be according to our purpose; for habits, firmly established in the soul, are difficult to obliterate, and yield quicker to persuasion than to violence. But if he shall continue in the Christian religion, yet shall it be some solace to time in thy distress, that thou hast not lost thy son." Thus spake Araches, and all bare witness that they welcomed his proposal. Therefore also the king agreed that this matter should thus be settled. So at day-break he called his son, and said unto him, "This is now my latest word with thee, my son. Unless thou be obedient thereto, and in this way heal my heart, know thou well, that I shall no longer spare thee." When his son enquired the meaning of his word, he said, "Since, after all my labours, I find thee in all points unyielding to the persuasion of my words, come now; I will divide with thee my kingdom, and make thee king over the half-part thereof; and thou shalt be free, from now, to go whatsoever way thou wilt without fear." He, though his saintly soul perceived that the king was casting yet another snare to trip his purpose, resolved to obey, in order that he might escape his hands, and take the journey that he desired. So he answered and said, "I have indeed been longing to go in quest of that man of God that pointed out to me the way of salvation, and, bidding farewell to everything, to pass the rest of my life in his company. But, father, since thou sufferest me not to fulfil my heart's desire, I will obey thee herein: for where there is no clear danger of perdition and estrangement from God, it is right to obey one's father." The king was filled with exceeding great joy, and divided all the country under his sovranty into two parts, and appointed his son king, and adorned him with the diadem, and arrayed him in all the splendour of kingship, and sent him forth with a magnificent body-guard into the kingdom set apart for him. And he bade his rulers and governors and satraps, every one that would, to depart together with his son the king. And he set apart a mighty and populous city for his kingdom, and gave him everything that befitted a king. Thus then did Ioasaph receive the power of kingship; and when he had reached that city, where royal state had been prepared for him, on every tower of his city he set up the sign of his Lord's passion, the venerable Cross of Christ. And in person he besieged the idolatrous temples and altars, and razed them to the ground, and uncovered their foundations, leaving no trace of their ungodliness. And in the middle of the city he upreared for Christ, his Lord, a temple mighty and passing fair, and he bade the people there often to resort thither, and offer their worship to God by the veneration of the Cross, himself standing in the midst in the presence of all, and earnestly giving himself unto prayer. And as many as were under his hand he admonished and exhorted, and did everything to tear them away from superstitious error, and to unite them to Christ; and he pointed out the deceits of idolatry, and proclaimed the preaching of the Gospel, and recounted the things concerning the condescension of God, the Word, and preached the marvels of his coming, and made known his sufferings on the Cross whereby we were saved, and the power of his Resurrection, and his Ascension into heaven. Moreover he declared the terrible day of his dreadful second coming, and the bliss laid up for the righteous, and the punishments awaiting sinners. All these truths he expounded with kindly mien and gentle words. For he was not minded to be reverenced and feared for the grandeur of his power and kingly magnificence, but rather for his humility and meekness. Hereby also he more easily drew all men unto himself, being verily marvellous in his acts, and equitable and modest in spirit. Wherefore his power, being strongly reinforced by his gentleness and equity, caused all men to yield themselves to his words. What wonder, then, if, in a little while, all his subjects, in city or country, were so well initiated into his inspired teachings, that they renounced the errors of their many gods, and broke away from idolatrous drink-offerings and abominations, and were joined to the true faith and were created anew by his doctrine, and added to the household of Christ? And all, who for fear of Ioasaph's father had been shut up in mountains and dens, priests and monks, and some few bishops, came forth from their hiding places and resorted to him gladly. He himself would meet and receive with honour those who had fallen upon such tribulation and distress, for Christ his sake, and bring them to his own palace, washing their feet, and cleansing their matted hair, and ministering to them in every way. Then he dedicated his newly built church, and therein appointed for chief-priest one of the bishops that had suffered much, and had lost his own see, on account of his faith in Christ, an holy man, and learned in the canons of the Church, whose heart was fulfilled with heavenly zeal. And forthwith, when he had made ready a rude font, he bade baptize them that were turning to Christ. And so they were baptized, first the rulers and the men in authority; next, the soldiers on service and the rest of the multitude. And they that were baptized not only received health in their souls, but indeed as many as were afflicted with bodily ailments and imperfections cast off all their trouble, and came up from the holy font pure in soul, and sound in body, reaping an harvest of health for soul and body alike. Wherefore also from all quarters multitudes flocked to King Ioasaph, desirous to be instructed by him in godliness. And all idolatrous images were utterly demolished, and all their wealth and temple treasure was taken from them, and in their stead holy courts were built for God. For these King Ioasaph dedicated the riches and costly vestments and treasures of the idolatrous temples, thereby making this worthless and superfluous material fit for service, and profitable. And the foul fiends that dwelt in their altars and temples were rigorously chased away and put to flight; and these, in the hearing of many, loudly lamented the misfortune that had overtaken them. And all the region round about was freed from their dark deceit, and illuminated with the light of the blameless Christian faith. And, soothly, the king was a good example to all; and he inflamed and kindled the hearts of many to be of the same mind with himself. For such is the nature of authority. Its subjects alway conform to its likeness, and are wont to love the same objects, and to practise the pursuits which they perceive to be pleasing to their governor. Hence, God helping, religion grew and increased amongst them. The king was wholly dependent on the commandments of Christ and on his love, being a steward of the word of grace, and pilot to the souls of many, bringing them to safe anchorage in the haven of God. For he knew that this, afore all things, is the work of a king, to teach men to fear God and keep righteousness. Thus did he, training himself to be king over his own passions, and, like a good pilot, keeping a firm hold of the helm of good government for his subjects. For this is the end of good kingship, to be king and lord over pleasure--which end also he achieved. Of the nobility of his ancestors, or the royal splendour around him, he was in no wise proud, knowing that we all have one common forefather, made of clay, and that, whether rich or poor, we are all of the same moulding. He ever abased his soul in deepest humility, and thought on the blessedness of the world to come, and considered himself a stranger and pilgrim in this world, but realised that that was his real treasure which he should win after his departure hence. Now, since all went well with him, and since he had delivered all the people from their ancient and ancestral error, and made them servants of him who redeemed us from evil servitude by his own precious blood, he turned his thoughts to his next task, the virtue of almsgiving. Temperance and righteousness he had already attained; he wore on his brow the crown of temperance, and wrapped about him the purple of righteousness. He called to mind the uncertainty of earthly riches, how they resemble the running of river waters. Therefore made he haste to lay up his treasure where neither 'moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves do not break through nor steal.' So he began to distribute all his money to the poor, sparing naught thereof. He knew that the possessor of great authority is bound to imitate the giver of that authority, according to his ability; and herein he shall best imitate God, if he hold nothing in higher honour than mercy. Before all gold and precious stone he stored up for himself the treasure of almsgiving; treasure, which here gladdeneth the heart by the hope of enjoyment to come, and there delighteth it with the taste of the hoped-for bliss. After this he searched the prisons, and sought out the captives in mines, or debtors in the grip of their creditors; and by generous largesses to all he proved a father to all, orphans, and widows, and beggars, a loving and good father, for he deemed that by bestowing blessings on these he won a blessing for himself. Being endowed with spiritual riches, and, in sooth, a perfect king, he gave liberally to all that were in need, for he hoped to receive infinitely more, when the time should come for the recompense of his works. Now, in little while, the fame of Ioasaph was blazoned abroad; and led, as it were by the scent of sweet ointment, all men flocked to him daily, casting off their poverty of soul and body: and his name was on every man's lips. It was not fear and oppression that drew the people to him, but desire and heart-felt love, which by God's blessing and the king's fair life had been planted in their hearts. Then, too, did his father's subjects begin to come to him, and, laying aside all error, received the Gospel of truth. And the house of Ioasaph grew and waxed strong, but the house of Abenner waned and grew weak, even as the Book of the Kings declareth concerning David and Saul. XXXIV. When king Abenner saw this, though late and loth, he came to his senses, and renounced his false gods with all their impotence and vain deceit. Again he called an assembly of his chief counsellors, and brought to light the thoughts of his heart. As they confirmed his words (for the day-spring from on high had visited them, the Saviour who had heard the prayer of his servant Ioasaph), it pleased the king to signify the same to his son. Therefore on the morrow he wrote a letter to Ioasaph, running thus: "King Abenner to his well-beloved son Ioasaph, greeting. Dearest son, many thoughts have been stealing into my soul, and rule it with a rod of iron. I see our state vanishing, like as smoke vanisheth, but thy religion shining brighter than the sun; and I have come to my senses, and know that the words which thou hast ever spoken unto me are true, and that a thick cloud of sin and wickedness did then cover us, so that we were unable to discern the truth, and recognize the Creator of all. Nay, but we shut our eyes, and would not behold the light which thou didst enkindle more brightly for us. Much evil did we do unto thee, and many of the Christians, alas! did we destroy; who, strengthened by the power that aided them, finally triumphed over our cruelty. But now we have removed that dense mist from our eyes, and see some small ray of truth, and there cometh on us repentance of our misdeeds. But a new cloud of despair would overshadow it; despair at the multitude of mine offences, because I am now abominable and unacceptable to Christ, being a rebel and a foeman unto him. What, then, sayest thou, dearest son, hereto? Make known to me thine answer, and teach me that am thy father what I should do, and lead me to the knowledge of my true weal." When Ioasaph had received this letter, and read the words therein, his soul was filled with mingled joy and amazement. Forthwith he entered his closet, and falling on his face before the image of his Master, watered the ground with his tears, giving thanks to his Lord and confessing him, and tuning lips of exultation to sing an hymn of praise, saying: "I will magnify thee, O God, my King, and I will praise thy name for ever and ever. Great art thou O Lord, and marvellous-worthy to be praised, and of thy greatness there is no end. Who can express thy noble acts, or show forth all thy praise, who hast turned the hard rock into a standing water and the flint-stone into a springing well? For behold this my father's flinty and more than granite heart is at thy will melted as wax; because thou art able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. I thank thee, Lord, thou lover of men, and God of pity, that thou hast been, and art, long-suffering towards our offences, and hast suffered us until now to go unpunished. Long have we deserved to be cast away from thy face, and made a by-word on earth, as were the sinful inhabiters of the five cities, consumed with fire and brimstone; but thy marvellous long-suffering hath dealt graciously with us. I give thanks unto thee, vile and unworthy though I be, and insufficient of myself to glorify thy greatness. And, by thine infinite compassions, I pray thee, Lord Jesu Christ, Son and Word of the invisible Father, who madest all things by thy word, and sustainest them by thy will; who hast delivered us thine unworthy servants from the bondage of the arch-fiend our foe: thou that wast stretched upon the Rood, and didst bind the strong man, and award everlasting freedom to them that lay bound in his fetters: do thou now also stretch forth thine invisible and almighty hand, and, at the last, free thy servant my father from that cruel bondage of the devil. Show him full clearly that thou art the ever living true God, and only King, eternal and immortal. Behold, O Lord, with favourable and kindly eye, the contrition of my heart; and, according to thine unerring promise, be with me that acknowledge and confess thee the Maker and protector of all creation. Let there be a well of water within me springing up, and let utterance be given unto me that I may open my mouth, and a mind well fixed in thee, the chief corner-stone, that I, thine unprofitable servant, may be enabled to preach to my father, as is right, the mystery of thine Incarnation, and by thy power deliver him from the vain deceit of wicked devils, and bring him unto thee his God and Lord, who willest not the death of us sinners, but waitest for us to return and repent, because thou art glorified for ever and ever. Amen." When he had thus prayed, and received fulness of assurance that he should not miscarry in his desire, he took courage by the tender mercy of Christ, and arose thence, with his royal bodyguard, and arrived at his father's palace. When it was told unto his father, "Thy son is come," he went forth straightway for to meet him, and embraced and kissed him lovingly, and made exceeding great joy, and held a general feast in honour of the coming of his son. And afterward, they two were closeted together. But how tell of all that the son spake with his father, and of all the wisdom of his speech? And what was that speech but the words put into his mouth by the Holy Ghost, by whom the fishermen enclosed the whole world in their nets for Christ and the unlearned are found wiser than the wise. This Holy Spirit's grace and wisdom taught Ioasaph to speak with the king his father, enlightening him with the light of knowledge. Before now he had bestowed much labour to drag his father from superstitious error, leaving nothing unsaid and nothing undone to win him over, but he seemed to be twanging on a broken string, and speaking to deaf ears. But when the Lord looked upon the lowliness of his servant Ioasaph, and, in answer to his prayer, opened the closed gates of his father's heart (for it is said, he will fulfil the desire of them that fear him, and will hear their cry), then the king easily understood the things that were spoken; so that, when a convenient season came, through the grace of Christ, this son triumphed over those evil spirits that had lorded it over the soul of his father, and clean freed him from their error, and made the word of salvation clearly known unto him, and joined him to the living God on high. Ioasaph took up his tale from the beginning, and expounded to his father great and marvellous things which he knew not, which he had never heard with the ears of his heart; and he told him many weighty sayings concerning God, and showed him righteousness: to wit that there is no other God in heaven above, nor in the earth beneath, except the one God, revealed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And he made known unto him many mysteries of divine knowledge; and amongst them he told him the history of creation, visible and invisible, how the Creator brought every thing out of nothing, and how he formed man after his own image and likeness and endowed him with power of free-will, and gave him Paradise to his enjoyment, charging him only to abstain from one thing, the tree of knowledge; and how, when man had broken his commandment, he banished him out of Paradise; and how man, fallen from union with God, stumbled into these manifold errors, becoming the slave of sins, and subject unto death through the tyranny of the devil, who, having once taken men captive, hath made them utterly forget their Lord and God, and hath persuaded them to serve him instead, by the abominable worshipping of idols. So our Maker, moved with compassion, through the good-will of the Father, and the co-operation of the Holy Ghost, was pleased, for our sakes, to be born of an holy Virgin, Mary, the mother of God, and he, that cannot suffer, was acquainted with sufferings. On the third day he rose again from the dead, and redeemed us from our first penalty, and restored to us our first glory. When he ascended into the heavens, from whence he had descended, he raised us up together with him; and thence, we believe that he shall come again, to raise up his own handiwork; and he will recompense every man according to his works. Moreover Ioasaph instructed his father concerning the kingdom of heaven that awaiteth them that are worthy thereof, and the joy unspeakable. Thereto he added the torment in store for the wicked, the unquenchable fire, the outer darkness, the undying worm and whatsoever other punishment the servants of sin have laid up in store for themselves. All these things set he forth in many words, which bore witness that the grace of the Spirit was dwelling richly within him. Then he described the uncharted sea of the love of God towards mankind, and how he is ready to accept the repentance of them that turn to him; and how there is no sin too great for his tender mercy, if we will but repent. And when he had confirmed these truths by many an example, and testimony of Scripture, he made an end of speaking. XXXV. King Abenner was pricked to the heart by this inspired wisdom and with loud voice and fervent heart confessed Christ his Saviour, and forthwith forsook all superstitious error. He venerated the sign of the life-giving Cross in the sight of all and, in the hearing of all, proclaimed our Lord Jesus Christ to be God. By telling in full the tale of his former ungodliness, and of his own cruelty and blood-thirstiness toward the Christians, he proved himself a great power for religion. So here was proved in fact, the saying of Paul; that where sin abounded, there did grace much more abound. While then the learned Ioasaph was speaking of God, and of piety towards him, to the dukes and satraps and all the people there assembled, and was as it were with a tongue of fire piping unto them a goodly ode, the grace of the Holy Spirit descended upon them, and moved them to give glory to God, so that all the multitude cried aloud with one voice, "Great is the God of the Christians, and there is none other God but our Lord Jesus Christ, who, together with the Father and Holy Ghost, is glorified." Waxen full of heavenly zeal, King Abenner made a sturdy assault on the idols, wrought of silver and gold, that were within his palace, and tore them down to the ground. Then he brake them into small pieces, and distributed them to the poor, thus making that which had been useless useful. Furthermore he and his son besieged the idols' temples and altars and levelled them even to the ground, and in their stead, and to the honour of God, built holy courts. And not only in the city but throughout all the country also, thus did they in their zeal. And the evil spirits that dwelt in those altars were driven forth with shrieks, and cried out in terror at the invincible power of our God. And all the region round about, and the greater part of the neighbour nations, were led, as by the hand, to the true Faith. Then came the holy Bishop, of whom we have spoken, and King Abenner was instructed, and made perfect with Holy Baptism, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. And Ioasaph received him as he came up from the Holy Font, in this strange way appearing as the begetter of his own father, and proving the spiritual father to him that begat him in the flesh: for he was the son of his heavenly Father, and verily divine fruit of that divine Branch, which saith, "I am the vine, ye are the branches." Thus King Abenner, being born again of water and of the spirit, rejoiced with joy unspeakable, and with him all the city and the region round about received Holy Baptism, and they that were before darkness now became children of light. And every disease, and every assault of evil spirits was driven far from the believers, and all were sane and sound in body and in soul. And many other miracles were wrought for the confirmation of the Faith. Churches too were built, and the bishops, that had been hiding for fear, discovered themselves, and received again their own churches, whilst others were chosen from the priests and monks, to shepherd the flock of Christ. But King Abenner, having thus forsaken his former disgraceful life, and repented of his evil deeds, handed over to his son the rule of all his kingdom. He himself dwelt in solitude, continually casting dust on his head, and groaning for very heaviness, and watering his face with his tears, being alone, communing with him who is everywhere present and imploring him to forgive his sins. And he abased himself to such a depth of contrition and humility, that he refused to name the name of God with his own lips, and was scarce brought by his son's admonitions to make so bold. Thus the king passed through the good change and entered the road that leadeth to virtue, so that his righteousness now surpassed his former sins of ignorance. For four years did he live thus in repentance and tears and virtuous acts, and then fell into the sickness whereof he died. But when the end drew nigh, he began to fear and to be dismayed, calling to remembrance the evil that he had wrought. But with comfortable words Ioasaph sought to ease the distress that had fallen on him, saying, "Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my father, and wily art thou so disquieted within time? Set thy hope on God, and give him thanks, who is the hope of all the ends of the earth, and of them that remain in the sea afar, who crieth by the mouth of his prophet, 'Wash you, make you clean: put away from before mine eyes the wickedness of your souls; learn to do well'; and 'Though your sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow; though they be red like crimson, I will make them as wool.' Fear not, therefore, O my father, neither be of doubtful mind: for the sins of them that turn to God prevail not against his infinite goodness. For these, however many, are subject to measure and number: but measure and number cannot limit his goodness. It is impossible then for that which is subject to measure to exceed the unmeasurable." With such comfortable words did Ioasaph cheer his soul, and bring him to a good courage. Then his father stretched out his hands, and gave him thanks and prayed for him, blessing the day whereon Ioasaph was born, and said "Dearest child, yet not child of me, but of mine heavenly Father, with what gratitude can I repay thee? With what words of blessings may I bless thee? What thanks shall I offer God for thee? I was lost, and was found through thee: I was dead in sin and am alive again: an enemy, and rebel against God, and am reconciled with him. What reward therefore shall I give thee for all these benefits? God is he that shall make the due recompense." Thus saying, he pressed many kisses on his beloved son; then, when he had prayed, and said, "Into thy hands, O God, thou lover of men, do I commit my spirit," he committed his soul unto the Lord in penitence and peace. Now, when Ioasaph had honoured with his tears his father that was dead, and had reverently cared for his body, he buried him in a sepulchre wherein devout men lay; not indeed clad in royal raiment, but robed in the garment of penitence. Standing on the sepulchre, and lifting up his hands to heaven, the tears streaming in floods from his eyes, he cried aloud unto God saying, "O God, I thank thee, King of glory, alone mighty and immortal, that thou hast not despised my petition, and hast not held thy peace at my tears, but hast been pleased to turn this thy servant, my father, from the way of wickedness, and to draw him to thyself, the Saviour of all, departing him from the deceitfulness of idolatry, and granting him to acknowledge thee, who art the very God and lover of souls. And now, O my Lord and God, whose ocean of goodness is uncharted, set him in that place where much grass is, in a place of refreshment, where shineth the light of thy countenance. Remember not his old offences; but, according to the multitude of thy mercies, blot out the handwriting of his sins, and destroy the tablets of his debts, and set him at peace with thy Saints whom he slew with fire and sword. Charge them not to be bitter against him. For all things are possible with thee, the Lord of all, save only to withhold pity from them that turn not unto thee; this is impossible. For thy pity is poured out upon all men, and thou savest them that call upon thee, Lord Jesu Christ, because glory becometh thee for ever and ever. Amen." Such were the prayers and intercessions that he made unto God, by the space of seven full days, never leaving the grave, and never thinking of meat or drink, and taking no refreshment of sleep: but he watered the ground with his tears, and continued praying and moaning unceasingly. But, on the eighth day, he went back to his palace and distributed amongst the poor all his wealth and riches, so that not one person was left in want. XXXVI. In a few days, after he had ended this ministry, and emptied all his coffers, in order that the burden of his money might not hinder him from entering in at the narrow gate, on the fortieth day after his father's decease, and in remembrance of him, he called together all his officers, and those who wore soldiers' attire, and of the citizens not a few. Sitting in the front, according to custom, in the audience of all he said, "Lo, as ye see, Abenner, my father the king, hath died like any beggar. Neither wealth nor kingly glory, nor I his loving son, nor any of his kith and kindred, has availed to help him, or to save him from the sentence without reprieve. But he is gone to yonder judgement seat, to give account of his life in this world, carrying with him no advocate whatsoever, except his deeds, good or bad. And the same law is ordained by nature for every man born of woman, and there is no escape. Now, therefore, hearken unto me, friends and brethren, people and holy heritage of the Lord, whom Christ our God hath purchased with his own precious blood, and delivered from the ancient error, and bondage of the adversary. Ye yourselves know my manner of life among you; that ever since I knew Christ, and was counted worthy to become his servant, I have hated all things, and loved him only, and how this was my desire, to escape from the tempest and vain tumult of the world, and commune alone with him, and in undisturbed peace of soul serve my God and Master. But my father's opposition held me back, and the command that biddeth us to honour our fathers. So, by the grace and help of God, I have not laboured in vain, nor spent these days for naught, I have brought my father nigh to Christ, and have taught you all to know the one true God, the Lord of all; and yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me, which rescued me also from superstitious error, and from the worship of idols, and freed you, O my people, from cruel captivity. So now it is high time to fulfil the service that I promised to God; high time to depart thitherward, where he himself shall lead me, where I may perform my vows which I made unto him. Now, therefore, look you out a man whom ye will, to be your leader and king; for by this time ye have been conformed to the will of the Lord, and of his commandments nothing hath been hidden from you. Walk ye therein; turn not aside, neither to the right hand, nor to the left, and the God of peace be with you all!" When all that company and the common people heard thereof, anon there arose a clamour, an uproar, and a mighty cry and confusion, all weeping like orphans and bewailing their loss. Lamenting bitterly, they protested with oaths and with tears, that they would never let him go, but would restrain him and not suffer in any wise his departure. While the common people, and they in authority, were thus crying aloud, the king broke in, and beckoned with his hand to the multitude and charged them to keep silence. He declared that he gave in to their instancy, and dismissed them still grieving, and bearing on their cheeks the signs of sorrow. And Ioasaph did thus. There was one of the senators first in favour with Ioasaph, a man honoured for his godliness and dignity, Barachias by name, who, as hath been already told, when Nachor, feigning to be Barlaam, was disputing with the philosophers, alone was ready to stand by Nachor and fight for him, for his heart was fired with heavenly love. Him the king took apart, and spake gently with him, and earnestly besought him to receive the kingdom, and, in the fear of God, to shepherd his people; in order that he himself might take the journey that he desired. But Barachias would put aside and reject his offer, saying, "O king, how wrongful is thy judgement, and thy word contrary to divine command! If thou hast learned to love thy neighbour as thyself, with what right art thou eager to shift the burden off thy back and lay it upon mine? If it be good to be king, keep the good to thy self: but, if it be a stone of stumbling and rock of offence to thy soul, why put it in my pathway and seek to trip me up?" When Ioasaph perceived that he spake thus, and that his purpose was fixed, he ceased from communing with him. And now, at about the dead of night, he wrote his people a letter, full of much wisdom, expounding to them all godliness; telling them what they should think concerning God, what life, what hymns and what thanksgiving they should offer unto him. Next, he charged them to receive none other than Barachias to be ruler of the kingdom. Then left he in his bed-chamber the roll containing his letter, and, unobserved of all, went forth from his palace. But he might not win through undetected, for, early on the morrow, the tidings, that he was departed, anon made commotion and mourning among the people, and, in much haste, forth went every man for to seek him; they being minded by all means to cut off his flight. And their zeal was not spent in vain; for, when they had occupied all the high-ways, and encompassed all the mountains, and surrounded the pathless ravines, they discovered him in a watercourse, his hands uplifted to heaven, saying the prayer proper of the Sixth Hour. When they beheld him, they surrounded him, and besought him with team, upbraiding him for departing from them. "But," said he, "why labour ye in vain? No longer hope to have me to your king." Yet gave he way to their much opposition, and turned again to his palace. And, when he had assembled all the folk, he signified his will. Then with oath he confirmed his word, that he would dwell with them not one day more. "For," said he, "I have fulfilled my ministry toward you, and have omitted naught, neither have I kept back anything that was profitable unto you, in failing to show or teach you, testifying to all the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and pointing out the paths of repentance. And now behold I go the road that I have long time desired, and all ye shall see my face no more. Wherefore I take you to record this day, as saith the holy Apostle, that I am pure from the blood of you all, for I have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of God." When they heard this, and perceived the steadfastness of his purpose, that nothing could hinder him from his resolve, they wept like orphans over their bereavement, but could in no wise over-persuade him. Then did the king take that Barachias, of whom we have already spoken, saying, "This is he, brethren, whom I appoint to be your king." And though Barachias stoutly resisted, yet he established him, unwilling and reluctant, upon the royal throne, and placed the diadem on his head, and gave the kingly ring into his hand. Then he stood facing the cast and made prayer for King Barachias, that his faith toward God might be preserved unwavering, and that he might keep without faltering the path of Christ's commandments. Therewith he prayed for the clergy and all the flock, asking of God succour for them and salvation, and all that might fitly be asked for their welfare. Thus he prayed, and then turning said unto Barachias, "Behold, brother, I charge thee, as the Apostle once adjured his people, 'Take heed unto thyself, and to all the flock, over the which the Holy Ghost hath made thee king, to feed the Lord's people, whom he hath purchased with his own blood.' And even as thou wast before me in the knowledge of God, and didst serve him with a pure conscience, so now also show the more zeal in pleasing him. For, as thou hast received of God a mighty sovereignty, thou owest him the greater repayment. Render therefore to thy Benefactor the debt of thanksgiving, by the keeping of his holy commandments and by turning aside from every path whose end is destruction. For it is with kingdoms as with ships. If one of the sailors blunder it bringeth but small damage to the crew. But if the steersman err, he causeth the whole ship to perish. Even so it is with sovranty: if a subject err, he harmeth himself more than the state. But if the king err, he causeth injury to the whole realm. Therefore, as one that shall render strict account, if thou neglect aught of thy duty, guard thyself with all diligence in that which is good. Hate all pleasure that draweth into sin: for, saith the Apostle, 'Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord.' Consider the wheel of men's affairs, how it runneth round and round, turning and whirling them now up, now down: and amid all its sudden changes, keep thou unchanged a pious mind. To change with every change of affairs betokeneth an unstable heart. But be thou steadfast, wholly established upon that which is good. Be not lifted and vainly puffed up because of temporal honour; but, with purified reason, understand the nothingness of thine own nature, and the span-length and swift flight of life here, and death the yoke-fellow of the flesh. If thou consider these things, thou shalt not be cast into the pit of arrogance, but shalt fear God, the true and heavenly King, and verily thou shalt be blessed. For he saith, 'Blessed are all they that fear the Lord, and walk in his ways,' and 'Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord: he shall have great delight in his commandments.' And which commandments above all shouldest thou observe? 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,' and 'Be ye merciful, as your heavenly Father is merciful.' For the fulfilment of this commandment, above all, is required of them that are in high authority. And, soothly, the holder of great authority ought to imitate the giver of that authority to the best of his ability. And herein shall he best imitate God, by considering that nothing is to be preferred before showing mercy. Nay, further, nothing so surely draweth the subject to loyalty toward his Sovereign as the grace of charity bestowed on such as need it. For the service that cometh from fear is flattery in disguise, with the pretence of respect cozening them that pay heed to it; and the unwilling subject rebelleth when he findeth occasion. Whereas he that is held by the ties of loyalty is steadfast in his obedience to the ruling power. Wherefore be thou easy of access to all and open thine ears unto the poor, that thou mayest find the ear of God open unto thee. For as we are to our fellow-servants, such shall we find our Master to us-ward. And, like as we do hear others, so shall we be heard ourselves: and, as we see, so shall we be seen by the divine all-seeing eye. Therefore pay we first mercy for mercy, that we may obtain like for like. "But hear yet another commandment, the fellow of the former; 'Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you;' and 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly father forgive you your trespasses.' Wherefore bear no malice against them that offend against thee; but, when thou askest forgiveness of thy sins, forgive thyself also them that injure thee, because forgiveness is repaid by forgiveness, and by making peace with our fellow-servants we are ourselves delivered from the wrath of our Master. Again, a lack of compassion towards them that trespass against us maketh our own trespasses unpardonable, even as thou hast heard what befell the man that owed ten thousand talents, how, through his want of pity on his fellow-servant, he was again required to pay all that mighty debt. So we must take good heed lest a like fate betide us. But let us forgive every debt, and cast all anger out of our hearts, in order that our many debts, too, may be forgiven. Beside this, and before all things, keep thou that good thing which is committed to thy trust, the holy Word of faith wherein thou hast been taught and instructed. And let no tare of heresy grow up amongst you, but preserve the heavenly seed pure and sincere, that it may yield a manifold harvest to the master, when he cometh to demand account of our lives, and to reward us according to our deeds, when the righteous shall shine forth as the sun, but darkness and everlasting shame shall cover the sinners. And now, brethren, I commend you to God, and to the word of his grace, which is able to build you up, and to give you an inheritance among all them which are sanctified." And when he had thus spoken, he kneeled down, as it is written, and prayed again in tears. And he turned him round, and kissed Barachias, whom he had chosen to their king, and all the officers. Then came a scene fit, belike, to make one weep. They all crowded around him, as though his presence meant life to them, and his departure would reave them of their very souls; and what piteous pleading, what extravagance of grief did they omit? They kissed him; they hung about him; they were beside themselves for anguish of heart. "Wo is us," cried they, "for this grievous calamity!" They called him, Master, Father, Saviour, Benefactor. "Through thine," said they, "we learned to know God, and were redeemed from error, and found rest from every ill. What remaineth us after thou art gone? What evils shall not befall us?" Thus saying, they smote upon their breasts, and bewailed the misfortune that had overtaken them. But he with words of comfort hushed their sobs, and promised to be with them still in the spirit though he might no longer abide with them in the body. And when he had thus spoken, in the sight of all he went forth from the palace. And immediately all the people followed him. They despaired of his return; they ran from the city, as from a sight that they could no longer endure. But when they were outside the city, Ioasaph addressed them with sharp words, and chode with them harshly; and so they were parted from him, and unwillingly went home, often turning round to look on him, and stumbling on their road. And some of the hotter spirits also followed afar off weeping, until the shades of night parted them one from another. XXXVII. Thus this noble man went forth from his palace rejoicing, as when after long exile a man returneth with joy to his own country. Outwardly he wore the robes that he was wont to wear, but beneath was the hair-shirt which Barlaam had given him. That night he halted at a poor man's cabin, and stripped himself of his outer raiment, which, as his last alms, he bestowed upon his poor host, and thus by the prayers of that poor man, as well as of so many others, he made God his ally, and put on his grace and help as a garment of salvation; and, clad in a coat of gladness, thus went he off to his hermit-life, carrying with him neither bread, nor water, nor any necessary food, with no garment upon him save the aforesaid rough shirt. For his heart was wounded with a marvellous longing and divine love for Christ the immortal King; he was beside himself with longing, mad for God, possessed by love of him; "For love," he saith, "is strong as fire." So drunken was he with this heavenly love, so parched with thirst, according to him that saith, "Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my soul after time, O God. My soul is athirst for the mighty and living God"; or, as the soul that is sick of love crieth in the Song of Songs, "Thou hast ravished us, ravished us with the desire of thee"; and, "Let me see thy countenance, and let me hear thy voice, for thy voice is a sweet voice, and thy countenance is comely." It was the desire for this unspeakable comeliness of Christ that fired the hearts of the Apostolic Quire and of the Martyr folk to despise the things that are seen, and all this temporal life, and the rather to choose ten thousand forms of death and torture, being enamoured of his heavenly beauty, and bearing in mind the charm that the divine Word used for to win our love. Such was the fire that was kindled in the soul of this fair youth also, noble in body, but most noble and kingly in soul, that led him to despise all earthly things alike, to trample on all bodily pleasures, and to contemn riches and glory and the praise of men, to lay aside diadem and purple, as of less worth than cobwebs, and to surrender himself to all the hard and irksome toils of the ascetic life, crying, "O my Christ, my soul is fixed upon thee, and thy right hand hath upholden me." Thus, without looking back, he passed into the depth of the desert; and, laying aside, like a heavy burden and clog, the stress of transitory things, he rejoiced in the Spirit, and looked steadfastly on Christ, whom he longed for, and cried aloud to him, as though he were there present to hear his voice, saying, "Lord, let mine eyes never again see the good things of this present world. Never, from this moment, let my soul be excited by these present vanities, but fill mine eyes with spiritual tears; direct my goings in thy way, and show me thy servant Barlaam. Show me him that was the means of my salvation, that I may learn of him the exact rule of this lonely and austere life, and may not be tripped up through ignorance of the wiles of the enemy. Grant me, O Lord, to discover the way whereby to attain unto thee, for my soul is sick of love for thee, and I am athirst for thee, the well of salvation." These were the thoughts of his heart continually, and he communed with God, being made one with him by prayer and sublime meditation. And thus eagerly he pursued the road, hoping to arrive at the place where Barlaam dwelt. His meat was the herbs that grow in the desert; for he carried nothing with him, as I have already said, save his own bones, and the ragged garment that was around him. But whilst he found some food, though scanty and insufficient, from the herbs, of water he was quite destitute in that waterless and dry desert. And so at noon-tide, as he held on his way under the fierce blaze of the sun, he was parched with thirst in the hot drought of that desert place, and he suffered the extreme of anguish. But desire of Christ conquered nature, and the thirst wherewith he thirsted for God bedewed the heat of thirst for water. Now the devil, being envious and full of hate for that which is beautiful, unable to endure the sight of such steadfastness of purpose, and glowing love towards God, raised up against Ioasaph many temptations in the wilderness. He called to his remembrance his kingly glory, and his magnificent body-guard, his friends, kinsfolk and companions, and how the lives of all had depended on his life, and he minded him of the other solaces of life. Then he would confront him with the hardness of virtue, and the many sweats that she requireth, with the weakness of his flesh, with his lack of practice in such rigours, the long years to come, this present distress from thirst, his want of any comfort, and the unendingness of his toils. In a word, he raised a great dust-cloud of reasonings in his mind, exactly, I ween, as it hath been recorded of the mighty Antony. But, when the enemy saw himself too weak to shake that purpose (for Ioasaph set Christ before his mind, and glowed with love of him, and was well strengthened by hope, and steadfast in faith, and recked nothing of the devil and his suggestions), then was the adversary ashamed of having fallen in the first assault. So he came by another road (for many are his paths of wickedness), and endeavoured to overthrow and terrify Ioasaph by means of divers apparitions. Sometimes he appeared to him in black, and such indeed he is: sometimes with a drawn sword he leapt upon him, and threatened to strike, unless he speedily turned back. At other times he assumed the shapes of all manner of beasts, roaring and making a terrible din and bellowing; or again he became a dragon, adder, or basilisk. But that fair and right noble athlete kept his soul in quietness, for he had made the Most High his refuge: and, being sober in mind, he laughed the evil one to scorn, and said, "I know thee, deceiver, who thou art, which stiffest up this trouble for me; which from the beginning didst devise mischief against mankind, and art ever wicked, and never stintest to do hurt. How becoming and right proper is thy habit, that thou shouldest take the shape of beasts and of creeping things, and thus display thy bestial and crooked nature, and thy venomous and hurtful purpose! Wherefore, wretch, attempt the impossible? For ever since I discovered that these be the contrivances and bug-bears of thy malice, I have now no more anxiety concerning thee. The Lord is on my side, and I shall see my desire upon mine enemies. I shall go upon the adder and basilisk, the which thou dost resemble; thee, the lion and dragon I shall tread under my feet; for I am strengthened with the might of Christ. Let mine enemies be ashamed and turned backward: let them be driven and put to shame suddenly." Thus speaking, and girding on that invincible weapon, the sign of the Cross, he made vain the devil's shows. For straightway all the beasts and creeping things disappeared, like as the smoke vanisheth, and like as wax melteth at the fire. And he, strong in the might of Christ, went on his way rejoicing and giving thanks unto the Lord. But there dwelt in that desert many divers beasts, and all kinds of serpents, and dragon-shaped monsters, and these met him, not now as apparitions but in sober sooth, so that his path was beset by fear and toil. But he overcame both, for love, as saith the scripture, cast out fear, and longing made toil light. Thus he wrestled with many sundry misfortunes and hardships until, after many days, he arrived at that desert of the land of Senaar, wherein Barlaam dwelt. There also he found water and quenched the burning of his thirst. XXXVIII. Now two full years spent Ioasaph wandering about the ocean of that desert, without finding Barlaam; for here also God was proving the steadfastness of his purpose, and the nobility of his soul. He lived thus in the open air, scorched with heat or frozen with cold, and, as one in search of precious treasure, continually looking everywhere for his treasured friend, the aged Barlaam. Frequent were the temptations and assaults of the evil spirits that he encountered, and many the hardships that he endured through the lack of herbs that he needed for meat, because the desert, being dry, yielded even these in but scant supply. But, being kindled by love of her Master, this adamantine and indomitable soul bore these annoyances more easily than other men bear their pleasures. Wherefore he failed not of the succour that is from above, but, many as were the sorrows and toils Chat he endured, comfort came to him from Christ, and, asleep or awake, refreshed his soul. By the space of those two years Ioasaph went about continually, seeking him for whom he yearned, and rivers of waters ran from his eyes, as he implored God, crying aloud and saying, "Show me, O Lord, show me the man that was the means of my knowledge of thee, and the cause of my many blessings. Because of the multitude of mine offences, deprive me not of this good thing; but grant me to see him, and fight with him the ascetic fight." By the grace of God, he found a cave, by following footsteps that led thither. There he met a monk pursuing a hermit life. Him he embraced and saluted tenderly. He asked where to find Barlaam's dwelling, and told him his own tale, laying all bare. Of him then he learned the abode of the man whom he sought, and thither went foot-hot, as when a cunning hunter happeneth on the tracks of his game. And when he had met with certain signs, pointed out to him by this other old hermit, he went on rejoicing, strong in hope, like a child hoping after long absence to see his father. For when divine love hath broken into a soul, it proveth hotter and stronger than the natural. So he stood before the door of the cave, and knocked, saying "Benedic, father, benedic!" When Barlaam heard his voice, he came forth from the cave, and by the spirit knew him, who by outward appearance could not easily be known, because of the marvellous change and alteration that had changed and altered his face from its former bloom of youth; for Ioasaph was black with the sun's heat, and overgrown with hair, and his cheeks were fallen in, and his eyes deep sunken, and his eyelids seared with floods of tears, and much distress of hunger. And Ioasaph recognised his spiritual father, for his features were, for the more part, the same. So the old man stood, and, facing the East, offered up to God a prayer of thanksgiving; and, after the prayer, when they had said the Amen, they embraced and kissed each other affectionately, taking their full fill of long deferred desire. But, when they had done with embracing and greeting, they sat them down and conversed. Barlaam began, saying, "Welcome art thou, son well beloved son of God, and inheritor of the heavenly kingdom through Jesus Christ our Lord, whom thou lovest, whom thou rightly desirest above the things that are temporal and corruptible! Like a prudent and wise merchant, thou hast sold all, and bought the pearl that is beyond price, and hast found the treasure that cannot be stolen, hidden in the field of the commandments of the Lord; thou hast parted with all, and spared naught of the things that so soon pass away, that thou mightest purchase that field for thyself. The Lord give thee the eternal for the temporal, the things that are incorruptible and wax not old for the corruptible! "But tell me, dearly beloved, how thou camest hither? How did thy matters speed after my departure? And hath thy father learned to know God, or is he still carried away with his former foolishness, still under the bondage of devilish deceits?" Thus questioned Barlaam, and Ioasaph answered, telling him piece by piece all that had befallen him since he went away; and in how many ways the Lord had prospered him, until they were come together again. The old man listened with pleasure and amazement, and with hot tears said, "Glory to thee, our God, that ever standest by and succourest them that love thee! Glory to thee, O Christ, King of all and God all-good, that it was thy pleasure that the seed, which I sowed in the heart of Ioasaph, thy servant, should thus bring forth fruit an hundredfold worthy of the husbandman and Master of our souls! Glory to thee, good Paraclete, the all-holy Spirit, because thou didst vouchsafe unto this man to partake of that grace which thou gavest thine holy Apostles, and by his hand hast delivered multitudes of people from superstitious error, and enlightened them with the true knowledge of God!" Thus was God blessed by both, and thus were they conversing and rejoicing in the grace of God until evenfall. Then stood they up for to pray and to perform the sacred services. Then also remembered they that it was meal-time, and Barlaam spread his lavish table, laden with spiritual dainties, but with little to attract the palate of sense. These were uncooked worts, and a few dates, planted and tended by Barlaam's own hands, such as are found in the same desert, and wild herbs. So they gave thanks and partook of the victuals set before them, and drank water from the neighbour springing well, and again gave thanks to God, who openeth his hand and filleth all things living. Then they arose again, and, when they had ended their Night Hours, after prayer, they joined in spiritual converse again, discoursing wholesome words, and full of heavenly wisdom, all the night long until daybreak bade them once more remember the hour of prayer. So Ioasaph abode with Barlaam for some many years, pursuing this marvellous and more than human life, dwelling with him as with a father and tutor, in all obedience and lowliness, exercising himself in every kind of virtue, and learning well from practice how to wrestle with the invisible spirits of evil. From that time forward he mortified all his sinful passions, and made the will of the flesh as subject to the spirit as slave is to his master. He was altogether forgetful of comforts or repose, and tyrannized over sleep as over a wicked servant. And, in brief, such was his practice of the religious life, that Barlaam, who had spent many years therein, marvelled at him, and failed to equal the earnestness of his life. For he took only so much of that coarse and cheerless food as would keep him alive; else had he died afore his time, and forfeited the reward of his well-doing. He subdued himself to watchings, as though he were without flesh and body. In prayer and mental exercise his work was unceasing, and all the time of his life was spent in spiritual and heavenly contemplation, so that not an hour, nor even a single moment was wasted, from the day that he came to dwell in the desert. For this is the end of monastic life, never to be found idle in spiritual employment: and well herein did this noble and active runner of the heavenly race order his way. And he kept his ardour unquenched from beginning to end, ever ascending in his heart, and going from strength to strength, and continually adding desire to desire, and zeal to zeal, until he arrived at the bliss that he had hoped and longed for. XXXIX. Thus did Barlaam and Ioasaph dwell together, rivals in the good rivalry, apart from all anxious care and all the turmoils of life, possessing their minds undisturbed and clear of all confusion. After their many labours after godliness, one day Barlaam called to him his spiritual son, whom he had begotten through the Gospel, and opened his mouth to discourse of spiritual things, saying, "Long ago, dearly beloved Ioasaph, was it destined that thou shouldest dwell in this wilderness; and, in answer to my prayer for thee, Christ promised me that I should see it before the ending of my life. I have seen my desire: I have seen thee severed from the world and the concerns of the world, united to Christ, thy mind never wavering, and come to the measure of the perfection of his fulness. Now therefore as the time of my departure is at the door, and seeing that my desire, that hath grown with my growth and aged with my years, to be for ever with Christ, is even now being fulfilled, thou must bury my body in the earth and restore dust to dust, but thyself abide for the time to come in this place, holding fast to thy spiritual life, and making remembrance of me, poor as I am. For I fear lest perchance the darksome army of fiends may stand in the way of my soul, by reason of the multitude of mine ignorances. "So do thou, my son, think no scorn of the laboriousness of thy religious life, neither dread the length of the time, nor the tricks of devils. But, strong in the grace of Christ, confidently laugh at the weakness of these thy foes; and, as for the hardness of thy toils, and the long duration of the time, be as one that daily expecteth his departure hence, and as if the same day were the beginning and the end of thy religious life. Thus, always forgetting the things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus, according to the exhortation of the holy Apostle, who saith, 'Let us not faint; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." "Ponder thou over these things, beloved: quit thee like a man; yea, be strong; and, as a good soldier, do thy diligence to please him who hath called thee to be a soldier. And, even if the evil one stir in thee thoughts of neglecting duty, and thou art minded to slacken the string of thy purpose, fear not his devices, but remember the Lord's command, which saith, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.' Wherefore, rejoice in the Lord alway; for he hath chosen and separated thee out of the world, and set thee, as it were before his countenance. The Master, who hath called thee with a holy calling, is alway near. Be careful for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let thy requests be made known unto God. For he himself hath said, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." So, by the hardness of thy life, and by scorn of its rigours, win such thoughts as these, and rejoice, remembering our Lord God, for he saith, 'I remembered God and was glad.' "But when the adversary, seeking another fashion of war, proposeth high and arrogant thoughts, and suggesteth the glory of the kingdom of this world, which thou hast forsaken, and all its lures, hold out, as a shield before thee, the saving word that saith, 'When ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say, "We are unprofitable servants, for we have done that which was our duty to do."' And, indeed, which of us is able to repay the debt that we owe our Master, for that he, though he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might become rich, and, being without suffering, yet suffered, that we might be delivered from suffering? What thanks hath the servant if he suffer like as his Master? But we fall far short of his sufferings. Meditate upon these things, casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. And the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep thy heart and thoughts in Christ Jesus." When blessed Barlaam had so said, Ioasaph's tears knew no measure, but, like water from the brimming fountain, bedewed him and the ground whereon he sat. He mourned over the parting, and earnestly implored that he might be his companion on his last journey, and might remain no longer in this world after Barlaam's decease, saying, "Wherefore, father, seekest thou only thine own, and not thy neighbour's welfare? How fulfillest thou perfect love in this, according to him that said, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,' in departing thyself to rest and life, and leaving me to tribulation and distress? And, before I have been well exercised in the conflicts of the religious life, before I have learned the wily attacks of the enemy, why expose me to fight singlehanded against their marshalled host? And for what purpose but to see me overthrown by their mischievous machinations, and to see me die, alas! the true spiritual and eternal death? That is the fate which must befall inexperienced and cowardly monks. But, I beseech thee, pray the Lord to take me also together with thee from life. Yea, by the very hope that thou hast of receiving the reward of thy labour, pray that, after thy departure, I may not live one day more in the world, nor wander into the ocean depths of this desert." While Ioasaph spake thus in tears, the old man cheeked him gently and calmly, saying, "Son, we ought not to resist the judgements of God, which are beyond our reach. For though I have oftentimes prayed concerning this matter, and constrained the Master, that cannot be constrained, not to part us one from the other, yet have I been taught by his goodness that it is not expedient for thee now to lay aside the burden of the flesh: but thou must remain behind in the practice of virtue, until the crown, which thou art weaving, be more glorious. As yet, thou hast not striven enough after the recompense in store for thee, but must toil yet a little longer, that thou mayest joyfully enter into the joy of thy Lord. For myself, I am, as I reckon, well-nigh an hundred winters old, and have now spent seventy and five years in this desert place. But for thee, even if thy days be not so far lengthened as mine, yet must thou approach thereto, as the Lord ordereth, that thou mayest prove no unworthy match for them that have borne the burden and heat of the day. Therefore, beloved, gladly accept the decrees of God. What God hath ordered, who, of men, can scatter? Endure, then, under the protection of his grace. "But be thou ever sober against thoughts other than these; and, like a right precious treasure, keep safely from robbers thy purity of heart, stepping up day by day to higher work and contemplation, that that may be fulfilled in thee, which the Saviour promised to his friends, when he said, 'If any man love me, he will keep my word: and my father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.'" With these words, and many others, full worthy of that sanctified soul and inspired tongue, did the old man comfort Ioasaph's anguished soul. Then he sent him unto certain brethren, which abode a long way off, for to fetch the things fitting for the Holy Sacrifice. And Ioasaph girded up his loins, and with all speed fulfilled his errand: for he dreaded lest peradventure, in his absence, Barlaam might pay the debt of nature, and, yielding up the ghost to God, might inflict on him the loss of missing his departing words and utterances, his last orisons and blessings. So when Ioasaph had manfully finished his long journey, and had brought the things required for the Holy Sacrifice, saintly Barlaam offered up to God the unbloody Sacrifice. When he had communicated himself, and also given to Ioasaph of the undefiled Mysteries of Christ, he rejoiced in the Spirit. And when they had taken together of their ordinary food, Barlaam again fed Ioasaph's soul with edifying words, saying, "Well-beloved son, no longer in this world shall we share one common hearth and board; for now I go my last journey, even the way of my fathers. Needs must thou, therefore, prove thy loving affection for me by thy keeping of God's commandments, and by thy continuance in this place even to the end, living as thou hast learned and been instructed, and alway remembering my poor and slothful soul. Rejoice, therefore, with great joy, and make merry with the gladness that is in Christ, because thou hast exchanged the earthly and corruptible for the eternal and incorruptible; and because there draweth nigh the reward of thy works, and thy rewarder is already at hand, who shall come to see the vineyard which thou hast dressed, and shall richly pay thee the wages of thine husbandry. 'Faithful is the saying, and worthy of all acceptation,' as proclaimed by Paul the divine, 'For if we be dead with him, we shall also live with him; if we endure, we shall also reign with him in his eternal and everlasting kingdom, being illuminated with the light unapproachable, and guerdoned with the effulgence of the blessed and life-giving Trinity.'" Thus until even-tide and all night long did Barlaam converse with Ioasaph, who wept tears that could not be stayed, and could not bear the parting. But just as day began to dawn, Barlaam ended his discourse, lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven, and offered his thanks to God, thus saying, "O Lord, my God, who art everywhere present, and fillest all things, I thank thee, for that thou hast looked upon my lowliness, and hast granted me to fulfil the course of this mine earthly pilgrimage in thy true Faith, and in the way of thy commandments. And now, thou lover of good, all-merciful Master, receive me into thine everlasting habitations; and remember not all the sins that I have committed against thee, in knowledge or in ignorance. Defend also this thy faithful servant, before whom thou hast granted to me, thine unprofitable servant, to stand. Deliver him from all vanity, and all despiteful treatment of the adversary, and set him clear of the many-meshed nets which the wicked one spreadeth abroad for to trip all them that would full fain be saved. Destroy, Almighty Lord, all the might of the deceiver from before the face of thy servant, and grant him authority to trample on the baneful head of the enemy of our souls. Send down from on high the grace of thy Holy Spirit; and strengthen him against the invisible hosts, that he may receive at thy hands the crown of victory, and that in him thy name may be glorified, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, for to thee belongeth glory and praise for ever and ever. Amen." Thus prayed he, and in fatherly wise embraced Ioasaph, and saluted him with an holy kiss. Then he sealed himself with the sign of the Cross, and gathered up his feet, and, with exceeding great joy, as at the home-coming of friends, departed on that blessed journey, to receive his reward yonder, an old man and full of days in the Spirit. XL. Then did Ioasaph embrace the good father, with all the devotion and sorrow that can be told, and washed his corpse with his tears. Then he wrapped it in the hair-shirt, which Barlaam had given him in his palace; and over him he recited the proper psalms, chanting all the day long, and throughout the night, and watering the venerable body of the Saint with his tears. On the morrow, he made a grave hard by the cave, and thither reverently bore the sacred body, and there, like a good and honourable son, laid his spiritual father in his sepulchre. And then, the fire of grief kindling all the hotter within his soul, he set himself to pray the more earnestly, saying: "O Lord my God, hearken unto my voice, when I cry unto thee. Have mercy upon me, and hear me, for I seek thee with all my heart. My soul hath sought for thee: O hide not thy face from me, and turn not away in anger from thy servant. Be thou my helper; cast me not utterly away, and forsake me not, O God my Saviour, because my father and mother forsake me; but do thou, O Lord, take me up. Teach me thy way, O Lord, and lead me in the right way because of mine enemies. Deliver me not over unto the souls of them that afflict me; for I have been cast upon thee ever since I was born; thou art my God even from my mother's womb. O go not from me, because, except thee, there is none to help me. For lo, I set the hope of my soul upon the ocean of thy mercies. Be thou the pilot of my soul, thou that steerest all creation with the unspeakable forethought of thy wisdom; and shew thou me the way that I should walk in; and, as thou art a good God and a lover of men, save me by the prayers and intercessions of Barlaam thy servant, for thou art my God, and thee I glorify, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, world without end. Amen." Thus prayed he, and sat him down nigh the sepulchre, a-weeping. And as he sat, he fell asleep, and saw those dread men, whom he had seen before, coming to him, and carrying him away to the great and marvellous plain, and bringing him to that glorious and exceeding bright city. When he had passed within the gate, there met him others, gloriously apparelled with much light, having in their hands crowns radiant with unspeakable beauty, such as mortal eye hath never seen. And, when Ioasaph enquired, "Whose are these exceeding bright crowns of glory, which I see?" "Thine," said they, "is the one, prepared for thee, because of the many souls which thou hast saved, and now made still more beautiful because of the religious life that thou leadest, if thou continue therein bravely until the end. And this other crown is thine also; but it must thou give unto thy father, who, by thy means, turned from his evil way unto the Lord, and was truly penitent." But Ioasaph was as one sore vexed, and said, "How is it possible that, for his repentance alone, my father should receive reward equal to mine, that have laboured so much?" Thus spake he, and straightway thought that he saw Barlaam, as it were, chiding him and saying, "These are my words, Ioasaph, which I once spake unto thee, saying, 'When thou waxest passing rich, thou wilt not be glad to distribute,' and thou understoodest not my saying. But now, why art thou displeased at thy father's equality with thee in honour, and art not rather glad at heart that thine orisons in his behalf have been heard?" Then Ioasaph said unto him, as he was ever wont to say, "Pardon! father, pardon! But shew me where thou dwellest?" Barlaam answered, "In this mighty and exceeding fair city. It is my lot to dwell in the mid-most street of the city, a street that flasheth with light supernal." Again Ioasaph thought he asked Barlaam to bring him to his own habitation, and, in friendly wise, to shew him the sights thereof. But Barlaam said that his time was not yet come to win those habitations, while he was under the burden of the flesh. "But," said he, "if thou persevere bravely, even as I charged thee, in a little while thou shalt come hither, and gain the same habitations, and obtain the same joy and glory, and be my companion for ever." Hereupon Ioasaph awoke out of sleep, but his soul was still full of that light and ineffable glory; and greatly wondering, he raised to his Lord a song of thanksgiving. And he continued to the end, verily leading on earth the life of an angel, and after the death of his aged friend using himself to severer austerity. Twenty and five years old was he when he left his earthly kingdom, and adopted the monastic life; and thirty and five years in this vast desert did he, like one dis-fleshed, endure rigours above the endurance of man, but not before he had delivered the souls of many men from the soul-devouring dragon, and presented them to God, saved for aye; winning herewith the Apostolic grace. In will he had proved a martyr, and had with boldness confessed Christ before kings and tyrants, and had proved himself the mighty-voiced preacher of his greatness, and had overthrown many spirits of wickedness in the desert, and had overcome all in the strength of Christ. Partaking richly of the gift of grace from above, he kept his mind's eye purified from every earth-born cloud, and looked forward to the things that are to come, as though they were already come. Christ was his recompense for all: Christ was his desire: Christ he ever saw as present with him: Christ and his fair beauty everywhere met his sight, according to the saying of the prophet, "I have set God always before me; for he is on my right hand, therefore I shall not fall." And again, "My soul cleaveth to thee; thy right hand hath upholden me." For verily Ioasaph's soul clave to Christ, being knit to him in indissoluble union. From this marvellous work he never swerved, never altered the rule of his ascetic life, from beginning to end, but maintained his zeal from his youth even until old age; or rather, he daily advanced higher in virtue, and daily gained purer power of vision. Thus did Ioasaph spend his days, and render unto him that called him labour worthy of his calling, having crucified the world to himself, and himself unto the world, and, at the last, departed in peace unto the God of peace, and passed to that Master whom he had alway longed for. There he appeared in the immediate presence of the Lord, and was crowned with the crown of glory already prepared for him: there it is granted to him to behold Christ, to be with Christ, to rejoice for ever in the fair beauty of Christ, into whose hands he commended his spirit, when he departed to walk in the land of the living, where is the song of them that feast, the dwelling-place of them that rejoice. As for his venerable body, it befell thus; about the very hour of Ioasaph's death, there came by divine revelation, from one of the neighbouring cells, a certain holy man. It was the same that once pointed out to Ioasaph his way to Barlaam. This man honoured the corpse with sacred hymns, and shed tears, the token of affection, over him, and performed all the last Christian rites, and laid him in the sepulchre of his father Barlaam; for it was only meet that their bodies should rest side by side, since their souls were to dwell through eternity together. In obedience to the strict command of a dread Angel that appeared to him in a dream, this hermit, who had performed the last rites, journeyed to the kingdom of India, and, entering in to King Barachias, made known unto him all that had befallen Barlaam, and this blessed Ioasaph. Barachias, making no delay, set forth with a mighty host, and arrived at the cave, and beheld their sepulchre, and wept bitterly over it, and raised the gravestone. There he descried Barlaam and Ioasaph lying, as they had been in life. Their bodies had not lost their former hue, but were whole and uncorrupt, together with their garments. These, the consecrated tabernacles of two holy souls, that sent forth full sweet savour, and showed naught distressful, were placed by King Barachias in costly tombs and conveyed by him into his own country. Now when the people heard tell of that which had come to pass, there assembled a countless multitude out of all the cities and regions round about, to venerate and view the bodies of these Saints. Thereupon, sooth to say, they chanted the sacred hymns over them, and vied one with another to light lamps lavishly, and rightly and fitly, might one say, in honour of these children and inheritors of light. And with splendour and much solemnity they laid their bodies in the Church which Ioasaph had built from the very foundation. And many miracles and cures, during the translation and deposition of their relics, as also in later times, did the Lord work by his holy servants. And King Barachias and all the people beheld the mighty virtues that were shown by them; and many of the nations round about, that were sick of unbelief and ignorance of God, believed through the miracles that were wrought at their sepulchre. And all they that saw and heard of the Angelic life of Ioasaph, and of his love of God from his childhood upward, marvelled, and in all things glorified God that alway worketh together with them that love him, and granteth them exceeding great reward. Here endeth this history, which I have written, to the best of my ability, even as I heard it from the truthful lips of worthy men who delivered it unto me. And may God grant that all we that read or hear this edifying story may obtain the heritage of such as have pleased the Lord, by the prayers and intercessions of blessed Barlaam and Ioasaph, of whom this story telleth, in Christ Jesu our Lord; to whom belongeth worship, might, majesty and glory, with the Father and the Holy Ghost, now and for evermore, world without end. Amen. 
44680	----	Proofreading by users brianjungwi, ianh68, kaewmala, LScribe, Saksith, rikker, Claudio, andysteve, wyaryan, dekpient, Gwindarr. PGT is an affiliated sister project focusing on public domain books on Thailand and Southeast Asia. Project leads: Rikker Dockum, Emil Kloeden. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) JUNGLE AND STREAM OR THE ADVENTURES OF TWO BOYS IN SIAM BY GEO. MANVILLE FENN AUTHOR OF "IN HONOUR'S CAUSE," "CORMORANT CRAG" "FIRST IN THE FIELD," ETC. DEAN & SON, LTD. 6 LA BELLA SAUVAGE, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON, E.C.4 MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN CONTENTS I. SIXTY YEARS AGO II. THE JUNGLE HUNTER III. SREE'S PRISONER IV. FISHING WITH A WORM V. THE DOCTOR'S POST-MORTEM VI. MAKING PLANS VII. THE BRINK OF A VOLCANO VIII. A PROWL BY WATER IX. NATURALISTS' TREASURES X. WHAT HARRY HEARD XI. THE NAGA'S BITE XII. SUL THE ELEPHANT XIII. THEIR FIRST TIGER XIV. A YOUNG SAVAGE XV. FOR THE JUNGLE, HO! XVI. THE HOUSE-BOAT XVII. JUNGLE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS XVIII. ELEPHANTS AT HOME XIX. A NIGHT ALARM XX. A DREARY RETURN XXI. A HIDING-PLACE XXII. DARING PLANS XXIII. THE SPEAR HARVEST XXIV. THE HELP SEEKER XXV. A DESPERATE VENTURE XXVI. FOR LIFE XXVII. THE POWDER MINE XXVIII. SAVING THE STORES XXIX. THE DOCTOR KEPT BUSY XXX. LIKE A BAD SHILLING XXXI. COMING HOME TO ROOST XXXII. IN THE NICK OF TIME XXXIII. WHAT FOLLOWED [Illustration: "Then there was a roar like a peal of thunder."] CHAPTER I SIXTY YEARS AGO "Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling!" was sung in a good, clear, boyish tenor, and then the singer stopped, to say impatiently,-- "What nonsense it is! My head seems stuffed full of Scotch songs,--'Wee bit sangs,' as the doctor calls them. Seems funny that so many Scotch people should come out here to the East. I suppose it's because the Irish all go to the West, that they may get as far apart as they can, so that there may not be a fight. I say, though, I want my breakfast." The speaker, to wit Harry Kenyon, sauntered up to the verandah of the bungalow and looked in at the window of the cool, shaded room, where a man-servant in white drill jacket and trousers was giving the finishing touches to the table. "Breakfast ready, Mike?" "Yes, sir; coffee's boiled, curry's made." "Curry again?" "Yes, Master Harry; curry again. That heathen of a cook don't believe a meal's complete without curry and rice." "But I thought we were going to have fried fish this morning." "So did I, sir. I told him plainly enough; but he won't understand, and he's curried the lot." "How tiresome!" "I should like to curry his hide, Master Harry, but it's leather-coloured already. Never mind; there's some fresh potted meat." "Bother potted meat! I'm sick of potted meat. Look here, next time I bring home any fresh fish you go into the kitchen and cook them yourself." "What, me go and meddle there! Look here, Master Harry, I'll go with you fishing, and wade into that sticky red mud if you want me to; or I'll go with you shooting or collecting, and get my eyes scratched out in the jungle, and risk being clawed by tigers, or stung by snakes, or squeedged flat by an elephant's neat little foot; but I'm not going to interfere with old Ng's pots and pans. Why, he'd put some poison in my vittles." "Nonsense!" "He would, sir, sure as I stand here. He looks wonderful gentle and smiling, with that Chinese face of his; but I know he can bite." "Poor old Ng; he's as harmless as his name. N. G.--Ng." "Name? I don't call that a name, Master Harry. Fag end of a pig's grunt; that's about what that is." "Here, I want my breakfast. Isn't father nearly dressed?" "No, sir; he hasn't begun to shave yet, and he won't be down for another quarter of an hour." "Call me when he comes," said the lad, and he went off down the garden again, towards the river which flowed swiftly at the bottom, where the bamboo landing-stage had been made, with its high-peaked attap, or palm-leaf roof. It was all bamboo. Big canes were driven into the mud for supports, others for pillars and beams, and the floor was of smaller ones, split and laid close together, and then bound in their places with long lengths of the rotan cane which grew so plentifully in the jungle, running up the great forest trees, and after reaching the top, going on growing till it swung down by the yard, and waited till the wind blew it into the next tree, where it held on by its thorns, and went on growing to any length. The garden was beautiful in its wildness, the trees having been left for shade; and John Kenyon, the East India merchant, who had settled far up one of the rivers of Siam ten years before, after the death of his wife, had found out from long experience that he who tries to make an English garden in a tropical country has worry for crops, while he who encourages the native growths makes his home a place of beauty. So Harry Kenyon sauntered down, keeping out of the hot rays of the early morning sun--hot enough, though it was only six, for people rise early in the East--and made his way to the bamboo platform beneath which the river, here about a hundred yards wide, looked like a stream whose waters had been transformed into a decoction of coffee and chicory, with the milk left out, or, as Harry once said, muddy soup. The creepers, crowded with many-coloured blossoms, hung down from the trees and ran over the roof, forming, with the dry palm-leaves, nesting and hiding places for plenty of natural history objects from the neighbouring jungle. Birds nested there, and rats and snakes came birds'-nesting, while lizards of various kinds, from the little active fly-catchers to the great shrieking tokay, found that roof an admirable resting-place. There were sundry rustlings overhead as Harry stepped on to the slippery, squeaking, yielding bamboos; but use is second nature, and ten years in such company, without reckoning the inhabitants of the jungle, had made the boy so familiar with many of these things that he looked upon them with a calm contempt. As a matter of course he would have swarmed up a tree fast enough at the sight of a tiger or elephant in either of the forest tracks, or, to use Mike's expression, have made himself scarce if he had encountered a cobra, or seen one of the great boas swaying to and fro from the gigantic limb of a tree. Even at the moment of stepping upon the covered-in summerhouse-like landing-stage, with its fishing-rods laid up overhead in the bamboo rafters, he shrank a little, and then angrily bared his teeth as he stood gazing down at the water a dozen yards away. "You beast!" he hissed. "Oh, if you'd only stay there while I fetched a gun! Oh, yes, it's all very well to wink one eye at me; I'd make you wink both." It seemed odd that the lad should address himself like that to a piece of rugged, gnarled tree-trunk floating slowly down the flashing river; but, as aforesaid, Harry Kenyon had been up the country in Siam ever since he was quite a little fellow, and had been accustomed to have the wild creatures of the forest for pets and companions. Where boys at home had had cats or dogs, Harry had more than once petted a tiger cub; lizards had been as common with him as white mice with English lads. Then he had kept squirrels, snakes, monkeys, and birds to any extent. Moreover, he had once contrived to keep alive, until it became wild instead of tame a hideous-looking creature which lived in a fenced-in patch of sand with half a sugar hogshead sunk level with the ground, provided with a central heap formed of an old tree-root, and filled up with water. This creature strangely resembled the efts or newts so common in some ponds, but magnified many times, so that there was no cause for surprise that the boy should speak as he did to the tree-trunk, for his experienced eyes had seen at a glance that this was no half-rotten stem torn out from the bank by the flooded river. He had recognised the two horny prominences over the eyes, and their furtive, ugly gleam, so that he was not at all surprised when one end of the trunk moved slowly, in a wavy fashion, and the object began to part the water. "Yes, I thought you'd soon go," said Harry. "Stop a minute, though." He stepped gently back into the garden and snatched up a piece of stone about as big as two fists, from a heap of rockwork, stole back to the bamboo floor till he could just see over the edge, keeping his movements hidden, and launched out the heavy piece of spar with so good an aim that, after curving through the air just above the surface of the water, it fell with a dull thud right in the centre of the trunk. The effect was instantaneous. A long muzzle with gaping jaws rose out of the water for a moment, there was a tremendous wallowing which made the water foam, and then a great serrated tail rose several feet above the surface, quivered in a wavy way, delivered a sounding slap on the top of the water, and disappeared. "I thought that would make you wag your tail, old gentleman. What a whopper! Nearly twenty feet long, and as thick as thick. Pull a man in? Why, it would pull in a young elephant. Oh, how I do hate crocs!" The boy stood watching the surface for some minutes, but there was no sign of the huge reptile reappearing. "Gone down," muttered the boy. "Suppose, though, he has swum underneath here, and is waiting to dash out and grab me by the legs. Ugh!" he added, with a shudder, "it does seem such a horrible death, only I suppose the poor people these creatures catch don't feel any more when once they're under the water. Wonder whether they do. Shouldn't like to try." His thoughts made him peer down through an opening between the warped bamboos, at where the river glided beneath his feet; but all was perfectly quiet there, and he glanced up at the fishing-rods. "Be no use to try now," he said; "the brute would scare every fish away, and I've got no bait, and--oh, I say, how badly I do want my breakfast! Is father going to lie in bed all day?" Evidently not, for the minute after a cheery voice cried, "Now, Harry, lad, breakfast!" CHAPTER II THE JUNGLE HUNTER Harry Kenyon did not run up the slope to the house, which was erected upon an elevation to raise it beyond the flood when the river burst its bounds, as it made a point of doing once or twice a year during the heavy rains. People out in sunny Siam do not run much, but make a point of moving deliberately as the natives do, for the simple reason that it takes a very short time to get into a violent perspiration, but a very long time to get cool; besides which, overheating means the risk of chills, and chills mean fever. He walked gently up to meet the tall, thin, rather stern-featured, grizzly-haired man in white flannel and straw hat with puggaree, who had come out to meet him, and who saluted him heartily. "Lovely morning, my boy, but quite warm enough already. How sweet the blossoms smell!" "Yes, father," said Harry, whose brain was full of the great reptile; "but I've just seen such a monster." "Crocodile?" "Yes; quite twenty feet long." "With discount twenty-five per cent., Hal?" said the father, laughing. "No, father, really." "One's eyes magnify when they look at savage creatures, especially at snakes." "Oh yes, I know, father," said the lad impatiently; "but this was the biggest I've seen." "Then it must have been twenty-four feet long, Hal, for I've shown you one of twenty-two." "I didn't measure him, father; he wouldn't wait," said the boy, laughing; "but he was a monster." "You threw something at it, I suppose?" "Yes, a big piece out of the rockery--and hit him on the back. It sounded like hitting a leather trunk." "Humph!" said Mr. Kenyon. "Boys are boys all the world round, it seems. Here have you been in Siam almost ever since you were born, and you act just in the same way as an English boy at home." "Act! How did I act?" "Began throwing stones. Bit of human nature, I suppose, learnt originally of the monkeys. So you hit the brute?" "Yes, father, and he went off with a rush!" "Looking for its breakfast, I suppose. Let's go and get ours." Harry Kenyon required no second invitation, for the pangs of hunger, forgotten in the excitement, returned with full force, and in a few minutes father and son were seated at table in the well-furnished half-Eastern, half-English-looking home, enjoying a well-cooked breakfast, served on delicate china from the neighbouring country, and with glistening silver tea and coffee pot well worn with long polishing, for they were portions of a set of old family plate which had been sent out to the fairly wealthy merchant trading with England from the East. "Hullo!" said Mr. Kenyon; "why, you are not eating any of your fish!" "No, father. Ng has spoiled them." "Spoiled? Nonsense; the curry is delicious." "But I don't want to be always eating curry, father. I told him to fry them." "Better leave him to do things his own way, my boy, and have some. They are very good. The Chinese are a wonderfully conservative people. They begin life running in the groove their fathers ran in before them, and go on following it up to the end of their days, and then leave the groove to their sons. Did you catch all these?" "No; Phra caught more than I did. He is more patient than I am." "A great deal, and with his studies too." "Yes, father; I say, the fish are better than I thought." "I was talking about the Prince being more patient over his studies than you are, Hal," said Mr. Kenyon drily. "Yes, father," said the lad, reddening. Mike just then brought in a dish of hot bread-cakes, and no more was said until he had left the room, when Mr. Kenyon continued:-- "Take it altogether, Hal, you are not such a bad sort of boy, and I like the way in which you devote yourself to the collecting for the museum; but I do wonder at an English lad calmly letting one of these Siamese boys leave him behind." "Oh, but he's the son of a king," said Harry, smiling. "Tchah! What of that? Suppose he is a prince by birth, like a score more of them, that is no reason why he should beat you." "He can't, father," said Harry sturdily. "Well, he seems to." "If I liked to try hard, I could leave him all behind nowhere." "Then, why don't you try hard, sir?" "It's so hot, father." "And you are so lazy, sir." "Yes, father. I'll have a little more curry, please." "I wish I could have your classics and mathematics curried, sir, so as to make you want more of them," said Mr. Kenyon, helping his son to more of the savoury dish. "Yes, Mike?" "Old Sree is here, sir, with two bearers and a big basket." "Oh!" cried Harry, jumping up; "what has he got now?" "Sit down and finish your breakfast, Hal," said his father sternly. "Don't be such a young savage, even if you are obliged to live out here in these uncivilized parts." The lad sat down promptly, but felt annoyed, and anxious to know what the old hunter employed by his father to collect specimens had brought. "What has he in the big basket, Mike?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "Don't know, sir; he wouldn't tell me. Said the Sahibs must know first." "Then he must have got something good, I know," said Harry excitedly. "I expect it's a coo-ah." "One o' them big, speckled peacocks with no colour in 'em, Master Harry?" said Mike respectfully. "No, it isn't one o' them; the basket's too small." "What is it, then?" "Don't know, sir; but I think it's one o' those funny little bears, like fat monkeys." "May I send on for Phra, father?" "Yes, if you like; but perhaps they will not let him come." "Oh, I think they will; and I promised always to send on to him when anything good was brought in." "Very well," said his father quietly; "send." "Run, Mike," said the boy excitedly, and the man made a grimace at him. "Well, then, walk fast, and ask to see him. They'll let you pass. Then tell him we've got a big specimen brought in, and ask him, with my compliments, if he'd like to come on and see it." "Yes, sir;" and the man hurried out, while Mr. Kenyon, who had just helped himself to a fresh cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair and smiled. "What are you laughing at, father?" said the boy, with his bronzed face reddening again. "Did I make some stupid blunder?" "Well, I hardly like to call it a blunder, Hal, because it was done knowingly. I was smiling at the impudence of you, an ordinary British merchant's son, coolly sending a message to a palace and telling a king's son to come on here." "Palace! Why, it's only a palm-tree house, not much better than this, father; not a bit like a palace we see in books. And as to his being a king's son, and a prince, well, he's only a boy like myself." "Of the royal blood, Hal." "He can't help that, father, and I'm sure he likes to come here and read English and Latin with me, and then go out collecting. He said the King liked it too." "Oh yes, he likes it, or he would not let his son come." "Phra said his father wanted him to talk English as well as we do." "And very wise of him too, my boy. This country will have more and more dealing with England as the time goes on." Harry sat watching his father impatiently, longing the while to get out into the verandah, where he expected that the old hunter would be. "You are not eating, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon; "go on with your breakfast." "I've done, thank you, father." "Nonsense. You always have two cups of coffee. Get on with the meal. It is better to make a good breakfast than to wait till the middle of the day, when it is so hot." Harry began again unwillingly, and his father remarked upon it. "You want to get out there, but you told me you did not wish to see what the man has brought till your friend came." "Yes, I said so, father; but I should like Sree to tell me." "Finish your breakfast, and you will have plenty of time." Harry went on, and after the first few mouthfuls his healthy young appetite prevailed, and he concluded a hearty meal. "There, you can go now," said his father. "Call me when the Prince comes." Harry Kenyon hurried out into the broad verandah, and then along two sides of the square bungalow so as to reach the back, where sat a little, wrinkled-faced, square-shaped, yellow-skinned man, with his face and head shaved along the sides as high as the tips of his ears, leaving a short, stubbly tuft of grizzled hair extended backward from the man's low forehead to the nape of his neck, looking for all the world like the hair out of a blacking-brush stretched over the top of his head. His dress was as scanty as that of his two muscular young companions, consisting as it did of a cotton plaid sarong or scarf of once bright colours, but now dull in hue from long usage, and a good deal torn and tattered by forcing a way through the jungle. This was doubled lengthwise and drawn round the loins, and then tightened at the waist by giving the edge of the sarong a peculiar twist and tuck in, thus forming a waist-belt in which in each case was stuck a dagger-like kris, with pistol-shaped handle and wooden sheath to hold the wavy blade, and a parang or heavy sword used in travelling to hack a way through the jungle and form a path by chopping through tangled rotan or tufts of bamboo, or lawyer cane. The three men were squatted on their heels, with their mouths distended and lips scarlet, chewing away at pieces of betel-nut previously rolled in a pepper-leaf, which had first been smeared with what looked like so much white paste, but which was in fact lime, made by burning the white coral, abundant along some portion of the shores, and rising inland to quite mountainous height. As soon as Harry came in sight, all rose up, smiling, and the elder man wanted to exhibit the prize contained within the great square basket standing on the bamboo flooring, while two stout bamboos, each about eight feet long, were stood up against the house, a couple of loops on either side of the basket showing where the bamboo poles had been thrust through so that the basket could hang dependent from the two men's shoulders. "What have you got, Sree?" asked Harry, in English, which from long service with Mr. Kenyon, and mixing with other colonists, Sree spoke plainly enough to make himself understood. "Big thing, Sahib. Very heavy." "Bear?" The man made a sign, and his two followers grinned with enjoyment, and seated themselves on the basket, which squeaked loudly. "What did you do that for?" cried Harry. "The young Sahib must wait till the old Sahib comes, and then he see." "Old Sahib, indeed!" cried Harry; "why, my father isn't half so old as you." "The young Sahib wait." "Of course I can wait," said Harry pettishly, "and I was going to wait. I only asked you what it was." The man smiled, and shook his head mysteriously, and just then Mike thrust his head out of the door. "Ah, got back, Mike!" cried Harry. "What did the Prince say?" "Come on almost directly, sir; but I had no end of a job to get to see him." "How was that?" "Oh, those guard chaps; soldiers, I s'pose they call themselves. They're a deal too handy with those spears of theirs. They ought to be told that they mustn't point them at an Englishman's breast." "Oh, it's only because they're on duty, Mike," replied Harry. "Wouldn't make any difference to me, sir, whether it was on dooty or off dooty if one of them was to go inside my chest." "Oh, you needn't be afraid of that." "Afraid! Oh, come, I like that, Master Harry--afraid! Not likely to be afraid of any number of the squatty, yellow-skinned chaps, but they oughtn't to be allowed to carry such things. Fancy Englishmen at home all going about carrying area railings in their hands." Harry shook his head, for his recollections of spear-pointed area railings were very vague. "Don't matter, sir," said Mike, "they don't know any better; but I know I shall get in a row one of these days for giving one of 'em a smeller right on the nose." "Nonsense! you mustn't do that, Mike." "Why not, sir? Couldn't do no harm; they're as flat as flat as it is." "You know what my father said about keeping on good terms with the natives." "Yes, sir, I know, sir, but fair play's a jewel; if I keep on good terms with them they ought to keep on good terms with me, and sticking a spear-point into a man's wesket aren't the sort o' terms I like. 'Specially when you know the things are poisoned." "Nonsense! The Prince assured me they were not." "Well, those ugly, twisty krises are, sir." "No. The only danger from them is their sharp point." "Well, that's bad enough, sir; but how about the thing you've got yonder? What is it, Master Harry?" he asked. "Come out and see. Don't stand there with your head just stuck out like a snake in a hole looking to see if it's safe." "Well, but is it safe, sir?" "Come and see. If it's safe enough for me to be out here, it's safe enough for you." Mike evidently considered this reply unanswerable, for he came out slowly and cautiously, the two men seated on the hamper-like basket evidently enjoying the man's timidity. They glanced at Harry inquiringly, and he gave them a quick nod of assent, with the result that as Mike was passing them, with divers suspicious glances at their seat, they made a sudden spring together, as if the occupant of the bamboo covering had suddenly and by a tremendous effort raised the lid. There was a loud creaking, and with a rush Mike was back through the door, which he banged to. The old hunter, who had seated himself to prepare a fresh piece of betel-nut for chewing, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, while his two bearers drew their feet up and squatted now upon the basket lid, chuckling with delight, and looking to Harry as if expecting a fresh hint for startling Mike. Harry went to the door and pushed at it, finding it give a little, but only to be pressed to directly, as if by Mike's shoulder. "Here, it's all right; open the door," cried Harry. "He didn't get out." The door was opened cautiously, and Mike's head slowly appeared, to look from one to the other and encounter faces that were serious now almost to solemnity. "I thought he'd got out, sir," said Mike. "Oh no, he's safe enough; look how they've fastened the lid down with bamboo skewers." "Yes, sir, but some o' them things is so awful strong. What is it--tiger?" "Oh no, it's not a tiger, Mike. A tiger would scratch and kick a basket like that to pieces in no time." "Of course he would, sir. I say, Master Harry, hadn't you better tell old Sree to get up and sit on the basket too?" "Hardly room, is there?" said Harry seriously. "Plenty, sir, if you make those chaps squeedge up together a bit." "But the basket's so tickle, Mike, and their weight might send it over sidewise. If it did the basket would go nearly flat, the lid would be burst off, and where should be we then?" "I know where I should be, sir," said Mike--"indoors." "You wouldn't have time, for those beasts are so wonderfully active that this one would be out of the basket like a flash of lightning." "Would he, sir? Then don't you do it. Let him be. What is it, sir--a leopard?" "Oh no, not a leopard, Mike." "What, then? One of those big monkeys we've never yet got a sight of?" "Monkey? Oh no." "What is it, then, sir?" "Well, you see, Mike, I don't know myself yet," said Harry, laughing. Mike looked at him sharply, then at the three Siamese, whose faces were contorted with mirth, and back at his young master. "Humbugging me," he said sharply. "That's it, is it, Master Harry? Yah! I don't believe there's anything in the old hamper at all." He went round the basket from the other direction, so as to reach the door, and as he got behind the two men on the lid, he turned. "I do wonder at you, Master Harry, laughing at a fellow like that, and setting these niggers to make fun of me. Yah!" He raised one foot and delivered a tremendous kick at the bottom of the basket, startling the two squatting men on the lid so that one sprang up and the other leaped off on to the bamboo floor of the verandah, while a violent commotion inside the basket showed that its occupant had also been disturbed. "Something else for you to laugh at," said Mike, and he slipped in and closed the door. Harry smiled, the man returned to his perch on the lid, frowning and looking very serious, while the occupant of the basket settled down quietly again, making Harry more curious than ever as to what it might be; but he mastered his desire to go and peer through the split bamboo so tightly woven together, and waited impatiently for the coming of his friend and companion. "I believe it's a big monkey, after all," he said to himself. "Sree always said he was sure there were monsters right away in the jungle, just about the same as the one father saw at Singapore, brought from Borneo. It was precious quiet, though, till Mike kicked the basket. How savage it made him to be laughed at!" He glanced at the basket again, and then at the old hunter and his men, all three squatting down on their heels, chewing away at their betel-nut, and evidently in calm, restful enjoyment of the habit. "Just like three cows chewing their cud," said Harry to himself, and then feeling that it was the best way to avoid the temptation to look into the basket, he went along the verandah to the corner of the house, just as his father reached the next corner, coming to join them. "Well, has Phra come?" he cried. "No, father, not yet." "Found out what's in the basket?" said Mr. Kenyon, smiling. "No; haven't looked." "Well done, Hal; I didn't give you credit for so much self-denial. But there, I think we have waited long enough. Let's go and see now what we've got." "No, no, don't do that," said Harry excitedly. "Phra would be so disappointed if we began before he had time to get here." "Ah well, he will not be disappointed," said Mr. Kenyon, "for here he is." As he spoke a boat came in sight, gliding along the river at the bottom of the garden--a handsomely made boat, propelled by a couple of rowers standing one in the bow, the other astern, facing the way they were going, and propelling the vessel after the fashion of Venetian gondoliers, their oars being secured to a stout peg in the side by a loop of hemp. Harry started off down the garden to meet the passenger, who was seated amidships beneath an awning; and as the men ran the craft deftly up to the landing-place, a dark-complexioned, black-haired lad sprang on to the bamboo platform, looking wonderfully European as to his dress, for it was simply of white flannel. It was the little scarlet military cap and the brightly tinted plaid sarong with kris at the waist which gave the Eastern tinge to his appearance. "Well," he said, in excellent English, as he joined Harry, "what have they got? Something from their traps in the jungle?" "Don't know anything. There they are yonder. We waited till you came." "Oh," said the Siamese lad, with a gratified look, "I like that. I'm afraid I shouldn't have waited, Hal." "Oh, but then you're a prince," said Harry. The Siamese lad stopped short. "If you're going to chaff me about that, I shall go back," he said. "All right; I won't then," said Harry. "You can't help it, can you?" "Of course I can't, and I shan't be able to help it when I'm king some day." "Poor fellow, no; how horrible!" said Harry mockingly. "There you go again. You've got one of your teasing fits on to-day." "No, no, I haven't. It's all right, Phra, and I won't say another word of that sort. Come along." "Good-morning," said Mr. Kenyon, as the boys reached the verandah. "Come to see our prize?" "Yes, Mr. Kenyon. What is it you have this time?" "We are waiting to see. Harry here wanted it to be kept for you." The new-comer turned to give Harry a grateful nod and a smile, and then walked with his host along the verandah, and turned the corner. The moment he appeared, the hunter and the two men leaped up excitedly and dropped upon their knees, raising their hands to the sides of their faces and lowering their heads till their foreheads nearly touched the bamboo floor. The young Prince said a few words sharply in his own language, and the men sprang up. "Now then, Mr. Kenyon," he said, "let's see what is in the basket." "What have you got, Sree?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "Very fine, big snake, Sahib," was the reply. "A snake?" cried Harry excitedly. "Ugh!" "A big one?" said the merchant uneasily. Then, recalling the habit of exaggeration so freely indulged in by these people as a rule, he asked the size. "Long as two men and a half, Sahib," said Sree. "Very thick, like man's leg. Very heavy to carry." "Humph! Twelve or fourteen feet long, I suppose," said Mr. Kenyon. "Is it dangerous?" "No, Sahib. I find him asleep in the jungle. He eat too much; go to sleep for long time. Didn't try to bite when we lift him into the basket. Very heavy." "What do you say, Prince?" said the merchant. "Shall we have the lid off and look at it?" "Yes. I won't be afraid," was the reply. "Will you, Hal?" "Not if the brute's asleep; but if it's awake and pops out at us, I shall run for your boat." "And leave your poor father in the lurch?" said Mr. Kenyon. "But you'd run too, wouldn't you, father?" "Not if the snake threw one of its coils round me." "Then I suppose I shall have to stay," said Harry slowly. "Perhaps it would be as well," said Mr. Kenyon drily--"You won't run, will you?" The young Siamese laughed merrily, and showed his white teeth. "I don't know," he said; "I'm afraid I should. Snakes are so strong, and they bite. I think it would be best to go with Harry." The hunter said something very humbly in the native tongue. "He says that he and his men would hold tight on to the snake if it were angry, and shut it up again; but I don't believe they could. They would all run away too." "I don't think there is any danger," said Mr. Kenyon gravely. "These things always try to escape back to the jungle, and they are, I believe, more frightened of us than we are of them. We'll have a look at the creature, then, out here, for I have no suitable place for it at present." "You could turn the birds out of the little aviary and let it loose there, father." "Good idea, Hal; but let's see it first. Look here, Sree; you and your men must lay hold of the brute if it tries to escape." "Yes, Sahib; we catch it and shut the lid down again." "That's right," said the merchant. "Yes, who's that? Oh, you, Mike. Come to see the prisoner set free? Come and stand a little farther this way." "Thank you, sir; yes, sir," said the man. Harry nudged the Prince, and the nudge was returned, with a laughing glance. "No danger, is there, sir?" said Mike respectfully. "I hope not," said Mr. Kenyon; "but you will be no worse off than we are. Like to go back before the basket is opened?" "Isn't time, sir; they've nearly got it open now." "Run round the other way, Mike," cried Harry. "Me, sir? No, thank you," replied the man. "I don't want to run." Meanwhile the two bearers were holding the lid of the basket firmly down while Sree pulled out eight stout elastic skewers of bamboo, which had held the lid tightly in place. And as one after the other was slowly and carefully extracted with as little movement of the basket as possible, so as not to irritate the snake if awake, or to disturb it if asleep, the interest and excitement increased till only one was left, when Harry glanced at Mike, who stood with eyes widely staring, cheeks puffed out, and fists clenched, as if about to start off at full speed. Sree looked up at Mr. Kenyon as the two men pressed down harder and he stood ready to pull out the last skewer. "Out with it," said Mr. Kenyon, and a thrill ran through all present as the last piece of bamboo was withdrawn. But still the lid was pressed down, and of this the hunter took hold, said a few words to his two men, who stood back right and left, ready to help if necessary, while their master had stationed himself at the back of the basket, facing his employer and the two boys. He held the lid with outstretched hands, and once more he paused and looked at Mr. Kenyon as if waiting for orders to proceed, his aim of course being to make the whole business as impressive as possible. "Now then, off with it," cried Harry, and in spite of their excitement, to the amusement of the two boys the hunters took off the lid with a tremendous flourish, and stood back smiling with triumph. "Just like Mike taking the dish-cover off a roast peacock," as Harry afterwards said. It was too much for the last-mentioned personage. As the basket was laid open for the gentlemen to see its contents, Mike took half a dozen steps backward as fast as he could, and with his eye fixed upon the open basket he was in the act of turning to run, when he saw everyone else stand fast. "Lies pretty quiet at the bottom," said Harry, advancing with Phra, Mr. Kenyon keeping close behind. "Only a little one," said the young Prince, rather contemptuously. "Here! I say, Sree; what do you mean by this?" cried Harry. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Phra. "This is one of your tricks, Hal." "That it isn't," cried the boy. "Where is the snake, Sree?" said Mr. Kenyon. "The basket's empty." CHAPTER III SREE'S PRISONER The hunter took a couple of steps forward, looked down into the basket, looked up, half stunned with astonishment, looked in the lid, then outside it, lifted up the basket and peered under it, threw down the lid, felt in his sarong, and then, as there was no heavy boa twelve or fourteen feet long in its folds, he turned fiercely to the two men in turn to ask them angrily in their own tongue what they had done with the snake. Both of them felt in their sarongs and began to protest volubly that they had not touched it; that it was there just now, for they had heard it and felt the weight. It was there--it must be there--and their master had better look again. "It's a conjuring trick," said Phra, who looked annoyed. "I had nothing to do with it, then," said Harry. "I hadn't, honour bright," he added hurriedly as his companion looked doubtingly at him. "Here, Sree, have you begun to learn juggling?" "No, Sahib; it was a lovely snake, all yellow, with big brown spots and purple shadows all over the dark parts. One of these sons of wickedness must have taken it out to sell it to some ship captain to carry away. Surely Sree would not try to cheat the good Sahibs and his Prince by playing tricks like an Indian juggler. Here, Michael; you heard the snake inside before the master came?" "Yes," said Mike, who looked quite brave now, as he approached and looked into the basket searchingly. "I'm sure I heard it plainly, but there's no snake here now. There has been one here, though, for you can smell it." "Yes, there has been one here," cried Harry eagerly. "Then where is it gone?" "Something dreadful has blinded all our eyes, Sahib, so that we cannot see. Thrust in your hand and feel if it is there." Harry shrank for the moment, for the idea of feeling after a snake that had been rendered invisible was startling; but feeling ashamed the next moment of his superstitious folly, he plunged his hand down into the basket, felt round it, and stood up. "There's nothing in there," he said. "Well, you could see that there was not," said his father shortly. "But there has been one there quite lately," said Harry. "Smell my fingers, Phra." "Pouf! Serpent!" cried the young Prince, with a gesture of disgust. "It must have got away." Sree took hold of the basket, bent down into it, looked all round, and then to the surprise of all he stood it up again, turned it round a little, and then jumped in, to stand upright. The surprise came to an end directly, for Sree pointed downward, and as he did so he thrust his toes through the bottom of the basket, where no hole had been apparent, but which gave way easily to the pressure of the man's foot from within, thus showing that it must have been broken at that one particular place. "What! A hole in the bottom for the reptile to crawl out? That was wise of you, Sree!" "I was wise, Sahib, and the basket had no hole in it when we put the snake in." "Then it must have made one, and forced its way through." Sree was silent, and looked at Mike as if waiting for him to speak. But Mike had not the least intention of speaking, and stood with his lips pinched together, perfectly dumb. "Why, of course!" cried Harry excitedly; "I see now. Mike gave the basket a tremendous kick as he went by it, and startled the serpent, and made it swing about. Why, Mike, you must have broken a hole through then." "Master Harry, I--" began Mike. "Yes, Sahib, that was it; he broke a hole through, and once the snake's head was through he would force his way right out." "One minute," said Mr. Kenyon rather anxiously; "tell me, Harry: are you perfectly sure that the snake was there?" "Certain, father." "And you saw Michael kick the basket?" "Oh yes, father; and Michael knows he did." "That's right enough, sir; but I didn't mean to let the brute out." "No, no, of course not," said Mr. Kenyon anxiously: "but if the serpent was in that basket a short time ago and is gone now, it must either be in one of the rooms here by the verandah or just beneath the house." "Ow!" ejaculated Mike, with a look of horror, as he glanced round; and then he shouted as he pointed to an opening in one corner of the verandah, where a great bamboo had been shortened for the purpose of ventilating the woodwork beneath the bungalow, "That's the way he has gone, sir; that's the way he has gone." It seemed only too probable, for it was just the kind of place in which a fugitive, gloom-loving reptile would seek for a hiding-place; while as if to prove the truth of Mike's guess there was a sharp, squeaking sound heard somewhere below the house, and one after the other three rats dashed out of the opening, darted across the verandah, and sprang into the garden, disappearing directly amongst the plants. "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon; "the reptile seems to have gone under the house." "And he will clear away all the rats, Sahib," said Sree, in a tone of voice which seemed to add, "and what could you wish for better than that?" "But I think that my son and I would rather have the rats, my man. What do you say, Hal?" "Yes, father; of course. We can't live here with a horrible thing like that always lying in wait for us. How long did you say it was, Sree?" "Two men and a half, Sahib." "And that's a man and a half too long, Sree. What's to be done?" Sree looked disconsolately at the merchant, and slowly rubbed his blacking-brush-like hair. "The Sahib told me to bring everything I could find in the jungle, and this was a lovely snake, all yellow and brown and purple like tortoiseshell. The Sahib would have been so pleased." "No doubt, if I could have got it shut up safely in some kind of cage; but you see you have let it go." "If the Sahib will pardon me," said the man humbly. "Of course; yes, it was not your fault, but Michael's. Well, Michael, how are you going to catch this great snake?" "Me catch it, sir?" said Mike mildly. "Yes, of course; we can't leave it at liberty here." "I thought perhaps you would shoot at it, sir, or Master Harry would have a pop at it with his gun." "That's all very well, Mike; but it's of no use to shoot till you can see it," cried Harry. "How can we drive it out, Sree?" said Mr. Kenyon. "We must get rid of it somehow." Sree shook his head. "I'm afraid it will go to sleep now, Sahib," he said. "For how long?" "Three weeks or a month, Sahib. Until it gets hungry again." "Why not get guns and two of us stand near here to see if it comes out of this hole, while the others go from room to room hammering on the floor?" "That sounds well," said the merchant. "And it would be good to try first if a cat would go down. Snakes do not like cats or the mongoose, and the cat might drive it out. Cats hate snakes." "That sounds like a good plan, too, Sree. Suppose we try that first. We have a cat, but what about a mongoose? Have you got one?" "I had one when I was in Hindooland, Sahib, but perhaps it is dead now." "If not, it's of no use to us now," said Mr. Kenyon sarcastically. "Here, Hal, go in and get the two guns hanging in my room. Bring the powder-flasks and pouches too. Be careful, my lad; the guns are loaded." "Come along, Phra," said Harry. "No, I am going back for my gun." "I meant to lend you one of mine," said the merchant quietly. "You two lads ought to be able to shoot that reptile if we succeed in driving it out." "Ah!" cried the young Siamese eagerly. "Thank you." He looked gratefully at Mr. Kenyon, and then followed Harry into the bungalow. "This is a nice job," said the latter. "We shall never drive the brute out. This place was built as if they wanted to make a snug, comfortable home for a boa constrictor. There are double floors, double ceilings, and double walls. There's every convenience for the brute, whether he wants to stay a week or a year." "Never mind; it will be good fun hunting him. Where are the guns?" "Here, in father's room," said the boy, leading the way into the lightly furnished bed-chamber with its matted floor and walls, bath, and couch well draped with mosquito net. One side was turned into quite a little armoury, guns and swords being hung against the wall, while pouches, shot-belts, and powder-flasks had places to themselves. "Take care," said Harry, as he took down and handed a gun to his companion, who smiled and nodded. "Yes," he said; "but it isn't the first time I've had hold of a gun." "Well, I know that, Phra. You needn't turn rusty about it. I only said so because it comes natural to warn any one to be careful." "Hist! Listen," said the Prince, holding up his hand. Harry had heard the sound at the same moment. It was a strange, rustling, creeping sound, as of horny scales passing over wood in the wall to their right. A look of intelligence passed between the boys, and they stood listening for a few moments, which were quite sufficient to satisfy them that the object of their visit within was gliding slowly up between the bamboos of the open wall, probably to reach the palm-thatched roof. But it was not to do so without hindrance, for after darting another look at his companion Phra cocked his gun, walked close to the wall, and after listening again and again he placed the muzzle of his piece about six inches from the thin teak matting-covered boarding, and fired. The result was immediate. Whether hit or only startled by the shot, the reptile fell with a loud thud and there was the evident sound of writhing and twisting about. "Well done, Phra! You've shot him!" cried Harry; "but if he dies there we shall have to take the floor up to get him out." "What is it, boys? Have you seen the snake?" "No, sir. I heard it in the wall, and fired." "Yes, and you have hit it, too," said the merchant. "Listen." The boys were quite ready to obey, and all stood attentively trying to analyse the meaning of the movements below the floor. It proved to be easy enough, for the violent writhings ceased, and the serpent began to ascend the side of the room again in the hollow wall. They went on tip-toe to the spot they had marked down, and as soon as they were still again they could hear the faint _crick, crick, crick_ of the scales on the wood, as the serpent crawled from beneath the floor and extended itself more and more up the side, so that it was plain enough to trace the length upward, till evidently a good six feet had been reached. "My turn now," said Harry, cocking his piece. "Shall I fire father?" "No; it would only bring it down again, and if it dies beneath the floor or in the wall it will be a great nuisance to get it out. It will mean picking the place to pieces." "Let it go on up into the roof, then." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon; "if it gets up there it will be sure to descend to the eaves, and if we keep a pretty good watch we shall see it coming down slowly, and you will both get a good shot at it." They stood listening for a few minutes longer, and then the _crick, crick_ in the wall ceased, and it was evident that a long and heavy body was gliding along over the ceiling. "Now then, boys, out with you, and I think I'll bring a gun too; but you shall have the honour of shooting the brute if you can. By the way, I don't think Sree has exaggerated as to the reptile's length, and I shall be glad to get rid of such a neighbour." "It's not moving now," said Harry, in a whisper. "Yes, I can hear it," said Phra, whose ears were preternaturally sharp; "it's creeping towards where it can see the light shine through, and it will come out right on the roof." The little party hurried out to where Mike and the three Siamese were anxiously watching the hole in the corner of the verandah, the three latter armed with bamboo poles, and their long knives in their waist-folds, while Mike had furnished himself with a rusty old cavalry sword which he had bought in London, and brought with him because he thought it might some day prove to be useful. Their watching in the verandah came to an end on the appearance of the little party, and they were posted ready to rush in to the attack of the reptile if it should be shot and come wriggling down off the attap thatch. But for some minutes after the whole party had commenced their watching there was no sign of the escaped prize, not the faintest rustle or crackle of the crisp, sun-dried roof. Phra began to grow impatient at having to stand in the hot sun holding a heavy gun ready for firing, and Harry was little better, for the effort of watching in the dazzling glare affected his eyes. "Can't you send somebody inside to bang the ceiling with a stick, Mr. Kenyon?" said Phra at last. "Yes," said that gentleman. "This is getting rather weary work. Here, Mike, go indoors and listen till you hear the snake rustling over the ceiling of my room, and then thump loudly with a bamboo." "Yes, sir," said Mike promptly, and he took two steps towards the house, and then stopped and coughed. "Well, what is it?" said Mr. Kenyon. "I beg pardon, sir; but suppose the beast has taken fright at seeing you all waiting for him, and got into the house to hide." "Yes?" said Mr. Kenyon. "And is scrawming about all over the floor. What shall I do then?" "Don't lose a chance; hit it over the head or tail with all your might." Mike looked warmer than ever, and began to wipe the great drops of perspiration off his forehead. "Yes, sir," he said respectfully. "We must not stop to be nice now, for it seems to be hopeless to think of capturing the reptile again, and I can't have such a brute as that haunting the place." "No, sir, of course not," said Mike. "Well go on," said Mr. Kenyon sharply. "You are not afraid, are you?" "Oh no, sir, not a bit; but--" Mr. Kenyon shrugged his shoulders and strode into the house, while the two lads burst out laughing. "I say, Mike, you are a brave one!" cried Harry. "Now, look here," cried the man, "don't you go making the same mistake as the master. I'm not a bit afraid." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Phra. "No, sir," said the man angrily; "not a bit afraid; but I've got a mother in England, and I don't like to be rash." "You never are, Mike." "No, sir, and I won't be. I'm sure every one ought to look before he leaps when it's over a dangerous place, and--Ah! look out; here he comes." There was a yell, too, from Sree and his two men, who dashed forward together, as all at once the great serpent seemed to dart suddenly from under a fold of the palm-leaf thatch, make an effort to glide along the slope from the neighbourhood of those who were waiting for it, and then failing from the steepness of the incline, rolled over and over, writhing and twining, towards the edge where the bamboo supports formed the pillars of the verandah. "Here, hi! stop!" roared the boys; but it was all in vain, for the excited Siamese men were deaf to everything save their own impulses, which prompted them to recover the escaped prize, and obtain their promised reward. "Here, I don't want to shoot one of them," cried Phra, stamping in his disappointment. "No, no, don't fire," cried Harry, throwing up his gun. "Here, hi, Mike! Now's your time; go and help. Lay hold of his tail, but don't be rash." For the serpent had rapidly reached the edge of the thatch and fallen into one of the flower beds with a heavy thud which proclaimed its weight. But the next minute that was a flower bed no longer. The serpent began the work of destruction by struggling violently as it drew itself up into a knot, and the three Siamese finished the work. They seemed to have not the slightest fear of the great glistening creature whose scales shone in the sun, but dashed at it to try and pinion it down to the ground. There was a furious hissing, mingled with loud shouts, panting, rustling, and the sound of heavy blows delivered on the earth and the bamboo flooring of the verandah, as the serpent freed its tail and lashed about furiously. Then there was a confused knot composed of reptile and men, rolling over, heaving and straining, and a gaily coloured sarong was thrown out, to fall a few yards away. "Can't you get a shot at it, boys?" cried Mr. Kenyon, as he rushed out. "Impossible, father." "Yes, impossible," repeated Mr. Kenyon. "What fun!" cried Phra excitedly. "They want to catch him alive. Look, Hal, look." Harry was doing nothing else, and forgetful of all his repugnance he approached so near the struggling knot that he had a narrow escape from a heavy flogging blow delivered by the serpent's tail, one which indented the soft earth with a furrow. "Ugh! you beast!" cried Harry, kicking at one of the reptile's folds, which just then offered itself temptingly; but before the boy's foot could reach it the fold was a yard away and the struggle going on more fiercely than ever. It was the fight of three stout, strong men against that elongated, tapering mass of bone and muscle, with fierce jaws at one end, a thick, whip-like portion at the other, and the men seemed to be comparatively helpless, being thrown here and there in spite of the brave way in which they clung to the writhing form. The end soon arrived, for the reptile made one tremendous effort to escape, wrenched itself free enough to throw a couple of folds of its tail round the thick bamboo pillar which supported the roof, took advantage of the purchase afforded, and threw off its three adversaries, to cling there with half its body undulating and quivering in the air, its head with its eyes glittering fiercely, and its forked tongue darting in and out, menacing its enemies and preparing to strike. The men were up again in an instant, ready to resume the attack, Sree giving his orders in their native tongue. "I'll get hold of his neck," he panted, "and you two catch his tail. Keep him tight to the bamboo, and I'll hold his head close up and ask the master to tie it to the upright." "Stand back, all of you!" cried Mr. Kenyon. "Now, boys, get into the verandah and fire outward. You have a fine chance." "No, no, Sahib," cried the hunter imploringly. "The snake is nearly tired out now, and in another minute we shall have caught it fast." "Nonsense," cried Mr. Kenyon; "it is far too strong for you. You are all hurt now." "A few scratches only, Sahib, and we could not bear to see so fine a snake, which the master would love to have, killed like that." "Thinking of reward, Sree?" said the merchant, smiling. Harry whispered something to Phra, who nodded. "Let them have another try, father," cried the boy. "Phra and I don't mind missing a shot apiece." "Very well," said Mr. Kenyon, and turning to the men--"Take it alive, then, if you can." From wearing a dull, heavy look of disappointment the faces of the Siamese were all smiles once more, and they prepared to rush in at their enemy on receiving a word from Sree, who now advanced with one of the bamboo poles he had picked up, and held out the end toward the quivering, menacing head of the snake. The latter accepted the challenge directly and struck at the end of the thick pole, its jaws opening and closing, and the dart of the drawn-back head being quicker than the eye could follow. Sree was as quick, though. The slightest movement of the wrist threw the end of the pole aside, and the serpent missed it three times running. After that it refused to strike, but drew back its head and swung it from side to side till it was teased into striking once more. This time there was a sharp jar of the bamboo, as the reptile's teeth closed upon the wood, and the pole was nearly jerked out of the man's hands. But he held on firmly without displaying the slightest fear, swaying to and fro as the reptile dragged and gave. "Better kill it at once, Sree," cried Mr. Kenyon. "Pray no, Sahib. He is very strong, but we shall tire him out. I am going to have his neck bound to the great bamboo pillar with a sarong." "My good fellow," cried the merchant, "if you do it will drag the pillar down." "And pull half the roof off," said Phra. "Yes, they are very strong, these big serpents." "I'm afraid he would, Sahib," said the hunter mildly. "Now, if I had time I could go into the jungle and get leaves to pound up and give him, and he would be asleep so that we could put him in the basket." "Well, hadn't you better go and fetch some?" cried Harry mischievously. "Here, Mike, come and hold this bamboo while Sree goes." There was a burst of laughter at this, in which the Siamese joined, for Mike's features were for a moment convulsed with horror; the next he grasped the fact that a joke was being made at his expense, and stood shaking his head and pretending to be amused. "We had better have a shot, my lads," said Mr. Kenyon. "It is too unmanageable a specimen to keep, and I shall be quite content with the skin." "Let them have another try, Mr. Kenyon," said Phra eagerly. "It is grand to see them fight. Perhaps they will win this time." "Very well," said Mr. Kenyon, smiling. "Go and help them, Phra," said Harry, laughing. "It's so hot," said the young Siamese, "and one would be knocked about so, and have all one's clothes torn off. Besides, you can't take hold, only by clinging round it with your arms, and snakes are not nice. But I will, if you will." "All right," said Harry; "only let's have the tail." Mike looked at the boys in horror, as if he thought they had gone mad. But at that moment Sree gave a sign to his two followers, after finding that the reptile was so much exhausted that he could force its head in any direction, for it still held on tightly with its teeth. There was a rush, and the two men seized the creature's tail and began to unwind it from the pillar by walking round and round. "Hurrah! they've mastered it," cried Harry, and they drew back as the last fold was untwined from the pillar, Mike drawing much farther back than any one else, so as to give plenty of room. But the tight clasp of the teeth-armed jaws did not relax in the slightest degree, and the next minute, by the efforts of the three men, the creature was half dragged, half carried out into the open garden, limp apparently and completely worn out. "Why, they'll manage it yet, father," cried Harry. "Here, Mike, bring that basket out here." "Yes," cried Mr. Kenyon, "quick!" Mike looked horrified, but he felt compelled to obey, and, hurrying into the verandah, he was half-way to the men with the basket, when he uttered a yell, dropped it, and darted back. "It was frightened of Mike," said Phra afterwards. Frightened or no, all at once when its captors were quite off their guard, the serpent suddenly brought its tremendous muscles into full play, contracted itself with a sudden snatch as if about to tie itself in a knot, and before the men could seize it again, for it was quite free, it went down the garden at a tremendous rate, making at first for the river, then turning off towards the jungle. The men, as they recovered from their astonishment, darted in pursuit, but stopped short, for Mr. Kenyon's gun rang out with a loud report, making the serpent start violently, but without checking its course, and it was half out of sight among the low-growing bushes when, in rapid succession, Phra and Harry fired, with the effect of making the reptile draw itself into a knot again, roll, and twine right back into the garden, give a few convulsive throes, and then slowly straighten itself out at full length and lie heaving gently, as a slight quiver ran from head to tail. The boys cheered, and after reloading in the slow, old-fashioned way of fifty years ago, went close up to the reptile. "Shall I give him another shot in the head, Mr. Kenyon?" cried Phra. "No, no, my lad; it would be only waste of powder and shot. The brute is beyond the reach of pain now. Well, Hal, how long do you make it?" he cried, as that young gentleman finished pacing the ground close up to the great reptile. "Five of my steps," said Harry; "and he's as thick round as I can span--a little thicker. I say, isn't he beautifully marked, father?" "Splendidly, my boy." "But who'd have thought a thing like that could be so strong?" "They are wonderfully powerful," said Mr. Kenyon. "It is a splendid specimen, Sree," he continued to that personage, who, with his companions--all three looking sullen and out of heart--was rearranging dragged-off or discarded loin-cloths, and looking dirty, torn, and in one or two places bleeding, from the reptile's teeth. "Yes, Sahib," said the man sadly; "he would have been a prize, and I should have been proud, and the Sahib would have been grateful in the way he always is to his servants." "Oh, I see," said Harry, who whispered to his father and then to Phra, both nodding. "I could not have kept such a monster as that alive, Sree," said the merchant; "but you men behaved splendidly. You were brave to a degree, and of course I shall pay you as much or more than I should have given you if it had been prisoned alive." "Oh, Sahib!" cried the man, whose face became transformed, his eyes brightened, and with a look of delight he brought a smile to his lips. Turning quickly to his two men, he whispered to them in their own tongue, and the change was magical. They uttered a shout of joy, threw themselves on their knees, raised their hands to the sides of their heads, and shuffled along towards the master. "That will do, Sree," cried Mr. Kenyon impatiently; "make them get up. You know I do not like to be treated like that." "Yes, Sahib; I know," said the hunter, and at a word the two men started up, beaming and grinning at the two lads. "Brave boys," said Phra, speaking in his own tongue; and, thrusting his hand in his pocket, he brought out and gave each of the men one of the silver coins of the country. The next moment all three were grovelling on the earth before their young Prince. He waved his hand and they rose. "I don't much like it now, Hal," said Phra apologetically; "but it is the custom, you know. I like to be English, though, when I am with you." "Oh, it's all right," said Harry; "but you do improve wonderfully, lad. You'll be quite an English gentleman some day. I say, father, give me some silver; I want to do as Phra did." Mr. Kenyon smiled and handed his son some money, nodding his satisfaction as he saw him give each of the Siamese a coin, and check them when they were about to prostrate themselves. "No, no," he shouted; "be English. Pull your blacking-brushes--so." The men grinned, and gave a tug at what would have been their forelocks if they had not been cropped short. "Skin the snake very carefully, Sree," said Mr. Kenyon quietly, after liberally rewarding the men, whose gloom gave place to the exuberance of satisfaction. "Yes, Sahib; there shall not be a tear in the skin," cried the old hunter eagerly. "Where shall they do it, father?" said Harry. "It will make such a mess here." "Let them drag it down to the landing-stage, my boy, and they can sluice the bamboo flooring afterwards, and then peg out the skin to dry on the side. You will stay and see it done?" "Yes, father," replied the boy, and he turned to Phra. "Will you stop?" "Of course. I came to stay," was the reply; "didn't you see that I sent the boatmen back?" CHAPTER IV FISHING WITH A WORM "I say, Sree, hadn't you and your fellows better have a wash?" said Harry, as soon as Mr. Kenyon had re-entered the bungalow to go to his office on the other side for his regular morning work connected with the dispatching of rice and coffee down to the principal city. "What good, Sahib?" said the man, looking up with so much wonder in his amiable, simple face, that both Phra and Harry burst out laughing, in which the men joined. "Why, you are all so dirty, and you smell nasty and musky of that great snake." "But we are going to skin it, Sahib, and we shall be much worse then." "Oh yes, I forgot," said Harry. "When we have done we shall all bathe and be quite clean, and go and thank the good Sahib before we depart." He said a few words to his two men, and, gun in hand, the boys walked with them towards the boa, when a thought occurred to Harry. "I say," he cried, "mind what you are about when you bathe, for there's a crocodile yonder, half as long again as that snake." "Ah!" ejaculated the man, "then we must take care." "So will we, Phra. We'll look out for him and try and get a shot." "A big one?" said the Siamese lad. "Yes, I think it is the biggest I have seen." "Then we'll shoot him. But how bad you have made me! Before we became friends I followed our people's rule--never killing anything. Now this morning I am going to try and kill a crocodile, after helping to kill a snake." "Well," said Harry, "I don't care about arguing who's right, but it seems to be very stupid not to kill those horrible great monsters which drag people who are bathing under water and eat them, and to be afraid to kill a tiger that springs upon the poor rice and coffee growers at the edges of the plantations." "So it does," said Phra, with a dry look; "and I am trying not to be stupid. All, look there!" Harry was already looking, for as one of the men took hold of the serpent's tail, in order to drag it down to the landing-place, it was snatched away, then raised up and brought down again heavily to lie heaving and undulating, the movement being continued right up to the head. "You don't seem to have killed that," said Harry drily. "No," replied Phra; "but I will," and he cocked his gun. But Sree addressed a few words to him in his native tongue, and the lad nodded. "What does he say?" asked Harry; "he can kill it more easily, without spoiling the skin?" "Yes. Look. What a while these things take to die!" "My father says that at home in England the country people say you can't kill a snake directly. It always lives till the sun sets." "You haven't got snakes like that in England?" "Oh no; the biggest are only a little more than a yard long." "But how can they live like that? What has the sun to do with it?" "Nothing. Father says it's only an old-fashioned superstition." "Look! Sree's going to kill the snake now. He's a bad Buddhist." "Never mind; he's a capital hunter. See what splendid things we've found when we've been with him," said Harry enthusiastically. "He seems to know the habits of everything in the jungle." Harry ceased speaking, for Sree drew a knife from its sheath in the band of his sarong, or padung, whetted it on one of the stones of the rockery, and went to the head of the serpent, which was moving gently. Sree bent down, extending his left hand to grip the reptile softly behind the head, and give it a mortal wound which would afterwards serve as the beginning of the cut to take off the beautifully marked skin. But at the first touch, the reptile seemed to be galvanized into life, and coiling and knotting itself up, it began to twine and writhe with apparently as much vigour as before receiving the shots. "Did you ever see such a brute?" cried Harry. "Take care, or you'll lose him." "Oh, no, Sahib; I will not do that. Only let me get one cut, and I will soon make him still." He waited for a few minutes till the reptile straightened itself out again, and then at a sign the two men followed their leader's example, throwing themselves down upon the fore part of the boa, which began to heave again, the lower part of the body writhing and flogging the earth. But Sree was quite equal to the occasion. He had pinned the reptile's neck down with one hand, and managed to hold it till with all the skill of an old huntsman, he had slit up the skin, inserted his knife, and cleverly divided the vertebrae just behind the creature's head. The moment this was done the tremendous thrashing of the tail part began to grow less violent, then grew more gentle still, and finally it lay undulating gently. "He will die now," said the man, and the long, lithe body was dragged to the bottom of the garden and stretched out on the bamboo landing-stage beneath the attap roofing. As soon as this was done, the three men went down to the water's edge, stripped off their sarongs, washed them, and spread them in the hot sun to dry, while, gun in hand, the two lads stood carefully scanning the river in search of enemies, so as to get a shot. But no great reptile was in sight then, and they remained looking on while Sree and his men cleverly stripped off the boa's skin and stretched it out to dry, before fetching a couple of brass vessels from the back of the bungalow and using them to thoroughly remove all traces of their late work. Their next duty was to take a couple of bamboos and thrust off the body of the serpent. Sree, however, undertook to do this himself, telling his men to refill the brass vessels to sluice down the bamboo stage. But instead of thrusting the repulsive-looking reptile off, he stopped, thinking for a few moments. "What is it?" said Phra; "why don't you throw that nasty thing in to be swept out to sea?" Sree gave him a peculiar look, and turned to Harry. "Was it a very big crocodile, Sahib?" he said. "Yes. Why?" "Would you like to have a shot at it?" "Of course; but these big ones are so cunning." "Let's see," said the man. "Perhaps I could get you a shot." The boys were interested at once. "What are you going to do?" said Phra. "See if I can bring one up where you can shoot." "How?" asked Harry. "Is there a big hook in the house?" said Sree. "Do you want one?" "Yes, Sahib." "Go up, then, and tell Mike to give you one of the biggest meat-hooks. Say I want it directly, and then he will." The two men squatted down at the end of the landing-place, smiling, behind their vessels of water, as Sree hurried up the garden, while the two boys stood, gun in hand, scanning the surface of the river. "He's going to make a bait of the snake, I suppose; but I don't expect the croc will be about here now. If the water were clear we could see." But, as before said, the stream was flowing of a rich coffee or chocolate hue, deeply laden as it was with the fine mud of the low flats so often flooded after rains in the mountains, and it was impossible to see a fish, save when now and then some tiny, silvery scrap of a thing sprang out, to fall back with a splash. "We're only going to make ourselves hot for nothing," said Harry. "I don't believe we shall see the beast. Now, if you had been here when I saw him." "And both of us had had guns," said Phra. "What nonsense it is to talk like that! One never is at a place at the right time." "Fortunately for the crocs," said Harry, laughing. "Here he is." "What, the croc?" cried Phra, cocking his gun. "No, no; Sree.--Got it?" "Yes, Sahib. A good big one." The man came on to the landing-stage, smiling, with the bright new double hook in his hand and a stout piece of string. Then taking down a little coil of rope used for mooring boats at one of the posts, he thrust one of the hooks through the hemp, bound it fast with string, leaving a long piece after knotting off, and then passed the other hook well through the vertebrae and muscles behind the snake's head, using the remaining string to bind the shank of the hook firmly to the serpent's neck so as to strengthen the hold. There were about twenty yards of strong rope, and Sree fastened the other end of this to the post used to secure the boats, before looking up at the boys. "Large big fishing," he said, with a dry smile. "Fish too strong to hold." "And that's rather a big worm to put on the hook," said Harry, laughing. "There, throw it out, and let's see if we get a bite. Are you going to fish, Phra?" "No," said the Prince; "I am going to shoot. You can hold the line." "Thankye, but I'm going to fish too. Throw out, Sree." The old hunter's throwing out was to push one end of the serpent off the end of the bamboo stage, with the result that the rest glided after it, and with their guns at the ready the two boys waited to see if there was a rush made at the bait as it disappeared beneath the muddy stream. But all they saw was a gleam or two of the white part of the serpent, as it rolled over and over, then went down, drawing the rope slowly out till the last coil had gone; and then nothing was visible save a few yards of rope going down from the post into the water, and rising and falling with the action of the current. Sree squatted down by the post and went on chewing his betel, his two men by the brass vessels doing the same. So five, ten, fifteen minutes passed away, with the boys watching, ready to fire if there was a chance. "Oh, I say, this is horribly stupid," cried Harry at last. "Let's give it up." "No," said Phra; "you want patience to fish for big things as well as for little. You have no patience at all." "Well, I'm not a Siamese," said Harry, laughing. "We English folk are not always squatting down on our heels chewing nut and pepper-leaf, and thinking about nothing." "Neither am I," said Phra; "but I have patience to wait." "It is your nature to," said Harry. "You're all alike here; never in a hurry about anything." "Why should we be?" replied Phra quietly. "We could not in a hot country like ours. You always want to be in a hurry to do something else. Look at Sree and his men; see how they wait." "Yes, I suppose they're comfortable; but I'm not. I want to go and lie down under a tree. Think it's any good, Sree? Won't come, will he?" "Who can say, Sahib?" replied the man. "He ought to if he is about here. That bait is big and long; the bait must go far down the stream, and it smells well." "Smells well, eh?" said Harry. "Beautiful for a bait, Sahib. You are sure you saw one this morning?" "Saw it, and hit it a fine crack with a big stone." "Then he ought to be there and take that bait; and he will, too, if you have not offended him by making his back too sore." "Offended him! Made his back too sore!" said Harry, with a chuckle. "What a rum old chap you are, Sree! You talk about animals just as if they felt and thought as we do." "Yes, Sahib, and that is what the bonzes teach. They say that when people die they become crocodiles, or elephants, or birds, or serpents, or monkeys, or some other kind of creature." "And that's all stuff and nonsense, Sree. You don't believe all that, I know." "It's what I was taught, Sahib," said the man, with a queer twinkle of the eye. "But you don't believe it, Sree. You don't think that some one turned when he died into that old snake, or else you wouldn't have caught it to sell to my father as a specimen." "And then skinned it and made a bait of it on a hook to catch a crocodile," said Phra. "Not he. Look at him," cried Harry. "See how he's laughing in his sleeve." "He isn't. Hasn't got any sleeves." "Well, inside, then. His eyes are all of a twinkle. He doesn't believe it a bit. There, I shan't stand here any longer cuddling this gun, with nothing to shoot at." "It is rather stupid, Hal." "Yes. Here, jump up, Sree, and take us where we can have a shoot at something, or go and fish; I don't care which." "Come and see the elephants," suggested Phra. "No, I want to be under the shady trees. What's the good of going to see the tame elephants? They're not white, after all. Chained by one leg and nodding their old heads up and down, up and down, till they see you, and then they begin sticking out their leeches." "Sticking out their leeches?" said Phra, looking at him wonderingly. "Trunks, then. They always look to me like jolly great leeches ready to hold on to you. Let's go. Pull up the hook and line, Sree, and get rid of that nasty snake." "Yes, Sahib," said the old hunter, beginning to haul on the rope, which came in heavily for a few feet. "It comes in slowly," said Phra; "has something taken the bait?" _Whush!_ went the line through Sree's hands, and then _whang!_ as it was snapped tight with such violence that the man started from it, for the stout post was jarred so that it quivered and seemed about to be pulled down, while the light bamboo and palm roof swayed, and the whole structure seemed as if it were going to be dragged over into the river. There was no doubting the violence of the wrench and the danger, for the two men sprang off on to the shore and stood staring, till Sree shouted to them to come back and help haul. "Why, we've caught him, Phra," cried Harry, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "Look out, lad, and be ready to fire as soon as he shows upon the surface. Pull, Sree; don't let him drag like that at the post again." "I can't move him, Sahib," said the man, who looked startled; and he was already hauling with all his might, but doing nothing more than slightly ease the strain on the post. But first one and then the other man got a grip of the rope, pulling together with such effect that whatever had seized the bait and become hooked began to jerk the line violently, as if it were throwing its head from side to side. "Be ready to shoot, Master Harry," said Sree. "He may rush up to the top of the water and come at us, or try to sweep us off here with his tail." "Nonsense!" cried Harry. "'Tisn't," said Phra calmly, as he stood like a bronze statue, ready to fire. "I saw a man swept off a boat once like that." "By a croc?" "Yes." "What then?" said Harry huskily. "I don't know. He was never seen again. Ah, look out!" As Phra spoke there was a violent eddying in the water where the end of the line must have been. "He's coming up," cried Harry, raising his gun to his shoulder. "Hold on, all of you. Ah, here he is. Fire!" The two guns went off almost like one, for all at once the hideous knotted head of a crocodile appeared at the surface and came rapidly towards the stage slackening the rope and making the two men quit their hold and, in spite of an angry cry from Sree, tumble one over the other ashore. The hunter behaved bravely enough, but the moment had arrived when he felt that discretion was the better part of valour--when it was evident that the hideous reptile, enraged at finding such a finale to the delicious repast of musky boa, neatly skinned apparently for its benefit, but followed by a horrible tearing sensation in its throat and the pressure of a long rope which could not be swallowed nor bitten through because it persisted in getting between the teeth, had risen to the surface, caught sight of a man dragging at the rope, had aimed straight at him as being the cause of all the pain, and was about to rush at and sweep him from the platform. Under the circumstances Sree was about to let go and follow the example of his men, but the firing checked the crocodile's charge, sending it rushing down below with a tremendous wallow and splash on the surface with its tail; the rope ran out again, and Sree proudly held on, congratulating himself on not having let go, but repenting directly after, for there was a jerk which seemed as if it would drag his arms out of their sockets, and if he had not let the rope slide he must have gone head first into the river. Then came another drag at the post which supported the roof, and once more everything quivered, but not so violently as before, while Sree tightened his hold again and roared to his men to come. The movement of the rope now showed that the great reptile was swimming here and there deep down in the muddy water, while the two lads with hands trembling from excitement reloaded as quickly as they could; and as the two men resumed their places on the stage and took hold of the rope, the sharp clicking of gun-locks told that a couple more charges were ready. "Think we can kill him, Sree?" cried Harry. "I daren't say, Sahib. The rope may break by his teeth at any time, but we'll drag and make him come up again, so that you can have another shot. What are you loaded with?" "Big slugs," cried Phra. "Ought to be bullets," said the hunter. "But we are very near, Sree," chimed in Harry. "Yes, Sahib; but an old crocodile like this is so horny. Never mind; you must try. Say when you're ready." "Now," said Phra hoarsely, and Harry stood with his lips pinched and his forehead a maze of wrinkles. Sree turned fiercely to his two followers, who had hold of the rope close behind him. "If you let go this time, I'll knock you both in," he cried, "and then you'll be killed and eaten, and come to life again as crocodiles." The men shivered at this to them horrible threat, and Harry and Phra exchanged glances. Meanwhile Sree was, so to speak, just feeling the crocodile's head, and as no extra strain was put upon the rope the reptile kept on swimming to and fro; but the moment the rope was tightened and the three men gave a steady drag there was a violent eddying of the water, the rope slackened, and the huge head and shoulders shot out as if the brute meant to reach its enemies in one bound. But once more the reports of the two guns came nearly together, and the gaping jaws of the reptile snapped together as the head disappeared. "Load again," cried Harry excitedly. "Let him run, Sree." The hunter nodded, and as soon as the guns were loaded the drag and reappearance of the beast took place, another couple of shots were received, and this time the reptile whirled itself round and making good use of its favourite weapon struck at the occupants of the landing-stage, its tail sweeping along with terrific force. But the brute had miscalculated the distance. Six feet nearer, and the two lads would have been swept into the river. As it was they felt the wind of the passing tail and heard the loud humming _whish_ as it passed. "That was near, Phra," said Harry. "Yes; the hideous wretch! the beast!" hissed the Siamese lad through his teeth, and followed it up with another loud, hollow, hissing noise from the barrel of his gun, as he rammed a wad down upon the powder. "Let's go on and kill him. Such a wretch ought not to live and destroy everything he can reach along the banks. Oh, how I wish we had some big bullets! I'd half fill the gun." "Then I'm glad you have none, old chap," said Harry. "Why?" cried Phra, pausing, ramrod in hand. "You ought to know by now. Burst the gun." "Nearly ready, Sahib?" cried Sree. "He's pulling harder, and I'm afraid of the rope breaking." "Not quite," said Phra, but a minute later, "Let's stand a bit farther back, Hal. Now, Sree, pull." There was another steady draw upon the rope, which ran out now quite at right angles with the stage, and in an instant it was responded to by a tremendous rush. The water rose in a wave, then parted, as the open jaws of the crocodile appeared, coming right at them. The next moment the landing-stage quivered and rocked, for it was as if a tree-trunk had struck it right at the edge. Then there was a splash which sent the water flying all over the edifice, and all was still. The reptile's charge had its effect, for as it fell back into the water the three Siamese rose to their feet from where they had flung themselves off from the staging in among the flowering bushes, and Harry and Phra sat up on the path which led into the garden. "Oh, what a beast!" cried Phra, rubbing himself. "I hate him, oh, ten thousand times worse now!" "Lucky we didn't shoot one another," said Harry. "I say, see how I've scratched the stock of father's gun." "Why didn't you fire, Sahib?" said Sree ruefully, as he began picking thorns out of his left arm. "Come, I like that!" cried Harry. "Why didn't you three hold on by the rope? I say, Sree, this is a one-er." "You see, he doesn't like that hook, Sahib," said the hunter. "But he has got to like it," said Harry. "There, we're not beaten. Come on again. We must kill him now." "I'm afraid, Sahib, he is one of those old savage crocodiles that are enchanted, and can't be killed." "Oh, are you?" said Harry drily; "then I'm not. And if that rope doesn't break, we're going to kill him for being so impudent, aren't we, Phra?" "Yes," said the lad, with his dark eyes flashing. "We will kill him now if it takes pounds of powder." "And hundredweights of shot," said Harry. "Now then, look at the primings, and then stir the wretch up again, Sree, before he jigs that post down." The jerking of the post was transferred to the arms of the men as the two lads stepped back to the bamboo floor, ready once more, and laughingly now, as they trusted to their own activity to escape the reptile's jaws. The men began to haul at the rope, with the same result as before. But the boys were more ready this time. They watched the approaching wave, and as the open jaws of the enemy appeared, they fired right in between them, as if moved by the same impulse; and this time the creature dropped back at once. "That was a good one, Sree," cried Harry, beginning to reload. "It was great and wonderful, Sahib. How glad I am to see you both trying to slay the old murderer! A few more shots like that, and he will never again drag little children and poor weak women down to his holes in the muddy banks. It is a grand thing to do; but the bullets should be heavier than those." "Never mind," said Phra; "we'll make these do." Once more the order was given to pull, and the rope was tightened as it descended just in the same place, showing that the reptile was lying still in the same spot--probably a hole in the muddy bed--which had formed its lurking-place during the last few minutes. It was a complete repetition in every respect of the last rush, and, taught by experience, the lads were as quick in the repetition of their last tactics. The wave rose in response to the heavy drag, the water eddied and parted, and once more a couple of heavy charges of slugs were poured between the hideous, gaping jaws, which closed with a snap, and the head sank down out of sight. But this time there was a fresh surprise. The monster's tail rose high in the air, and delivered three or four tremendous smacks on the surface, raising such a foam and shower that it was only dimly seen how the reptile must have tried to evade its enemies by shooting up stream. But it was apparent by the direction of the rope, to which the three men held on as long as they could, the final jerk making them let go for a few minutes, but only for Sree to seize hold again. "He must have got that last badly, Sahib," said the hunter gravely, as he began to pull in the slack, which showed that the reptile was no longer straining at the line. "Bring him back then directly we're ready," cried Harry, "and we'll give him another dose. But I say," he added, as he went on loading quickly, "that line comes in very easily." "Yes, Sahib, and we must be on the look-out. I thought he had rushed up stream, but he must be close here." "I know," cried Phra; "it's just like the cunning beast. He has come back, and is hiding under the floor. We must look out." "Yes, Sahib," replied the hunter; "very likely, for they are cunning things. I will not pull in more rope till you are ready for him." "Ready!" cried Phra a minute later, and Harry echoed the cry. "Better stand on my other side, Sahibs," said Sree; and the lads took up the more advantageous place--one, too, which made the hunter more safe from proving the resting-place of the next volley of bullets. The two men eagerly took their places at the rope, for familiarity with the danger incurred had thoroughly bred contempt; and the hauling began slowly and steadily, every one being on the _qui vive_, and ready to spring back. But the first yard came without the slightest resistance. "Look out!" said Harry, holding his gun to his shoulder, and aiming down at the water; "he must be very near." Another yard came without the crocodile being felt. "He must be close in," whispered Phra, and the excitement now became intense; for their enemy seemed to be playing a very artful game under cover of the thick water, which completely shielded the approach. "Better stand farther back, Sahibs," said Sree, ceasing to pull, "But we couldn't see to shoot," said Harry. "Better not shoot than be seized by this child of a horrible mother, Sahib." "We should have time to spring back," said Phra; "for we should see the water move. Go on pulling in the rope." "Yes, go on," said Harry excitedly. "I can't bear this waiting. Haul quicker, and let's have it over." The men obeyed, and another yard was easily and slowly drawn in, the Siamese in their excitement opening their eyelids widely so as to show the opalescent eyeballs; but still there was no check, and the curve of the rope now showed that the hook end must be close under the stage. "Now, Sahibs, mind," whispered Sree hoarsely; "he is down there by your feet, or else right under the floor." The lads glanced down at the frail, split bamboos, through whose interstices they could just catch the gleam of the flowing water, while the same idea came to both. Suppose the brute were to dash its head upward? It would break through as easily as if the flooring had been of laths. But all was still save the rippling whisper of the water and the hum of insect life outside in the blistering sunshine, as the men drew on cautiously, inch by inch, in momentary expectation of the development of a cunning attack. It was almost in breathless awe now that the men ceased pulling for a few moments in response to an order from Sree, who whispered to his superiors,-- "We are just at the end, Sahibs; be quite ready to fire." "We are," they replied, in a husky whisper. "Then we shall pull now sharply, Sahibs." "Pull," said Harry. "Quick!" The men gave two rapid heaves, and the boys started back with a shout. "Oh!" roared Harry, stamping about the floor, "only to think of that!" For Sree was standing holding out the frayed and untwisted end of the rope, worn through at last by the crocodile's teeth, and parted in the last rush. "Oh, I say!" cried Phra. "Mind! Look out!" yelled Harry, making a dash for the shore, and immediately there was a regular stampede, which ended in the Prince seizing his friend by the arm, and thumping his back with the butt of the gun he held. "Oh, I say, don't--don't!" panted Harry, who was choking with laughter. "Then will you leave off playing such tricks?" "Yes, yes--please, please!" cried Harry. "Oh, don't; it hurts." "I know: it'll be like that fable of the shepherd boy and the wolf. Some day he'll come and no one will run." "I don't care, so long as you leave off thumping me with that gun. Don't, Phra, old chap," he added, growing serious; "it's dangerous to play with guns." "It's too bad," said Phra. "I thought the beast was jumping on to us. What a pity, though! All that powder and shot wasted for nothing." "The bullets were too small, Sahib," said Sree; "but I'm afraid you could never have killed that crocodile." "Oh, nonsense!" cried Harry; "bullets would have done it." Sree shook his head solemnly. "Look at him, Phra. I did think he was sensible." "No; he's nearly as superstitious as any of them," replied the lad. "No, Sahib," said Sree; "I only think it's strange that you fired shot after shot into that thing, and still he was as strong as ever. I hope he will not stop about here, and make it not safe to come down to the landing-place. It would be bad." "Ahoy--oy--oy!" rang out in a clear, manly voice, and the sound of oars was followed by a boat gliding into sight. CHAPTER V THE DOCTOR'S POST-MORTEM "Morning, Mr. Cameron," cried Harry heartily, as the boat, propelled by its fore-and-aft rowers, glided up to the landing-stage, Sree handing the crocodile-catching rope to one of the men to make the boat fast, while the occupant of the seat beneath the central awning leapt out. He was a good-looking, lightly bronzed, red-haired man of about thirty, tall, and active apparently as a boy, and as he strode over the yielding bamboo flooring, making it creak, he shook hands warmly. "How are you, my lads?--Ah, Sree!" and the hunter salaamed. "I'm jolly, Mr. Cameron. Phra's bad. Put out your tongue, old chap." Phra's reply was a punch in the chest. "Looks terribly bad," said the new arrival, who knew his friends. "Here, what does all this shooting mean? I came on to see." "Awful great croc," cried Harry. "Shooting at it?" "Yes, and the big slugs rattled off it like hail on a lot of dry thatch." "Then you did not kill it?" "Kill it--no. Only wish we had. Mr. Cameron, it was a monster." "So I suppose. Nine feet long, eh?" "Nine feet long!" said Harry contemptuously; "why, it was over twenty." "You young romancer!" cried the new-comer. "How long was it, Prince?" "I've only seen its head," said Phra. "It was big enough for it to be thirty feet." "Then I beg your pardon humbly, Hal." This was accompanied by a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Oh, I don't mind," said the lad merrily. "Only if you won't believe me, Mr. Cameron, I won't believe you." "I never tell travellers' tales, Hal." "No, but you tell me sometimes that your nasty mixtures will do me good, and that's precious hard to believe." The young doctor laughed. "You ought to have killed the croc, though," he said. "Sahib! Sahib, look!" cried Sree, as a shout arose from Mr. Cameron's boatmen. All turned sharply to where the men were pointing, to see, floating on its back and with its toad-like under part drying in the hot sunshine, the body of a huge crocodile. "That's ours," cried Harry. "Or a dead one from somewhere up the river," said the doctor. "But we'll soon prove it with our noses." "Hooray! no need," cried Harry; "that's him;" for all at once the great reptile undulated in the water, struggled, splashed, and turned over, swam round, and went up the river again, passing out of sight. "Well, you are pretty sportsmen! Why didn't you shoot?" "I never thought of the gun," said Phra. "Here, take us in your boat, and let's follow him, Mr. Cameron." There was another shout before the doctor could answer, for the men could see that the reptile's strength was exhausted, it being once more upon its back, floating down the stream. "We'll shoot this time," said Phra. "There is no need, master," said Sree. "I think it is dead now." "I came to have a chat with your father," said the doctor; "but I must make acquaintance with our friend yonder. Look here, Sree, take the boat and the rope and tow the brute ashore. Take care that it is dead first. Don't run any risks." "No, Sahib," said the man, drawing his keen knife from his waist and trying its edge and point. "Ah, I need not try to teach you, Sree." "Here's father," cried Harry, as Mr. Kenyon came out of the open window of the bungalow and walked down to where they stood. "Ah, Cameron, how are you? Glad to see you, man. How is the wife?" "Complaining about the heat. But look yonder." He pointed at the floating reptile, and the merchant uttered an exclamation of wonder. "So that explains the firing, boys. It is a monster. What a good riddance! What are you going to do, Sree?" "Put a rope round his neck and bring him ashore, Sahib." "Yes, we ought to take some measurements. But be careful, or it will capsize you; I don't think it's dead." "It will be soon, Sahib," said the man meaningly. "Yes, but those creatures have such strength in their tails. Where is your spear, man?" "In my boat, Sahib, far away." "Here, Harry, run to the hall and take down one of those Malay spears." Harry ran, and after a moment's hesitation the young prince followed him, walking in a slow, dignified way. But long contact and education with an English boy had left its traces, and before he had gone many yards the observances of his father's jungle palace were forgotten, and he dashed off as hard as he could go, leaping in at the doorway and nearly overturning his companion. "Here, mind where you're coming to," cried Harry. "Bring two spears," cried Phra excitedly. "Well, I am bringing two, aren't I? Thought you'd like to have a go, too." Phra's arm went over his friend's shoulder in an instant. "That's what I do like in you," he cried. "You always want to share everything with me." "You're just as stupid," said Harry drily. "Here, catch hold. Which will you have? Make haste. Come along." "Oh, I don't mind," said Phra. "Better choose," said Harry, holding out the long, keen heads. "This one's as sharp as that one, and that one's got as good a point as this. Which is it to be?" "I don't quite understand," said Phra, gazing in Harry's laughing eyes. "Yes, I do. Either of them will do. How fond you are of trying to puzzle one!" "Make haste, boys," cried Mr. Kenyon. Dignity before the common people was once more forgotten, prince and English boy racing down to the landing-stage with the light spears over their shoulders. "Hullo!" said Harry's father. "I did not mean you to go." "Oh, we must go, father," cried the lad. "Well, be careful, Sree. Mind that the boat is kept a little way back." "Yes, Sahib; I will take care." "You might have asked me if I'd like to come in my own boat," said the doctor, smiling. "Oh, Dr. Cameron," said Phra with an apologetic look, "pray go;" and he offered him the spear he held. "No, no, my dear lad," said the doctor; "I was only joking. It is your task." "But come too," cried Harry. "There will be plenty in the boat without me. Off with you." Harry looked unwilling to stir, but the doctor seized him by the shoulders and hurried him along, and the next minute they were being paddled towards the floating reptile, the men managing so that the boys could have a thrust in turn, the Prince as they passed along one side, Harry on their return on the other. But the thrusts did not follow one another quickly, for the deep plunging in of the spear by Phra seemed to act like a reviver, although it was delivered about where the lad believed the heart to be. In an instant the great reptile had flung itself over and began lashing the water with its tail. "Take care!" shouted Mr. Kenyon from the landing-stage. But the warning was needless, for a sharp stroke from the oars sent the boat well out of reach, the rowers changing their positions and sending it backward in pursuit, as the crocodile began once more to swim up stream, at a pretty good rate at first, then slower and slower, leaving the water stained with its blood as it went on. It managed to make its way, though, quite a hundred yards above the bungalow before its tail ceased its wavy, fish-like motion. Then there was a struggle and a little splashing, and once more it turned over upon its back. "Your turn now," cried Phra excitedly. "I must have missed its heart. You stab it there this time." "Want the doctor here to tell me where it is," said Harry, as he stood up with his spear poised ready to strike when within reach. "Thrust just between its front paws, Sahib," said Sree from where he squatted just behind the front rower. "I will if I can; if I can't, how can I?" hummed Harry. "Now," whispered Sree. "Yes, yes, now," cried Phra excitedly. "There you are, then," muttered the lad, and he delivered a thrust right in the spot pointed out, snatching back the weapon just in time, for the wound seemed to madden the reptile, which turned over and began to struggle with astonishing vigour; but only to roll over again and swim round the boat in that position, giving Phra the opportunity of delivering a deadly thrust, which was followed by another by Harry. "That has done it," said the latter, for there was no response to these save a slight quivering of the tail, and now Sree rose from where he had crouched. "Dead now, Sahibs," he said; "he will fight no more." The two lads worked their spears about in the water a few times to cleanse them, and then sat down under the thatched awning, panting and hot with exertion, while they watched the action of the hunter. Sree, aided by the boatmen, who held the crocodile within reach, leaned over the side and slipped a running noose over the monster's head right up to the neck, drew it tight, and then let the rope run through his hands as the two Siamese rowers made their oars bend in sending the light sampan along, for the huge bulk was heavy. But the stream was with them, and a few minutes after, in obedience to the doctor's instructions, the crocodile was drawn up close to the muddy bank, some fifty yards below the merchant's garden. Here another rope was fetched out and made fast round one of the hind legs, both ropes being held by Sree's men, while their leader remained in the boat, the boys having sprung ashore. And now measurements were taken, the monster proving to be just twenty-one feet in length, and of enormous bulk. "I was not far wrong, Doctor Cameron," said Harry. "No, my boy; you were not, indeed." "Are you going to let it float down the river now?" asked Phra. "Not yet," said the doctor; "but perhaps you two had better go now, for I am about to superintend rather a nasty examination in the cause of science." "I know," said Harry to his companion; "he is going to see what the thing lives on. Shall we go?" "No," said Phra gravely; "I want to learn all that I can, and the doctor is so clever, he seems to know everything." "I heard what you said, Prince," said the doctor, smiling; "but I don't; I wish I did. Now, Sree, you know how to go to work; let's get it over; the water will wash everything away." The hunter, who had worked with Doctor Cameron in many an expedition, and understood what was required, bent over the side of the boat, made one long opening, and then plunging his knife in again, made another, and with the flowing water for help, in a short time laid bare the various objects which formed the loathsome reptile's food. First and foremost there was, to the doctor's astonishment, the snake, and as soon as this had been sent floating down the stream there were fish, seven of goodly size, beside some that were quite small. Then the boys were puzzled, but the cleansing water soon showed that what followed next were a couple of water-fowl, nearly as big as geese. "That's all, is it?" said the doctor. "No, Sahib, there is something else--something hard," said the hunter, and he searched about, gathering something in his hand, rinsed it to and fro a few times, and carefully threw four objects ashore. Harry shuddered and felt a horrible, sickening sensation for a few moments, but it was swept away directly after by the feeling of rage which made the blood run hot to his temples. "I've been thinking what brutes we were, killing things as we have been this morning; but oh, the beast! I should like to kill hundreds." "Ugh!" ejaculated Phra, as he stamped his foot, and then through his compressed teeth: "The wretches! the monsters! how I hate them!" He said no more, but stood with his companion listening as the doctor rested on one knee and turned over the objects on the grass. "Yes, strung on wire; that is why they have not separated. Gilt bronze, and very pretty too. Each one is chased; the leg and arm bangles are bronze too, and quite plain. You may as well put them in your museum, Kenyon, with a label containing their sad little history--Worn by some pretty little Siamese girl dragged under when bathing." "Yes, Sahib doctor," said Sree respectfully; "they wear bangles like that three days' journey up the river." "Horrible!" ejaculated Harry, bending over the relics. "Horrible indeed, my boy," said his father. Then laying his hand upon Phra's shoulder, "Thank you both, my lads, for ridding the river of a vile old murderer." "Thank old Sree, too, father," said Harry eagerly, "for he did more than either of us." "I'm going to thank Sree," said the merchant. "There, let the monster float down to the sea. Don't go away yet; Doctor Cameron and I want to talk to you." "Yes, and Harry and I want to go up the river to the wild jungle," said Phra eagerly. "We have not had a hunt for a week." "Come along, then," said Mr. Kenyon, laying his hand on the Prince's shoulder. "We'll talk it over, and perhaps we can join forces. What's that, Sree?" "The crocodiles from below are coming up, Sahib; they have smelt the blood." "Yes, look at that," said the doctor, as there was a wallow and a splash not ten yards from the monster's head. "Take care!" said Mr. Kenyon excitedly. "Don't try to untie those ropes, Sree, or you may have your hand seized; cut them, and let the reptile go." Sree obeyed, dividing the strong cords with a couple of cuts. Then taking an oar from one of the boatmen he forced the boat along past the crocodile, giving the latter a thrust, when the current bore it outward, and directly after another of its tribe, of about half the size, raised its head out of the water, and drew itself partly on the bulky body, which rolled over toward it, and then sank back out of sight. But it was not gone, and the agitation of the surface about the floating body showed that others were there, tearing at it as it floated away. "I should hardly have thought that we had so many of these brutes about here," said the doctor. "They come and go, Sahib; and they hide so. There are plenty more, and that dead one will never reach the sea." "It's a warning to you two boys never to attempt to bathe off here," said Mr. Kenyon. "Bathe, father!" cried Harry, glancing down at the bronze rings and the necklace lying in the grass; "I feel as if I shall never like to bathe again;" and Phra curled up his lip, as he once more ejaculated:-- "Ugh!" CHAPTER VI MAKING PLANS It was pleasantly dusk and shady in Mr. Kenyon's museum, where the party had gathered, glad enough to get away from the glare of the sun after the exertions of the morning. For Siam is a country beautiful enough, but one where the sun has a bad habit of making it pretty often somewhere near ninety-nine in the shade. The natives revel in this, and grow strong and well, though it has a tendency to make even them a quiet, deliberate, and indolent people. What wonder, then, that an Englishman should feel indisposed to work? All the same, there was not much idleness in the Kenyons' bungalow, for the merchant was an indefatigable business man, who had built up a fine business, at the same time finding time for gratifying his intense love for natural history, in which he had an energetic companion in the young doctor, who had been encouraged to settle at Dahcok by one of the kings. As for Harry, his restless nature made him set the hottest weather at defiance unless he was checked, for, to use his own words, "I'm not going to let Phra beat me out of doors, even if he was born in the country." There had been a few words in connection with his restlessness when the lads bore in the guns and spears, all of which were handed over to Mike to be cleaned and carefully oiled. "You lads had better sit down now and have a good rest in here; it's cool and shady. Your face is scarlet, Hal. Make Phra stay and have a bit of dinner with us." "I should like to," said the young Prince eagerly. "Of course he will, father; but you and Doctor Cameron want to talk." "About what will interest you as well, I dare say. What were you going to do?" For Harry had made a sign to Phra, and was sidling towards the door. "Oh, I don't know, father; look about and do something along with Phra." "Do you hear him, Doctor? Did you ever see such a restless fellow? He's spoiling the Prince too." "Oh no," said Phra; "I'm just as bad as he is, sir." "I begin to think you are," cried Mr. Kenyon. "Look here, Cameron; they've had a fight with the boa whose skin I showed you, and another with that crocodile. That ought to satisfy any two boys who love adventure for quite a month." "Well, it is a pretty good morning's work," said the doctor, laughing. "Take my advice, lads, and have a rest till dinner-time, and another afterwards. As it happens, Kenyon, I told the wife I shouldn't be back to dinner." "You wouldn't have gone back if you had not," said Mr. Kenyon laughing. "Oh, by the way, have you completed your collection of fireflies?" "No; there is one which gives out quite a fiery light, very different from the greeny gold of the others. I've seen it three times, but it always soars away over the river or up amongst the lofty trees." "I know that one," said Phra eagerly. "I've seen it once," said Harry. "Old Sree would get you one." "I've asked him, but he has not succeeded yet," said the doctor. "We'll try, then," said Phra, springing up, an action followed by Harry. "But the fireflies are best caught by night," said Mr. Kenyon drily. "Of course," cried Phra, reddening through his yellowish bronze skin, and he dropped back in his chair, with Harry following suit. But in spite of the heat, the boys could not sit still, and began fidgeting about, while Mr. Kenyon and his friend chatted about the state of the colony. For want of something else more in accordance with their desires at the moment, the two boys began to go over the various objects in the large, high-ceiled room, which were the result of ten years' collecting. There were bird-skins by the hundred--pheasants with the wondrously-shaped eyes upon tail and wing, which had won for them the name argus; others eye-bearing like the peacock, but on a smaller scale; and then the great peacock itself--the Javanese kind--gorgeous in golden green where the Indian kinds were of peacock blue. Every here and there hung snake-skins, trophies of the jungle, while upon the floor were no less than six magnificent tiger-pelts, each of which had its history, and a black one too, of murder committed upon the body of some defenceless native. Leopard-skins, too, were well represented. Elephants' tusks of the whitest ivory; and one strange-looking object stood on the floor, resembling a badly rounded tub about twenty inches in diameter, and formed out of the foot of some huge elephant. Skulls with horns were there, and skulls without; cases and drawers of birds' eggs, and lovely butterflies and moths, with brilliant, metallic-looking beetles; and the boys smiled at one another as they paused before first one thing and then another in whose capture they had played a part. Here, too, was another stand of weapons that would be suitable for the attack upon some tyrant of the jungle, or for defence against any enemy who might rise against the peace of those dwelling at the bungalow. The boys were interested enough in the contents of the museum they had helped to form; but at last the weariness growing upon them became unbearable, and they moved towards the door, expecting to hear some remark made by either Mr. Kenyon or the doctor; but these gentlemen were too intent upon the subject they had in hand, and about which they were talking in a low voice. "They didn't hear us come out, Phra," said Harry. "Here let's run and see whether old Sree has gone yet. I hope Mike Dunning has given them all plenty to eat." "He was told to," said Phra quietly. "Yes, he was told to," said Harry; "but that does not mean that he always does as he's told." "One of our servants dare not forget to do what he was ordered," said Phra, frowning. "No; but our laws don't allow masters to cut off people's heads for forgetting things." By this time they had passed round the house, to find right at the back Sree and his two men busy at work cleaning and polishing the guns and spears that had been used that morning, while Mike, whose task it was by rights, lounged about giving orders and looking on. "Have you given those men their dinner, Mike?" asked Harry. "Oh yes, sir, such a dinner as they don't get every day," replied the man. "That's more than you know, Mike," said Harry. "Hunters know how to live well out in the jungle; don't they, Sree?" "We always manage to get enough, Master Harry," said the man, smiling; "for there is plenty for those who know how to find it in the jungle, out on the river's edge, or in the water." "And you know how to look for provisions if any man does. But here, you, Mike, they've no business cleaning these things. You finish them; I want to talk to Sree." Mike took the gun Sree was polishing without a word, and went on with the task, while the hunter rose respectfully and stood waiting to hear what the boys had to say. "We want to have a day in the jungle," said Harry. "What is there to shoot?" "A deer, Sahib." "No," said Phra, frowning; "they are so hard to get near. They go off at the slightest noise." "The young Sahibs might wait and watch by a water-hole," said the hunter. "It is easier to catch the deer when they come to drink." "But that means staying out in the jungle all night." "Yes, Sahib, it is the best way." "No," said Phra. "What else, Sree?" asked Harry. "The Sahib said he would like two more coo-ahs; would the Sahibs like to lie in wait for them? I could make them come near enough by calling as they do--_Coo--ah! coo--ah!_" The man put his hands before his mouth and softly imitated the harsh cry of the great argus pheasant so accurately that Phra nodded his head and smiled. "Yes, that's like it," cried Harry. "_Coo--ah! coo--ah!_" "And that isn't a bit like it," said Phra laughingly. "You would not have many come to a cry like that; would he, Sree?" "No, my Prince," replied the man, shaking his head; "the great birds would not come for that." "Very rude of them," cried Harry merrily; "for it's the best I can do. Well, shall we try for the _coo--ahs?_" "What else do you know of, Sree?" asked Phra. "There was a leopard in the woods across the river yesterday, my Prince; but they are strange beasts, and he may be far away to-day." "Oh yes, I don't think that's any good," said Harry. "I should like to try for an elephant." "There are very few near, just now, Sahib," replied the man. "It is only a month since there was the great drive into the kraal, and those that were let go are wild and have gone far away." "Oh, I say, Phra, and we call this a wild country! Why, we shall have to go beetle-catching or hunting frogs." Sree smiled, and Harry saw it. "Well, propose something better," he cried. "The men were at work in the new sugar plantation," said the man quietly. "Well, we don't want to go hunting men," cried Harry impatiently. "And the tiger leaped out of the edge of the jungle, caught the man by the shoulder, and carried him away." "Ah!" cried Phra excitedly; "why didn't you tell us that at first?" "Because he kept it back for the last," said Harry. "That's just his way." "Would the Sahib and my Prince like to try and shoot the tiger?" asked Sree. "Would we? Why, of course we would," cried Harry excitedly. "What shall we do? Have a place made in a tree?" "No, Sahib," replied the man, shaking his head. "If it were a cow or one of the oxen, I would make a place in a tree near the spot where he had dragged the beast, for he would come back to feed upon it as soon as it grew dark; but it was not an ox nor a cow. The poor man has been taken away to the wat, and his wife and friends have paid all they could for him to be burned." "What shall we do, then?" "It is of no use to go without a couple of elephants and beaters to drive the tiger out." Harry looked round at Phra, who nodded his head quietly. "Very well," he said; "we'll have the elephants out, and men to beat. When shall we go? To-morrow?" "Yes, my Prince; to-morrow when the tiger will be lying asleep." "I'll go and speak to my father," said Phra. "He will not care to come himself, but your father and Doctor Cameron will be sure to say that they will come." "Yes, of course," said Harry. "But I say, only to think of old Sree here knowing of this tiger, and not saying a word!" "I was going to tell you, Sahib, before I went away." "But why didn't you tell us before?" "Because I did not know, Sahib, till a little while ago, when he came to find me and bring me the news." He pointed as he spoke to an ordinary-looking peasant who was squatted a little way off beneath the trees, chewing his betel. The lads had not noticed the man before, as he had shrunk away more into the shade on seeing them come out. "He brought you the bad news?" said Phra. "Yes, my Prince. He went to find me yonder after coming across from his village, and no one could tell him where I had gone, till at last he saw the Sahib doctor's boatmen, and they told him that I was here." "Then I will go and tell my father we want the elephant," said Phra. "You go and speak to them indoors, for we must kill that wretch." "If we can," said Harry, smiling; "but Mr. Stripes is sometimes rather hard to find." Phra nodded, and went across the garden on his way to the palace, while Harry went back into the house, Mike waiting till his young master's back was turned and then handing the gun he was finishing to the old hunter. "You may as well do this, Sree," he said; "you clean guns so much better than I can." The old hunter smiled, as he waited to examine the points of the spears his men had been polishing, and then good-humouredly took the gun to finish after his own fashion, for there was a good deal of truth in what Mike Dunning had said. CHAPTER VII THE BRINK OF A VOLCANO The boys were quite wrong in imagining that their act of escaping from the museum had passed unnoticed, for as soon as they had passed out of hearing the doctor nodded his head and threw himself back in his cane chair. "Now we are alone," he said to Mr. Kenyon, "I may as well tell you what I have heard." "Nothing serious, I hope?" "No--yes. It may be either," replied the doctor. "I would not say anything before the boys, for it might make Phra uneasy." "And Harry?" said Mr. Kenyon. "No, I think not. I don't believe he would give the matter a second thought." "You are hard upon the boy," said Mr. Kenyon, rather sternly. "Not in the least," said the doctor, smiling. "It is his nature. I don't think the matter is really of any consequence, but it would have upset Phra, who is as sensitive as a girl; and he would be worrying himself, and thinking about it for weeks, beside exaggerating the matter on his father's account." "What is it, then--some trouble with our friend the other king?" "Friend, eh? I believe that if he could have his own way every European would be driven out of the country--or into the river," he added to himself--"before we were twenty-four hours older." "What is the fresh trouble, now?" "Nothing fresh about it, Kenyon. It is the stale old matter. Here we have two parties in the country." "Yes, and worse still, two kings," interposed Mr. Kenyon. "Exactly, each having his own party. The one wants to see the country progress and become prosperous and enlightened; the other for it to keep just as it was five hundred years ago; and the worst of it is nearly all the people are on the stand-still side." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon. "The old traditions and superstitions suit the indolent nature of the people." "And the progress the King is making offends their prejudices." "You mean the prejudices of the bonzes," said Mr. Kenyon sadly. "Exactly; that is what I do mean, and they are getting so thick with the second king, that I sometimes begin to be afraid that we shall have trouble." "You have had that idea for a long time now, but the reigning King holds so strong a position that his kinsman dare not rise against him. He is as gentle and amiable a man as could exist, but there is the old Eastern potentate in him still, and our friend number two knows perfectly well that if he attempted to rise he would be pretty well sure to fail, and then his head would fall as surely as if our old Harry the Eighth were on the throne." "But would he fail? All the bonzes are on his side." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon, laughing; "and they'd tell him to go on and prosper, but they would not fight." "No, they would not fight," said the doctor musingly. "Do you think there is a regular conspiracy?" "I really do sometimes, and it makes me uneasy." "That is because you are a young married man, and fidget about your wife." "Well, and quite naturally." "Yes, quite naturally, of course; but when you have been here as long as I have, you will not be so nervous." "I don't think I am nervous, Kenyon; but it would be very horrible if there should be a rising amongst the people." "Horrible, but not likely, my dear sir." "But if there were? I suppose I am right in looking upon ourselves as being favourites." "Certainly." "Well, then, should we not be among the first whom the people would attack?" "That is quite possible, but I suppose we should defend ourselves, and be defended as well by the people who remained staunch." "I have thought of all that, but if trouble did come it would be sudden and unexpected, and we should be taken by surprise." "We might be, or we might have ample warning. I think the latter, for these people are very open and wanting in cunning." "But don't you think we--or say you--having so much influence with the King, would do wisely if you warned him--told him of our suspicions?" "No, I think not," said Mr. Kenyon. "Why?" "Because, quiet and studious as the King is, he happens to be very acute and observant. I feel certain that nothing goes on in the city without his being fully aware of it; and though he seems to take very little notice, I am pretty sure that nothing important takes place except under his eye, or which is not faithfully reported to him by one or other of his councillors." "Perhaps you are right," said the doctor, "and I have been unnecessarily nervous." "I feel sure that you have been. I would speak to him, but he might look upon it as an impertinent interference on my part in connection with private family matters. Take my advice, and let it rest. We should have ample warning and ample protection, I feel sure. But I am glad you spoke out, all the same. But bah! nonsense! You would not be hurt--you, the doctor who has done so much good among the poor people. Why, doctor, they look upon you as something more than man: they idolize you." "For the few simple cures I have effected." "Few? Hundreds." "Well, hundreds, then. But what has it done?" "Made you friends with every one in the city." "Made me a number of bitter enemies, sir. Why, the native doctors absolutely hate me. My word! I should not like to be taken ill and become helpless. They'd never let me get well again if they had the doctoring." "Don't be too hard on them," said Mr. Kenyon. "Not I, my dear sir. I only speak as I think. So you would not take a step in our defence?" "Not until we were certain that it was necessary; then as many as you like. Steps? I'd make them good long strides. But say no more: the boys are coming back, and we don't want to set them thinking about such things." In effect, steps were heard in the verandah, and a few minutes later Harry hurried into the museum again. "Well, boy!" cried the doctor. "What is it? you look hot." "Tiger," said Harry eagerly. "Where?" cried Mr. Kenyon and his visitor in a breath. "Over yonder, by the new sugar plantation," cried Harry. "Jumped on a man and killed him. Sree has just heard the news. He told me and Phra." "How horrible!" said Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, and the village people sent a messenger to Sree. They want the brute killed, and we're going to have an expedition and destroy the wretch." "Indeed?" said Mr. Kenyon drily. "You and Mr. Cameron will come with us, of course, father?" said Harry, who was too much excited to notice the glances exchanged between the merchant and his visitor; "but I should like to have first shot, and kill the beast." "No doubt," said the doctor drily; "but I suppose you would not wish us to give up our chances if the tiger came out our way?" "Oh no, of course not," said Harry. Then turning to Mr. Kenyon, "You will try the new rifles the King sent to you, will you not, father?" "When I go tiger-hunting," said Mr. Kenyon drily. Harry felt damped by his father's manner. "But you will go now, father?" "What, and walk the tiger up like one would a partridge?" said Mr. Kenyon. "Certainly not, and you are not old and experienced enough yet to go tiger-shooting. It requires a great deal of nerve." "Oh, but I don't think I should feel frightened, father." "Perhaps not; but you would be too much excited, and might shoot the doctor. We could not spare him, Hal." "I shouldn't, father. You taught me how to handle a gun, and if I can do that I ought to be able to handle a rifle." "Possibly; but, as Mr. Cameron will tell you, we could not risk going on foot." "We're not going on foot, father," cried Harry excitedly. "We're going to have two elephants, and you and doctor could go on one, and Phra and I on the other." "Oh, that alters the case," said Mr. Cameron eagerly. "Has the King offered to lend us elephants?" said Mr. Kenyon. "No, father, but he will," said Harry. "Phra has gone to tell him, and he is sure to say we may have them." "Indeed? I doubt it." "He always lets Phra and me have anything we ask for." "Yes, he is very indulgent to you both, my boy--too much so sometimes; but I notice that there is a certain amount of wisdom in what he does. What about the rifles?" "Well, he gave us the rifles, father." "With certain restrictions, Hal. They were to be placed in my charge, and I was to decide when it would be right for you to use them." "Oh yes, father, he did say that." "Yes, and I think it was not until you and Phra had been waiting nearly two years that they were sent." "It was a long time, certainly," agreed Harry. "The King is a wise man in his way, and I feel pretty sure that he will refuse to lend the elephants. What do you say, Cameron?" "I agree with you." "What, and let the tiger lurk about that great plantation and keep on killing the poor fellows who are hoeing?" cried Harry indignantly. "I'm sure he wouldn't; he's too particular about protecting people." "He will most likely get up a big hunt to destroy the tiger," said the doctor; "but I don't believe he will let you two boys go." "Oh!" cried Harry, who seemed as if he could hardly contain himself in his keen disappointment; "any one would think it was wicked and contemptible to be a boy. One mustn't do this and one mustn't do that, because one is a boy. One mustn't do anything because one is a boy. It's always, 'You are too young' for what one wants to do. Oh," he cried passionately, "who'd be a boy?" "I would, for one," said the doctor, laughing. "I don't believe it, doctor," cried Harry. "You wouldn't like to be always kept down." "Perhaps not; boys never do. They're too stupid." "What!" cried Harry. "Too stupid," said the doctor again, while Mr. Kenyon lay back in his creaking cane chair with his eyes half closed, listening, with an amused expression of countenance. "Why, I was as stupid as you are, Hal, at your age." "But you did not think so," retorted Hal. "Of course I did not. I did not know any better. I could not see that by being a thorough boy for so many years, and being boyish and thinking as a boy should think, I should naturally grow into a thorough manly man." "I don't quite understand you, sir," said Harry rather distantly. "But I'm speaking plainly enough, Hal. Come, confess, my lad; you want to be a man, and to be treated as if you were one?" Harry hesitated. "Speak out frankly, sir," said Mr. Kenyon sternly. "Well, of course I do," said the lad. "And you can't see that if we treated you as you wish to be treated," said the doctor earnestly, "that we should be weak, foolish, and indulgent, for we should be doing you harm?" "Oh, Mr. Cameron, what nonsense!" "Think of this some day in the future, Hal, my lad," said the doctor warmly, "and you will find then that it is not nonsense. Look here, my lad, a boy of seventeen, however advanced and able he may be in some things, is only a boy." "Only a boy!" said Harry bitterly. "Yes, only a boy; a young, green sapling who must pass through years before he can grow naturally into a strong, muscular man. Some boys fret over this and the restraints they undergo, because of their youth, and want to be men at once--want to throw away four or five of the golden years of their existence, and all through ignorance, because they are too blind to see how beautiful they are." "You told me all that once before, Mr. Cameron." "Very likely, Hal, for I am rather disposed to moralize sometimes. But it's quite true, my lad." "Yes." said Mr. Kenyon, "it's true enough, Hal, for boys are wonderfully boyish. Naturally, too, my lad," he added, with a laugh. "But there, don't build any hopes upon this expedition, for I should certainly shrink from letting you go." "Oh, father, I would be so careful, and I'll believe all Doctor Cameron said and won't want to be a man till I am quite grown up. I'll be as boyish as I can be." "I think I'd shrink from any promises of that kind, Hal," said the doctor, smiling. "Don't tie yourself down to rules of your own invention. Look here, aim at being natural, at hitting the happy medium." "I suppose that's the unhappy medium for the boy, isn't it?" "Not at all, my lad; it's the way to be happy. Leave it to Nature; she will set that right. Don't be too boyish, and don't aim at being an imitation man--in other words a prig. Be natural." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon; "the doctor's right, Hal. Be natural, and you will not be far wrong there." "I always am as natural as I can be," said Harry, throwing himself into action, and looking as gloomy and discontented as a boy could look; "but no one gets to be so disappointed and sat upon as I am." Mr. Kenyon's brow clouded over, but he said nothing. "So sure as I set my mind upon anything I'm sure to be balked." "Poor fellow!" said the doctor gravely. "Yes, Doctor, it's all very well for you to make fun of me. You can do just as you like." "Of course," said the doctor gravely, "and I see that does make a difference. One sees things from such a different point of view." "Yes, that you do," said Harry. "Exactly," continued the doctor slowly, "and you see, as you say, I do exactly as I like, have everything I wish for, never suffer the slightest trouble, enjoy the most robust health, am as rich as a man need wish to be; in fact, I am the happiest man under the sun." "Are you, Doctor?" said Harry. "I'm glad of it. I didn't know it was so good as that." "And, of course, that is about how you'd like to be, eh, Hal?" "Well," said the boy, hesitating, "something like that--I--er--I--I don't want to be greedy." "Don't want to be greedy?" cried the doctor, changing his manner, as he sprang up and began to pace the museum. "Why, you miserable, discontented young cub! There is not one boy in a thousand leads such a life as you do: a good home, surrounded by friends, with plenty of time for study, and plenty of time for the necessary amusement. Yours, sir, is an ideal life; but it has spoilt you, and I'm afraid it is from having a too indulgent father." "Oh, come, Cameron, I must speak in my own defence," said Mr. Kenyon. "And you ought to speak in mine too, father," cried Harry indignantly, as he gazed at the doctor with blazing eyes and flaming cheeks. "I can't, Hal," said his father, smiling; "there's so much truth in what he says, my boy, and your words were uncalled for--unjust." "I beg your pardon, Kenyon," said the doctor; "I had no business to speak as I did. I had no right. But I'm such a hot-headed Scotsman, and Master Hal here put me out." "There is no begging pardon needed," said Mr. Kenyon quietly. "You see, I could not help comparing Hal's lot with mine--a poor, raw lad on the west coast who lived on potatoes and porridge, with a broiled herring or haddie once in a way for a treat. But there, once more, I had no right to interfere." "I say, granted, and thanks." "Then I shan't beg your pardon, Hal, boy," cried the doctor, "for I honestly believe what I say is the truth. Take it all as so many pills, and if you'll come along the river to my place to-morrow morning I'll give you a draught as well--to do you good, my dear boy--to do you good." "I think I've had physic enough," said Harry sulkily. "And you don't seem to like the taste, eh?" said the doctor, laughing. "Never mind; it will, as people say, do you good. You will be sure to have some bit of luck to take the taste out of your mouth--a bit of sugary pleasure, my lad. Aha! and here it comes in the shape of friend, Phra, the prince, who, king's son as he is, does not enjoy a single advantage more than you." "Doctor!" cried Harry indignantly. "He has only to speak to have everything he wants. No one could be better off than he is. Look, he's in a hurry to tell us all about the expedition for to-morrow. Oh, it is so disappointing, for I wanted so badly to shoot a tiger. It set me longing when Phra and I looked at those skins to-day." "Dear me! what a thirst for blood you are developing, Hal!" said the doctor, as Mr. Kenyon still sat back in his chair, looking pained, while his son carefully avoided gazing in his direction. "I should have thought you had killed enough for one day." "Well, Phra?" cried Harry, as his companion came straight in. "Well?" said the boy, with a mocking smile. "What did your father say?" Phra was silent for a few moments, and then he spoke quietly. "That I was too much of a boy yet to think of going after tigers," said the lad slowly, and then he started and frowned. For the doctor had thrown himself back in one of the cane chairs, which gave vent to a peculiar squeaking noise, while its occupier rocked himself to and fro, literally roaring with laughter. "I am very sorry if I have said some ridiculous thing, sir," said Phra gravely. "I speak English as well as I can." "Ridiculous thing!" cried the doctor, springing up and seizing the young Siamese by the shoulders; "why, it was splendid. Look at him," he cried, half-choking with laughter, "look at Hal! Oh, dear me, how you have made my sides ache!" "But I don't understand," said Phra. "Then you soon shall," cried the doctor. "My lord there has been in a tantrum because--because--oh, dear me, I shall be able to speak directly." Phra looked in a puzzled way from the laughing doctor to his friend, who sat frowning and biting his lips. "Because," continued the doctor, "Mr. Kenyon here has told him that he should not like him to go to the tiger hunt." "Mr. Kenyon told him so?" cried Phra quickly. "Yes, because he is too young." "Oh, I am so glad," cried Phra, showing his white teeth. Harry started as if he had received a blow. "What!" he cried fiercely. "I say I am so glad, because that is just what my father said to me." "And very wisely too, Phra, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon, rising. "You lads had better wait a bit longer before you indulge in a sport which is very risky even to one mounted upon an elephant, especially if the elephant is timid. I have known several bad accidents occur through the poor creature becoming unmanageable from a wounded beast's charge." "It's disappointing, sir," said Phra; "but I suppose father's right." "Of course he is, and I'm glad to see you take it so wisely." The speaker laid his hand on the doctor's arm, and they went out into the verandah. "Ah, Kenyon, you spoil that boy with indulgence." "Think so?" "Yes; I don't like to hear a lad like that speak as he did to you. It was that made me fire up. But there, I'm sorry if I've done wrong." "You have not done wrong," said Mr. Kenyon, "and I am rather glad you spoke as you did. But you do not understand Hal so well as I do." "Naturally I do not." "He is a queer boy, with a good many things about him that I don't like; but he has some oddities that I do like. I dare say he will display one of them before you go." "He will have to be quick about it, then," said the doctor, smiling, "for I have not much longer to stay." "Plenty of time for him to show the stuff he is made of. I'm sorry to disappoint the boys, though." "And ourselves too, for I should have liked the jaunt, and the more of those savage beasts we can destroy the better. What do you say to going over to the palace and asking the old gentleman to let us have the use of the elephants and beaters?" "No," said Mr. Kenyon, "I could not do that under the circumstances. It would be too hard upon the boys. Yes, Michael?" "There is a man from--one of the gentlemen from the King to see you, sir," said the man. "Indeed? I will come. Come too, Cameron; I daresay it will interest you." The messenger had come to ask Mr. Kenyon if he would take charge of a little expedition to be made against a tiger that had been destroying life in the neighbourhood, and to say that as matters were so serious the King would be greatly obliged if he would go. "I don't like to say No, and I don't want to say Yes," said Mr. Kenyon. "I do not see how you can refuse." "Neither do I," said Mr. Kenyon thoughtfully, and he sent a note back, promising to undertake the task. Hardly had the messenger departed before Harry came hurriedly into the room, but started on seeing the doctor there. "I thought you had gone, sir," he said. "I made sure I heard the door swing to." "No, I have not gone, Hal," said the doctor, smiling good-humouredly; "but I'll soon be off, if you want to speak to your father alone." "I did, sir; but it doesn't matter your being here." "What is it, Hal?" said Mr. Kenyon gravely. "Wanted to tell you I feel horribly ashamed of myself, father," said Harry quickly. "Indeed?" "Yes, it seems so queer that such a chap as Phra should behave like a gentleman over a bit of disappointment, while I--I--well, I behaved like a disagreeable boy." "But very naturally, Hal," said the doctor. "Better than acting like a make-believe man." "Thank you, Hal," said Mr. Kenyon quietly, holding out his hand. "Has Phra gone?" "No, father." "Tell him that his father has sent requesting me to take charge of an expedition against the tiger, and that I am sorry I cannot ask you two lads to go with me." "All right, father; he won't mind. I don't now." Harry nodded at the doctor, and went out of the room, while his father waited till his steps had ceased, and a door had swung to. "Odd boy, isn't he, Cameron?" said Mr. Kenyon then. "Very odd chap," replied the doctor. "But I like boys to be odd like that." CHAPTER VIII A PROWL BY WATER It was disappointing and hard for two boys to bear, situated as they had been--singled out by the old hunter as the first receivers of the news; but they had determined to be heroic over it, and after a fashion they were. "Don't let's seem to mind it the least bit in the world, Phra," Harry said. "What shall we do? go up the river?" "Go up the river? No. Let's see them start, and help them with their guns when they mount the elephants. They'll be watching to see how we look, and we're going to puzzle them." "But will not that look queer?" "I dunno," said Harry, "and I don't care; but that's what I've made up my mind to do. What do you mean to do?" "The same as you do," said Phra firmly. The result was that at the time appointed Harry walked up to the court by the palace main entrance, shouldering one of the rifles, and there his heart failed him for a moment or two, but he was himself again directly. For the sight of the two huge elephants with their howdahs, and their mahouts with their legs hidden beneath the huge beasts' ears, each holding his anchus--the short, heavy, spear-like goad with hook which takes the place of whip, spur, and reins, in the driving of the huge beasts--was almost too much for him. There was a party, too, of pretty well fifty spearmen to act as beaters, some of whom were furnished with small gongs. Altogether it formed a goodly show, and it sent the sting of disappointment pretty deeply into the boys' breasts, so that they had to bear up bravely to keep a good face on the matter. The King was there to see the start made, after Mr. Kenyon, with Sree for his attendant, had mounted one of the elephants by means of a bamboo ladder, the doctor and a trusted old hunter in the King's service perching themselves upon the other. Then the King wished them both good fortune, the word was given, and half the spearmen marched off in front; the elephants at a word from their mahouts shuffled after, side by side, and the remainder of the spearmen followed, passing out of the gateway. The King said a few words to the boys, and then retired, leaving them alone in the yard with the armed men on guard. "Shall we follow them part of the way?" said Phra then. "No, that wouldn't do," replied Harry. "It was right to come and show that we weren't going to mind; but if we followed now, I know what my father would think." "What?" said Phra abruptly. "That we were following in the hope of being asked to get on the elephants. It would be too mean." "Yes," said Phra, "of course. I did not think of that. Well, what shall we do?" "I dunno. Lie down and go to sleep till they come back; that's the best way to forget it all." "Bah! I'm not going to do that. I know: get over the river in a boat, and go and see the big Wat." "What for? Who wants to see the old place again, with its bonzes, with their yellow robes and shaven heads?" "We could go up the great tower again." "Nice job to climb all the way up those steps in a hot time like this! What's the good?" Phra looked at him and smiled. "You could take the telescope up, and see for miles." "But I don't want to carry that lumpy thing up those hundreds of steps." "I'd carry it." "But I don't want you to carry it, and I don't want to see for miles. I can see quite as much as I want to-day without the telescope. I don't feel as if I want to see at all. It was quite right, I suppose, for us to be left at home, and proper for us to come and make a show of not minding; but now the excitement's all over, and they're gone, I feel just as if I could howl." "What! cry?" said Phra wonderingly. "No--ooo! Howl--shout with rage. I want to quarrel with some one and hit him." "Well, quarrel with and hit me." "Shan't. I should hurt you." "Well, hurt away. I won't hit back." "Then I shan't be such a coward. Here, I know: I'll go and take that chap's spear away, and break it." He nodded his head towards one of the guards on duty close to the entrance of the palace. "What for?" "Because I'm in a rage," said Harry between his teeth. "Oh, I could do that, and then run at another and knock him down, and then yell and shout, and throw stones at those great vases, and break the china squares over the doorway. I feel just like those Malay fellows must when they get in one of their mad tempers and run _amok_." "Why don't you, then?" said Phra mockingly. "Because I can't," cried Harry bitterly. "Can't? Why, it would be easy enough. You could go and break the spears of all the guards, and take their krises away. They wouldn't dare to hurt you, seeing what a favourite you are with my father." "I know all that," said Harry, snapping his teeth together. "Then why can't you do it?" said Phra mockingly. "Go on; run _amok_." "Shan't--can't." "Why can't you?" "Because I'm English, and I've got to fight it all down, and I'm going to, savage as it makes me feel. Here, what shall we do?" "Go right up to the highest window in the big tower of the Wat over yonder, and take the telescope up with us." "I tell you I don't want to. There's nothing to see there that we haven't seen scores of times." "Yes, there is." "No, there isn't." "Yes, there is, I tell you." "Well, what is there?" "We could watch and follow them with the glass nearly all the way to the new sugar plantation, and perhaps see the tiger hunt." Harry started excitedly, and caught his friend by the arm. "So we could," he said, with his face lighting up. "I needn't go back for our glass; you could get one from your father; he'd let you have that if he wouldn't let you have the elephants." "Yes. Shall I fetch it?" "No," cried Harry sharply; "I won't take any more notice of the hunting; we'll do something else." "But you'd like to see it," said Phra. "Of course I should, but I won't. There." "But it's like--what do you call it when you're doing something to hurt yourself?" "Hurting myself," said Harry bluntly. "No, no, no. Ah, I've got it. Biting your own nose off in revenge of your face." "All right, that's what I'm going to do--bite it off. I won't watch them going, and I won't take any more notice of the miserable, disappointing business." "Oh, Hal, what a temper you're in!" "I know that, but I'm fighting it all the time, and I mean to win." "But you'll be obliged to be here when they come back." "No, I shan't; I won't hear them." "You can't help it; they'll come marching back, banging the gongs and tomtomming and shouting, with the tiger slung on the back of one elephant, and the doctor and your father in the same howdah. Oh, you'll be obliged to come and meet them." "Yes, I suppose so," said Harry, drawing a deep breath. "If I don't, they'll think me sulky." "So you are," said Phra, laughing. "I'm not; no, not a bit, only in a temper." "I wish the cricket and football things had come." "I don't believe they ever will come," said Harry. "See what time it is." "They will come," said Phra gravely. "How do you know?" "Because my father said that we should have them. There, you're better now." "No, I'm not; I'm ever so much worse," said Harry, through his set teeth. "Well, let's go and kill something; you'll be better then." "Don't believe I should," replied Harry. "What should we go and kill?" "I don't know. Let's get the guns and make two of the men row us up the narrow stream, right up yonder through the jungle where the best birds are. Your father would like it if we got some good specimens ready for Sree to skin." "Very well," said Harry resignedly; "I shan't mind so long as you don't want me to go up the big temple tower to watch them. I say, Phra, I'm beginning to feel a bit better now." Phra laughed, and the two boys went into the palace, where the former gave an order to one of the servants about a boat, and then led the way to his own room, a charming little library with a couple of stands on one side bearing guns and weapons of various kinds, beside fishing-rods and a naturalist's collecting gear. "Which gun will you have?" asked Phra. "Either; I don't care," was the reply; and by the time they were prepared one of the attendants announced that the boat was ready. They walked down to the great stone landing-place at the river, stepped into the boat, and seated themselves under the little open-sided roof, while their two rowers pushed off, and keeping close in shore, where the eddy was in their favour, sent the boat rapidly on through the muddy water. For some distance the forest lay back away from the river, while the bank on their right was pretty well hidden by a continuous mass of house-boats, so close together as almost to touch; but at last these were left behind, and the trees on their left began to encroach upon the fields and fruit gardens, where melons, pines and bananas grew in wonderful profusion, and the air was full of life such as would have delighted an entomologist. By degrees cultivation ceased and the wild jungle came close down to the stream, and in places even overhung and dipped the tips of branches in the water. Now and then, a small crocodile scuffled off the muddy bank and plunged into the river. Fish began to be more plentiful, little shoals showing on the surface, and in two or three places a heavy fellow springing out in pursuit of its prey and falling back with a splash. Birds, too, began to be seen: tiny parrots whistled and chattered in the trees; a big hawk hovered overhead; and several times over great long-legged waders were disturbed. But no attempt at firing was made, the two lads sitting quiet and thoughtful beneath their sheltering roof, musing over the expedition, and wondering whether it was being successful. In imagination Harry seemed to see it all: the men spread out to beat some fairly open space and drive the tiger towards where the two elephants would be stationed some fifty yards apart, with their occupants, rifle in hand, watching for the slightest movement in a clump of bushes or tuft of reeds. "Oh, what would I not give to be there!" said Harry to himself at last. "I wish I were not such a boy!" The colour came a little, though, into his cheeks--or it might have been caused by the heat of the sun, at any rate it was there--as he thought of what the doctor had said, and of his own words to his father. And as these thoughts came, he felt something like shame at his feeling of dissatisfaction with what he had, and his striving after that which he had not. "I won't be such a dissatisfied donkey," he muttered, and his face looked brighter as he turned sharply to speak to Phra. His change affected his companion, who brightened up too. "We're getting close to the mouth of the little river," he said. "I'm glad of it," said Harry cheerfully. "I say, they have been quick; it's hot work for them." "Yes," said Phra, "but they'll have a good rest soon while we're going slowly, and there will be nothing to do but steer, going back." "I say, suppose they get back first with the tiger." "I hope they will not," cried Phra; "but it isn't likely. They've a long way to go, and the beating will take a long time. We shall be back first. Ugh, you brute!" he whispered, reaching for his gun, cocking both barrels softly, and taking aim at a large crocodile. _Snip! snap!_ and then a splash, as the reptile disappeared. "I don't think you have killed it," said Harry seriously, but with his eyes dancing with mischief. "Ah, you're better," cried Phra pettishly. "You don't want to run _amok_ now. How could I be so stupid! I never thought about not being loaded." "Better think about it now," said Harry, beginning the operation in the tedious, old-fashioned way that ruled so long before the cartridge was invented for a sportsman's use. "But we were only to shoot birds, I thought." "Yes, birds, and only beautiful specimens," replied Phra. "I couldn't help being tempted to fire at the brute, though. I shall always be shooting at them now." "Here we are," said Harry, and at a word from Phra the light sampan was guided into a sluggish side stream only some twenty yards or so wide, while on either side the trees rose like a wall of verdure, the water lapping the leaves, which dipped and played up and down with the motion of the stream. "You take that side and I'll take this," said Phra; and then giving the order to the rower in front, the man ceased paddling and made his way right astern, to squat down on the little platform beside his fellow, who cleverly propelled and steered the light craft with his one oar, leaving the look-out forward free for the gunners. "Hullo! How are you, old gentleman?" cried Harry suddenly, as a grey-bearded, venerable-looking little face was suddenly thrust out through the leaves, so that its owner could look down at the strange visitors to his wild home. There was a sharp chattering, the head of the monkey was drawn back, and then a rustling and waving of the boughs on the left began, going on a little in front. "There's a whole troop of them travelling along," said Harry. "Yes, and they'll scare all the birds," cried Phra. "Look, they've startled those lovely parroquets. What's to be done?" "They'll soon go," replied Harry. "Row away." The man astern thrust the boat along with his easy, Venice-like manipulation of the oar, and the light boat glided on right in the centre of the beautiful green lane with its watery floor; but the wave as it seemed to be likewise glided along, with a peculiar rustle in the foliage some twenty yards in front. There was not a sound beside, save when, further ahead, some parroquet darted out with a shriek to cross to the other side of the stream, or a sharp flapping of wings told that it was a dove darting frantically through the twigs to escape from enemies with a great love for eggs, and no objection to savoury, plump morsels in the shape of half-fledged young, by way of change from a fruit diet. "Let's stop," said Phra, on seeing that the undulation in the green wall on their left kept on at about the same rate. "Stop, and let them go on?" said Harry. "Very well." At a word the man ceased paddling, the boat glided on from the impetus already given, but less and less fast, till completely overcome by the stream it was meeting, it gradually came to a standstill, and was on the point of giving way and being borne back, when Harry burst into a hearty laugh, which had the result of making the grey, inquiring face of the monkey that had just peered out, pop back again. "Row," said Phra, "and keep the boat stationary." The rower dipped his oar gently, and the boat ceased to retrograde. "What rum little customers they are!" said Harry, as he watched the place where the grey head had disappeared. "Just like a little old man watching us. Think they're gone now?" "No; look." Harry was looking, and saw at the same moment the little face cautiously thrust out again, but withdrawn as he made a threatening movement with his gun. Then all was perfectly still for a minute. "Perhaps they're gone now," said Harry. "No; they are too inquisitive. I daresay there are fifty of them hidden in among the boughs." "I think they're gone," said Harry at the end of another minute. "Well, try. Go on," said Phra, and the oar was once more silently plied, gently disturbing the water, while at the same moment the wave in the trees began again, with its gentle rustling, showing that the monkey troop was once more travelling along just in front, scaring the birds away as they advanced. The boat was stopped again, and the monkeys followed suit, the same curious old face peering cautiously out and watching. The boat went on, so did the monkeys; and this was repeated over and over again, stopping and going on, the wave in the trees seeming to be so exactly influenced by the rowers' agitation of the water that it was as if one touch moved both water and leaf. "Well, they are comical little beggars," cried Harry, who was once more in the highest of spirits. "I say, old man, just take your friends away; we're going shooting. Do you hear?" The little head popped in out of sight, but as the boat did not move it popped out again, as if to find the reason why. "We shan't get a bird, for they'll keep on like that for miles." "It's tiresome," said Harry. "Here, I say, if you don't toddle I'll give you pepper." The gun was raised threateningly as the boy spoke, and the head disappeared. "He knows English," cried Harry, "and he's an uncommonly sensible old gentleman. Father told me that the country folks at home say rooks can smell powder. So can monkeys, seemingly." "Country folks at home? What country folks?" "Not yours; ours, in the old home, England. There, let's get on and begin shooting, or we shall get nothing." "It doesn't matter," said Phra quietly; "it's very beautiful gliding along without killing things." "Yes, but as we came to get specimens, let's get a few. I want to, so as to show father and the doctor that we haven't been moping. Row away." The man smiled, and sent the boat gliding up the bright stream again, for the sun was so nearly overhead that scarcely any shadow was cast on their left. But the moment the boat moved the wave ran along the trees again, and Phra laughed aloud at his companion's face. "Yes, you may laugh, but it's too bad. There, I'll keep my word, though, and as soon as my grey-headed gentleman shows his face I'm going to pepper him with small shot." "No, you're not," said Phra, laughing. "You don't want him for a specimen." "No, of course not. I don't want to shoot him. It would be just like killing a little old man. I'll only pepper him so as to scare him and his friends away. They'll spoil all our fun." "Hi! Look out, Hal!" There was a great flapping of wings and a loud rushing sound, as two large birds dashed out from where the troop of monkeys were passing, to fly across the river to the trees on the other side. But before they were two-thirds of the way across a couple of reports followed rapidly one after the other, and the birds fell in the water, which one of them beat with its wings for a few moments, and then became motionless, floating down towards the boat, which was dexterously driven on to meet them. The birds were carefully lifted in, and with their plumage smoothed down, laid in a kind of locker, proving to be a finely developed pair of the great hornbills, no beauties as far as feathering was concerned, but singular as specimens, from the enormous development of their bills, and the great addition in form which has earned for them the sobriquet of rhinoceros. "That's capital," said Harry. "Father was saying he wanted a good specimen or two, for ours were very poor." The boys were loading again now, and the boat was once more advancing. "The monkeys did not drive those away," said Phra. "No; just drove them out right for us. Did as well as dogs, but--Hullo! where are they?" The boys stared up at the great green wall on their left, but the trees were motionless in the hot sunshine, not a leaf stirring, the only movement visible being in one spot where a gigantic wreath of some flowering creeper hung down from far on high, spreading to the sunshine hundreds of trumpet-shaped white blossoms, and among these somewhere about a score of tiny sun-birds were hovering and darting, the brilliant, metallic, scale-like plumage of head and breast looking as if the diminutive creatures wore helmet and gorget of wonderfully tinted and burnished metals, others approaching in lustre the polish of brilliant gems. It was a beautiful sight as the little creatures darted about, their rapidly beating wings almost invisible, but giving the birds the appearance of being surrounded by a soft haze. Here one would be apparently motionless beneath a hanging blossom, into which its long thin beak was thrust to probe the nectar like a gigantic bee. There a couple would be engaged in chase and flight, with flash after flash of metallic light reflected from the surface of their plumage as they darted about in full career, turning different portions of their plumage to the sun's rays. Again one would seem to be of the most sober colours, almost dingy, till it moved, and then as it caught the light at some other angle it flashed into a thing of beauty, dazzling in its tints of ruby, sapphire, and purple. The boys had seen these tiny representatives of the humming birds in the New World scores of times, but always found satisfaction in watching them, and for the time being the monkeys were forgotten. "What a chance!" said Harry, as the boat was sent in close to the burdened tree without disturbing the sun-birds in the least. "If father wants any more specimens of these, we couldn't come to a better place." "But next time we come by, that bush will not be in flower, and there will be no sun-birds there." "But they would be somewhere else," said Harry philosophically. "Look at that one with the red band across his breast. What a beauty! I say, next time we want any I vote that we don't shoot them with sand or water, but try a butterfly net." "Couldn't reach," said Phra. "Could if we had it at the end of a long bamboo." "No," said Phra decisively; "you could not handle it quickly enough then. It would be too clumsy, and the bird would be as quick again. Couldn't do it, Hal." "S'pose not," said the boy thoughtfully. "I say, look at that one with the rose-coloured head." "Am looking at it. I don't think I ever saw such a beauty." "Oh dear!" said Harry, with a deep sigh. "What's the matter?" "I was thinking what poor, stupid things our stuffed skins are. They don't look a bit like these tiny beauties all in motion, and seeming to be a fresh colour every time they move. They're so soft and round, and so quick. And see how they fly, too. I say, Phra, it seems a shame to shoot them." "Horrible! Nothing could be more beautiful," said Phra, thoughtfully. "Humming-birds are more beautiful," observed Harry. "Ever seen any?" "No, but my father says they are. He has seen them stuffed, and they are so beautiful then that they must be wonderfully lovely alive." "Let's go on," said Phra thoughtfully. "Perhaps we shall get another shot or two, in spite of the monkeys." The man set the boat gliding on again, and Harry sat with his gun cocked, waiting to see the little grey face peer out from among the leaves. "I wouldn't pepper him, Harry," said Phra. "Not going to," was the reply. "I've only put some powder to frighten him." "That's right; but I don't see anything moving." "They'll show themselves directly. Then we'll stop, and when the little old fellow shows his face I'll fire." But the shots already fired had been sufficient, sending the troop away through the trees at the quickest pace they could command, and the two boys looked in vain. Soon after, they had capital chances at different kinds of parrots, but did not lift their guns, these birds being abundant, and the little museum amply supplied with their skins; but upon coming abreast of an opening, the boat stopped, for it seemed a likely place for something novel. "Hist!" whispered Phra, pointing. "That's a bird you've not shot yet." "Yes, like the one you missed that day. Let me try for this one.--How tiresome! it's gone in beneath the bushes." It was evidently a bird of secretive habit, for it had dived into a dense place; but just as Harry was about to give up, and tell the man to go on, the bird came into sight again, rose from the top of a low tree, and was in the act of flying across the opening, when Harry raised his gun quickly and fired. "Down?" he said. "I couldn't see for the smoke." "No," said Phra; "it flew right away yonder." "Oh, it couldn't; I took such a careful aim. Did you see it?" he asked the men. They both replied in the affirmative, and Harry looked puzzled. "It seems queer," he said, beginning to reload his gun. "I don't know how I could have missed." "I know," cried Phra. "You loaded to frighten the monkey." "And did not put any shot in!" cried Harry. "Oh, how stupid!" At that moment Phra raised his gun and fired at a similar bird, as it crossed the river, and dropped just at the edge of the opening. A turn or two of the oar sent the boat alongside, the bird was retrieved, and Harry was in ecstasies with its beautiful shades of turquoise blue, pale drab, and grey. "It's the kind father was saying he was so eager to get a specimen of," cried Harry. "Do you think any more will come if we wait?" "I don't think so," was the reply; "but let's try." They waited for half an hour, but not another bird appeared, and they went on, having the luck to bring down one of the lovely ground thrushes at the next opening. After this Phra shot one of the scarlet-breasted trogons, a beautiful insect-eating bird, nearly allied to our goatsuckers and cuckoos, with, in addition to its rosy, scarlet breast, a delicate pencilling of grey and black, while the greater part of its back was of a fine metallic green. Flycatchers with inordinately long tails were the next trophies, and Harry was beginning to think that enough had been secured for Sree to skin and preserve, when Phra pressed his companion's arm, and pointed to what looked like a streak of vivid blue being drawn in the air just above the water. It was too far off to fire, so the boys strained their eyesight to note where the beautiful object settled, but without result, so the boat was urged gently forward, and, finger on trigger, the boys watched the spot where they had last seen the bird. "It has a splendid tail, Hal," said Phra, in a whisper. "You had better fire." "No, you; it's a beauty." "Then you fire; you are so much surer than I am. I'll hold my shot in case you don't bring it down." They were in momentary expectation of seeing the bird rise to continue its flight up the watery way; but there was no sign of it, and the lads were getting in despair, when there was a flash from a spot least expected. Phra, in his excitement at seeing it going away without Harry getting a good view of it, fired, though it seemed to be too late. However, the bird fell into the river, and another rose at the report, skimmed along just above the surface, and was getting almost beyond range, when Harry drew trigger, and the bird dropped. "I shan't shoot any more to-day," said Harry excitedly, as the two birds were retrieved and laid for their plumage to dry, being two perfect specimens of the racket-tailed kingfisher, whose azure adornments render it one of the most lovely birds of that part of the world. "I say, what beauties! We have done well." "We've shot those bird often," said Phra, as he raised one of the kingfishers by the beak, and drew it softly through his hand, removing part of the water which remained, and straightening the produced feathers of the tail, each with its narrow almost naked shaft ending in a lovely blue ellipse of web. This done, he laid the damp bird in the sunshine to dry, adding, "But I don't think we ever shot better specimens, or hurt the plumage so little." A low, hissing noise drew the boys' attention to the man who was not rowing, and, as he caught their eyes, he pointed to something in one of the overhanging trees. "What is it?" said Harry; "I can't see;" and he cocked his piece, quite forgetting his words of a short time before. "Only nests," said Phra; "we don't want them." In effect there was a cluster of about a dozen pensile nests, formed like a chemist's retort by the clever bird-weavers, and hanging neck downward from the ends of thin branches, where they were perfectly safe from the intrusion of active, long-armed monkeys. There was, in fact, something attractive at every few yards, for when birds were not in sight magnificent butterflies or day-flying moths came flitting out of the openings into the forest, one of which was the atlas, as much as ten inches across the wings. And now the tension of seeking for choice specimens being over, the boys sat back carelessly, watching the various objects which came into view. Now it would be fish, temptingly suggestive of the sport that might be had up this lovely stream, did they feel disposed to bring tackle. A little farther on the boat was stopped for a cluster of beautiful orchids to be secured, but they were rejected on account of their being inhabited by a colony of virulent ants. "I say," said Harry suddenly, "this would be just the place for fireflies. Let's tell Dr. Cameron, and we'll have a trip up some night. We might shoot some of the queer night birds." "Yes," said Phra, "and something else too. There are tigers up here, they say." "So much the better. We should get a chance to shoot one then by accident. I say, where should we come to if we kept right on as far as the river ran?" "To the place it started from." "Well, I know that; but where is it?" "Oh, it's all our country. There are mountains there, and plenty of elephants, Sree says." "Let's have an expedition right up then, and bring a tent and plenty of provisions. We ought to be able to get all kinds of new specimens." "I'm willing," said Phra; "but hadn't we better turn back now?" "Think they will be coming back from the tiger hunt?" "Most likely. I say, Hal, it hasn't been a bad time, has it?" "No," said Harry with a sigh. "Tell him to go back." At the order the man who had been resting returned to the fore part of the boat, and seized his oar, making that the stern now, while his companion laid in his oar, and squatted down for his rest. "Hullo! look!" cried Harry; "there's another of those queer-looking old chaps," and he nodded in the direction of the other side of the river, where it was evident that a fresh troop of the quaint little animals were travelling along in the trees. They were going up the river, but as soon as they found that the boat was retiring they at once altered their direction, and the foliage waved and trembled as they kept alongside, travelling through the dense jungle about five-and-twenty feet above the ground, and very rarely giving the occupants of the boat a chance of seeing their lithe, active forms. How far these eager, inquisitive little fellows would have followed them, if left undisturbed, it is impossible to say; but after watching their movements and the eager, excited face of their leader for some time, Harry grew tired of their company. "Send a shot over them, Phra," he cried. The boy raised his gun, pistol fashion, in the air, and fired it, while Harry watched the wall of verdure. Just as the gun was fired the little old face of the leader was being reached out from the extremities of the boughs, the monkey holding on in what proved to be a very precarious position, for the suddenness of the report frightened it out of its small wits, and made it give such a bound that the next moment, collapsed into what looked like a ball fringed with white, it came rushing through the leaves, splash into the water, making the occupants of the boat roar with laughter. "What is fun to you is death to us," said the frogs to the boys, in the fable, and this was nearly the case with the monkey. For as soon as the rower saw the beginning of the mishap he gave a tremendous sweep with his oar, changing the direction of the boat and giving it greater speed at the same time, so that it might glide in close to where the trees dipped, and pick up the monkey before it was drowned or succeeded in dragging itself up. The movement was cleverly conceived and carried out, but it had a different culmination from that which was expected. Full of excitement now, the boys were watching for the monkey to rise from its deep plunge, and so well had the boatman judged his distance that the swiftly moving prow was within a yard of the little unfortunate when it rose to the surface. At the same moment the gaping, teeth-armed jaws of a crocodile shot out of the water, and the next would have closed upon the delicate mouthful, had not the prow of the sampan struck the reptile full on the shoulder with a tremendous shock which made the boat quiver, while from the shape of the prow and the force with which it was going, the boat rose and scraped right over the reptile's back, gliding down on the other side amidst a tremendous turmoil in the water. The boys held on by the sides, fully expecting to be capsized, but not a drop of water was shipped, and when they turned to look back it was to see that the unoccupied man had snatched at the monkey and lifted it on board, while the crocodile, a creature of about twelve or fourteen feet long, was lashing the water into a foam with its tail. "Here, take us back," cried Harry. "I must have a shot at that brute." The man reversed the movement of the oar he handled, and the sampan began to glide back. "Mind!" said Phra excitedly. "It will be horrible if we are capsized." "I'll capsize him as soon as I get close enough," said Harry between his teeth, and he knelt ready in the boat, as it approached nearer and nearer. The monkey seemed to be in an utter state of collapse from fear, as it crouched in its captor's lap, huddled into a drenched ball, till it caught sight of the crocodile, when it was literally transformed. In an instant its eyes were flashing and teeth bare at the sight of its hereditary enemy, the murderer of hundreds of the unfortunates which from time to time played and slipped, or descended to the ends of branches to drink from the river; its dull state of helpless weakness had gone, and before the man who held it could grasp what was about to happen, the little creature uttered a shrieking, chattering cry of anger, bounded to the end of the sampan, and raged at the reptile. That was enough. The crocodile responded to the angry challenge and monkey-like, violent language apparently being heaped upon it, and made a dash at the sampan; but as it reached the prow the monkey bounded on to the top of the palm-leaf roofing, while, reaching backward, Harry discharged his piece right between the reptile's eyes. Firing as he did, with the muzzle of his piece not above a yard away, the effect of the charge of small shot was much the same as would have been that of a heavy bullet the diameter of the fowling-piece's bore. The rower was on his guard too, and as the lad fired he forced the light sampan away so that they were quite clear of the violent blow given by the creature's tail, as it swung itself round and then sank like a stone. The effect upon the monkey was again startling to a degree. At the report of the gun it leapt upward from the roof of the shelter, and instead of coming down in the same place it dropped on all-fours close to Harry, who caught it by one arm. "Mind," cried Phra warningly; "they can bite very sharply." "Oh, I don't think he'll hurt, poor little chap," was the reply, and the boy drew his little prisoner close to him, laid down his gun, and patted its shoulder. "Shall we keep it as a pet?" "No," said Phra; "it would pine away and die. You must get a young one if you want them to keep." "Yes, of course," said Harry. "Isn't he comic? I wish I'd got something to give him. He's ready to make friends." "So he ought to be," said Phra; "we saved his life. That croc would have swallowed him like we do Doctor Cameron's pills." "That he would. What a narrow squeak! I say, have you got anything you can give him?" "No, give him his liberty." "I'm going to. Poor little wretch, how he shivers! He's too much frightened to bite or do anything. Hi! old gentleman, get up there on the top." He lifted the monkey up, and it went slowly on to the hot roof, gazing back at its captor with wondering eyes. "Now run the boat in close to the trees," said Harry, as he patted and stroked the utterly cowed prisoner. The next moment the open, cabin-like construction was brushing against the palm leaves with a loud, rustling sound. This seemed to galvanize the little creature into life, and it uttered a loud _chick, chick, chack!_ This was answered by a chorus from above; for, unnoticed by the occupants of the boat, the trees had been in quiet motion all the while as they glided down. That was enough; the monkey seized the twigs nearest to it and the next minute had swung itself up out of sight. There was a tremendous chattering, which grew distant as if the troop was hurrying through the trees in one direction, while the boat was gliding swiftly down in the other, and then Harry said laughingly,-- "Well; he might have been a bit more grateful; never so much as said Thank ye." "I think he was wonderfully grateful, for he did not bite. I say, though, how careful one has got to be about the crocodiles. I turned quite cold, for I thought we were going over." "I felt a bit queer," said Harry thoughtfully. "If I were your father I'd offer a reward for every crocodile that was killed in the river. They're no good, and they must do a deal of mischief in the course of the year." "Let's tell him so," said Phra, smiling. "Perhaps he will." The journey back was beautiful enough, for they were looking at the long, sunlit course from a different point of view; but it had ceased to interest, for the lads were hungry and tired, glad enough too when the great stone landing-place was reached, and after giving instructions to the men to take in the birds to place them in Mike's charge for transfer to Sree when he returned, they went into the palace, Harry to be Phra's guest over a very hearty, semi-English meal; for the hunters had not returned and there was no temptation for Harry to go home and eat alone when he was warmly pressed to stay where he was, so as to be present when the hunters returned in triumph. It was growing late by the time they had done, and they strolled out into the court, and then into the beautiful garden, one of the King's hobbies. It was a lovely moonlight night, with here everything turned to silver, there all looking black and velvety in the shade. The river, too, looked its best, with the moonbeams playing upon its surface; but the boys were growing too weary to admire the beauties around, or to heed the buzzing, croaking, and booming that came from across the river. "Look here," said Harry at last, "they've gone farther than they meant, and they're not coming back to-night." "Going to camp out?" asked Phra dubiously. "Not a doubt about it. Perhaps going to watch through the night for the tiger, with a goat or calf tied up for bait." "Very likely," said Phra, yawning. "There, don't turn sleepy like that." "Can't help it." "I say, look here; go and tell your father you are coming down to the bungalow to keep me company to-night, because I don't like to be alone." "No, you stop and sleep here. Then you will not have the bother of walking down there." "No," said Harry firmly; "father's out, and I'm sure he wouldn't like me to leave the house when he's away. Come and sleep at our place to-night, there's a good chap." "Very well," said Phra. "Come with me and speak to father." "All right," said Harry, coolly enough, and they walked through the moonlit garden together, when, as they passed toward the palace, the incongruity of it all seemed to strike the boy, and he laughed softly. "I say, how comic it all seems! Here's your father a great Eastern king--king over this big country, and yet he's only your father, and I'm going with you to talk to him just as if he was nobody at all." "But he is," said Phra thoughtfully. "He's very different with other people, but he talks to you, and about you to me, just as if you were a--I mean a boy like I am." "Well, it's very nice of him," said Harry. "I've never done anything to make him like me. I never went down on my knees and held my hands on each side of my face, and seemed as if I were going to rub the skin off my nose on the ground because he's a great king." "No; he laughed about it one day, and said that's why he liked you to be my playfellow." "That's funny, isn't it?" "No; he said he liked you because you were frank, and manly, and independent." "Ah," said Harry, after a brief pause, "he doesn't know what a bad one I can be sometimes." "Hist!" "What for?" "Listen." "I am listening, but I can't hear anything." "I can, right away in the distance. Can't you hear?" "No, nothing but the frogs at the riverside, and the barking of a croc. Yes, I can; something going thump, thump, far away." "It's the drum. They're marching back with the elephants." "Hurrah!" cried Harry excitedly. "Well, I am glad, because I should have lain awake ever so long thinking that something had happened, or that father was in danger from the tiger, perhaps. I say, you don't feel sleepy now?" "Sleepy? No, not a bit. Here, let's get down yonder so as to meet them." "But they'll be half an hour yet. Look there; the guard has heard the drum." As he spoke the picturesque beauty of the place was enhanced by the appearance of the guard turning out, bearing lighted torches, some of which were stuck at intervals about the courtyard, throwing up the grotesque figures and carvings abundantly scattered around. Then more were fetched, and the place became brilliantly lighted for the reception of the King's friends who were bringing the body of the slain tiger in triumph home. The red glare of the torches mingled strangely with the silvery light of the moon, so that some of the men's spears seemed to be tipped with silver, some with gold; and listening and noting these things the time of waiting soon passed away for the boys, who at last joined a party of a dozen torch-bearers setting off to meet the returning party. But before they reached the gate Phra stopped short and arrested his friend. "No," he said in an earnest whisper, "don't let's go. Very likely my father will come out, and he would like us to be near to seem to be honouring and paying him respect." "Very well," said Harry shortly; for it was against his grain. "Yes, there he comes," said Phra eagerly, as the palace entrance was lit up by numbers of lanthorn-bearers, and the King came and stood on the terrace to welcome his English friends. At last the party of spearmen in advance marched in, with the elephants shuffling along side by side behind; but each bore its load the same as when it started, no alteration having been made. Harry ought to have let the elephants go close up to the terrace and kneel before the King, to whom the result of the hunt should have been first communicated, but in his excitement he forgot all about Court etiquette, and ran up to the side of the nearest beast. "Well, father, Where's the tiger?" he cried. "Over the hills and far away," cried the doctor. "Yes, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon; "we have seen nothing but his pug--the marks of his feet." CHAPTER IX NATURALISTS' TREASURES There were a few words exchanged with the King as the hunters were about to descend, but he bade them keep their seats in the howdahs, saying that they must be very tired, and after ordering the mahouts to take their elephants to the gentlemen's quarters, he bade them good-night and went in. "Then we must part here, Cameron," said Mr. Kenyon. "Yes; good-night, and better luck next time." The doctor's elephant rose and began to shuffle off, its companion following its example and uttering an angry trumpeting sound upon being checked. "Here, Hal," said Mr. Kenyon, "you may as well ride." "Yes, of course, father. Good-night, Phra." Then mischievously, "They'll have to send us if they want that tiger shot." "Yes, Mr. Kenyon, we don't think much of you and Doctor Cameron as tiger-hunters." The merchant laughed, as the elephant knelt once more and Harry scrambled up into the howdah, Sree, who was holding on behind, giving the boy a hand. Then there was a heave and a pitch to and fro, and the huge beast was on its legs again, shambling off towards the bungalow, a pleasant enough sight in the moonlight, and welcome enough to Harry, who was pretty well tired out. "Didn't you see the tiger at all, father?" he asked. "No, or most likely I should have shot it," replied Mr. Kenyon. "The brute has evidently gone off to the country on the slope of the mountains and saved his stripes this time. What have you been doing with yourself?" Harry briefly told of his adventures. "Then you have some decent specimens for me?" "Yes, father; beauties." "You have done better than we did, my boy. We have only brought back sore bones. There, I am not in much of a humour for talking to-night; I want a good rest." "You must be tired, father." "Yes, too tired to think of anything but sleep. Not quite, though; there are those birds. Sree, can you come first thing in the morning and skin them?" "Yes, Sahib. I was going to ask if I might come." No more was said till the elephant had stopped of its own accord at the gateway of the bungalow garden for as soon as it had got over its irritation at being separated from its companion it had gone steadily enough. After this the mahout was so liberally rewarded that he wanted to get down from the elephant's neck to prostrate himself, and of course was not allowed, but sent back, Harry stopping to watch his great, grey, shambling mount till it disappeared, with Sree still hanging by the back of the howdah. Breakfast was late the next morning, both the merchant and his son sleeping very soundly; and when at last Harry dragged himself from his light bamboo bedstead and had refreshed himself, not with a good swim in the river,--a luxury too dangerous to attempt,--but by squatting in a large, open tub and pouring jars of cold water over his head, he went out into the verandah, to find Sree just finishing the skin of the last of the birds by painting the fleshy side all over with preserving paste before turning it back and filling it with cotton wool. "How quick you have been, Sree!" said Harry. "I meant to have come and helped you." "The young Sahib must have been tired." "I'm tired now," said the boy, with a yawn. "But I say, they are all good birds, aren't they?" "Some of the best I have ever seen, Sahib; there is hardly a feather gone. Look at this one," said the man, taking hold of the bird's long, thick beak and giving it a dexterous shake, with the result that the feathers fluffed up and then fell gently back into place, lying so lightly and naturally that it was hard to believe that nothing but the skull, leg and wing bones were left of the little creature which animated the skin so short a time before. "Beautiful," said Harry, examining it and the others already prepared in turn. "I wish you had been with us, though. We had capital sport." "Yes, Sahib, I wish I had been with you," said Sree. "My heart felt heavy for you when I found you were not to come. I like to be with the young Sahibs. We had no sport at all." "Ah, you should have been with us. The crocodile must have been fourteen feet long." "Ah! but they would not be so big up the little river. I hope, though, the Sahib will not shoot any more." "Not shoot any more!" cried Harry. "Are you friends with the wretches?" "No, Sahib," said the man solemnly; "but they are dangerous beasts, and I fear if the young Sahib goes after them much there may be an accident." "Hardly likely," said Harry contemptuously. "I don't know, Sahib; they are very dangerous beasts. A hungry mugger, as they call them over yonder on the Ganges, will rush at any one in the water, or try to sweep him off the shore into the river. If he is wounded he is mad with rage, and strikes about furiously with his tail. One hard blow would break or overturn a sampan, and a man in the water is no match for one of these beasts." "Oh, but I shall be careful, Sree," cried Harry; "and I can't help hating the monsters." "We all hate them, Sahib, except some of the foolish people who would think it a sin to hurt a crocodile. Do not be rash." "Oh no, I shan't be rash," said Harry; "but you should have been with us yesterday; it was rare fun with the little grey-whiskered monkey. It was frightened nearly to death, what with the noise of the gun and the fall plump into the water, and the ducking, and then being so nearly snapped up by the crocodile." "It would be frightened, too, on finding it was a prisoner, Sahib." "He looked just like a withered-up old man, not much bigger than a baby." "Yes, Sahib; they are strange little beasts," said Sree, who was still busy with the skins, giving delicate touches here and there to the plumage, with a small needle made of ivory. "I never kill one if I can help it, because they are so much like very wild old men." "That is a lovely skin, Sree," said Harry, bending over the blue and grey thrush. "Yes, and these are hard to find, Sahib." "Father will be delighted with those, I'm sure," said Harry. Then turning off to the old hunter's last remarks, "So you don't like shooting monkeys?" "No, Sahib, I never do." "It does seem a shame, for they're such merry, happy-looking little chaps, swinging and playing about in the trees. How they enjoy the fruit, too! They seem to have quite a jolly life." "Oh no, Sahib; they have their troubles too," said Sree seriously, "and many of them." "Monkeys do?" cried Harry, laughing. "Why, what troubles can they have?" "Muggers waiting under the trees to catch any that fall, Sahib." "Then they ought to know better than to play in the branches which overhang the river." "That is where the best fruit grows, in the open sunshine, Sahib, and it is often when they go down to drink that the muggers catch them or sweep them into the water with their tails." "Ugh! the beasts!" cried Harry. "Then there are the leopards lying in wait up in the trees, and some of the big wild cats, too, staring at them. Monkeys are very quick, but the leopards are sometimes quicker." "Yes, it's wonderful how active those spotted, cat-like creatures are. I say, Sree, have you ever seen one of the very big monkeys that live in the islands?" "Only once, Sahib. It was when I went to Borneo with a Sahib from India. We were a long time hunting in the woods before we found one, and then it was high up in a tree, going along hanging by his hands. He seemed to be a very quiet, tame sort of beast, only trying to get away; but the Sahib shot him, and he hung from a great bough, oh, very high up, till the Sahib shot again, and then he let go and came down, dropping from bough to bough till he fell dead, nearly at our feet." "Was it very big, Sree?" "Very, very big, Sahib; nearly twice as big as I am." "Really?" "Oh yes, Sahib. Not so tall as I am, not higher than the Prince Phra, but so big and broad--big head--big face with great swellings behind the cheeks--big shoulder, and big arms that reached down nearly to his feet. And such hands and feet, Sahib! so big and strong." "Much like a man, Sree?" "Like what a wild man might be, Sahib. And yet no, not like a man; he was more like a wild beast, all hairy. The poor people here, some of them, believe that when we die, if we have been wicked we shall turn to monkeys or crocodiles." "And do you believe that, Sree?" The man looked up and smiled, as he shook his head. "Oh no, Sahib; I don't believe anything of the kind. It is all nonsense; but monkeys are very curious little things, and very cunning. They have plenty of sense." "Think so?" "Oh yes. Did not you say that the one you caught was angry with the crocodile, and danced about and called him names?" "Well, he did something of the kind," said Harry, laughing; "and very comical it was." "Oh yes, Sahib, I've seen them spit at and shout and chatter at the muggers often enough. Being so much in the jungle, watching night and day, I often notice all that the wild things do--birds, snakes, lizards, as well as the tigers and bears and monkeys. I have seen how they fight, and how they play and teach their young ones to play; but there is nothing which can play like a monkey. He is more full of fun than a boy. A monkey always seems to think that another monkey's tail is meant to pull, so as to tease him." "Yes, I've seen them do that." "But the funniest thing, Sahib," said the old hunter, "is to see a monkey pull another one's tail, and then pretend that he did not do it. I have seen one put his hand out behind, and give a pull, and then snatch his hand back and shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep." "Oh, here you are," said Mr. Kenyon, coming into the verandah. "Come, Hal, breakfast; we are very late." "Here are the specimens Phra and I got yesterday father." "These? Capital; excellent! That is the kind of _Pitta_ I wanted so badly, and those two kingfishers will be a splendid addition to the collection. Well skinned too, Sree. They are perfect." Over the breakfast Mr. Kenyon related their adventures of the previous day; but there was nothing much to tell save of wearisome wanderings here and there through rugged, thorny ground where the tiger's pugs could be traced. Hollows were carefully beaten, and patches of reed and grass driven, while the hunters waited for the coming of the cunning beast which was not there. Then at last they found unmistakable traces of his having gone off, and, weary and disgusted, they had turned back. Harry Kenyon and his father led a very pleasant life in that curious country, for their position was a favoured one, though a great deal was due to the latter's enterprise. At first their existence was lonely, but it was not long before their position became a good deal talked about through correspondence which followed their arrival, and by degrees a happy little colony had grown up in the neighbourhood of the palace. It was entirely at the King's invitation that Mr. Kenyon had first settled there, for being himself a man who took great interest in scientific matters and the wonders of nature, he had by accident come in contact with the merchant, who had sought an interview, with the object of asking certain concessions and leave to trade. The result was that Mr. Kenyon was taken quite by surprise on discovering that the King, whom he had expected to find much on a par with so many of the barbaric chieftains of the East, was a man who cared nothing for war and aggrandisement, neither for decking himself out in diamonds, emeralds, and pearls, but who was dressed in the simplest manner, loved to study chemistry, and surrounded himself with beautifully made microscopes and telescopes, obtained at great expense from London and Vienna. That one interview was quite enough for the beginning of a friendship, the King soon finding out that his visitor was a man of similar tastes to himself, but immeasurably far in advance, and eager to impart his scientific knowledge to one to whom so many things were enclosed in what seemed to be a sealed-up book of wonder and mystery. The consequence was that, instead of making a temporary stay in Siam, Mr. Kenyon gladly accepted the monarch's friendship and protection, settling down on the banks of the great river at once. This had happened ten years before the events narrated here, but all had not been smooth. There had been plenty of the opposition of ignorance; the King's far-seeing brain was almost alone, and his nobles and retainers of the blood royal looked with contempt upon the strange things that took up so much of their ruler's time. To them many of his studies seemed to be mere madness, and they looked at one another and shook their heads when they learned that the King spent the whole of some nights looking through a tube like a big bamboo, at the moon and stars. Then worse things happened: it was found that he was doing uncanny things, a kind of magic by which he conjured up horrible creatures and made them dance and whirl about in water. He showed favoured people strange demons with teeth and horns and claws in a dark room in the palace, where he made a great white spot of light come on the wall, into which he conjured the aforesaid monsters. But the worst of all was his fitting up one little room with shelves and cabinets full of bottles and glasses. It was well known that here he studied, by mixing and boiling up, how to make horrible poisons, one drop of which shown to an enemy would produce madness, while if taken it was sudden death. And all this the nobles, priests from the great temples, and wise men generally, in secret conclave, came to the conclusion could only have one meaning, and that was to kill off secretly every one of the blood royal and second king's family, so that no one except the one the King wished could by any possibility succeed to the throne. It was very dreadful, and they shook their heads more and more, and there were talks about its being a sacred duty to kill such a vile being, and make the second king the first; but so far it had all been talk, for changes are a long time coming about among such people as these. Then, too, for a long time Mr. Kenyon, this foreigner of the barbarians who came from the far West, was looked upon with sinister eyes, for was he not a favourite with the King, helping him to prepare his magic and his terrible poisons? But as no one died, and no one seemed to be any the worse for the King's magic, and above all as the great people of the country found that Mr. Kenyon was a very pleasant gentleman, who paid great respect to them and all their institutions, it was settled that he should not be stabbed with krises--unless he behaved worse or did some real harm. He did offend soon after, for upon settling down he was favoured by the King with a grant of land on the banks of the river, this being looked upon as a great offence, land in such a position having heretofore been reserved for the sole benefit of the great nobles of the land and the priesthood, for their large monastic institutions--great walled-in enclosures of some fifteen or twenty acres, covered with the temples, shrines, and conventual dwelling-places of the talapoins or bonzes, as they were called, and easily enough to distinguish by their closely shaven heads and long, yellow robes. Ordinary people and the poor had to live, according to law, in house-boats, with which the rivers, canals, and backwaters were covered. These waterways were the highways--there were no proper roads--and were thronged with dwelling-places large and small, warehouses, shops, and places of entertainment, all built upon bamboo rafts and moored to the banks, forming a beautifully healthy, populous city, for the tide from the sea swept to and fro, clearing it from all impurities day and night. That grant of land gave great offence, for who was this strange barbarian who had come among them with his little curly-haired boy and a servant, that he should be treated as if he were a noble lord of the land? And once more Mr. Kenyon's position seemed to be precarious, for the King's favour went farther towards his new English friend and student. For native workmen and material were supplied in abundance, the orders given to the men being that they should build the place, dwelling and warehouses, in accordance with Mr. Kenyon's design. All this proved a great gain to both, for while Mr. Kenyon prospered wonderfully in his trading ventures, and had ample opportunity for collecting the strange products of the country in connection with his favourite study, the King found his revenues increase and his capital become more enlightened by the introduction of Europeans, who were attracted there through finding that they were protected, treated with respect, and encouraged to trade. This was forgiven, and all went well till the doctor came, when the native medicos grew alarmed and threatening, for this Englishman, or Scotchman, knew better than they. As the years went on the friendship grew firmer, and the King gladly seized the opportunity of letting his son share young Kenyon's studies, for his desire was that his boy should become an enlightened ruler, who would carry on his plans for the improvement of the country over which in all probability he would some day reign. Mr. Kenyon, who was a highly cultivated man, gratefully entered into the King's plans and invited a clever university man from Oxford to come out and act as tutor to the two boys, with the result that the young Prince Phra passed a good half of his existence with Harry at the bungalow, sharing his studies and amusements, while Harry was always as welcome a guest as his father at the palace, having only to express a wish to have it gratified, whether his want took the form of books, fishing tackle, guns, men, elephants or boats for some expedition in jungle or open stream. Harry's chum was a prince, and to all intents and purposes Harry led the life of a king's son himself, though he did not realize the fact, everything coming quite as a matter of course. His chief trouble had to do with the climate, which was, as he told Phra, "so jolly hot." Phra replied sadly that he could not help it. "No," said Harry thoughtfully, "you can't help it; but it's jolly hot all the same." CHAPTER X WHAT HARRY HEARD No more was heard of the tiger, but the boys laughed and talked about it together, for they could not help enjoying the ill-luck which had attended those who went in its chase. "I know how it is," said Harry, with mock seriousness; "the tiger heard who was coming to shoot him, and he went, off to wait until Prince Phra had grown up old enough to go tiger-hunting in proper style." "Yes, that's it," said Phra drily. "But you may as well say how you know. The tiger came and told you, I suppose." "Oh, never mind that," said Harry. "I wish you wouldn't talk about it. I say, when's that chest coming from London?" "Don't know; some day," said Phra. It was pretty well on to half a year from the time of the order being given to the day when the big chest was delivered at the palace, being brought up by one of the royal barges, with its many rowers in scarlet jackets, from the vessel lying at the mouth of the river, right up to the stone landing-place in front of the palace, from which it was borne, attached to a couple of great bamboos, by a dozen men, preceded and followed by guards bearing spears. "Such a jolly fuss," said Harry, frowning. "Why, you and I could have each taken hold of an end and carried it up to our house and opened it there." "Well, no," said Phra; "you see, it is my father's, and he is King, and it is only proper for the box to be brought up like this." "Is it?" said Harry contemptuously. "All right, only I thought the box was for us." "So it is," said Phra; "but father has not given it to us yet." "Oh, all right, only it does seem so stupid; and if a lot of English boys could see, I daresay they'd laugh like fun." "If one of them laughed at my father he'd repent it," said Phra hotly. "Tchah! They wouldn't laugh at your father. I should like to catch 'em at it! I should have something to say then." Phra caught his friend warmly by the arm, and his eyes brightened. "They might, though," said Harry solemnly, "if they saw him sitting under that big umbrella, with his silk padung on, looking like an old woman in a petticoat." "That he doesn't," said Phra warmly; "and I'm sure a padung is a much more comfortable thing out here in a hot country than a pair of trousers." "Oh, I don't know," said Harry; "but it is jolly hot." "You don't know, because you have only put one on just for fun; but I often feel disposed to give up wearing trousers, and to go back to a padung again." "What, go back to being a barbarian?" cried Harry. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Well, I'm not," said Phra warmly. "It's much cooler, and more pleasant." "Oh, you savage! You'd better say it's cooler to go without anything at all." "So it is--in the shade," replied Phra. "Well, I am!" cried Harry. "After all the trouble father, Dr. Cameron, and your most humble and obedient servant have taken to make a civilized being of you, to talk like that!" "Civilized being! pooh! I should have been a civilized being without your help." "Not you. To begin with, you wouldn't have worn trousers, and wearing trousers means everything. A man who wears trousers stands at the very top of civilization. A man who doesn't wear them is a savage." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Phra. "I should like Mr. Cameron to hear you say that he was a savage." "Who ever would say so? Mr. Cameron is--is--well, he's a tip-topper in everything." "But he doesn't wear trousers when he goes with us shooting. He always wears his war petticoat then." "Wears his what?" cried Harry wonderingly. "That grey fighting petticoat. His kill it." "Kill it? Kilt!" cried Harry. "Oh, what a rum chap you are sometimes, Phra! But that's only the old savage dress of the Highlanders. Hardly anybody but soldiers wears that now." "Kill--kill it--kilt," said Phra thoughtfully. "What had you got to laugh at? Why, it does mean a war petticoat." "All right; have it your own way," said Harry, who was watching the last of the guard following the box into the courtyard. "But I don't want to have it my own way if I'm wrong," said Phra. "I want to be right." "Very well. You are wrong there, lad." "Why do they call it a kilt, then?" said Phra. "Because it is a kilt, I suppose. Because--because--there, I don't know. We'll ask the doctor. But, I say, I didn't mean any harm about laughing at the King. I wouldn't, and I wouldn't let any one else laugh at him. He's such a good old chap; but he does look rum sometimes." "Well, I know that," said Phra hurriedly. "And I don't like it, Hal, and I wish he would do as English gentlemen do; but he can't altogether." "Why?" "Because he's king, and the people wouldn't like it. The priests don't like a great deal that he does now, and they talk about it to the common people. They make them believe that my father is fighting against them and doing them harm." "If I were your father, and they talked against me, I'd pitch them all into the river." "No, you wouldn't, Hal. But hadn't we better go up to the door and see the chest opened?" "Yes, come on," cried Harry eagerly, and they followed the guard, going by sentries armed with spear and kris, who smiled solemnly at the two boys, and made way for them with every show of respect. They crossed the courtyard, which partook more of the nature of a garden, and looked particularly attractive, with its quaint, highly-pitched, gable-ended buildings around. But Harry had seen the place too often to pay any heed to the beautiful architecture, and he was all eyes for a little procession issuing from the principal doorway, consisting of the King, a quiet, grave-looking, grey-haired man, in silken jacket and sarong, and a number of his chief men, while the royal umbrella was held over his head. The chest, one of ordinary deal, nailed down, strengthened with a couple of bands of hoop-iron, and directed in painted black letters, had been placed in front of the entrance, and ten spearmen stood in a row on each side, when the two boys, in obedience to a sign from the King, went up, each receiving a smile and a nod. "Here is the new present," he said, smiling. "Take it, and see if everything is as you wished it to be; and I hope it will give you both much pleasure." He spoke in very good English, and smilingly accepted the boys' thanks, before gravely turning and going back in procession to the main entrance to the palace; while, as soon as they were alone, Phra sent one of the guards to fetch a couple of artificers to bring hammers and chisels to open the chest. "I don't believe a box ever had so much fuss made over it before," said Harry, laughing. "The things ought to be all right. I say, Phra, I hope nothing's broken." "Oh, don't say that!" "The big clock that came from England was. They're wretches, those sailors, for pitching packages about on board ship." "They ought not to be allowed to be so rough," replied Phra. "My father would not permit them to be careless." "Ah, but your father's one of the kings of Siam. We English people aren't allowed to slice people's heads off because they do as they like. I say, though, suppose they're burst." "Burst! oh, I say, don't," cried Phra. "I've been looking forward to these things coming, so that we could play English games, and it would be horrible if we had to wait another six months." "Perhaps they'll be all right," said Harry, in consolatory tones; "but that corner of the box has had a great bang, and the lid's split in two places, just as if it had been thrown down on the stones of a wharf." "It says, 'With care. Keep this side up,'" said Phra. "Oh yes; that's why they knock it about so, I suppose," replied Harry, laughing. "The sailors know their heads won't be chopped off." "Here are the men," said Phra, as a couple of workmen came up, prostrated themselves, and then cleverly attacked the nails in the box, clumsy-looking as their tools were, removing the iron bands, wrenching up the lid and taking it off, while the guards and attendants stood stolidly looking on. The removal of the lid revealed a quantity of paper shavings packed round sundry brown paper parcels, while one end of the chest was occupied by half a dozen pasteboard boxes, one of which was immediately opened, to reveal the neatly-sewn and laced leather cover of a football. "What's that for?" said Phra. "Yes, I know; a football." "Yes. You have first kick. I'll throw it down, and you run and kick it, just as you saw in our book of sports." "I could not with the guard looking on," said Phra. "I could," said Harry. "English fellows can do anything. Here goes." He threw the ball down heavily, making it rebound, and then as it repeated its rebounds he rushed at it, and, although he had never done such a thing before, gave it a flying kick which sent it high in the air, but only to come down and bounce into the fountain basin in the middle of the courtyard. "Wonderful!" the spectators seemed to say, as they looked solemnly at one another. "Oh, I didn't mean that," cried Harry, rushing after the ball, followed by his companion, who walked sedately up just as Harry had shouted to one of the guard to come. "Here," he said in Siamese, "fish out that ball." The man smiled, reached out over the basin, and in another moment would have transfixed the football on his keenly-pointed lance. But Harry was too quick for him, and gave the lance shaft a thrust. "Not like that," he cried; "you'd kill it--let all its wind out. This way." He showed the man how to guide the ball to the side with his spear, and then picked it up all dripping, to place it in the sun to dry. "I say, Phra," he said, as he paused to wipe his wet face; "I'm afraid football's going to be rather a hot game out here." "The book said it was played in winter," said Phra. "Yes, but then we haven't got any winter here, so we must play it any time we can. But it is going to be rather a warm sort of game. Never mind; we've got the balls--six of them." "But you don't want six." "Yes, you do," cried Harry. "Some will burst; some will get kicked over into some one else's place and lost perhaps. But I say, we must learn to play, as we have got the balls." "Come and finish opening the box," said Phra. "'Tis opened. Why don't you say unpacking?" "Because I am not so full of English as you are," replied Phra, with a sigh; and they bent over the chest and went on taking out its treasures: bats, stumps, bails, pads and gloves, all carefully done up in brown paper, while a whole dozen of best cricket balls were in as many little boxes. "Seem to be making a pretty good mess with all these shavings," said Harry, raising himself up with a sigh of relief that the box was at last emptied. "The people shall clear all away soon," replied Phra, glancing at the stolid-looking guards, who were gazing wonderingly at the new form of war club with handle bound with black string, and at the short, sharp-pointed spears which seemed to be a clumsy kind of javelin. "But this cricket seems as if it would be a very hot game to play." "Oh, I don't know," said Harry carelessly. "Of course I've never played, but I know all about it. If you come to that, so do you." "Yes," said Phra thoughtfully, "but I'm afraid I shall not like a game where one has to get so many runs. It will be terribly hot work." "But you only get a great many runs if you can." "Then it will be much cooler and pleasanter if you can't get any," said Phra. "I say, Harry, couldn't we alter the game?" "I don't know. I daresay we could." "Let's do the batting ourselves, and make the people bowl and run after the balls." "And always be in?" said Harry. "Well, that wouldn't be bad. But I say, where are we to play?" "I should like it to be right away somewhere," said Phra. "It would not be pleasant for us to be running and tearing about with our people looking on and making remarks about our getting so hot." "Never mind about the cricket to-day," said Harry. "You want a lot of fellows to play that--twenty besides ourselves; but we could have a game of football." "Very well; let's play football, then. I'll have all these things taken into my room. Only let's get right away. I don't care about playing here." "Why not? It will be a capital place if we take care not to kick the ball into the fountain." "I don't like playing here, with all the men looking on. It seems so silly to be running after a ball and kicking it, as if you were cross with it for being on the ground." "I never thought of that," said Harry. "But let's see: why do we kick it? I wish we'd been the same as other boys." "Well, so we are, only you were born in India, and I was born here." "I don't mean that," cried Harry. "I mean the same as other English boys are. They go to big schools where they learn all sorts of games when they're half as big as we are. But let's see; we want to know why everything is. Why do we kick the football?" "To make it bounce, of course." "That isn't all. We kick it to make it fly through the air." "For exercise," said Phra. "That's something to do with it, I suppose; but there's something else. It's to try who's best man. Don't you see?" "No," said Phra; "I only know that we've got to learn to play football and cricket." "Never mind about cricket now; let's get to play football first." "But we don't know anything about it," said Phra, "and it seems so stupid. Let's ask Mr. Cameron to show us how." "That we just won't," cried Harry. "He'd only laugh at us. 'What!' he'd say, 'don't know how to play football? Why, I thought every boy could play that.'" "I don't like to be laughed at," said Phra. "Of course you don't. I don't either. That's the worse of people too. Just because they know something that you don't know, they think themselves so awfully clever, and laugh at you because you don't know the same as they do." "Well, how do we play? Do you know?" "I know something about it. You make sides, because it's going to be a fight." "Then it's a cowardly game," cried Phra. "Why?" said Harry in astonishment. "Because in a fight you ought to use your fists; you taught me so; and this is all kicking." "Oh, what a chap you are, Phra! If I didn't know what a straightforward one you were, I should think you were making fun. Can't you see this is not a fighting fight, but a fight in fun--to see who's to get the best of it?" "So's a fighting fight," said Phra. "Yes, but this is play. There ought to be a lot of fellows on each side, but I don't see why two can't have a game. I'm sure they'll get more kicking. Now we're going to play; I'm against you, and you're against me." "I see; I'm against you, and you're against me. Well?" "We begin out in the middle of a place, with the ball between us. I've got to kick it to the hedge on your side, and you've got to prevent me. You've got to kick it to the hedge on my side, and I've got to prevent you. That's easy enough to understand, isn't it?" "Oh yes, I understand that; but I shan't play here." "Why?" "Because we're sure to fall out over it and fight, and I don't want our guards to see me and you fighting." "Oh, we shouldn't be so stupid." "I don't know whether it's stupid, but I know how you are when you get hurt a bit, Hal. No, I shan't play here." "Very well, come on home with me. There's plenty of room at the bottom of the garden, and there'll be no one to see us there except Mike, and I'll take care he is sent somewhere else." "That will do," said Phra. "How many balls shall we want?" "Only one, of course." "Why not have two?" said Phra. "One apiece; then we shouldn't fall out." "And we shouldn't be playing at football. This ball will do. Come on." Phra made no further opposition, but he hazarded the remark that it was rather hot to play. "Yes, this is the hottest place I was ever in," said Harry. "There couldn't be any place hotter. But come along; English boys don't study about its being hot or cold when they want to do anything. I'm glad Doctor Cameron is nowhere near. He'd be interfering and dictating about the game directly. That's the worst of him, he knows so much. It will be much nicer for us to learn how to play well before he sees us at it, and then we shall know as much as he does." The boys trudged off, with the sun shining down upon them as it can shine down in Siam. It was somewhere about a hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, and it may readily be set down as being a hundred and twenty in the sun; so that Harry was quite right in his remarks about Dr. Cameron, for if he had been present he most assuredly would have interfered to the extent of making them put the football away, and ordering them into the shade. But there was no one to interfere, as they trudged on, and entered by the gate of the bungalow, finding all very quiet till they got around to the back, where a peculiar noise came through the open jalousies of one window, making Harry step forward on tip-toe till he could look in. This done, he stepped cautiously back to his companion. "Only Mike," he whispered. "Lying on his back fast asleep, and snoring like a young thunderstorm in the distance. Come along; we shall have it all to ourselves." "Where's your father?" "Gone down to the port in a boat, to see the captain of one of the ships." Five minutes later they were in a good-sized field, well hedged in with native growth, and displaying a very respectable lawn-like greensward, one which had cost Mr. Kenyon years of trouble to get something like an English meadow. It was a capital place, and having settled which were to be the goals--though Harry did not call them so--they walked into the middle of the enclosure to make a start. "Now," said Harry, "of course we don't know exactly how to begin, but--" "Why didn't we read what it said in the book?" said Phra. "What book?" "The one that came in the chest." "I didn't see any book in the chest." "I did: _The Book of Games_; it was at the top, wrapped up in paper, and I sent it into my room so as to be safe." "Well, you are a fellow!" cried Harry. "Never mind; we'll read all through it to-night. Let's begin our way to-day. There lies the ball, and we must start fair. I'll say one--two--three, and away! and then we must kick." The boys stood face to face with the ball between them, and so close that their toes nearly touched it. "Ready?" said Harry. "Yes." "Then one--two--three--and away!" Phra was quick as lightning almost, and at the word away! he kicked at the ball; but Harry, instead of kicking, thrust it a little on one side so as to get a kick to himself, and he got it, right on the shin. "Oh!" he cried, beginning to hop on one leg, while Phra sent the ball flying towards his goal, and ran after it at full speed. "Hi! stop! stop! stop!" shouted Harry. But Phra was too much excited to halt. He was finding a certain amount of satisfaction in delivering kick after kick to the yielding ball, which, in spite of a long voyage, proved to be wonderfully elastic, and flew here, there, and everywhere, except in the direction of the goal. For Phra's kicks were wanting in experience. He kicked too high, or too low, or out of centre; and the consequence was that he had a great deal of exercise, before a final kick sent the ball up to the hedge which formed one goal. He turned round now, streaming with perspiration and flushed with triumph, to find that Harry had been limping and panting after him, to come up now, hot and angry. "I've won," cried Phra. "What a capital game!" "You've won!" grumbled Harry. "Of course you have. Any one could win who didn't play fair. But it wasn't playing." "Why, what's the matter?" said Phra, staring. "You know; you kicked me instead of the ball, and crippled me so that I couldn't try." "I'm so sorry, Hal. Ought you to have been kicking too?" "Yes, and I wish I had--I wish I had kicked you at the beginning as you did me." "But that was an accident," said Phra earnestly. "It hurt just as much as if you had done it on purpose." "Never mind," cried Phra; "let's begin again. I didn't understand the game. But, I say; it's splendid fun." "Oh, is it?" said Hal, sitting down to rub his tender shin. "Yes, splendid. When you kick the ball it flies off so beautifully. You seem obliged to run after it." "Yes," said Harry sarcastically, "and then I was obliged to run after you. Why didn't you kick it my way?" he added fiercely. "I couldn't," replied Phra innocently. "That's the funny part of it, and I suppose the ball's made so on purpose. It never went the way I kicked it, but flew to all sorts of places. But I say, it's glorious fun running after it for the next kick." "Oh, is it?" sneered Harry; for if the skin was not off his shin, it certainly seemed to be off his temper. "Yes, come on, and let's begin again." "Shan't," said Harry sourly; "it's too hot." "Oh, nonsense; you don't feel it when you're at play." "Play! I don't call it play," cried Harry angrily. "I call it being a pig and trying to have everything to yourself." "Oh, I say, don't talk like that, Hal! I didn't know I was doing wrong. There, I apologise. I won't do it again. Come along." "No, I'm not going to try now. It's a fool of a game, and all one-sided." "Well, never mind; you'll have the right side sometimes. Let's start off again. I know you'll like it." "No, I'm not going to play any more," grumbled Harry. "I wish the old ball was burst." "You are in a temper," said Phra quietly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Here, have a kick, Hal." "Shan't; I'm too hot and tired." "Rest a bit, then," said Phra. "I say, what queer people the English are to have invented a game like that! They must look so comic." "What!" cried Harry indignantly. "Well, I do like that! Who looks comic, playing at shuttlecock and kicking it up in the air, and sending it back with the knees, elbows, or shoulders? I've seen some of the men knock the great shuttlecock up with their necks or chins. Now, that does look stupid." Phra's eyelids contracted a little, and there was a frown upon his brow for a few moments. It passed off then, and he brightened up, just when a few angry words would have caused an open rupture. "Come and have a try, Hal, old chap," he said. "Sorry I hurt you," and he held out his hand. This was too much for Harry, whose irritation was passing off with the pain. Jumping up quickly, he made a snatch at the ball, sent it flying, dashed after it, and delivered a tremendous kick, intending to send it right across the field. But it did nothing of the kind, for the kick proved to be a regular sky-flyer, the ball taking an almost perpendicular course. Harry was lying in wait for it as it came down, ready to kick again; but Phra was coming, and unintentionally proved that two legs are much better for stability than one. Of course every one knows this, and takes it for granted, just as most of us know some of the problems of Euclid, and could take the theory there set out for granted. But the old Greek philosopher proves them all, and Phra proved our theory by giving Harry a sharp push just as one leg was raised, sending him over like a single ninepin, and securing the ball once more, racing away, laughing heartily the while. "Oh!" ejaculated Harry; "and him only a nigger! He shan't beat me like this." He rushed off, with his temper coming back, in full chase of Phra, who ran on, kicking the ball, and roaring with laughter the while, till just as he was about to finish off with a tremendous kick, one which would secure a goal if it went straight, Harry came on with a rush, sent him flying instead of the ball, turned, and enjoyed a capital series of kicks before he was overtaken in turn. Phra tried to put the same tactics into force, bounding right at Harry, who was just on the point of kicking home, when a thrust sent him over, and while still under the impetus of his run, Phra delivered the kick instead, a kick which proved to be the most direct that had been given, for the ball landed close to Harry's hedge, bounced, and went right home. "There," cried Phra, flushed with victory; "I've won again." Then he stared, for Harry threw himself down, panting and roaring with laughter. "What are you laughing at?" cried his adversary. "That makes two games I've won." "No," cried Harry, wiping his eyes; "this one's mine." "Nonsense! I kicked the ball." "Yes, but into my goal." "No; it's mine. I kicked the ball there." "By mistake; for me." "Oh, what a stupid game!" cried Phra pettishly. "Phew! how hot I am! I don't want to play any more at a game like that." And now, with the excitement at an end, both found that playing football in their fashion under such a sun was an exercise of which a very little went a long way. They stretched themselves out on the ground, with the ball lying hard by getting warm. "Oh, I say, it's too hot to stop here; come and lie in the shade," cried Harry. "Let's go indoors." They went back, passed through the verandah, and entered the dining-room. It was as hot there, a heavy, stagnant heat; but there was a basket of oranges upon the table. "These'll be better than water to drink," said Harry, rolling four across the table to his companion, and pocketing as many for his own use. "But we can't stop here," said Phra; "it's too hot to breathe." "I know; let's go and lie down on the floor at the landing-place." "Yes, that will do," replied Phra, and a few minutes later the boys were extended upon their backs upon the bamboos, shaded by the palm-leaf roofing, and feeling a faint breath of warm air come up from the surface of the river, just as if it had floated up from the sea. Here, as they lay, the boys peeled their oranges and threw the yellow rind into the river, where, whenever the white side fell downward, there was a loud splash made by a fish, which dashed at it and left it again as not good enough for food. The oranges were not good--they were small and pithy, as if the sun had dried all the juice out of them; but they were the best the boys could obtain, and they were eaten in silence, neither feeling disposed to talk; and then the natural thing occurred to two boys hot and tired upon a torrid day when there was a sleepy hum in the air in and out beneath the shade in which they lay. Five minutes after the last orange was eaten, a heavy breathing could be heard. "Asleep, Phra?" said Harry softly. A repetition of the breathing was the reply, and Harry lay with his hands clasped under the back of his head, gazing up at the palm thatch, where all looked softly light, though it was in the shade, the reason being that the sunshine was reflected from the surface of the water and played in a peculiar, mazy way upon the inner part of the roof, as if a golden net were covering the palm leaves and being kept in continuous motion. There was a good deal to be seen up there: flies were darting about, and often faring badly, for every now and then a lizard ran along, looking like a miniature crocodile, the sunny reflections in full motion resembling the water. The dart of one of these lizards upon an unfortunate fly was too quick for the eye to follow. One minute the curious little creature in its glistening armour would be creeping up to within a few inches of a fly busy at work brushing its head and wings with a care and nicety that suggested great pride in its personal appearance; the next moment there would be what seemed to be a faint streak upon the palm thatch, and the lizard would be where the fly was preening itself, but the fly was gone, and it had not been seen to fly away. It was there still, but securely enclosed, and ready to be transmuted into food. "They are quick," thought Harry; but his attention was taken off the lizards to the action of something gliding along among the loose leaves of the thatch--something long and pale green and grey. It seemed to be so insecurely placed that it appeared to be on the point of falling, and if it had dropped it must have been upon the sleeping figure of Phra. But somehow it held on by means of the long plates or scales at the lower part of its body in one or two places, while the rest hung in limp, unsupported folds. It was very interesting to follow the sinuous movements of this snake, a gracefully thin creature of about four feet long; and over and over again Harry laughed to himself, thinking how Phra would jump when he felt the thin, twining reptile drop upon him; but there was no fear of its falling, for it had the instinct of self-preservation strong within its fragile body, and it always appeared to be holding on tightly by one part, while the other was gliding forward seeking a fresh hold. It was nothing new to the watcher, for Harry had seen snakes of this kind often, both living and dead, and his father had pointed out to him that it was of a perfectly harmless description, the head being softly elliptical and gently graduated off in its junction with the long, thin neck, showing no sudden swellings out caused by the possession of poison glands, which give to the dangerous little serpents the peculiar spade-shaped or triangular head with the corners bluntly rounded off. As Harry lay watching the snake, he fully expected to see it dart its head at some of the flies buzzing about, but it went on its way quietly investigating, for it was in search of more juicy morsels than flies, its instinct having taught it that the palm thatch of such a roof as that in which it searched was exceedingly likely to contain the nest of some mouse or hole-loving bird, one of the little wren-like creatures whose fat, featherless young would form delicious morsels for a creature whose teeth were implements for holding on and not for masticating its prey. In those days the American humourist was not born, or, as he did, Harry might have lain there and wondered in connection with their food and the great length of neck whether it tasted "good all the way down." But naturally, as he had not read the lines, he thought nothing of the kind. In fact, he paid no more heed to the little snake beyond thinking of what a number of different things there were living in that thatched edifice; for all at once there was a low, deep, humming buzz, a flash as of burnished copper, and a thick, squat beetle flew in beneath the roof, lit on one of the bamboo rafters, and began to fold up its gauzy wings perfectly neatly, shutting them up beneath their cases, into which they fitted so closely, that when all was shut up there was no sign of opening, and a casual observer would never have imagined that such a short, stumpy, armour-clad, horny creature, all spikes and corners about the legs, could fly. That beetle took up a great deal of Harry's attention, for all was so still that when it crawled up into the thatching, holding on by its hooked legs, the rustle and scratching could be plainly heard. But at last the sound seemed to be distant, while, strangely enough, the beetle gradually appeared as if it were swelling out to a gigantic size, but grew hazy and undefined, and was apparently about to die out as if into mist, when Harry started and saw that it was just the rounded, stumpy, coppery green insect again, and he knew that he had been asleep and was startled into wakefulness by some sound close at hand. Voices, and then the rippling of water, and as he lay perfectly still upon his back he knew that a boat was coming abreast of the landing-place and a man was talking in a haughty, contemptuous way, as if in answer to some question that had been asked. "That Feringhee dog the King favours; he was the beginning of the swarm that invaded the country." "Never mind," said another voice; "don't be angry: it will soon come to an end." "The sooner the better. I am sick of all this. A mad king makes mad people who will not sit still and see their country ruined by his follies. What whim will he have next?" "Who knows? There is always some case or another coming by one of the unbelievers' ships. I believe they send their diseases and sicknesses here to kill our people, so that they may come and take the country. It is all wrong. What a beautiful place that man has here!" "Hist! don't talk." "Why not? I do not mind who hears. I would say what I do even before our foolish king." "Be silent; there are people lying asleep on that landing-place, and they might hear." One of them did hear--plainly enough, for in still weather water has a wonderful power for conveying sounds along its surface. These words were spoken in the native dialect, but every word was clear to the involuntary listener, for the language was almost as familiar to Harry as his own. The words jarred upon him. What did they mean? The speakers from their tone were evidently people who hated the English colonists, and an intense desire to see whether they were people whom he knew animated the boy with the disposition to start up and look. But on second thoughts he felt that it might be better for them if they appeared to be asleep, especially as Phra was the King's son. But once more the desire to see who it was grew strong in Harry's breast, and as the light splashing of the oars grew less plain he slowly turned his head till he could open one eye and gaze over the surface of the river. He was too late; there was nothing in sight but the boats moored to the farther bank. "I could see them from the far end of the garden, though," he thought; and rolling himself gently over three or four times, so as not to awaken Phra, he reached the bridge-like way off the stage into the garden, where he rose to his feet and keeping in shelter of the flowering shrubs which had been abundantly planted, he made for the corner of the garden higher up the stream, for the slow progress of the boat in passing showed that the people, whoever they were, had gone in that direction. Harry had little difficulty in getting to the boundary of his father's grounds, keeping well under cover, though it was hot work hurrying along in a stooping position. But when he raised his head cautiously and peered over the river, the result was disappointing. There was the boat certainly, going on against tide, propelled by a couple of stout rowers; and it was evidently the boat of some one well to do, for the rowers were dressed alike. As to the occupants of the central part beneath the awning, they were partly hidden by the uprights which supported the light roof shelter, and their backs were towards him. They were richly dressed, but though the boy watched till the boat passed out of sight beyond a curve they did not turn their heads once. Harry returned to the landing-stage, feeling troubled and thoughtful. He was asking himself whether he should tell Phra what he had heard, and a feeling of shrinking from making his companion uncomfortable had almost fixed him in his determination to say nothing until he had told his father. But Phra's action altered all this. For just as he was about to set foot upon the stage, Phra leaped up and began to rub his ear frantically. "What did you do that for?" he cried fiercely. "Do what?" said Harry, laughing at the boy's antics. "You put that nasty little beetle in my ear." "I didn't," cried Harry, bursting into a roar of laughter. "Yes, you did. There it is," cried Phra angrily, as he stamped upon and crushed a little round insect about the size of the smaller lady-bird. "Tickle, tickle, tickle! Why, if I hadn't woke up, the horrible little creature might have eaten its way into my brains, and killed me." "Nonsense! nothing would do that." "Well, you had no business to play such silly boys' tricks. It's enough to make me hit you. Yes, you can laugh at me; but if I were regularly angry, you would be ready to run." "Run away?" said Harry merrily. "Yes, run away." "Oh yes, and never come back again. You frighten me horribly." "You're mocking at me, but I tell you it was very cowardly and stupid." "No, it was not; for I did not do it, my boy." "What? why, I woke up and caught you just as you were going to run away." "No, I was coming back." "Oh, Hal! that's what you call a cracker, and that's more cowardly still. When I went to sleep you were lying down beside me, and when I woke up you were standing over there." "That's right," said Harry. "And when you woke up you felt mischievous, and caught that little beetle to put in my ear." "That's wrong," said Harry sturdily. "Why, I felt it directly it was in; and you must have done it." "Oh, of course, because beetles have no legs to crawl, and no wings to fly, and you weren't lying ear upward so that it could drop in off the roof." "You may argue as long as you like, and as I was asleep, of course I couldn't quite tell how you did it; but there's the beetle. See?" "Oh yes, I can see," said Harry thoughtfully; "but I didn't put it there. It got into your ear while I was away." "Oh, Hal!" "And oh, Phra!" "To say you were coming back when you were just going to slip away!" "Wasn't going to slip away. I tell you I was coming back." "I don't believe you." "Very well," said Harry; "don't." "I--I mean, I beg your pardon, Hal." There was no reply. "Tell me why you went away," said Phra, who felt that he had gone too far. "It's of no use. You will not believe me," said Harry, taking out his knife and beginning to carve his initials on one of the big bamboos. "Yes, I will!" cried Phra. "I daresay I was wrong. I was cross with being woke up like that, and I felt sure you had done it." "And you feel sure now," said Harry coldly. "No, not sure," said Phra frankly, "only doubtful." "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself for feeling so. It's not as if I were a Siamese fellow--they say anything. An English boy doesn't like to be doubted." "Beg your pardon, Hal--so sorry," said Phra penitently. "Shake hands." "Not I," said Harry stiffly. "I'm not going to shake hands with a chap who doesn't believe my word." "Hal!" cried Phra, with a pleading look in his eyes. "We'd better not be friends any more; and you'd better go away and have nothing more to do with us English people." "Why? What makes you say that?" Harry was silent, and stood frowning there, hacking at the bamboo; but the quick-witted Siamese lad seemed to grasp the idea that there was something more behind the fit of annoyance, and began to press his companion. And the more silent and mysterious Harry proved to be, the more he pressed. For a time he obtained nothing but mysterious hints and bitter words about things not being as they should be, and at last the boy said angrily,-- "Look here, Hal, I'm sure you are hiding something. I woke up and saw you there, and I felt sure you had been playing some trick. You know you often do." "Yes, often," said Harry quietly. "Then you told me you had not, and I begged your pardon for saying things when I was cross. I know you well enough now; you can't keep up anything of that sort--you get in a temper sometimes, but it's all over soon and you shake hands, or even if you don't, it's soon all right again and forgotten: but now you keep on talking about our not being friends any more, and I'm sure there's something the matter. Now, isn't there?" Harry nodded and looked gloomy as he went on cutting in the hard wood, and spoiled the shape of the K he was carving. "What is it, then? Why don't you tell me?" "Don't want to make you uncomfortable." "Then it's something serious?" Harry nodded again. "You're not going away, Hal?" cried Phra excitedly. "It seems as if we'd better," said Harry gloomily. "No, that you shan't!" cried Phra angrily. "Who says that? I know; it's your father's offended about something. But I won't have it." Harry smiled. "You're not king," he said. "No, but I shall be some day, and till I am, my father will let me have anything I like, so long as it's wise and good. It's quite right for you and your father to stay here, for it's doing you both good, and us too. Father said only the other night that it was a grand thing for the country to have wise Englishmen here to instruct us in everything." "Do you think so, Phra?" "Of course I do. Why, look at last year, when that dreadful plague came and the people were dying so fast till Doctor Cameron made them keep the sick people to themselves, and had their clothes and things burnt. Father always says he stopped it from going any further. It's so with everything, if people would only learn." "But they don't like us," said Harry. "The sensible ones do. It's only the silly, obstinate, old-fashioned folk who like to go on always in the same way, and who think that they know everything and that there's nothing more to be learnt. Here's something you never heard. Some of the other king's people put it about last year that father was making poisons in his room so as to kill the people." "Oh yes, I know it," said Harry bitterly. "And they say the bad diseases come in the cases father has from England. I daresay they'll think that there's another plague come in our case with the cricket bats and balls." "They do say so," said Harry. "How do you know?" cried Phra sharply. "Heard 'em." "When?" "Just now, when you were asleep." "Hah! Then that's it!" cried Phra; and it all came out. The Siamese lad heard his companion to the end with a look of haughty contempt which made him look years older, and when he had finished he said slowly,-- "Poor silly idiots! Those are the sort of people who would say that a blowpipe was better than a rifle. What does it matter?" "Matter? Why, it is bad for you and your father to be friendly with such people as we are." "How absurd!" cried Phra. "The weak, silly, ignorant people are so stupid about things they do not understand." "But these were not common, ignorant people, but noblemen." "Very likely," said Phra, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is as father says: many of the old noblemen of the other king's party are too proud to learn anything, and they pretend to believe he deals in magic and is mad." "Yes, that's how they talked," said Harry. "Well, let them talk. I'm glad my father is so mad as he is, and wants to learn all about the wonders of the world, and to get me to learn them too. And I do like it, Hal; I'm ever so fond of learning about all these strange things. Of course I like playing games, too, and even your games that you teach us are wonderful and clever. Pooh! let the silly people talk till they learn to know better." "But these men in the boat spoke threateningly of it all having an end, just as if they meant to attack the King and drive us all away." "Bah!" ejaculated the lad. "Attack my father? Pooh! they dare not. He's as gentle and kind as any one can be, but he can be angry too, and when he is, he is very fierce and stern. He won't believe that any one would dare to attack him. I don't believe it either." "But if you had heard those two men talk?" "Well, then I should have heard two men talk, that's all. What is talking? A mere nothing." "But suppose they were to begin to act?" said Harry, who was looking at his friend admiringly. "What do you mean--fight?" "Yes." "I hope they will not," said Phra rather sadly, "because it would be so terrible. They would fight because they don't know better, and they will not learn. But they would learn then when it was too late." "What would happen?" "A number of foolish people would be killed, and when those who began the trouble were caught--" "Yes?" said Harry, for Phra had ceased speaking; "what would happen then?" "They would have to die, too, and it seems horrible when the great world is so beautiful and people might be happy." "Think the King would have them executed?" "Of course. He is all that is good and kind to everybody now, but if the people rose against him, he would say, 'Poor blind, foolish creatures! I must forgive them, for they don't know better; but the leaders must suffer for leading them into sin.'" "And their heads would be chopped off?" "Certainly," said Phra coldly. "It would be for every one's good. But don't look like that, Hal; we can't help the stupid people talking foolishly. It does not matter to us." "But it does," said Harry. "It makes me think that we ought not to stay." "Nonsense!" cried Phra. "Are you going to tell your father what the people are saying?" "No; why should I?" "I think he ought to know," said Harry. "I daresay he does know how people talk, but it does not trouble him. They are foolish people who do not know he is the best king we have ever had. Let them talk. There, I am going home now. You keep the football." CHAPTER XI THE NAGA'S BITE Phra had not been gone long before Mr. Kenyon returned from his business down in the port, and in reply to his question, "Anything fresh happened, my boy?" Harry told him what he had heard, watching his father's face intently the while. "Then you think it is very serious, father?" said Harry. "Do I, Hal? What makes you say that?" "You look anxious about it." "I was not aware that you were studying my face," said Mr. Kenyon, smiling. "Well, it is serious news, and it is not serious, if you can understand that. The words you heard were those of dissatisfied folk, and these exist everywhere. Of course I have long known that the common, ignorant people resent our being here a good deal, especially the followers of the second king, as they call him; but most of the people like us, and I find that they are very eager to deal with me in business, trusting me largely with their goods, and quite content to wait till I choose to pay them. That looks as if we have a good character. Then, as regards our treatment in the place, you have never found any one insulting or offensive to you." "No, father; every one is smiling and pleasant." "Of course. You need not trouble yourself about the disagreeable remarks of a couple of malcontents." These words cheered Harry, whose young imagination had been piling up horrors to come for the dwellers at the palace and the English people who were near. Two days later, when he was a little higher up the river, a pleasant, musical voice saluted him from the other side of a hedge. "What! going by without calling? For shame!" Harry turned through a gate and down a path to where a lady was seated busy over some kind of needlework under a shady tree. There was something so pleasant in her smile of welcome that the boy eagerly caught at her extended hand, before taking the chair that was pointed out. "But that's the doctor's," he said. "Yes, but he is down the river in his boat, seeing some of his patients. Have some fruit, Harry. All that basketful was sent us this morning by one of Duncan's patients." "How nice! May I take that mangosteen?" "Take all," said Mrs. Cameron, for she it was. "The people are never tired of sending us great pines and melons. They are so nice and grateful for everything my husband does for them. I used to think it would be very dreadful to come out here amongst all the strange, half-savage people, as I expected they would be." "But they are not savage," said Harry. "Savage? No. They are as gentle and nice as can be. They seem to be more afraid of us than we are of them." Harry feasted his eyes upon the sweet face and form of the graceful English lady, and the sight seemed to bring up something misty and undefined of some one who used to lean over his little bed at night to press her warm lips upon his face, which was brushed by her long, fair hair. It was a pleasant feeling, but sad as well, for the few moments that the memory stayed. Then he had to answer questions as to why he had not brought his friend with him, of the games he had been playing, about his excursions; and he was in the midst of his answers when a quick step was heard, and Mrs. Cameron sprang up. "Here is Duncan," she cried. "Hullo, Hal!" cried the doctor, entering; "here you are, then! Where's the Prince?" "He has not been down to-day." "Oh, then that is why we are honoured with a visit, is it?" "I--I was not coming to see you to-day, was I, Mrs. Cameron?" said Harry, colouring. "No, that is a fact," said the lady. "He was going right by, but I called him in." "Ah, well, we will forgive you. Stop and have tea with us." Harry's acceptation showed that he was only too glad, and after the pleasant meal in the verandah, there was an interesting hour to be spent in the doctor's curious compound of surgery, study, and museum, where plenty of fresh insects had to be examined. Mrs. Cameron displaying a bright, girl-like interest in everything, till called away to give some instructions to her servants. "How Mrs. Cameron must help you, Doctor!" said Harry. "I did not know that she was so clever at pinning out moths." "Look here," said the doctor sternly, "have you been saying anything to her about what you told your father you heard said in that boat?" "Not a word, sir." "That's right. I'm glad of it; but I was afraid." "Oh, I shouldn't have thought of telling her." "I'm glad you have so much discretion, my boy. You see, ladies are easily made nervous; and if my wife had heard all that, she would have been fidgeting about it every time I was away, and of course that is very often." "You don't think there is any danger, do you?" "Not the slightest, my boy; the people are all too friendly. It is only a few discontented humbugs who are old-fashioned and object to the King's ways." "That is what my father says," said Harry. "And that is what I say, so let's think no more about it." "There's Phra," cried Harry, starting up, as a long-drawn whistle was heard. Harry ran out, and was going down to the gate, passing Mrs. Cameron, who was walking back to her seat under the tree; but all of a sudden she stopped short, tottered as if about to fall, and then stood there with a ghastly face as white as her dress. It was a mere glimpse that the boy obtained, but it was enough to check his hurried race for the gate. Something was wrong, he could not tell what; but the doctor's wife was evidently in sore trouble, and he turned to go to her help. "What is the matter, Mrs. Cameron?" he cried; but she made no reply. It was as if she had not heard him speak, and with head averted she stood looking to the left in a singularly strained attitude, like one striving to escape from something horrible, but whose feet were held to the ground. In his excitement Harry ran round before her and caught her hand in his, to find it icily cold; but she only uttered a gasping sound, and still stared horribly and with convulsed face down to her left. Very few moments had elapsed from the boy's first taking alarm till he now turned wonderingly to his right to follow the direction of Mrs. Cameron's eyes, and then a horrible chill ran through him, and he felt paralysed and helpless, for there, not six feet away, raised up on the lower part of its body, was one of the most deadly serpents in the world, its grey brown marked scales glistening as it played about in a wavy, undulatory fashion, its so-called hood spread out showing the spectacle-like markings, and its flattened head turned down at right angles to the neck, with the forked tongue playing and flickering in and out through the little opening in its jaws. The lower part of the creature was partly hidden by the flowers on a dry bed, but the anterior portion rose fully three feet above the plants, and the creature swung itself about and rose and sank as if preparing for a spring upon the fascinated woman; for either from horror or some occult power on the part of the deadly reptile, Mrs. Cameron was perfectly helpless, and promised to be an easy victim to the cobra when it struck. But Harry's stunned sensation of horror did not last; he stepped back for a moment or two, looking sharply about for a weapon, but looked in vain, for there was nothing near but a small bamboo stool. It was better than nothing. He caught it up by one leg, and raising it above his shoulder he stepped quickly between Mrs. Cameron and her enemy, prepared to strike with all his might, while the cobra's eyes seemed to burn, and it drew back as if about to spring. At that moment, released from the influence of the reptile by the interposition of Harry's body, the power of movement returned, and uttering a low, sobbing cry Mrs. Cameron sank slowly to her knees upon the ground, where she crouched, watching the movements of her champion, but not daring to look again at the serpent. The sobbing cry behind him drew Harry's attention from his enemy for a moment, but only for that space of time. Then he was once more on guard, fully realizing the danger of his position, but so strung up by the emergency that he felt not the slightest fear. Harry's was but a momentary glance back, but it was an opportunity for the enemy. Quick as lightning it struck. There was the darting forward as of a spring set free, the stroke and the rebound, and as the reptile was about to strike again Harry delivered his blow, which crushed down the hissing creature with such effect that the next moment it had writhed itself out from among the plants, to lie clear to receive blow after blow from the stool, till the latter flew into fragments, while the cobra twined and twisted and tied itself into knots in its agony, close to the lad's feet. He did not attempt to shrink away, only looked round for something else to seize as a weapon, and then he stared strangely at Mrs. Cameron, who had sprung up. "Harry! What is it?" she cried hoarsely. "Did it bite you?" "Don't know," he said, in a curious, husky voice. "I--I think so; but I've killed it." "But where? Show me where?" panted Mrs. Cameron wildly. For answer Harry drew back the cuff from his right wrist, and held it up. "There," he said. Without a moment's hesitation Mrs. Cameron caught the lad's hand and arm and raised it to her lips, sucking the tiny puncture with all her power, and then, as she withdrew her lips for a moment, she shrieked out,-- "Duncan! Duncan! Help, help!" before placing her lips to the bite again. "What's the matter?" cried Phra, running to them from the gate. "Mrs. Cameron! Hal! What is it?" "Snake," said Harry faintly, just as Phra caught sight of the writhing creature, struck at it, and watching his opportunity crushed its head into the ground with his heel, the reptile in its dying agonies twining tightly about his ankle and leg. Mrs. Cameron took her lips from the wound again, and her lips parted to shriek once more; but her cries had been heard, and the doctor came running down to her side. There was no need to ask questions--he saw what had happened at a glance, and the dangerous nature of the wound was told by the swollen shape of the snake's neck by Phra's boot. "Once more," he said to his wife; "then let me." As Mrs. Cameron pressed her lips to the wound, her husband snatched the thin silk neckerchief Harry wore from his neck, twisted it up into a cord, and tied it as tightly as he could round the lad's arm, just above the elbow-joint. "Now let me come," he said sharply. "Run in, Mary; fetch basin, sponge, water, and the caustic bottle." Mrs. Cameron was used to her husband's ways in emergencies, and resigning the patient to his hands she ran off to the house. "Sit down here, Hal," said Cameron, "and keep a good heart, lad. I daresay we shall take it in time." As he spoke he pressed the silent lad back into Mrs. Cameron's chair, snatched off the jacket, tore open the shirt-sleeve, and then drew out his pocket-book, from which he took a lancet. With this he scarified the tiny wound, making it bleed freely, before placing his lips to it and trying to draw the poison away again and again, while Phra stood close by, his face of a livid hue, and making no offer of help on account of his position. For the serpent was still twined tightly about his ankle and leg, and he felt sure that if he released the head from beneath his foot, the reptile would strike again. By this time Mrs. Cameron was back with the various articles required, and she knelt down with the basin in her lap as the doctor took a little wide-mouthed bottle from her hand, removed the stopper, shook out a tiny stick of white, sugar-looking crystal, and after moistening the end, liberally used it in and about the mouth of the wound. "Hurt you, my boy?" said Cameron sharply, as Harry lay back, with his eyes tightly closed. "Horribly," was the reply. "Feels like red-hot iron." "Do you good, boy. Act like a stimulus. Now, can you walk indoors?" "I think so." "One moment. You, Phra, run up and tell Mr. Kenyon to come here directly." "No, no," cried Harry; "don't do that. It would frighten him." "He must be told, Hal, my lad. Go, Phra." The boy addressed pointed to his foot. "If I let its head go, it will sting," he said. "Oh, I see," said the doctor coolly, and taking a knife from his pocket, he opened it, bent down, and with one cut passed the knife blade through the cobra's neck, with the result that the long, lithe body was set free, as if it had been held in its place by the position of the head, and Phra's leg was released. But he took his foot very cautiously off the head, which even then moved, as if still connected with the slowly writhing body, for the jaws opened and shut two or three times, the vitality in the creature being wonderful. But Phra did not stay to see. He stepped quickly to Harry's side and caught his left hand, to hold it for a moment against his throbbing breast, and then ran off as hard as he could go. Meanwhile, supported on either side by the doctor and his wife, Harry was led into the former's room, the boy looking rather wild and strange. Here he was seated upon a cane couch, while a draught of ammonia and water was prepared, and held to him to drink. "Not thirsty," he said, shaking his head. "Never mind; drink," cried the doctor, and the lad hastily tossed off the contents. "Nice?" said the doctor, with a smile. "Horrid; like soap and water," replied Harry. "May I go to sleep?" "Yes, for a time, if you can." "But I say, look here, Doctor; when father comes, don't let him be frightened. I'm not going to be very bad, am I?" "I hope not, Hal. You see, we have taken it in time." "That's right," said the boy, with a deep sigh, and he closed his eyes at once and let his head subside on the pillow, sinking at once into a kind of stupor, for it was not like sleep. "Oh, Duncan," whispered Mrs. Cameron, as soon as she felt satisfied that the patient could not hear, "surely he will not die?" "Not if I can help it, dear," he replied. "That was very brave of you to suck the wound. It may have saved his life." "Poor, brave, darling boy!" she cried, bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing, as she sank in her husband's arms, utterly giving way now. "He saved me from the horrible reptile, and was bitten himself." "Ha! God bless him for it--and spare his life," added the doctor to himself--"that was it, then?" "Yes, dear," sobbed Mrs. Cameron; "I was going back to take up my work when I heard a rustling sound among the flowers, and looking round I saw the horrible thing dancing and waving itself up and down as they do when a snake-charmer plays to them. I couldn't stir; I couldn't speak. I seemed to be suddenly made rigid; and then it was that Harry saw the state I was in, and came to my help." "What did he do?" said the doctor, as he tried to calm his wife's hysterical sobs. "Ran between me and the snake, and struck at it when it darted itself out. It would have bitten me, for it was gradually coming closer to me, and--and--and--oh, it was so dreadful, Duncan dear! I seemed to have no power to move. I knew that if I ran off I should be safe, but I could not stir, only wait as if fixed by the horrible creature's eyes--wait till it darted at and bit me." "And Harry dashed in between you?" "Yes, dear. He seized the little bamboo stool, and struck at it. Oh, Duncan! Duncan! Don't let him die!" "Let him die, my dear?" said the doctor, drawing in his breath. "Not if my poor knowledge can save him. But I have great hopes that your brave thoughtfulness will have had its effect. Now go and lie down a bit till you have grown calm. This terrible business has unhinged you." "No, no, dear; let me stay." "I dare not, my dear. You are weak and hysterical from the shock, and I must keep the poor boy undisturbed." "You may trust me, dear," said Mrs. Cameron; "I am better now. There, you see I am mastering my weakness. I will master it, and be quite calm, so as to help you to nurse him and make him well." "May I trust you?" "Yes, yes, dear." "But suppose he is very, very bad?" whispered the doctor. "I will be quite calm and helpful then. Afterwards I will not answer for myself." "Then stay," said the doctor, who examined his patient as he lay there, looking strange and completely stupefied. "Raise him up a little," said the doctor, after he had mixed some more ammonia and water; "I want him to drink this." Mrs. Cameron's task was easy, and there was no trouble then in getting the patient to drink, till the last spoonful or two, which he thrust away. "It hurts me to swallow," he muttered, as if to himself--"it hurts me to swallow." The doctor frowned, as he helped his wife to lower the poor fellow down, and examined the wrist and arm, which were now becoming terribly swollen and blotched. "Oh, Duncan!" whispered Mrs. Cameron, "can't you do something more?" "No," he said sadly; "one is fearfully helpless in such a case as this. Everything possible has been done; it is a fight between nature and the poison." "And there seemed to be no time before I was trying to draw it out of the wound again." "It is so horribly subtle," said the doctor. "What you did ought to have checked the action, but it is going on. I dread poor Kenyon's coming, and yet I am longing for it. He cannot be long." "Duncan," whispered Mrs. Cameron, as she laid her hand tenderly upon Harry's forehead, "are you sure that he cannot understand what we say?" "Quite." "You said the poison was subtle; will it be long before the effect passes off?" "No," replied the doctor; "the danger should be quite at an end before an hour is passed. Subtle? Horribly subtle and quick, dear. I have known poor creatures die in a quarter of an hour after being struck. Hist! I can hear Kenyon's steps in the garden. Go to the door and bring him in." Mrs. Cameron went out softly, but returned with Phra. "Is Mr. Kenyon coming?" "He went down the river in his boat, Michael says, and will not be back till evening." "Tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated the doctor. "How is he?" whispered Phra. "Bad; very bad," replied the doctor. "Oh!" cried Phra, in agony. "But you are curing him, Doctor Cameron?" "I am doing everything I possibly can, Phra." "Yes, I know; and you are so clever. It is all right, and he will soon be better." The doctor groaned, and bent over his patient, exchanging glances with his wife--looks both full of despair. Phra stepped to the doctor's side, and caught him fiercely by the arm. "You frighten me," he whispered excitedly. "Don't say he is very bad!" "Look," said the doctor sadly, and he pointed to the horrible appearance of his young patient's arm. "It is of no use to disguise it, Phra: the poison of these dreadful reptiles is beyond a doctor's skill." "But do something--do something!" cried Phra angrily. "You are only standing and looking on. You must--you shall do more." Mrs. Cameron rose and took the lad's hands, drawing them aside. "Be patient, Phra," she whispered. "My husband is doing everything that is possible." "But it is so dreadful," cried Phra. "I saw some one die from a snake-bite, and he looked just like that. But there was no doctor then. Can't he do something more?" Mrs. Cameron shook her head. "You know how clever and wise he is, Phra. We must trust him. He knows what is best." Phra groaned, and sank down despairingly in a chair; but he started up again directly. "Shall I fetch my father? He is very wise about snake-bites. He would come for Hal." "He could do nothing," said the doctor gravely. "Be silent, please; I am doing everything that is possible." Phra frowned on hearing the imperative way in which the doctor spoke, but he did not resent it. He merely went on tip-toe to the head of the couch, and knelt down there, watching every movement on Harry's part, though these were few. From time to time the doctor administered ammonia, but it seemed to have not the slightest effect: the swelling went on; the skin of the boy's arm grew of a livid black; and the mutterings of delirium made the scene more painful. And so three hours passed away, with no sign of Mr. Kenyon, no token given that the danger was nearly passed. Every one was indefatigable, striving the best to render Harry's sufferings lighter; but all seemed in vain, and at last, as she read truly the look of despair in her husband's face, every palliative he administered seeming to be useless, Mrs. Cameron, after fighting hard to keep back her grief, threw herself upon her knees by the side of the couch, and burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing. This was too much for Phra, who, to hide his own feelings, hurried out into the garden, unable as he was to witness Mrs. Cameron's sufferings unmoved. And now in his utter despair the doctor made no effort to check his wife's loud sobs, feeling as he did that they could do no harm; and after attending to his patient again, he was about to walk to the window to try and think whether there was anything else that he could do, when to his astonishment Harry opened his eyes, stared round vacantly, and said in sharp tones,-- "Yes! What is it? Who called?" The doctor was at his side in an instant, and caught his hand. "Harry, my lad," he said, "do you know me?" The boy stared at him strangely, but he had comprehended the question. "Know you?" he said. "Yes; why shouldn't I know you? What a ridiculous question! But--Here, what is the matter with that lady? Is it--is it--? My head aches, and I can't think," he added, after looking wonderingly about. "What has been the matter? Doctor Cameron, has some one been ill?" "Yes, some one has been very ill," said the doctor, laying his cool hand upon the boy's forehead and pressing him back upon the pillow. "Some one has been very ill! Who is it? Can't be father or Mike. Why am I here? I'm not ill. Here, something hurts me, doctor--something on the wrist. Just look; it hurts so that I can't lift it." The doctor took hold of the frightfully swollen arm, and made as if examining the injury, saying quietly,-- "Oh, it's only a bite; it will be better soon. I'll put a little olive oil to it. Will you get some, my dear?" Mrs. Cameron rose from her knees quickly, and hurried out of the room, keeping her head averted so that Harry should not see her face. He noticed this, and his eyes filled with a wondering look. "I don't understand it," he said. "I'm not at home." "No," said the doctor quietly. "You are here, at my house." "Of course; and that was Mrs. Cameron who went out to get the oil, and--" He stopped short, and looked about him for some moments. Then in a puzzled way:-- "There's something I want to think about, but I can't." "Don't worry about it, then. Lie still till you can." "Yes, that will be the best way. Ah! here she is." Mrs. Cameron was back with the oil, and he made her lips quiver, and she had hard work to keep back her tears, as he said,-- "That's good of you to fetch it. Thank you, Doctor. What was it bit me? One of those big mosquitoes? Ah!" He uttered a wild cry, and his face grew convulsed with horror. "What is it, my dear boy?" said the doctor. "I know now," he said, in a low, passionate, agitated voice. "It has come back. The snake! I was bitten by that snake!" "Yes, my boy, but the effect is all passing off," said the doctor soothingly. "No, no; you are saying that to keep me from thinking I shall die of the bite, and--" his voice sank to a whisper, as he murmured despairingly, "Oh, father, father! what will you do?" "I am not cheating you, Harry," said the doctor, leaning over him; "it is the simple truth. You were bitten by the virulent reptile; but fortunately we were close by, and the poison has yielded to the remedies." "Ah! you gave me something?" "We did, of course," said the doctor gravely, giving his wife a glance. "You have been delirious and insensible, but the poison is mastered, and you have nothing to do now but get well. Thank God!" The boy took the last words literally. He closed his eyes, and they saw his lips move in the silence which lasted for some minutes. Then he opened his eyes, and spoke quite naturally. "I can recollect all about it now. But tell me, are you sure Mrs. Cameron was not hurt?" "Hurt? No, Harry," said that lady, taking his hand, to press it to her lips. "I have you to thank for saving my life." He imitated her action, and said with a smile,-- "No, no. Doctor Cameron would have cured you as he did me. But ugh! what an arm!" he cried, hastily drawing the sleeve over the discoloured, swollen skin. "I say, doctor, it won't stop like that, will it?" "Oh no, that will soon pass away." At that moment Phra's piteous face appeared at the window, looking inquiringly in, for he had been puzzled by the voices he had heard; and as soon as he grasped the state of affairs, he uttered a wild cry,-- "Hal!" It was as he rushed in through the window and dashed across the floor, to pretty well fling himself upon his companion. Then, with simulated anger, to choke down the burst of sobs striving for exit,-- "Oh, you wretch!" he cried, "to frighten us all like that! Doctor, what doesn't he deserve!" "Rest and quiet, Phra, my lad. Steady, please; he is a bit weak yet." "Yes, I understand. But oh, Hal, old chap, old chap! you have made me feel bad!" "So sorry," said the boy, "and so glad you all felt like that. But, Phra, I want you to do something." "Yes, what is it?" cried Phra eagerly. "I want you to go up to our place and wait till father comes back. Then tell him I'm better. I shouldn't like him to hear I had been bitten by a naga without knowing the whole truth." "Yes, I'll go," cried the boy, pressing his friend's hand. "But tell me first, doctor: he is ever so much better?" "Quite out of all danger now," was the reply, and Phra started off, but only to find that he was too late, for before he had gone a hundred yards he met Mr. Kenyon and Mike, running. "Ah!" cried the merchant wildly, catching Phra by the arm, "tell me quickly--the truth--the truth." "Better; getting well fast," said Phra quickly. Mr. Kenyon stopped short and laid his hand to his breast, and stood panting for a few minutes before speaking again. "Mike told you as soon as you came ashore, then?" "No, he came down the river in a boat to fetch me, as soon as he heard the news. But come, quick, I must see for myself!" As Mr. Kenyon entered the room the doctor and his wife just said a word, and then went softly out, Phra grasping the reason and following them into the garden. "Yes, I see," he said softly; "to let them be alone." They all three turned down one of the paths amongst the thickly planted bushes, and then stopped short in wonder, for there just before them was Mike, crying like a child, and wiping his eyes. He was aware of their presence, though, almost as soon as they were of his, and making a pretence of mopping his face with the handkerchief he held, he hurried up. "Awful hot, sir," he said. "You want me?" "No, not yet," said the doctor, ignoring the tears; "but in two or three hours I think we can get your young master home. I think you had better see about a palanquin and bearers by-and-by. Or perhaps you might as well go now, and tell the men to be here in two hours' time." "Yes, sir; of course, sir, but--er--" "What is it?" said the doctor. "Could I just go and say a word to the young master, sir?" "I think not now, Mike. His father is with him, and we have left them so that they might be alone." "Of course, sir, and quite right too," said Mike. "I'll be off at once, sir; but it is amazing hot." Mike hurried away, and as soon as he was out of hearing Phra said quickly,-- "See how he'd been crying, Mr. Cameron?" "Yes, Phra." "That's because he liked our Hal so. Every one likes Hal." CHAPTER XII SUL THE ELEPHANT "Bother the old cobra! Don't say any more about it; I hate to hear the thing mentioned. Well, there, quite well, thank you; how do you do?" "But you might tell me, Hal." "Why, I am telling you. I'm quite well again." "Don't you feel anything?" "Oh yes, just a little; my arm feels pins-and-needlesy, just as if I had been to sleep on it in an awkward position; and it looks as if it was turning into a snake." "What, twists and twines about?" "No--o--o--o! What nonsense! How can a thing with stiff bones in it twist and twine about? I mean, the skin's all marked something like a snake's; but Dr. Cameron says I need not mind, for it will all go off in time. Oh, I am so sick of it all! I wish I hadn't killed the snake." "What!" cried Phra. "No, I don't quite mean that, because of course I'm glad to have killed the horrible, poisonous thing; only it's so tiresome. That's nearly a month ago, and everybody's watching me to see how I look, and asking me how I am, and you're about the worst of the lot." "It's quite natural, Hal." "Is it? Then I wish it wasn't. I suppose it's quite natural for Mrs. Cameron to begin to cry as soon as she sees me." "It's because she feels grateful to you for saving her life." "There you go again," cried Harry peevishly. "Saving her life! Oh, how I wish I hadn't! Everybody will keep telling me of it, and one says it was so good of me, and another calls me a brave young hero; and just because I hit a snake a whack with an old bamboo stool. It's sickening." Phra laughed heartily. "You're not sorry you saved her life." "Will you be quiet?" cried Harry angrily. "Saved her life again. Everybody's telling me of it. Of course I don't mean I'm sorry, but I wish somebody else had done it. Ah! you, for instance," cried the boy, with one of his old mirthful looks. "Ha, ha, ha! Poor old Phra! How would he like it? every one calling him a brave young hero!" "I shouldn't mind it once or twice," said Phra thoughtfully. "But after that I suppose it would be rather tiresome." "Tiresome!" cried Harry. "It sets your teeth on edge--it makes you squirm--it makes you want to throw things that will break--it makes you want to call names, and kick." Phra roared. "Ah, you may grin, my lad, but it does." "It would make me feel proud," said Phra. "That it wouldn't. You're not such a silly, weak noodle. It would make you feel ashamed of yourself, for it's sickly and stupid to make such a fuss about nothing. No, don't say any more about it, or there'll be a fight." "I say, Hal," cried Phra. "I shall be glad when you are quite well again." "I am quite well again. Look here, I'll race you along the terrace and back." "No, it makes one too hot. But you're not quite well yet." "I am, I tell you. Do you want to quarrel?" "No, but that proves you are not." "How? What do you mean?" "You get cross so soon. It's just as if that snakebite--" "Don't!" roared Harry. "Turned you sour and acid." Harry did not resent this, but remained silent for a few moments. "I say," he said at last, "is that true?" "What?" "About me turning sour and acid?" "Oh yes; you get out of temper about such little things. I'm almost afraid to speak to you sometimes." "Hi! Look at him! There he goes. One of those little monkeys. He heard me shout. How he can jump from tree to tree! I wish we were as active. There! He can't jump to that next tree. He'd fall down. Well! Look at that. Why, it was a tremendous jump." "We were here just right," said Phra; "he was coming after the fruit, and we scared him." Harry was silent, and walked on by his companion's side in the beautiful gardens of the palace. Then he began to whistle softly, as if he were thinking. At last he broke out with-- "Oh, what a lovely garden this is! I wish my father was a king, and I was a prince, and all this was ours." Phra threw himself down on the grass beneath a clump of shrubs and began to laugh heartily. "What are you laughing at?" said Harry angrily. "You. Why, you wouldn't like it half so well as what you have now." "Oh, shouldn't I! I know better than that." "No, you don't, Hal. That is all my father's, and it will be all mine some day; but I like being at your place ever so much better than being here." "You don't. Nonsense!" "I do, I tell you. Your little garden's lovely, and the dear old landing-place is ten times nicer than our marble steps." "You've been out in the sun too much, Phra, and it has turned your head." "That it hasn't. And as to your father being king, he'd soon be very tired of it, as my father is; for it's all worry and care." Harry had thrown himself sprawling on the grass beside his companion, and the boys were both silent for a while, as if listening to the soft cooing of one of the beautiful little rose and green doves which frequented the garden. "It's very curious," said Harry at last. "What is?" said Phra wonderingly. "That the poison of that snake--such a wee, tiny drop as got into me--should have such a droll effect." "I don't see anything droll in it," replied Phra. "I do," cried Harry. "Here, only a little time ago I was the jolliest, best-tempered fellow that ever lived." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed Phra. "Well, so I was," cried Harry indignantly. "When you weren't cross." "Oh, I say, I never was cross; but I'll own to it now. I've often thought about it lately. You're quite right, Phra; the least thing does put me out now, and I feel as if I must grind my teeth together. Think it is because of the poison?" "Of course it is. But never mind. I don't, because I know why it is." "I have been very cross, then, sometimes, have I?" "Horrid!" cried Phra, laughing. "You've been ready to call the sun names for shining, and the wind for blowing. You can't think how cross you've been." "I can guess. It's what Dr. Cameron calls being a trifle irritable. Hullo! here's one of your fellows coming. Looks just as if he were going to spear us both for being in the King's garden." A handsome, bronze-skinned guard stalked up and bowed to Phra. "What do you want?" asked Phra. "The hunter, Sree, asks to see the Prince," replied the man. That was enough. There was neither irritability in Harry, nor thought of the heat in Phra, as they sprang up and made for the outer court, where they found Sree sitting upon his heels, calmly meditative over his thoughts, but ready to spring up on seeing the two lads approach. He saluted them after the country fashion, and in reply to the question asked by both together,-- "I came to see if the young Sahib Harry was well enough to go out, and the Prince would go with him." "Of course I'm well enough," cried Harry. "I say, Sree, have you seen any cobras since that one bit me?" Phra turned sharply round, with his face full of the mirth he tried to hide. "Yes, I know what you mean," cried Harry sharply. "I shall talk about it myself, though, if I like. Have you seen any, Sree?" "Just one hundred and seven, Sahib," said the man. "A hundred and seven!" cried Harry. "What, about here?" "About the different houses and landings, Sahib," replied the old hunter. "They like to get near to where people live, because of the little animals that come too." "I shouldn't have thought that there were so many for miles and miles." "Oh yes, Sahib; there are many nagas about." "You must have seen the same ones over again," said Harry. "No, Sahib; it was not so, because I killed as many as I said." "Killed them!" "Yes, Sahib; when I knew that you had been bitten, I felt that I must have been neglectful, and I set to work seeking for nagas with my two men, and we killed all those. You see, it is easy. When you find one, there is sure to be its husband or its wife somewhere near." "Then you killed all those because I was bitten?" said Harry. "Yes, Sahib, and we are going to kill more. They are dangerous things. Would the Sahib like to go out to-day?" "Yes, we should; shouldn't we, Phra?" "Yes, if you--" Phra got no farther, on account of the sharp look Harry darted at him. "Have you anything particular you have tracked down?" "I have done nothing but hunt nagas lately, Sahib, because I did not know when the Sahib would come again; but the jungle is full of wild creatures, and the river the same. Would Sahib Harry like to go right up the river in a boat, or would he like a ride through the jungle with an elephant?" "What do you say, Phra?" asked Harry. "We had a boat out last time," said Phra. "Which you like, though." "But could you get an elephant? Would your father--" "Of course," said Phra eagerly. "How soon shall we go?" "I should like to go directly." "Then we will go directly. I'll order an elephant to be brought round at once." He went towards the palace, and Harry followed him with his eyes. "It's nice," he thought, "to be able to order everything you want like that. To tell the people to bring round an elephant, just as I might give orders for a donkey. Well, it's just the same, only one's bigger than the other, and costs more to keep. It is nice, after all, to be a king or a prince. Phra says it isn't, though, and perhaps one might get as much fun out of a donkey, and if he kicked it wouldn't be so far to fall." He turned suddenly, to find that the old hunter's eyes were fixed sharply upon him. "Does the young Sahib feel any pain now from the snake-bite?" Harry frowned at the allusion, but the question was so respectfully put that he replied quietly,-- "A good deal sometimes, Sree, but my arm is better." "Be out in the sun all you can, Sahib, and let the hot light shine upon it to bring life and strength back to the blood." Harry nodded. "There is death in the serpent's poison, but life in the light of the sun, Sahib. Sree's heart was sore within him when he heard the bad tidings, for he feared it meant that the young Sahib's days were at an end." "But you never came near me, Sree, while I was bad." "But I knew, Sahib, and I was busy--oh, so busy! One hundred and seven of the little wretches." "Oh yes," said Harry, "I had forgotten that. But come along; the Prince is coming out again." By the time they reached the court Phra was there, with men carrying out guns, belts, and flasks, with net-bags to hold anything they might shoot; and before this was quite done a peculiar scrunching sound was heard, and directly after the prominent fronted grey head of a huge elephant appeared, as the great quadruped came on, walking softly, and swaying its long trunk from side to side, while upon its neck sat a little ugly man not bigger than a boy, hook-speared goad in hand, and with his legs completely hidden by the creature's great, leathery, flap ears. "You've got the biggest one, Phra," said Harry. "Yes, he takes longer strides, and I like him; don't I, Sul?" said the lad, giving the _u_ in the animal's name the long, soft sound of double _o_. The elephant uttered a peculiar sound, and twining his truck round Phra's waist, lifted him from the ground. "No, no, I am going up by the ladder," said Phra, laughing, and at a word the huge beast set him down again, and raised his trunk to receive a petting from Harry, who was an old friend. It seemed strange for the great beast with its gigantic power to be so obedient and docile to a couple of mere lads, and the insignificant mahout perched upon its neck. But so it was: at a word the elephant knelt, a short, bamboo ladder was placed against its side, and the boys climbed up; the guns and ammunition were handed in by Sree, who was particular to a degree in seeing that everything was placed in the howdah that was necessary; and then he took his own place behind the lads. Without being told, a couple of the men drew the ladder away, and the mahout grasped his silver-mounted goad, all attention for the word. Phra gave this, and then it was like a boat mounting a wave and plunging down the other side, as the elephant rose, and without seeming to exert itself in the least, began to shuffle over the ground. "Just like two pairs of stuffed trousers under a feather bed," as Harry termed it. Sree gave the mahout his directions, and very soon the river was left far behind, and they were following one of the elephant tracks through the wooded district which lay between the river and the jungle proper--the primitive wild, much of which had never been trodden by the foot of man. Here the trees had gone on growing to their full age, and fallen to make way for others to take their places, the roots of the young literally devouring the crumbled-up touchwood over which they had spread their boughs, while creepers and the ever-present climbing and running palm, the rotan, bound the grand, forest monarchs together, and turned the place into an impenetrable wild, save where the wild elephants had formed their roads and traversed them even to taking the same steps, each planting its huge feet in the impressions made by those which had gone before. "Are we going to begin shooting at once, Sree?" asked Harry. "No, Sahib; not here. Too many people have been about, and everything is shy and hides. Wait till we get into some of the open places in the wild jungle." This was while they were in the more open woodland; but soon this was left behind, and they were in the twilight of the great forest, going through a tunnel arched over by big trees, and with very little more than room for their huge steed to pass without brushing the sides. Every here and there the gloom was relieved by what looked like a golden shower of rain, where the sun managed to penetrate; but, as soon as this was passed, the darkness seemed deeper than before. The first part of this savage wild lay low, and the huge footprints made by the wild elephants were full of mud and water; but Sul did not seem in the least troubled. According to the custom of his kind, he chose these holes in preference to the firm ground between, his feet sometimes descending with a loud splash a couple of feet or so, and being withdrawn with a peculiar _suck_, while the huge beast rolled and plunged like a boat in a rough sea. "Do you mind this?" said Phra, turning to his companion, as they were shaken together. "No; I like it," replied Harry. "I say, what a place this must be for the big snakes, and how easily one might dart down half its body and twist round one of us. Don't you feel a bit scared?" "No; but I heard of a hungry one doing that once. I daresay we should know if one was near." "How?" "The elephant seems to see and know whenever he is near anything dangerous." "Oh, only when there is a tiger or buffalo, Phra." "This one notices everything, doesn't he, Sree?" "Yes, Prince; he is a wonderful beast," replied the hunter, who, in spite of the rolling about, had carefully charged the four guns that had been brought, and replaced them lying upon the hooks within the howdah, ready to be seized at a moment's notice. "We shan't see anything here," said Phra. "Too thick," replied the hunter; "but there are plenty of beasts on either side now. In an hour though we shall reach a part where the sun can shine through." "Hist! Something before us," whispered Phra stretching out his hand for a gun, an act imitated by Harry; for the elephant had suddenly stopped, thrown up its trunk, and as it gave vent to a rumbling sound which ended in the loud, highly-pitched cry which is called trumpeting, it shook its head from side to side, striking the branches with the ends of its long, sharp-pointed tusks, which were hooped in two places with bands of glistening silver. "You had better take a gun too, Sree," said Harry, in a low voice, and the old hunter eagerly availed himself of the permission. "Mind not to hit the mahout," whispered Phra, for the little turbanned man kept on anxiously looking back; "and you had better be looking out, Hal, for Sul may spin right round and run away." They sat watching and listening for some minutes, expecting moment by moment to see the cause of their stoppage approaching along the dusk tunnel, and at last, as the elephant ceased to make uneasy signs, Sree handed the gun to Harry. "What are you going to do?" asked the latter. "Slip down, Sahib, and go forward to see what startled the elephant." "Is it safe?" "Oh yes, Sahib; I should run back if there was danger, and you would fire over my head." "But you had better have a gun." The old hunter smiled, and the next minute, he had lowered himself down by the ropes which held on the howdah, reached up for the gun, which was handed down to him, and they saw him go slowly forward, carefully examining the pathway, which fortunately was here fairly free from water, though the earth was soft enough to show the footprints of whatever had passed along. As if fully comprehending what all this meant, the great elephant made a muttering noise, lowered its trunk, and of its own choice continued its march, following close behind Sree, till the latter began to move more cautiously; and now the elephant raised its head again, and curled its trunk up, throwing it back towards its forehead. "Means a tiger," whispered Harry. "Yes; look at Sree. Be ready to fire." Harry's heart beat fast, and he sat there with his gun-barrels resting on the front of the howdah, ready to fire if the great cat came into view. The elephant was shifting its weight from foot to foot, giving itself an awkward roll that would be rather bad for a marksman; but otherwise it made no further uneasy signs. "Tiger," cried Phra, and Sree nodded sharply, before running some little distance on in a stooping position, displaying the activity of a boy, till he was nearly out of sight; but before he was quite so he turned sharply and ran back, stopping about a dozen yards in front of the elephant's head. "Look, Sahibs," he said, pointing down, "tiger. He came out of the low bush just on your left, and trotted along to here, and then crossed to yonder, twenty paces farther, where he went in among the trees on your right." "Come back, then, and mount," said Harry anxiously. "The brute may be crouching somewhere ready to spring on you." "No, Sahib," said the man, smiling; "he has gone right away." "How can you tell that?" asked Harry. "Look at Sul, Sahib. He would not stand quietly like that if the tiger was near." "Yes, that is right," said Phra quietly, and he bade the mahout tell the elephant to kneel. "Couldn't we follow and get a shot at it?" said Harry excitedly. "No, no, of course not in a place like this," he hastened to add, for unless the path was followed it was next to impossible to move. The next minute the elephant had knelt, and Sree had scrambled back to his place behind the howdah. "As there was one here, there may be his mate, Sahib," he said; "so we will keep a good look-out." "Yes, of course," said Harry, as the elephant strode along quietly enough; "but I say, Phra, we did not come out after tigers, did we?" "No, but by accident we are where we may get one. Did you find the pugs as easily as this, when you were out with my father that day?" "No, Sahib; it was all hard work, and very few footmarks to be found." "Did you bring us this way hoping that we might shoot a tiger?" "No, Sahib; I brought you along here so that you might shoot a deer for us to take back. I would not purposely take you where there are tigers; but if we have one tracking us, of course we must shoot, unless you would like to go back." "Ask the Prince if he would," said Harry. "I mean to go on." "Go on, of course," said Phra. "I don't think we shall see any more signs of tigers." And, in fact, they went right on now along this winding tunnel through the jungle without seeing anything, and hearing nothing but the shrieking of parrots now and then, far above their heads, where the tops of the trees spread their flowers or fruit in the bright sunshine, but produced semi-darkness in the jungle beneath. At last, though, the path grew drier and drier and it was evident that they were ascending a slope, which being pursued for another quarter of an hour, they had the satisfaction of noting that the trees were of less growth, and every now and then there were rays of light streaming down, till all at once there was a patch of bright sunshine right in front, showing that comparatively open ground lay before them; while directly after Harry had a glimpse of something dusky fifty yards away, there was the sound of a rush and the breaking of twigs, and then all was silent again. "Buffalo, wasn't it?" said Phra. "Yes, Sahib," replied the old hunter. "Scared away; but they may return. There were four of them. Be ready, for they might come back and charge at the elephant, big as he is." But no more was seen of the game they had disturbed, and a few minutes later they were out in full sunshine, the track before them being a wide expanse of park-like ground extended on either slope of a valley, through which a stream ran, half hidden by overhanging bushes and reeds. Here and there the sun flashed from the running water, but for the most part the stream was invisible. When they broke out of the jungle they entered a dense patch of grass, which immediately found favour with the elephant, and it began tearing it up in bundles as large as its trunk would embrace; but this enjoyment was stopped at once, for at a word or two from Sree, the mahout started the animal onward, uttering mild remonstrances the while. "We will keep along here on the slope, Sahibs," said the hunter. "Be quite ready to fire." It was an unnecessary order, for both boys were keenly on the look-out, while as soon as he had got over his disappointment at not being allowed to tuck small trusses of the succulent grass into his capacious maw, Sul showed how well trained a hunting elephant he was, taking up the beating in the most matter-of-fact way, and as if thoroughly entering into the spirit of the chase. "What shall we get along here, Sree?" asked Harry, as they rode on, with the long grass and bushes rustling and snapping about the elephant's feet. "Who knows, Sahib? Perhaps pig, which will make for the low ground yonder by the stream, or peacock, and they will rise and fly to our left for the shelter of the jungle. Maybe it will be a buffalo, who will charge us, and then it will be better that I should fire too, for the great obstinate brute ought to be stopped before it reaches Sul. He would take the buffalo on his tusks, but these beasts are so strong that he might be hurt, and that would be a pity; it makes an elephant unsteady." "I thought you said we might get a deer," said Phra. "It is very likely, Sahib," replied the man. "Who knows what we may find in such a beautiful hunting-country, where no one disturbs the beasts? Ah, look!" For at that moment Sul uttered a warning sound which can best be represented by the word _Phoomk_, and stopped short, but without curling up his trunk out of the way of some charging enemy. The boys raised their guns to their shoulders, and waited for a chance to fire, but there was nothing seen save the waving and undulating of the long grass to their left, as if something were making for the jungle--something long, like a gigantic serpent. "Shall I fire?" said Phra. "It is of no use, Sahib," replied Sree; "the cover is too deep." "What is it?" said Harry hoarsely--"a boa?" "No, Sahib; a little troop of small monkeys following an old one. They have been down to the water to drink, and they are running back to the jungle trees." "Oh, we don't want to shoot them," said Harry; "go on." The elephant obeyed a touch from the goad, and shambled along, making the long grass swish, while he muttered and grumbled as if dissatisfied at there being no firing. But before they had gone a hundred yards farther he gave warning again, and almost at the same moment there was a loud grunting, a rush to the right, and two reports rang out as both boys fired. This was followed by a sharp squeal, but the undulation of the grass did not cease, and from their position high up the two lads caught sight from time to time of the blackish-brown backs of three or four good-sized pigs. "We hit one," cried Harry excitedly. "Send Sul on. It must be lying dead." "No, Sahib," said Sree. "You hit one, but they have all gone off." "How do you know? Perhaps one is lying there in the long grass." "No, Sahib," said the man; "you would have seen it struggling, and heard its shrieks. A pig makes much noise. But I saw the one hit, and it only gave a jump. You both fired the wrong barrels." "What!" cried Phra, examining his gun, with Harry following suit. "The right barrels are for shot, the left barrels for ball," said Sree quietly. "Those shot would kill a peacock, but only tickle the thick skin of a wild pig." "How stupid!" said Harry. "I never thought of that. Here, load again." He handed his gun to the hunter, and took up another from the hooks inside the howdah, while Sul went on, muttering to himself, but there appeared from the sound to be more satisfaction in his remarks at the efforts made, though there had been no result. So comical was all this that the boys laughed heartily, and there was a grim smile on Sree's countenance. "It seems so droll," said Phra merrily. "It is just as if he knew all about it." "He does, Sahib," said the hunter. "Nonsense!" said Harry. "The Sahib has not seen so much of elephants as I have," said the man respectfully. "He believes that I have learned much about the wild creatures of the jungle?" "Oh yes, you have, Sree; but I can't believe elephants understand what we are doing." "The wild elephant is one of the wisest of beasts, Sahib, and he would never be caught, he is so cunning, if it was not that we cheat him by sending elephants that we have trained to the herd to lead others into traps. And when they have got them there, do they not beat them and hold them till they are noosed and their spirit is conquered?" "Oh yes, they do all that." "And many other things," said Sree, "that I have seen with the Sahibs in India, where they move and pile the trees that are cut down, and lift guns; and what beast will obey its master better than an elephant? Old Sul here is very wise, and knows a great deal." "Yes," said Harry, "but not to understand what we say." "But he knows what the order means, Sahib; and see how he enjoys the hunting." "Yes, Sul really does like hunting, Hal," said Phra. "And it is not only elephants that like hunting," continued Sree. "See how the horses and dogs love the hunting in India, and the horses the pig-sticking. I have seen them enjoy it as much as the Sahibs. They never want the spur, but go wonderfully fast, as soon as they see a fierce, wild boar. Ah, Sahib, animals are wiser than we think, and love us back again if we love them. Old Sul here loves me better than he does his driver; but I am afraid of him. He loves me too well." "That sounds funny, Sree," said Harry. "What do you mean?" "He likes to show me how much he loves me by rubbing up against me; and if he tries to do that when he has me by a tree or one of the palace walls, I am obliged to be quick and get under him; he is so big and heavy. But here is your gun." Meanwhile the object of these remarks had been forcing his way through the grass and bushes, winking his little red eyes as if enjoying the conversation, and flapping his great ears, his absurdly small tail whisking about and making dashes at troublesome flies, while his great trunk seemed to possess an independent existence, twining and waving, swaying this way and that, and never for a moment still. But all the while the great, sensible creature was intent upon the object in hand, pushing steadily forward through the dense growth, and starting numberless occupiers of the long grass--snakes, lizards, rats, and mice, scurrying away to avoid the pillar-like legs which invaded their home. "Don't seem as if we are going to have much sport," said Harry at last, "and it's precious hot out here." The words had hardly passed his lips when Sul uttered a deep grunt and stood fast, for he had startled a small deer from its lair, the graceful creature making a sudden bound into sight close to the elephant's feet, and then going right forward in a succession of leaps, so that its course hindered the boys from firing until it had gone forty yards, when both guns rang out sharply, Sul remaining firm as a rock. "Hit!" cried Sree, for the deer fell heavily, struggled in the thick growth for a few moments, then gained its feet and made another bound into sight--a bound which paralysed the arms of the two lads and made them hold their breath, for as the deer made what was veritably its death leap, something of a tawny yellow and brown mingled made a tremendous bound on to it, bringing it down among the bushes with a dull, crashing sound, and then all was still. CHAPTER XIII THEIR FIRST TIGER Though the two boys seemed to be turned to stone, others were active enough. Sree leaned over the back of the howdah and took the boys' guns from their hands. "Quick, Sahibs!" he cried; "take the other guns and be ready." The boys obeyed mechanically, while Sree began to re-charge the empty barrels, calling to the mahout to turn the elephant and go back. But Sul had ideas of his own in connection with elephant-hunting, and absolutely refused to obey that order even though it was emphasized with the sharp goad. Understand or no, according to Sree's theory, he had sense enough to decline doing what many of his kind would have done under the circumstances--to wit, turning tail. For Sul seemed to know that though his insignificant tail with its tuft at the end was a formidable weapon to deal with teasing flies, that end of his person was absurdly useless for fighting tigers, whereas his other end, when his trunk was thrown up out of the way, with its two sharp-pointed clear lengths of ivory, was about the most formidable object the great, ferocious cat could encounter. Consequently, as soon as in obedience to Sree's orders the goad was applied, Sul uttered a shrill remonstrance, curled up his trunk, threw his head from side to side, and then as if declaring that he didn't care a _sou_ for the biggest tiger that ever grew, he trumpeted out defiance and began a performance that was wonderfully like his idea of a war dance, which threatened to shake the occupants out of the howdah. "Turn him back and get away," cried Sree angrily, in the Siamese tongue. "Says he won't go and wants to fight," replied the mahout. Sul uttered a fierce cry, and ceasing his dance opened his ears widely, and began to advance. "You must turn him back," cried Sree excitedly, as he finished ramming down bullets in every barrel. "I can't," came back from the mahout, in a helpless tone. "Never mind," cried Harry; "let's go on," and he changed his gun for one that had been reloaded. "But it is too dangerous for you, Sahibs," cried Sree. "It is a big tiger. Do you hear me? Turn the elephant back." "No," said Phra hoarsely, as he stood up in the howdah. "I say he shall go on." Sul trumpeted again, while Sree rammed down bullets in the other guns, and in answer to the elephant's challenge the hidden tiger uttered a deep, muttering roar. "We can't help ourselves, Hal," said Phra through his set teeth. "We must go on." "Yes," replied Harry, cocking both barrels of his gun; "I wouldn't have tried for it, but we must hunt this beast." There was only one way of avoiding the encounter, and that was by sliding off over the elephant's tail, which would have been a far wilder proceeding. But this neither of the boys had the slightest inclination to do, for the elephant was still moving cautiously forward, and fully realizing now that there was nothing to be done but to assume the offensive, Sree became silent, contenting himself with cocking both the guns he held and standing ready either to hand them to the boys or fire himself. Harry, too, set his teeth as he looked over the elephant's flapping ears towards the spot where he knew the tiger must be crouching upon the stricken deer, and while, step by step, as if to give his masters the opportunity of using their deadly weapons Sul slowly advanced, the tiger raised its head from its prey and uttered a warning roar to frighten the elephant back. "Oh, if he would only show himself!" thought Harry. But the elephant did not respond to the threat by turning back, for he meant to fight, and was ready to impale his enemy should he get a chance; and to this end he still went on, till all at once, about a dozen yards from his head, the tiger leaped up into sight and stood lashing his sleek, glistening sides as if to add to the number of stripes with his tail. The words were on the old hunter's lips, "Fire, fire!" but before they were uttered two reports rang out, there was a terrific, snarling yell, and the tiger leaped high in the air and then dropped back, crouching out of sight. "Good, good!" whispered Sree, and forgetting entirely now all about the objections to the boys joining in a tiger hunt, he was about to bid the mahout advance. But the order was unnecessary. Sul was as eager as the boys, and he moved steadily on, while the latter leaned forward, seeking for the first sign of the striped skin, so as to fire again. They had not long to wait, for Sul had advanced but very few yards before with a terrific roar the tiger rose and leaped forward. The sudden advance checked the elephant, which stopped short, giving the boys a steady shot each, but without the slightest effect upon the tiger, which made two or three bounds and then launched itself at the elephant's head. But Sul was ready for it, and caught the savage brute on his tusks and threw it back as easily as a bull would toss an attacking dog. Cat-like, the tiger fell upon its feet, and crouched to spring again, but before it could launch itself forward a couple more shots cooled its savage ardour, and it crouched down, turned its head, and bit angrily at one shoulder, from which the blood was starting. Sul seized the opportunity and rushed forward to crush his enemy beneath his feet. But wounded though it was, the tiger was aware of the attack, and leaping aside let the great animal thunder by, and then, following quickly, made a tremendous leap and lighted on the elephant's hind quarter, holding on by tooth and nail. Sul uttered a terrific blast and continued his course, shuffling along at a tremendous pace, forcing those who rode in the howdah to think of nothing but preserving their position and keeping the guns from being shaken out. But at the end of a few moments the peril in which Sree stood came strongly to Harry's attention, for the man could do nothing but hold on by the back of the howdah, after thrusting the gun he had been loading, forward by Phra's side. It was a perilous task, and required plenty of nerve, but Harry mastered his shrinking. He glanced over the back of the howdah, to find himself face to face with the tiger, whose wildly dilated eyes seemed to be blazing with rage, and for a moment or two he shrank away. But recovering himself a little he made sure of the gun he held being cocked, and catching tightly hold by the side of the howdah, he rested the gun-barrels on the back, holding the stock as if it were a pistol. But now he was so insecure that he felt as if at any moment he must be pitched over backward on the tiger, and firing seemed quite out of the question. Still it had to be done, and he knew that he must do it, and at once. Dropping on his knees, he shuffled himself close to the back, bringing himself so near to the tiger that as he reached over with the gun he could touch the savage brute with the muzzle. He knew that if he stopped to think he should not dare to do it, while as he leaned over he was saluted by a savage roar, and the tiger began to claw its way up to leap at him. But there was not time, for Harry rested the muzzle of his piece between the creature's eyes, feeling it pressed back towards him. Only for an instant, though, for he drew trigger, there was a roar mingled with the sharp report, and with one spasmodic movement the tiger gathered itself up almost into a ball and fell back among the long grass, where it lay writhing in agony. The effect on Sul was immediate. He stopped short and swung round, nearly throwing his riders off as he ran back to where the tiger lay, and drove one tusk through the monster, pinning it to the ground, with the result that the beast writhed a little, and then stretched itself out, dead. "Yes, he is dead enough, Sahib; but Sul has made a dreadful hole in his skin." This was after Sree had slipped down from the back of the elephant, and walked close up. "Make quite sure," said Harry, who with Phra was looking on. "There's no doubt about it, Sahib. You made sure with that last shot in his head. Feel if he's dead, Sul," he said, in the Siamese tongue. The elephant grunted and muttered, and seemed for a time unwilling to withdraw his tusk; but he evidently understood the order, and at last backed a little, the action dragging the tiger with him, till he gave his head a shake, and the body dropped off. After this the elephant cautiously walked over the prostrate foe, and kicked it to and fro from one foot to the other, before feeling it all over with his trunk, and then standing panting with exertion, and breathing hard. "Get off and help see to his hurts," said Sree to the mahout, who ordered the elephant to kneel, and then climbed along his back by holding on to the sides of the howdah, till he reached the places where the tiger's teeth and claws had been struck into the thick hard skin. Some nasty places had been made, but there was nothing serious the matter. All that was necessary was to keep the ever-active flies away, and this was done by some very rough but effective surgery, consisting in filling up the wounds with mud, the elephant grumbling and muttering, but evidently appreciating the treatment, keeping perfectly still the while. "Poor old chap!" said Harry, who had dismounted to examine the dead tiger and pet the elephant by stroking his trunk. "But what about getting the game home?" "I shall begin skinning it at once, Sahib," said Sree quietly; "but I want you to get back into the howdah and keep a good watch. This fellow has very likely a companion somewhere near, and she may come and attack us." "Think so?" said Harry. "Oh yes," interposed Phra; "it is very likely. But I say, Hal, we're not going to have our prize skinned yet." "No, that's what I thought. We must take it home for every one to see. Sul would carry it home on his back." "I don't know; he has never been taught; but we'll try." He spoke to Sree, who looked doubtful, and in turn consulted the mahout before saying more. "Sul is such a big, noble animal, Sahibs," he then said, "that he has never been set to carry dead game, that has always been done by a little pad elephant; but he is so wise that he may be proud of carrying back the great tiger he has killed. I am going to try him." The boys smiled at each other, and were amused to see the old hunter go with the mahout to the elephant and bring him up to the dead tiger, which he began to touch with his trunk, ending by taking a turn round the animal and drawing it along a little way. After this he stood quietly enough while the ropes were unlaced from the howdah ready for hoisting the tiger on to the elephant's back. "We shall not be strong enough to get it up, I'm afraid," said Sree thoughtfully. "Look here," said Harry; "there is a great tree with strong branches yonder; make Sul drag the tiger under one of the big boughs; then we can throw the rope over and make him stand underneath, haul the tiger up, and lower it down." Sree smiled, for the knot which had puzzled him had been untied. The mahout was brought into requisition, and at the word of command, just as if he fully understood the business required of him, Sul took a turn of his trunk round the tiger's neck and dragged it through the long grass right beneath the great tree, one of the many dotted about park-like on the slope. The rest was easy. The rope was fastened round the tiger's hind legs, the end thrown over a horizontal branch, and then the willing hands of all four drew the savage brute up some fifteen feet. Here the crucial time came, for there was a doubt still whether Sul would now submit to the huge cat being lowered down upon his back. But as it happened he placed himself quietly enough where his mahout directed, and the tiger was lowered down, after which Sree climbed up and with the mahout's assistance they laid the body right across the back of the howdah. Then the latter, which had been in a very tottering condition, was carefully secured by its rope, all mounted again in triumph, and the journey back was commenced, Sree carefully seeing to the reloading of the guns and placing them ready, before settling down to his place in the howdah, for he had to sit on the dead tiger and keep it from shifting to right or left. They had not gone far on their return journey before the old hunter uttered a warning which made the boys catch up and cock their guns, in spite of the determination they had come to of not firing any more that day. "Are you sure?" said Phra. "Sul has not made any sign." "No, Sahib," replied Sree; "he did not see her, because he has been walking nearly all the time with his eyes turned back to watch the tiger; for though he is very good, I am sure he does not like having the wicked wretch upon his back." Five minutes later they drew near the spot where the old hunter had caught a glimpse of a striped side crossing the track they had made in coming, and proof of the keenness of Sree's observation was given, the elephant throwing up his trunk and trumpeting uneasily. "It's this wretch's wife, Sahibs," said Sree. "She has been hunting, and is coming back." "Will she attack us?" said Harry, cocking his gun, and feeling quite ready now for another shot. "No, Sahib, I think not. Tigers are very cowardly till they are hurt; then they are blind and mad in their rage, and will rush at anything. No; perhaps she may understand that it is her mate that we have here, and follow us; but I do not think she will attack." "Old Sul does not think so," said Phra. "Look at him, how he keeps on turning his head from side to side, and how high he carries his trunk." It was plain enough that the great animal was growing more and more uneasy, necessitating constant talking to on the part of the mahout, who spoke sometimes caressingly, at others angrily, and using his goad afterward, as he threatened tremendous punishment and deprivation of all good if his charge did not behave. "He thinks old Sul means to rush off home as hard as he can go," observed Phra. "And if he does he'll soon waggle the tiger off his back, won't he, Sree? The tiger must come off if Sul rushes away?" "I fear so, Sahib. Ah, the tigress must be very near now. Look at Sul's ears." "She must be slinking along through the grass on this side," said Harry. "Yes, Sahib; that is where she is, but I don't think she will attack us." "Shall we send a shot or two in amongst the grass?" said Phra. "No, Sahib; that would make her come on, and one tiger is enough for to-day." "Yes, quite," said Phra. "Let's go faster and see if the tiger will stop on." He said a word or two, and the mahout spoke to the elephant, who wanted no urging, but stretched out in that long, shuffling movement which seems nothing, but goes over enough ground to make a horse use plenty of speed to keep up with it. But it seemed as if the tigress must still be near, for Sul's trunk formed a curve high in the air, and his ears stood out at a fierce cock, while it needed all the mahout's attention to keep the great creature to one pace, for without the check of the hooked goad he would have gone off at a frantic rate. For the first few hundred yards the attention of all in the howdah was directed to the tiger, their expectation being that it would slip off on one side or the other; but it was yet soft and yielding, and with Sree's weight upon it the middle sank down lower and lower in the howdah till the head and legs on one side, the hind quarters and long, supple tail on the other, rose higher and higher in the air, and all chance of its causing further trouble was at an end. It was not until the edge of the jungle was reached, where the elephant path ended, that Sul's trunk had descended to its customary pendent fashion, and his ears ceased to quiver and flap; but the narrow track in the gloom seemed to be far more suggestive of danger, and Phra suggested that Sree should change his position, kneel down, and keep watch over the elephant's tail, in case the tigress should be following still. "Yes, Sahib," said the man, and he at once did as was suggested; but he observed before turning that he did not think there was any fear of an attack in the rear. "Sul's senses are sharper than mine," he said, "and he would know if we were being tracked." Sree was right, for there was nothing to cause alarm all the way back. Monkeys were plentiful in one place, and whenever the party came upon an opening, it was made beautiful by flower, bird, and gaily painted insect. These had no charms for the hunters, though, with such a trophy within touch, and at first all their conversation had a connection with the great, white, china-like fangs of the monster, the size of its claws, and the soft beauty and rich colour of its fur. But as they drew nearer to the end of their journey, with Sul shuffling along at a sober but rapid pace, the conversation became one in which the old hunter was not asked to join. For now misgivings began to arise as to the reception that might await them when they reached their homes. "I know how it will be," said Harry; "father will have heard that I have gone off with you on the elephant, and he will think that I have wilfully disobeyed his orders and been tiger-shooting." "Why should he think that? You never do disobey his orders." "Don't I?" said Harry dubiously. "Never," cried Phra. "I don't know about that," said Harry. "I'm afraid I've gone very near to it sometimes. But I will say I've always been very sorry afterwards." "And owned to it?" "Oh yes," said Harry stoutly; "I've always owned up at once. Haven't you?" Phra was silent. "Why don't you say yes?" "Because it wouldn't be true," said the boy, with a sigh. "I've always wanted to, but sometimes I've felt afraid. You see, my father isn't like yours." "He's a very nice old chap," said Harry. "Yes, of course; but he's a king, and kings can't do like other people." "_I_ don't see why they shouldn't," said Harry; "but I say, suppose my father is up at the palace, what are we going to do? You are sure to catch it for taking the elephant." "That I'm not. Father said I could have one whenever I liked. I could have three or four if I wanted them." "But not to go tiger-shooting. Oh, Phra, this has been wonderfully jolly and exciting." "Splendid." "Well, splendid; but I am afraid we shall be in a mess." "We can't be if we speak out. I'm sure I can say honestly that I hadn't the least thought of shooting a tiger when we set off; can't you?" "No," said Harry bluntly. "I began to feel tigerish as soon as I got in the howdah, and I couldn't think of anything else all the time. I wasn't a bit surprised to see old Sul begin to show signs. No, I can't say right out that I didn't think about tiger-hunting." "But we didn't go on purpose," said Phra. "Well, no," said Harry, hesitating, "not quite on purpose, but I couldn't help wishing we might see one." "Well, you had your wish; but I wish we weren't so late." "It was all an accident, though," said Harry. "I say, Sree, wasn't it all by accident that we came across a tiger to-day." "Yes, Sahib, quite an accident; but we have got one, and I feel very proud of the way in which you two young gentlemen behaved. No old tiger-hunter could have done better." "But I'm sure father won't like it." "He will know it was all as it happened, Sahib. You were obliged to shoot the wicked beast. If any one is to blame, it is old Sul, for forcing you to go on." "Ah, to be sure," cried Harry, laughing merrily. "It was all his fault, Phra, and we'll say so." "Yes, it's all very well to say so," said Phra, rather gloomily; "but will they believe what we say?" "My father will believe what I say," said Harry stoutly; "so will yours." "I hope so," said Phra sadly, "but I don't feel sure." "I don't think the Sahib Kenyon can be angry," said Sree respectfully, "because it is such a splendid tiger." "Why, that's just why he will be angry," cried Harry. "He'll be quite furious with me for going out and getting a grand tiger like this when he and the doctor went out as they did, and tried till quite late, and never had a chance." "Well," said Phra philosophically, "we are very nearly home now, and we shall see. But I wish we hadn't brought the tiger back." "I don't," said Harry. "It really was an accident." Very little more was said till they came in sight of the palace, where something important was evidently going on, for they caught sight of the glint of spears and a body of men. A minute later they saw a couple of elephants, and directly after they made out that Mr. Kenyon and Doctor Cameron were there. Then there was quite a scene of excitement, for some of those present had seen them coming, and when the next moment some one caught sight of the tiger, there was a tremendous shout. "Hal," whispered Phra, "my father found that we had gone out on an elephant, with guns, and he has sent word to Mr. Kenyon and the doctor, and ordered them to get ready." "That's it," cried Harry excitedly, "and they were coming in search of us." "The King will be dreadfully angry," said Phra, "and say I disobeyed his orders." "And my father will be quite awful," said Harry solemnly. Then changing his tone and speaking with an assumption of lightness which he did not feel, "I don't care; it really was an accident, and we're in for it, and it can't be helped; but here, I say, Sul, you ugly old double-tailed deceiver, do you know you've got us into an awful mess? Sul, I say, do you hear!" And the elephant said,-- _Phoomk!_ CHAPTER XIV A YOUNG SAVAGE The great elephant approached the group in the courtyard with slow and majestic step, as if proud of the load he bore, and of now being surrounded by a little crowd of spearmen, cheering and shouting loudly. As they drew near, the two elephants that had been prepared, as was rightly surmised, to go in search of the wanderers, challenged their big companion loudly, Sul sounding his trumpet in reply, but without allowing the excitement around to increase his advance in the slightest degree. "The young rascals!" said the doctor to Mr. Kenyon. "It's a magnificent tiger, apparently." "Yes, but Harry ought not to have done this," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am disappointed in him." "Are you going to give him a talking to now? Rather awkward while he is being made a hero of by the people." "I am going to wait till I get him home." "Well, I'm glad to see them safe back again," said the doctor. "I felt certain that they must have met with some mishap. But it is hard that we should be disappointed, and that they should have all the luck." "Hush!" whispered Mr. Kenyon, for the great elephant had knelt down before the King, ladders had been placed by the attendants on either side, the boys had descended, and helped by some of the men, Sree had slid the tiger off, to be half borne, half dragged, to the King's feet. But Phra's father did not even glance at it. He gave Harry an angry glance as he approached with his companion, and then fixed his eyes sternly upon his son, who bent down before him. "You know, sir," he said, in their own tongue, "that it is the duty of my people to obey my commands." "Yes, father." "How can we expect them to do so when my own son sets my orders at defiance? I told you I wished you not to go in chase of tigers, did I not?" "Yes, father." "Who is to blame for this, you or your companion?" "Neither of us, sir," broke in Harry, in his blunt, English, outspoken way. "We only went deer-shooting, sir; but the tiger charged us, and of course we were obliged to shoot. Old Sul was most to blame." The King looked more stern that ever, all but his eyes, which refused to keep his other features in countenance. "What have you to say, sir?" said the King, turning again to his son. "The same as Harry Kenyon, father," replied the boy. "The elephant rushed at the tiger, which had struck down a deer we shot." "Where is the deer you shot?" said the King. Phra turned to Harry, for the deer had been quite forgotten, and Harry turned to the old hunter, who was kneeling by the tiger. "Here, Sree," he cried, "what became of that deer we shot?" The man made a gesture with his hands, and shook his head. "We forgot all about it, sir," said Harry, laughing frankly. "We had so much to do with killing the tiger and getting it on old Sul's back that we never remembered it any more, did we, Phra?" "No," said the latter gravely. "It was all an accident, sir, indeed," said Harry, who was speaking in English. "We were obliged to shoot, sir, really. I'm sure you would have done the same if you had been there." "That is enough," said the King quietly. "I am glad to hear it was so. It is a painful thing, Harry Kenyon, to feel that one's own son is not to be trusted. Your father felt the same." "Oh, but he doesn't now, sir. Do you, father?" "No, Hal; I am quite satisfied." "A very fine tiger," said the King, going close up to the dead beast; "a splendid specimen. Let it be carefully skinned, and the skin properly dressed." Sree bowed his lowest, so that his forehead would have touched the ground had not the tiger been there. As it was, he thumped his head against the animal's ribs. "Who fired the first shot?" said the King, smiling. The boys looked at one another. "Both fired together, father," replied Phra. "Then you will give way to your friend, my son," said the King. "Harry Kenyon, it is yours." Harry was about to protest in his blunt way, but his father was at his elbow. "Silence!" he said softly. "Now your thanks." Harry obeyed, and the King turned to where the little party of English people were standing. "I am glad it has turned out so well, Kenyon," he said gravely, and with great dignity, as the eyes of all his people were upon him; "but it is disappointing for you and the doctor to see these two boys have such good fortune. You shall have another trial, and we must do away with our objections now. I think the boys deserve to be admitted to the ranks of tiger-hunters." "Oh!" ejaculated Harry, and the King turned to him. "You make a bad courtier, Harry," he said, with a very faint smile upon his lip. "I feel that there is no one in my country less afraid of me than you are." He saluted them, and making a sign to his son to follow, passed into the palace, Phra giving his friends a quick nod of the head and a smile, and then he was hidden from sight by the King's attendants. "Then we may go back home now, I suppose," said Mr. Kenyon. "Yes," replied the doctor, "and the sooner the better. As soon as the sun goes in we seem to be in the shade. All is bright and warm while the King is near, but when he goes every one seems to scowl." Mr. Kenyon gave his friend a meaning look as if saying, "No more now," and laid his hand upon Harry's shoulder. "You have had quite an exciting time, then, Hal?" he said quietly, as they walked away. "Oh, wonderfully, father," cried the boy. "Enjoyed yourself?" "Well, I don't know that it was enjoying oneself, but I liked killing such a dangerous, mischievous beast." "And all the time the King and I were fidgeting ourselves and beginning to think, as it grew so late, that some terrible accident had happened to you." "It isn't so late as you and Doctor Cameron were that time." "Getting on to be, sir." "Don't you think that poor Phra and I were just as anxious about you and the doctor, father?" said the boy mischievously. "No, indeed I don't," said Mr. Kenyon, laughing. "You are both too thoughtless. And look here, young gentleman, you forget yourself horribly. I never heard anything like it. You must not speak to the King in that free and easy way, just as if he were your equal, before all his people." "Free and easy?" said Harry, staring. "I thought I was speaking very nicely, father." The doctor laughed heartily, and Harry's cheeks turned hot with annoyance. "Why, what did I say that was wrong?" "It was not the words but the way, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon gravely. "Of course one does not look upon the Prince of a barbaric country like this as one would upon a European monarch; but in the presence of his followers we must not forget that he is a king." "I did," said Harry frankly; "I felt as if I were speaking to Phra's father and your friend." "Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Kenyon, as he glanced at the doctor. "That's right enough, Hal," said the latter; "but we must not presume on the King's kindness to us." "No, of course not," said Harry thoughtfully. "I'll be more careful, especially as some of the people seem to be jealous of our being so much in favour." "That's right, Hal; be more careful, for all our sakes." "Do you think there is any danger, father?" said Harry. "Danger of what?" said Mr. Kenyon sharply. "Of the people turning against us and the King." "Hush! Mind what you are saying, my boy. No; I do not think there is any real danger, and I feel that the best thing for every one is to completely ignore the unpleasant looks we are getting now and then. We are in the right, and I want for our conduct to be such as will gain the respect of the people for our just consideration and honest treatment of them." "But there is that second king--I say, father, it seems curious for there to be a second king." "It is the custom of the country, my boy, and in every land there are quaint fashions and I may say parties who are opposed to the ruling power." "And jealous of the King?" "Yes, Hal, and of the people he favours." "That's not pleasant, father," said Hal sharply. "Not at all," replied Mr. Kenyon. "But I don't think it need trouble us, for we are not arrogant to the people because we are in high favour. I'm sure we do our best, eh, Cameron?" "That we do," said the doctor heartily. "As for me, I should be a rich man if I charged ordinary fees for what I do." "Instead of getting disliked," said Mr. Kenyon. "Oh, but, father," cried Harry, "I know lots of people who almost worship Dr. Cameron for what he has done for them." "Yes, Hal, and so do I; but unfortunately he offends the native doctors through knowing so much better than they do, and curing patients whom they have condemned to death." "It's a pity that people will be jealous of those who are more clever." "It's a natural failing, Hal, my boy," said the doctor, laughing. "But never mind; even those who dislike us are bound to pay us the respect we have earned." "But you remember what I told you about the people talking in the boat?" said Harry. "Perfectly." "You don't think that there will be a revolution, and an attack upon the King and the English people, do you?" "No, Hal, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon; "I do not, so don't trouble yourself about it. Let's change the conversation. I'm glad you are to have the tiger's skin." "Yes; I don't think Phra will mind." "It is a beauty. Was he very hard to kill?" "Horribly, father;" and with plenty of animation the boy related their adventure. "We're jealous now, Hal," said the doctor smiling. "I don't mind that a bit," said the boy. "You must do better, and we two are to come next time you go." "Well, I suppose so," said Mr. Kenyon gravely. "By the way, Hal, you had the chest of bats and balls. How did you get on? You tried football in the field?" "Oh, it's a horribly hot, stupid game," said Harry. "Stupid?" cried the doctor warmly. "Yes; it's all one or the other. If Phra gets the ball, one does nothing but run after him; and if I get the ball, he has to run after me. And oh! wasn't it hot!" "When did you play?" said the doctor. "Oh, in the afternoon." "You are quite right, my lad," said the doctor drily. "A game at football between two boys with the thermometer standing at over a hundred in the shade, must be a very stupid game indeed." "Did you ever play it?" said Harry. "I think I've heard you say you did." "Did I ever play it?" said the doctor scornfully. "I should think I did, and with a couple of good teams. But the thermometer was not at a hundred in the shade, but thirty-five or forty." "I wish you would play with us next time, Doctor," said Harry eagerly. "Thank you, my lad, but I would rather be excused." "Will you show us how to play cricket, then?" "Yes, but you must get up your two sides. Have you read up anything about it in any book of games and sports?" "Oh yes, and it says you have eleven and an umpire on each side; but that's nonsense, of course." "Kenyon," said the doctor with mock solemnity, "do you call this bringing up an English boy properly? It sounds to me quite dreadful. He talks like a young barbarian--as if he had never had any education at all. What did you say, sir?" he continued, turning to Harry. "What about?" "There being eleven on a side, and that being nonsense, of course." "I said so," said Harry, who felt half amused, half annoyed. "Well, sir, I see that I shall have to take pity on you and young Phra, and try to make up for your neglected education. We shall have to make a cricket club, and petition the King for a cricket ground; but I have my doubts about the game proving popular: the work will be too hard." "But you will help us, Doctor?" "Yes, my boy, and I shall prescribe an occasional game for your father. A little exercise will do him good." "A game of cricket?" said Mr. Kenyon, starting out of a fit of musing. "Why, I haven't had a bat in my hand for twenty years! But I don't know--well, yes--I might. I used to be a very tidy bowler, Cameron, and perhaps my hand may be cunning still at delivering twists. But under this tropical sun? Phew! I'm rather doubtful." "Never mind the doubts," said the doctor. "Here, hullo, my boy! where are you going?" cried Mr. Kenyon. "Only to try and see Phra." "What! to-night? Nonsense! I daresay he is with his father now, and the news will keep." Harry looked disappointed, but he said no more, and directly after they had to say good-night to the doctor. CHAPTER XV FOR THE JUNGLE, HO! In due time the skin of the tiger, beautifully dressed, and with the hole made by Sul's tusk so carefully drawn together that the fur concealed the damage, was brought to the bungalow by Sree, who was eager to go upon a fresh expedition; but another week passed away before matters shaped themselves for this to be made. Matters had gone on as usual, and the insubordinate words used by the occupants of the boat were half forgotten in the excitement of religious fetes and illuminations with lanthorns along the river, kite-flying, and discharges of fireworks, in the making of some of which the people, who had learned the art of the Chinese, were adepts. These fêtes were wonderfully attractive to the two lads, who joined in the processions for the sake of seeing all they could, the royal boat in which they were rowed being one mass of coloured lanthorns swinging from bamboo frameworks, and the effect with the lights reflected in the glassy water was beautiful in the extreme. "I should enjoy it all so much more, though," Harry said, "if the people would be contented with the bells and the music. They spoil it all with so much gong." But the Siamese do not shine in music--at least to English taste. Phra came down to the bungalow some time or other every day, and as often as not Harry returned with him to the palace; but he rarely saw the King, who appeared to pass a great deal of his time in study. Not a day passed without the cricket implements being examined in Phra's room. The bats were handled, the balls taken out of their boxes, and sometimes a little throwing from one to the other, and catching was practised. At another time the pads which had come with the rest of the things were solemnly tried on, and the room promenaded. "They seem rather stupid things," said Phra. "I think they'd be best for the football." "So as to save one's legs from kicks?" said Harry. "Yes, they wouldn't be bad for that, but I suppose they're all right." "We look rather ridiculous in them, though, Hal." "Yes, I expect we shall be laughed at; but I don't care. The worst thing about them is that they're so jolly hot. Now let's try on the gloves." These were carefully put on, the boys' countenances being particularly solemn as the long indiarubber guarded fingers were examined. Then a thought occurred to Harry, and he struck an attitude. "What do you say to a fight?" he cried. "We can't hurt one another with our legs guarded and our hands in these gloves. Hit me, and I'll hit you." "No," said Phra shortly; "I don't like fighting in play. It always hurts, and then I get cross, and want to hit as hard as I can. I say, though, we shall be hot in these leggings and gloves." "Look here," cried Harry; "we haven't seen these before." "What are they?" "Gloves, of course, all stuffed and soft. Here, let's look at the book and see what it says about them." The book of games was examined, but they found no mention of the wicket-keeper's gloves, but plenty of other information which was puzzling. "It's all very well to call this thing a book of games," said Harry at last, "but there doesn't seem to be much fun in it. It's as puzzling as old Euclid with his circles and straight lines and angles. Here, let's put all the things away. I can't understand. We'll make the doctor show us; that's the easiest way." And so it was time after time, nothing more being done, for it was decided that there should be no genuine commencement till the doctor was ready, and though he was reminded pretty well every day he always replied that he was not ready yet. "But there is no occasion to waste time," he said one day. "You boys have the book, so you cannot do better than well study it up, rules and all. Then you will thoroughly know how to play cricket; all you will want is practice." "We shall have to study up the book, Phra," said Harry, after parting from the doctor, "and I know it's going to be a hard job. But never mind; when you've got to take physic, it's best to swallow it down at once. Come along." Phra nodded, set his teeth hard, and they went up to the palace through the hot sunshine, to enter its cool precincts and find Phra's room refreshing in its semi-darkness after the glare without, where Harry said it was hot enough to frizzle up the leaves into tea. The book was brought, cricket turned to, and they sat down side by side with the book on the table. "Let's begin at the beginning, and go steadily through it," proposed Phra. "No, no; we'll just skim it first." "Very well. What's this--popping grease? Why do they pop grease?" "'Tisn't! It's popping crease. 'The popping crease must be four feet from the wicket, and exactly parallel with it.' Bother! I shan't read any more of that. Parallel! Why, it's geometry. Look at something else." "'The wickets must be pitched,'" read Phra. "What for? To keep off the wet, I suppose. No! It means pitched into the ground, to make them stand up." "But I say, what a lot there is to learn here, Hal. See what names they call the players by. Here's wicket-keeper." "That's the one who attends to the gate, I suppose." "Short slip." "What's he got to do?" "I don't know.--Point." "Oh, he's the man who keeps the stumps sharp." "No; he must be a good catcher," cried Phra, and he went on, "'Mid wicket--cover point--leg--long stop--long slip--long field off--long field on--changes of position--fielding.'" "Bother! Never mind about that," said Harry. "Look here; let's read that bit, 'How to defend your wicket!' That ought to be interesting. 'The bifold task of the batsman.'" Bang went the book, as Harry shut it up. "What did you do that for?" cried Phra, staring. "Because it makes me feel so hot and stupid. I want to learn how to play, and that's all puzzles and problems, and what do I care when I go to play a game about parallels and bifolds? It's too hot here to learn cricket from books. I say, what shall we do?" "Let's go to sleep," said Phra. "Bah! It's too lazy." "I don't think so," said Phra. "Every one goes to sleep here in the middle of the day." "No, they don't. I never do." "Oh! I've seen you more than once when it has been very hot." "Well, it was an accident, then. It seems so stupid to go to sleep when it's light. Here, come along out again, and let's try and find old Sree." "Who's to find him? Why, he may be miles away in the jungle." "But I want him to arrange about going up a long way in a boat. Let's go up that little river again, and see how far we can get. Look here, I know what we'll do. We'll start as soon as it's light, and take plenty to eat with us, and have the next size larger boat out, with four men to paddle and four to rest, and then we can go right on." "You'd have Sree?" "Of course. He knows the way everywhere. He'd take us right up the little rivers that branch off--I mean, where no one goes. There's no knowing what we may find up there." "No. Sree says there are plenty of wonders; I've often longed to go." "Then we'll go now. We ought to have done so before. I should like to go for a week," said Harry. "I don't think our people would like us to go for so long." "Oh, I don't know. Let's try. I tell you what; let's have a bigger boat, so that we can sleep on board, and a man to cook for us. Then we can live comfortably for a few days. Why, we should get a wonderful lot of things for the museum." "It would be very nice," said Phra thoughtfully. "Nice? It would be grand. Here, I shall go home and speak to my father at once." "Then I'll ask mine." "He'll say yes, because he'll think he can trust us. I say, Phra, I wish we had thought of this before." The boys separated, and Harry did not feel the heat as he hurried home to lay his plans before his father. "For a week?" said Mr. Kenyon, with a look of doubt. "That's a long time, Hal." "Not for getting a good lot of things, father. You know, whenever we've been up the river before, directly we have begun it has been time to come back." "Yes," said Mr Kenyon thoughtfully, "and if you were up the jungle river at daybreak you would have far better chances for getting scarce birds, and it would be a most interesting experience for you." "Then you'll let me go, father?" cried the boy excitedly. "I must talk the matter over with the King first." "If he feels that you do not object, father, he is sure to say yes." Mr. Kenyon was silent and thoughtful, looking so serious that Harry began to lose heart. "What are you thinking, father?" he said at last. "That it's a long time since I had a change." "Yes, father?" "That I have nothing particular to do." "Father!" "And that the doctor has been saying that he would like to make an expedition up the country." "Then you think--" "Yes, Hal, I do think that I should like for the doctor and me to join in your trip. It would only necessitate a larger boat." "Oh," cried Harry excitedly, "that would be splendid." "Better than you two alone?" said Mr. Kenyon quietly. "A hundred times better, father. But think of that!" "Think of what?" said Mr. Kenyon. "Doctor Cameron putting us off day after day because he had not time to teach us cricket, when he can find time to go up the country." Mr. Kenyon smiled. "My dear boy," he said, "I do not wonder at his putting you off. Cricket is not a very attractive game at this time of year, in a country like this." "Never mind the cricket," cried Harry. "Look here, father, will you go?" "I am very much tempted to say yes." "Say it then, father. I say, you'd take Mike, wouldn't you?" "Certainly; he would be very useful." "Here, I must go and tell Phra." "There is no need; here he comes." For the lad was crossing the garden, and as Harry met him with his face lit up with excitement, Phra's countenance was dark and dejected. "It's all over, Hal," he said. "My father says it is out of the question for us to go alone." "He said that?" cried Harry. "Yes, and that if your father and Doctor Cameron were going too it would be different." "They are going too, lad," cried Harry, slapping him on the shoulder. "They--your father and Mr. Cameron?" "Yes; isn't it splendid?" "Here, I must go back at once," cried Phra, and, regardless of the heat, he set off at a trot. Harry returned to the museum, where his father was seated. "Where's Phra?" said the latter. "Gone back to tell the King." "To tell him what?" "He said that it was out of the question for us two boys to go upon such an expedition alone." "I expected as much." "But if you and the doctor had been going, it would have been different." "Indeed?" "Yes, father. Poor old chap! he did look disappointed, till I told him that you two were going, and he has gone to tell the King." "Tut--tut--tut!" muttered Mr. Kenyon. "What a rash, harem-scarem fellow you are! You shouldn't have taken all I said for granted, sir. Even if I fully make up my mind, we don't know that Doctor Cameron would be able to leave." "But you said, father--" "I said--you said--look here, sir, you are far too hasty. The doctor only said he thought he should go." "That's enough, father," said Harry, laughing. "As soon as he hears that there is going to be such an expedition, do you think he will not manage to go with it?" "Well, I must say I should be surprised if he did not come." "So should I, father. I say, it will be capital. The King is sure to say yes now, and we can have the pick of his boats, and which men we like. I say, I wonder whether we can get a man who will find old Sree, because we ought to start to-morrow morning." "Stuff! Rubbish!" cried Mr. Kenyon, laughing. "If we get off in a week, we shall do well. But I think I will go. I should be very glad of a change. So you may go and see the doctor and chat the matter over with him--not telling him that we are going, but that we are thinking of such a trip. You can then hear what he says about it." "Go now, father?" "If you like." Harry did like, and was off at once, to find Mrs. Cameron under the tree, as he had seen her on that terrible day, but with the doctor seated back in another long cane-seated chair, fast asleep. "Doctor not well?" said Harry, after the customary salute. "Not at all well, Harry," said Mrs. Cameron, with a sigh. "He has been working too hard lately over his native patients, and he is quite done up. He must have a change." "That's what I've come about," said Harry excitedly, and he told her what was proposed. "I should not like losing him for a week, but I think it would do him a great deal of good." "Quite set me up, dear," said the doctor, opening his eyes. "Did you hear what I was saying, Doctor?" cried Harry wonderingly. "Pretty well every word, my boy. It will be the very thing for me, for I am completely fagged. A long ride day after day up the river will be rest and refreshment. But I can't take you, my dear." "I shall not mind, Duncan," said his wife. "Nothing could be better. Yes, you must go." He sat up, and then sank back again, closing his eyes. "It is of no use to fight against it, Mary," he said sadly. "I am doctor enough to thoroughly grasp all my symptoms. I really am overdone, and there is nothing for it but to try change--such a change as this. I wish it did not look like going for a thorough holiday and leaving you behind. It does not seem right." "You will make me unhappy if you talk like this," cried Mrs. Cameron. "How can you think I should be so selfish as to mind your doing what is for your health?" "It will do him good, Mrs. Cameron," said Harry, who was not enjoying the scene. "Of course," she cried. "You may go back and tell Mr. Kenyon that the doctor will be delighted to make one of the party, for he wants a change badly." "Look here, Harry; I don't think I ought to go," said the doctor. "He ought, Harry, and he shall," cried his wife. "You take that message." "Harry, lad, this is a horrible piece of tyranny. I am not very well, and my oppressor treats me like this. But there, it is of no use to protest, so I give in. I'll come." Full of excitement, the boy hurried back to the bungalow to announce the result of his visit, his father hearing him silently to the end, and then looking so serious that Harry asked anxiously what it meant. "This is very disappointing, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon. "After you had gone I began to be in hopes that the doctor would not go, and now he says he will." "Yes, that he will, father." "Then I suppose we shall have to go. I don't know, though: there is another chance, the King may refuse to sanction the journey, and of course you would not care to go without Phra." "Well, no," said Harry, in a hesitating way; "it would not seem fair to go without him. Ah, here he is.--Well, what does he say?" "That he thinks it will be a very interesting trip, and that he wishes he could leave all the cares and worries of his affairs and come with us.--My father says, Mr. Kenyon, that you are to choose whichever boat will be best for the journey, and select as many men as you think necessary, and store the boat with everything you want." "Then this means going," said Mr. Kenyon. "Of course, father. Shall we start to-morrow?" "Can we be ready?" "Can we be ready?" cried Harry scornfully. "What do you say, Phra?" "Oh yes, we can be ready, only what about Sree?" "I forgot old Sree!" cried Harry. "We must have him, and he's somewhere up the jungle." "Yes," said his father, "we must have him with us; so I take it that we may make all our preparations, but do not start till Sree returns." CHAPTER XVI THE HOUSE-BOAT The disappointment caused by the absence of the old hunter was modified by the interest in the preparations. These filled the two lads with excitement, for a journey into unknown parts in such a land as Siam was full of the suggestions of wonders. The first thing seen to was the choice of a boat, the requirements being that it should be light, strong, drawing very little water, and well provided for the accommodation of fourteen or sixteen people, with a fair amount of room, night and day. Then there would be boxes containing stores for a week, cooking apparatus, and cases for containing the specimens of all kinds that were to be saved. But in a country like Siam, where house-boats are necessities of domestic daily life, there was little difficulty. One of the plainest of the King's light barges was found to answer all the requirements upon being provided with a few bamboo poles and an awning, so that the forward part of the boat could be sheltered at night and during storms, for the protection of the men. The central part was covered in, according to the regular custom, with a bamboo-supported roof, and matting curtains were so placed at the sides that the whole could be turned into a comfortable cabin at night, while the after-part had its matting cover that could be set up or removed at pleasure, this portion being intended for the after rowers and servants. Boxes and chests were selected, filled, and placed on board. There were loops for the guns and spears to be taken, and lockers for the ammunition, and at last there seemed to be nothing more that could be done, for the crew were selected by Phra, who had his favourites among the King's servants, these including men who had never evinced any dislike to the English and were always eager to attend to the wishes of their young Prince. The time had passed so rapidly that it was hard to believe two days had slipped away before everything could be declared to be in readiness. But on the second evening nothing more seemed needed, and it was felt that they might start at daylight the next morning. For the crew was on board to protect the stores and other things; even the stone, barrel-shaped filter fitted in a basket cover--a clumsy, awkward thing which the doctor declared to be absolutely necessary--was on board. Harry had exclaimed against its being taken, and the doctor heard him. "Look here, young fellow," he said, "do you know what I am going up the river for?" "A holiday, of course," replied Harry. "Exactly. Then do you suppose I want my holiday spoiled by being called upon to attend people who are ill through drinking unwholesome water?" "Of course not, sir; but would any one be ill?" "Every one would," said the doctor angrily. Harry thought this was a sweeping assertion, but he said nothing, and the filter was placed astern. "I wish some one would knock it over," Harry whispered to Phra. "It would go to the bottom like a stone." "Never mind the filter." "I don't," said Harry; "but I do mind about old Sree. Oh, don't I wish I could have three wishes!" "What would they be? What's the first?" "I should have had that," said Harry. "Wishing to have three wishes." "Well, then, what would the second be?" "That the third might for certain be had," said Harry, laughing. "What would the third be?" "That old Sree would come here to-night." "You've got your wish, then," cried Phra excitedly, "for here he comes." "No! Nonsense!" cried Harry, who felt staggered and ready to turn superstitious. "He is here, I tell you. Look, talking to that sentry by the gate." "I say," said Harry, "isn't it rather queer?" "It's rather good fortune," replied Phra. "But after what we said." Phra laughed. "Why, you're not going to believe in old fables, are you?" "No, of course not; but it did seem startling for him to turn up just as I had been wishing for him." "Nonsense. Why, I have been wishing for him to come every hour for the last two days. Let's go and meet him. He's coming this way." In another minute they had leaped ashore, run up the stone steps of the landing-place in front of the palace, and encountered Sree. "Here, I say, where have you been?" cried Harry. "I have been through the jungle and up towards the head of the little river, Sahibs, so as to find out whether it is worth your going up too." "Well, is it?" cried Harry. "Oh yes, well worthy," replied Sree. "No one ever goes there to hunt or shoot, and the birds are very tame and beautiful, and the river full of fish." "Fish!" cried Harry excitedly. "There, I knew we had forgotten something, Phra. Fishing tackle." "Yes, we must take some." "I was coming to advise you to get a boat and go up there for two or three days to shoot, fish, and collect." "Then you are too late, old Sree," cried Harry. "Too late, Sahib?" said the man, whose countenance looked gloomy from disappointment. "Yes; we're going for a week in that big boat." "I am sorry, Sahib," said the man sadly. "I worked hard, and it took long to get through the jungle, and I had to sleep in trees. The Sahib's servant was not neglectful of his master. He is grieved that he is too late." "Don't tease him, Hal; he doesn't like it. It hurts him. Never mind, Sree; we wanted you to help, but everything is ready now." "I am glad, Sahib," said the man; "but I am sorry too, for I should have liked to go as hunter with the young Sahibs." "Does that mean you can't go?" said Harry, laughing. "Not unless the young Sahib will take his servant," said the man sadly. "Why, of course we shall take you," cried Harry, "and we are as glad as glad that you have come. Here, let's go to the boat, Phra. I want Sree to see everything, so as to say whether we ought to take anything else." The old hunter brightened up on the instant, and hurried with the boys to the boat, where for the next hour he was examining arrangements and suggesting fresh places for some of the articles, so that they might be stowed where they would be handier and yet more out of the way. He was able to suggest a few more things too, notably a stout net to hang by hooks from the roof of the cabin, ready to place specimens in to dry, or hold odds and ends for common use; more baskets, and a coil of rope, and a stout parang or two for cutting a way through creepers or cane-brakes. At last, with a smile full of content, Sree announced himself as being satisfied, and having received permission from Phra, took possession of one corner at the back of the cabin, while Harry went to see the doctor respecting starting quite early the next morning, and then returned home. CHAPTER XVII JUNGLE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS The heavy dew lay thick on leaf and strand, and the sky in the east was still grey, as the little party met at the landing-place, where the men were on the look-out and ready for the start; while when they pushed off and four oars sent the boat well up against the stream, past the house-boats clustered against the farther shore, nothing could have looked more peaceful and still. The men eagerly worked at their oars in their peculiar Venetian, thrusting fashion, standing to their work; and it was a satisfaction to see that, in spite of its size and load, the boat was wonderfully light, and rode over the water like a duck. The calmness and peace of everything was most striking as it grew lighter; and when the eastern sky began to glow, and the tips of the towers and spires of the different temples became gilded by the coming sun, both Mr. Kenyon and the doctor expressed their admiration, declaring the King's city to be after all, in spite of its lying in a flat plain, beautiful in the extreme. Then the sun rose, shedding its glorious light around and giving everything a beauty it did not really possess. For sordid-looking boats, with nothing but a few mats hung from bamboo poles, looked as if they were made of refined gold; while the trees which fringed the water, and hung their pendent boughs from the banks, shed a wondrous lustre, as if flashing gems from every dewy leaf. The river too, in spite of its muddy waters, seemed more beautiful than ever, and the boys were revelling in the new delight of their journey up stream, when sundry preparations being made by Mike in the extreme after part of the boat changed the bent of Harry's thoughts to quite a different direction from that of admiring the beauty of the scene through which they were passing. It was just as his father exclaimed,-- "Are you noticing how beautiful all this is, Hal?" "Oh yes, father, I've been looking at it ever so long. But when are we going to have breakfast?" The doctor burst into a hearty fit of laughter, in which Phra joined, and the boy seemed puzzled. "What is it?" he said, looking from one to the other. "Have I said something queer?" "Very, Hal," said his father. "Getting hungry?" "I was--terribly," replied Harry uneasily; "but I don't feel so now. I don't like to be laughed at." "It will not hurt you, my boy. As to breakfast, you will have to wait an hour or so, till we turn out of the main stream. Then we must land at the first opening, and have a fire made ashore." Harry nodded, and wondered how he should get over the time. There proved to be so much to take his attention, however, that he was ready to wonder when the boat was run in between two magnificent clumps of trees soon after they had turned off into the lesser river and entered the jungle by one of its water highways. The men sprang out, and one made the prow fast by a rope, while others scattered, parang in hand, to collect and cut up dead or resinous wood, of which a heap was soon made and set alight, the air being so still that the blue smoke rose up quite straight, to filter, as it were, through the boughs overhead, the men feeding the flames carefully till a good mass of glowing embers was produced. Over this sylvan fireplace Mike, with a cloth tied about his waist, apron fashion, presided, and in a very short time had prepared the coffee and taken it aboard. There had been no preparations--no hunting for provisions, to add to the toothsomeness of the breakfast; but eaten out there in the open boat, under the shade of the majestic trees, with the river gliding by, the strange cries from the jungle heard from time to time, and the attention of the lads constantly attracted to bird, insect, or reptile, they were ready to declare that they had never enjoyed such a breakfast before. "How grand it would be to live always like this!" cried Harry. "Beautiful," said the doctor; "especially in the rainy seasons, when you could keep nothing dry and find no wood that would burn." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon; "rain does damp one's enthusiasm." "Oh, of course it would not be so pleasant then," said Harry; "but generally it would be glorious, wouldn't it, Phra?" "I should get tired of it after a time, I think," was the reply. "Pooh! I shouldn't. Look how the men are enjoying it." Harry nodded towards their people, who had all landed to take their meal on shore, leaving the boat free to their superiors, and certainly the party looked very happy, squatted round the fire, in spite of the heat; while the smoke curled up in great wreaths in company with the suffocating carbonic acid gas evolved by the burning wood. "Yes, they look happy enough, Hal," said the doctor. "They don't trouble themselves much about tablecloths or knives and forks." In fact, the party formed quite a picture, one that it seemed a pity to disturb. But it was disturbed, for at a word from Mike, Sree rose to dip some fresh, clear water to fill up the coffee-pot, and this done, Mike took a piece of half-burned bamboo, stirred the embers and parted them so as to make a steady place for the big coffee-pot, when there was a whirl of flame, sparks, and smoke rushing up among the boughs in a spiral, for the fire was now at its hottest. There was no warning. Sree had squatted down again, and Mike had seated himself, supporting himself upon one hand, leaving the other to snatch off the coffee-pot directly the brown froth began to rise with the boiling up, when _bang--rush--scatter!_ Something fell suddenly from high up among the boughs overhead right into the fire, and as the men turned and rolled themselves away in every direction, they were bombarded as it were, by showers of red-hot embers and half-burned sticks, which were driven after them by the object which had fallen from the tree, and was now writhing, twining, and beating the burning wood and ashes till the fire was scattered over a surface some yards across. The matter needed no explanation; it was all plain enough. After the manner of such reptiles, a good-sized boa had tied itself up in a bundle of curves, knots, and loops on a convenient bough, after a liberal meal probably of monkey, and had been fast asleep exactly over the spot where the fire was made. It had borne heat and smoke without moving until the last stir up of the embers delivered by Mike, but this had sent so stifling a flame that the sleeping serpent had been aroused, started into wakefulness, and in the heat and suffocation fallen into the flames, to writhe in agony, turning over and over in knotty convolutions, in one spot a yard or two square. The doctor was the quickest to grasp the position. Rising from his seat, he took down one of the ready-charged guns, and waited for a few moments till from out of the writhing knot the reptile's tail rose quivering and thrashing the ashy ground. Directly after the head appeared, some feet above the folds, dimly seen through the smoke, as it was darted angrily in different directions, the jaws opening and the creature snapping at the horrible enemy which was causing it so much agony. It was for this the doctor had been waiting, and as the head rose a little higher and was nearly motionless for a moment, both barrels flashed out their contents; and as the concussion made the leaves overhead quiver violently, the serpent writhed and struggled frantically over and over in a knot that seemed to be always tying and untying itself, was hidden amongst the thick, reedy growth close to the river, splashed and wallowed a little in the shallow from which the reeds sprung, and then with a loud splash went clear of the growth into the dark, deep water overhung by the boughs of the trees. Then there was an eddying and quivering where the stream glided along, and a few bubbles ascended to the surface, but though attentive watch was kept, no more was seen, the swift current having undoubtedly swept the reptile away. "I had a good sight of its head when I fired," said the doctor. "Would you like to have snake for breakfast every morning when you lived out in the open, Harry?" "Ugh!" ejaculated the boys together. "Well, I'm very glad we were having our breakfast on board," said Mr. Kenyon, laughing. "Here, Michael, you need not stand staring up into the tree; there are no more snakes up there." "Wouldn't its mate be there, sir?" said the man. "Oh no, it isn't likely. Where is the coffee-pot?" "Don't know, sir; but I don't want any more breakfast, thank you." "Nonsense, man," said his master; "find the coffee-pot, and the men will rake the fire together again. There is nothing to mind now." Mike looked anything but satisfied, going about his task unwillingly; but the men came back from where they had scattered, laughing with one another now that the scare was at an end. "He's making a poor beginning," said Harry, on seeing their man go peering about slowly in different directions amongst the tall grass and bushes. "Mike doesn't like snakes," replied Phra, laughing. "Well, who does?" cried Harry. "I hate them; and it was enough to scare anybody. I know I should have jumped away fast enough. I say, look there." "What at?" "There's the pot, in amongst those young bamboos. No, no; there, half in the water.--Found it?" "No, sir. It's gone," replied the man. "Nonsense; here it is. You didn't look in the right place." Mike came towards them, looking very sour and disgusted, as he picked up the tin vessel. "Reg'lar spoiled," he said, examining the pot and holding it out to show that there was a big dent on one side. "Won't hold water now." "How do you know till you try? Dip it in and see." The pot was dipped, filled, and proved to be quite sound in spite of the hollow in its side, a fact which disappointed Mike, who prepared to make some fresh coffee by getting into the boat again, while the men laughingly collected the scattered brands and restarted the fire. "I say, Mike," said Harry, as the man came back, "you shouldn't make a fuss about a little thing like this; it's nothing to what you will have to put up with." Mike looked at him aghast, his face screwed up into such an aspect of dismay that the boys burst out laughing. "Ah, it's all very well to laugh, Master Harry," grumbled the man; "but if there's going to be any more of this sort of thing, I know--" "Know what?" "I'm going back home." "How?" said Harry, laughing. "Don't ask stupid questions," said Phra, with a perfectly serious face. "He's either going to swim back with the stream, among the crocodiles, or to walk through the jungle. There are not so very many tigers there now." "What!" gasped Mike. "Make haste, Michael, my lad," said Mr. Kenyon. "Get the fresh coffee made and the men's breakfast over; we want to go on." "Yes, sir; of course, sir--oh dear, oh dear!--Ah, it's all very well to laugh, Master Harry." "Laugh! Well, it's enough to make any one laugh to see you make such a fuss over a baby snake. Wait till we come to the hundred foot long ones." Mike gave him another look, and then hurried back to the blazing fire. "You've spoiled his breakfast," said Phra. "Serve him right for being a great coward. I want him to get used to such things." Phra laughed. "Who's to get used to such things as that? I say, look; there's one of our old friends watching us." He pointed up to where a little grey-whiskered monkey was holding back the leaves, so as to peer wonderingly down at the party. "I believe one could soon coax these monkeys down to be fed." "If you put a few bananas on the top of the cabin there, they wouldn't want any coaxing; they'd come and take them." "Yes, when we were not looking; but I mean, coax them into being tame enough to feed from one's hand." "Might perhaps, but they're treacherous. They like to spring on any one's shoulders to bite the back of the neck. Look, look! Parrots!" A little flock of brightly coloured, long-tailed lories flew over the river, but before a gun could be seized they had disappeared. "Not very good ones," said Harry. "Only green." "And sour," said the doctor. "Sour?" cried Harry wonderingly. "Yes, sour grapes, Hal. Why, they were lovely specimens, my boy. Look at those butterflies flitting about the flowers growing there in wreaths. Now, if this were a hard road we might get a few of them." "We could get one of those sun-birds," said Harry, pointing to some half-dozen fluttering about the cluster of flowers dependent from a bough overhanging the stream. "Yes, but we must wait till we have got some dry sand to use instead of shot. Mind we scrape some up from the first shallow place we reach." The fact of the boat being motionless there by the side of the river, and all on board sitting quietly watching the abundant beautiful objects around, made the various inhabitants of the jungle on either side come out of their hiding-places and take no further heed of their presence; consequently until the men had finished their breakfast there was ample opportunity for a quiet, observant natural history study, and Mr. Kenyon remarked,-- "It is, after all, better to be content with watching nature in a place like this than shooting specimens and preserving them in a miserable imitation of the natural shape. For how poor and pitiful they are at the best." "That's true enough," said the doctor, smiling; "but you would not make a museum of our memories." "Why not?" said Mr. Kenyon. "Because memory is weak, and our description of what we have seen to other people who could never by any possibility see the beautiful creatures we have encountered, would come very far short. I think that the sight of the poorest skin that we have preserved would make ten times the impression on another's mind that a month's talking could." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon, "and nature is so abundant." By this time the men had resumed their oars, and the boat was gliding rapidly up the river, the boys being ready to point out where they had shot the birds they had taken back, and seen the monkey which had watched them on their way. So far they had met no crocodiles, but as they went higher it seemed as if, though they kept themselves out of sight, several were in the narrow river and were retiring before them, till the water growing more shallow they began to show from time to time. The boys seized their guns upon catching sight of the two prominences which contained the reptile's eyes appearing above the surface some thirty yards ahead, but Mr. Kenyon checked them. "Don't shoot," he said, "it is of no use to kill a few among so many." "But suppose they attack us," said Harry. "They will not unless driven to bay. Steer in closer to the side, Sree," continued Mr. Kenyon, "so as to give them room to retreat down the river." The order was obeyed, the boat being kept to the left, so close in that the oars touched the tips of the hanging boughs, with the consequence that every now and then there was a loud splashing and wallowing in the water close beneath the bank, the part hidden by the pendent boughs. "Why, they swarm under there," said the doctor. "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon, "and this shows how little the shooting of one or two has to do with thinning them down. By the way, boys, where was it that you had your adventure with the big crocodile and the monkey?" Phra rose and pointed forward. "A little farther there, on the right," he said, "where those bigger trees are hanging over the water." The whole scene came vividly back to the pair as the boat glided on, and after a glance upward at the trees, Harry's eyes fell to scanning the water, half expecting to see the ugly muzzle of one of the great crocodiles shoot out. This he did not see, but first one and then another made a tremendous eddy in the stream, their lurking-places being churned up by the men's oars. "The brutes are extremely thick up here," said the doctor: "a pretty good warning that we must not attempt any bathing." "They seem to swarm," replied Mr. Kenyon. "It is a pity they are of no use; but perhaps some day one will be found for them,--possibly their skins may be utilised." "Skins of young ones, perhaps. These big fellows would be too horny." As he spoke, a huge reptile rushed from a mud bank into the river with a tremendous splash, sending a wave along the surface, which made the boat rise and fall. This time guns were seized by the boys' elders, upon the strength of the possibility of an attack; but the huge creature must have sunk at once to the bottom, for no further sign appeared. Meantime the great, green bank of trees on either side seemed to grow more beautiful from the brilliancy of the flowers with which some of the trees were covered; while, wherever a flock of parroquets flew out, it was pretty well always a sign of fruit. Here, too, at intervals, where there were breaks in the banks of the great timber trees, huge tufts of bamboo shot up spear-like, and showed their delicate foliage, looking at a distance so light and feathery that often enough the straight stems, which rose in places as much as sixty feet, seemed as if surrounded by a delicate haze. It was now decided that due attention should be given to collecting and providing for the meals of so large a party; and as nothing in the shape of deer or pig had been seen, and mid-day was long passed, it was suggested that, as soon as a suitable spot was reached, the boat should be moored to some overhanging bough and the boys should try their fortune at fishing. As soon as Sree heard this he busied himself with the basket which contained the lines, and kept a look-out for a likely pitch. Suddenly there was a rushing of wings, and a big bird appeared--a signal for two guns to be raised, but only to be laid down again. "Ugh! vulture," said Harry in disgust. "Pity not to have shot it," said Phra; "it would have done to cut up for bait." Harry's lip curled up and his nostrils dilated. "Do you know we mean to eat the fish we catch?" "Oh, of course," said Phra hurriedly; "I hadn't thought of that. But would it make any difference, Doctor Cameron?" he added. The doctor laughed. "No," he said, "I don't think we should have found the fish any the worse for it. All the same, though, I should prefer my fish not to have been fed upon the flesh of an unclean bird." "Exactly so," said Harry's father; "but perhaps it is just as well that we should not study the food of the fish we eat. They are not very particular as to their diet.--What about that quiet, still eddy yonder, Sree?" "Where the great tree-trunk lies in the water?" said the doctor. "No, that won't do. There must be scores of half-rotten boughs among which the fish would run and tangle up the lines." "It would be an excellent place, Sahib," said Sree humbly. "We could tie up the boat there, and fish below it, where the stream runs in." "To be sure," said Mr. Kenyon; "I had not noticed that little rivulet. You are wrong, Doctor; it will be a capital place." "Perhaps," said the gentleman addressed, "but I don't like the look of it. I feel pretty sure that we shall find a great crocodile has his lurking-place under that large tree-trunk." "Yes, Sahib; there is one there," said Sree; "but he will go as soon as he sees the boat." He spoke to the man in the bows to be ready to make the line fast to one of the dead boughs, which stuck up dry and swept clear of bark, showing, like its fellows, how high the flood water had raised the level of the river, for above a certain height the bark was still clinging to the branches. It proved to be just as the old hunter had said, for as the boat was forced up to the great trunk lying in the water, there was a sudden rush, the surface was turned into a series of eddies, and a wave rolled along towards the other side of the river, indicating the direction in which the reptile disturbed had gone. All the same the boat was made fast, and floated down stream to the full length of the rope, the men's oars were laid in, and those astern joined their companions forward, to squat together talking in a low tone and chewing betel, while Mr. Kenyon and the doctor settled themselves comfortably in the open cabin. "Won't you fish, father?" asked Harry. "No, my boy," he replied; "you shall fish for me." "But you will fish, Doctor Cameron?" said Phra politely. "No, I would rather see you," replied the doctor, and he started and caught up his gun, but laid it down once more, for the birds which had caught his eye were only crows, some half-dozen of which came up stream as if they had followed the boat, and now they had found it, settled down in one of the highest trees apparently to have a quiet chat about its object in coming up there. Sree had been busy the while, preparing bait for the lines, which were to be used ledger fashion without rods. Sree's bait was some very stiff paste, which he was working up out of a couple of handfuls of flour; and he made haste to explain that if the fish did not take this well, he should soon change the lure. "But we must catch one first." The lines were strong and the hooks tied on gimp, such as would have been used for pike-fishing at home, for the fish of the Siamese rivers had not been tried for till they were as shy as ours at home, and before many minutes had elapsed the boys each had his baited hook thrown out from the opposite side of the boat six or eight yards away, the leads sinking some six feet in the fairly clear water, and with fingers just feeling the pierced lead, they waited. It was not the first by many times that the boys had fished together in the river, and they pretty well knew what they were likely to catch; but they were not prepared to sit beneath the hot sunshine for so long without a sign of there being fish about. "Come, be sharp," cried the doctor banteringly. "I thought we were going to have a good fry for dinner. How soon shall I send the men ashore to make a fire?" "Fishermen always have patience," said Harry. "But people who want their dinner do not," said Mr. Kenyon, laughing. "I say, Sree," whispered Harry, "they will not bite at paste." "Pull up your line, Sahib," said the hunter. Harry did as he was told, and Sree smiled. "Something has eaten the bait," he said. "Didn't you feel a pull?" "No, not the slightest." The hook was rebaited and sent down stream again, and Phra's hook proving to be in the same unattractive state, received the same treatment; but for fully half an hour nothing was done but rebaiting and throwing in. "We had better make a move," said Mr. Kenyon. "It is very beautiful here, but the crocodiles seem to have scared the fish away. Let's go half a mile higher." "No, no, not yet, father," said Harry. "It seems such a capital place, and--I've got him!" For as he spoke he felt a slight twitch at the line he held, and then all was still for a few moments. Next there was a steady draw, and the line began to pass through his fingers, while upon checking it the drag became a heavy one, and he found that he was fast in a good fish. It was evident that a shoal had come up towards the boat, for hardly had Harry begun to haul upon his line before Phra felt the premonitory twitch, and directly after the draw upon his line. "Now, father, had we better go higher?" cried Harry. "Oh, my word! it is a big one; the line regularly cuts my hands." There was nothing to see but the lines cutting the water in different directions, for it was evident that the baits had been seized by bottom-loving fish, which went on fighting to keep down as low as they could. By this time Sree had taken up a short bamboo to which a large hook was firmly bound, and bidding Harry now draw hard, he stood ready, while the lad raised the heavy, struggling fish to the surface, and, in spite of its efforts, brought it close up to the side of the boat, when with one well-aimed stroke the old hunter thrust the hook beneath it and lifted it over the side. The next moment, leaving the fish flapping and beating the bamboo bottom, Sree stepped beside Phra, where the same business was gone through, and the second fish dragged in. They proved to be very similar in appearance to a fish but little known in England, though lingering still in some few sluggish rivers--the burbot--a fish that is best described as being something like a short, thick eel. These were together over twenty pounds in weight, and welcome from their delicate quality as food. "Enough is as good as a feast," said Mr. Kenyon, smiling; and the order being given, the boat was once more sent gliding up stream, look-out being kept for a suitable place for landing and making a fire. This was reached at last, and the fish, spitted on the ever-present, ever-useful bamboo, set down to roast, so that they might make a welcome addition to the next _al fresco_ meal. After another few miles a suitable mooring-place was found beneath an enormous tree, and a fire once more lit; this was to act as a scare to keep away noxious creatures, but, as Harry said, for some things they might have been better without. For they soon found that the glare of the burning wood woke up and attracted the birds, which came circling round it in a strangely weird way, their dimly seen forms coming and going out of the darkness into the dome of light ribbed with the branches of the trees. Moths and flies innumerable buzzed about through the glare, and, worst of all, the light and heat attracted the smaller reptiles, snakes and lizards creeping towards the flame for the sake of the warmth of what must have seemed to them like a new, strange sun, and many of them getting burned. "It's very horrid, father," said Harry. "Mike says that he saw hundreds of wriggling snakes and lizards creeping up when he helped the men make up the fire as you advised, for they would have set the forest ablaze if it had been done their way." "Hundreds, eh?" said Mr. Kenyon. "Then I suppose we may set it down as being about a dozen, Hal?" "He is an awful fibster, father," said Harry, laughing. "I don't think the man really means to lie wilfully," said Mr. Kenyon; "but his imagination and his tongue run wild." "Perhaps it's his eyes," said the doctor, smiling; "a natural failing. The lenses are too round, and they magnify." "Let's be charitable, and set it down as that," said Mr. Kenyon; "but it does not matter to us. It is not as if we were going to sleep ashore, and this is a novel experience." "Novel, indeed. What a collection of moths and beetles we might make now!" "Awkward work," replied Mr. Kenyon. "I think we might be content with enjoying the strange scene." Both being tired with the day's exertions, the boys thought so too, and for long enough they watched the illuminated trees of the jungle, which were always changing their aspect as the fire rose and fell, emitting flashes of light, and sending up myriads of sparks or wreaths of smoke to form clouds overhead, which reflected back the light and turned the water into gold, while strange, dark shadows seemed to dance and waltz among the great trunks. It was all so wild and beautiful that even after the men had finally replenished the fire and settled themselves down for the night under their matting shelter, spread over the fore part of the boat, no one aft felt the slightest desire to lie down and sleep. "I couldn't sleep, could you?" said Harry, in a low tone, to Phra, as they sat in the half-closed-in cabin, now watching the surroundings of the fire, now, attracted by some sound, turning to look up or down the river. "Sleep? No," replied Phra; "it all seems so strange and different. We've heard all these noises of a night when we've been at home, but they were far off." "And now one is right amongst them," said Harry. "I say, are you sure your gun's loaded?" "Yes, quite; I looked at it just now." "So did I at mine. I don't think I'm at all afraid; are you?" "I don't think so; but after what we saw this morning I can't help fancying that there might be a great snake somewhere in the boughs overhead, coming down lower and lower till it thrust in its head here. I say, fancy it taking one of us out and up into the tree." "Shan't," said Harry. "I don't believe there are any in the jungle big enough to do such a thing." "Oh, there are some monsters," said Phra quietly. "Yes, so people like our Mike say. He told me once that some of your father's men said they had seen a croc fifty feet long. Hark at that!" The sound was startling, and it came from off the water lower down the river. "It's your fifty feet crocodile slapping the water with his tail to stun the fish," said Phra grimly. "I don't know about fifty, but it sounds as if the great wretch might be thirty feet long. Ugh! What's to prevent a monster coming up close to the boat and helping himself to one of us? I couldn't go to sleep for thinking such a thing possible." "I don't think there's any fear of such a thing happening. You never heard of anything of the kind among the thousands of boats down the river and canals." "No, but one can't help thinking of such creepy notions. We never thought of them before we came." "Are you boys going to sleep?" said Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, father, directly," said Harry; "I mean, going to try." "Off with you, then, so as to be ready for a good day's work to-morrow. Did you see how beautiful the fire-flies are, right away up and down the river?" "Yes, sir," said Phra. "I've been watching them; it looks sometimes as if the bushes and boughs were full of flying stars. Hear that?" "Yes; a tiger," said Mr. Kenyon quietly. "Hear the king of stripes, Doctor?" The gentleman addressed grunted, and then breathed hard. "The brute does not trouble him," said Mr. Kenyon; "and it need not trouble us." "No fear of its swimming out to the boat?" said Phra. "Not the slightest," replied Mr. Kenyon. "Let down that mat to screen you from the night air and mists, and go to sleep." "Let the mat down?" said Harry, in a tone full of protest; "but if we do we can't see the fire-flies." "Take another look, and then let it down and go to sleep." "But we don't feel as if we could go, father." "Of course not, if you sit up talking. There, let down the matting, for our sake as well as yours. Good-night, my boys." "Good-night, sir." "Good-night, father," said Harry, as he let fall the mat, and thus completely closed in the cabin-like place.--"But there's no sleep for us, Phra, I'm afraid." "Let's try," said Phra. "Oh, I'll try," replied Harry. It needed no trying, for in five minutes there was no one awake in the boat, though there were wild cries far away in the jungle, strange splashings, coughings and barkings from the river, and every now and then loud cracklings and sputterings from the fire, whose rays gleamed in through the matting hung round. But though every one slept, there was an advance about to be made upon the occupants of the boat, some forty or fifty fierce creatures making their way in through the matting to attack first one and then the other, the attack going on till the savage enemies were satiated with blood, their victims being all the while deeply plunged in sleep. CHAPTER XVIII ELEPHANTS AT HOME "Eh? What? Nonsense!" "That's what I said, Master Harry. It's 'most a thousand times darker than when we lay down. I mean, it would be if old Sree hadn't raked the fire together and put on some more wood. He said it was time to get up, and I had to get up; but I feel horrid bad. I hope we're all alive." "Did Sree say it was to-morrow morning, Mike?" "Yes, sir; but I don't believe it." "Here, Phra, wake up. Do you hear? Mike says it's tomorrow morning." "No, sir; no, sir," protested the man, who could be dimly seen leaning over the boys by the faint rays of the fire ashore still streaming in. "I wouldn't have said such a thing these next two hours." "Very well," said Harry irritably; "Sree said so, and he's sure to know. Do you hear, Phra? Wake up." Phra made use of a word he had learned of his companion. "Bother!" And then, "Do be quiet!" "Shan't. Wake up, or I'll scoop in some water over you." "You do if you dare," growled Phra viciously. "Oh, I dare," said Harry, whose sleepy irritability was going off and making way for the spirit of mischief in him; "but I don't want to make everything wet. Get up, you miserable old Siamese prince! You're not going to sleep if I'm not." "Bother!" cried Phra sharply, in response to a shake. "Wake up, then! Here, Phra, we're all alive oh! and nothing has touched us all through the night." "Oh!" "What's the matter, Mike?" said Harry, whose attention was turned from the young Prince to their man. "I'm so bad, sir. I've caught the jungle fever with sleeping in this damp place." "Nonsense!" "Oh, I have, sir, and I feel dreadful bad. I never was so ill before in my life." "I don't believe it, but I'll wake Doctor Cameron. I daresay he brought some quinine with him." "What! that horrid, bitter stuff, sir? No, no; don't, please." "Bah! Making a fuss about some physic. But you must have it. We're not going to have our trip spoiled by your turning ill. I say, Doctor!" "No, no, Master Harry; don't say anything, please," whispered the man. "Not till after breakfast. I couldn't eat a mossle if I had to take that horrid, bitter quinny." "Oh, you must be bad!" said Harry, with mock sympathy. "Here, I know a little. How do you feel?--pain in your back?" "A little, sir, where it rested against a big bamboo in the night." "That sounds bad," said Harry. "Does it, sir? Oh dear!" "What else? Headache?" "No, sir; but I've got it, and I can feel my face all covered with spots." "It's the mosquitoes," cried Phra, sitting up suddenly. "Hullo! You awake?--That's it, Mikey." "Oh no, sir," groaned the man; "it's worse than that." "'Tisn't. His Royal Highness Prince Phra Mala Krom Praya says it's mosquitoes, and he's right. How many spots have you got on your face? A million?" "Well, no, sir, I don't think there's as many as that; but my face is full, and they itch and sting horrid, and my eyes are swelled up and stiff. Just you feel." "No, thankye, Mike; but I'll have a look as soon as it is light. I say, though, I wonder you haven't got a million bites.--There, don't be such a baby. Go and get the breakfast ready. I'll wake the others." "He ain't a bit o' feeling in him," sighed Mike to himself; and he went out of the cabin. "What does it look like, Phra?" said Harry, for his companion had passed his head out beside the matting. "Come and see; it's lovely." Harry thrust his head out on the other side of the mat, to gaze up and down the river, to see overhead the stars growing pale and feeble, while the river bed was filled up by a soft, dark-grey flood which rose about ten or fifteen feet up the black wall of trees opposite to them. On the other side and overhead there was a warm glow which lit up the thin mist, giving it a roseate hue, while the cloud of smoke was gathering more and more and blotting out the faint stars half across the river, its under side ruddy too with the fire-reflected light. "I never saw the river look like this before," cried Harry. "Looks jolly, doesn't it?" "Beautiful and calm, and just as if the earth was waking up," replied Phra. "Birds, you mean," said Harry. "Parrots are whistling, and--here, I say, hark at that _coo--ah--coo--ah_. Hear that?" "Yes. Argus pheasant," said Phra eagerly. "Let's take the guns and go and see if we can't get a shot at it." "What! try and get through the jungle now it's all dripping with dew?" "Never thought of that," said Harry. "Would be sloppy, wouldn't it?" "Sloppy! Why, we should be drenched before we'd gone ten yards." "And I don't suppose we could go ten yards. Let's go and ask old Sree if he can call the birds over, so that we can get a shot at them." They stepped carefully out into the forward part of the boat, and then Harry thrust back his head to carry out his promise. "Father! Doctor!" he cried. "Morning." "Yes; thank you," said Mr. Kenyon, and the doctor grunted. Phra had by this time reached the mooring rope and begun drawing the boat's prow close up to the prostrate tree-trunk to which it was moored, for prostrate trees were plentiful along the banks, and in one place two falling nearly opposite from either bank of the stream had almost formed a barricade to stop the way. "Be careful, Sahibs," said a voice out of the gloom, the old hunter having left the group of rowers gathered round the fire. "The tree-trunk is slippery with the dew." "Oh, it's you, Sree," said Harry. "Isn't that the coo--ah calling?" "Yes, Sahib; I have heard it many times." "Could we get near and manage a shot at it?" "No, Sahib; it would hear us before we were half way, and be silent. Then we should not know which way to go. Besides, you would find the grass and trees too wet." "Would it come if you called to it?" "No, Sahib, not unless we were in a deep, dark part of the jungle." "Oh well, never mind," said Harry. "It wouldn't be pleasant before breakfast. Here, let's go ashore now we're so near, Phra. Anything burned in the fire last night?" "Yes, Sahib; I've found four dead birds under the trees, and some lizards and snakes that had been too close. Some of them were only half dead. They had scorched themselves and then crawled away." The boys went up to the blazing fire, to find Mike busy cooking the men's breakfast, the latter making way for the lads to come close up to the pleasant glow, which dissipated the chilly mist floating around. As they went round the fire Sree pointed out the remains of several reptiles, one of which was still moving and writhing slightly. This--part of a long, thin snake--Sree stooped to twitch into the hottest part of the glowing fire. "Oh, I say, Sree, how horrid!" said Harry. "No, sir; better dead than living in such pain. It could never get well. This one might," he added, dragging another from among the low growth close by, with the result that it came to and bit at a bamboo staff the man held. "It's poisonous," cried Phra. "Mind!" "Yes, Sahib; I'll take care," said Sree. "It is a good deal scorched, but it might live and do mischief. It is a very bad kind, almost as poisonous as the naga." As he spoke he gave his bamboo staff a whirl round his head, which threw the writhing reptile into a knot at the end, and then giving a final jerk the dangerous creature was dashed into the middle of the fire, where a loud sputtering, crackling, and hissing bespoke its fate. "Was that it hissing in agony?" said Harry, with a look of disgust. "Oh no, Sahib," said the old hunter, smiling. "It is only the flesh. The heat in there killed the snake directly. Look! there is a dead bird; that will make the same noise. Throw it in." "Why, it's one of those beautiful rosy pigeons," said Harry, "only half its feathers are burnt off. It's dead enough. I say, though, it's a pity to waste that. I'll make Mike cook it for breakfast. What's that bird?" "A crow," said Phra, turning the object over with his foot; and then, before Harry could seize it, tossing it into the fire himself, for a precisely similar hissing to arise. "I'm glad of that," said Harry; "it seems so horrible to burn anything alive. Here, Mike, how soon will our breakfast be ready?" "As soon as I can go on board to get it, sir. The gentlemen are not up yet." "Not up!" said Harry. "Why, you talk as if they slept in bedrooms--Look! there they are." For as he spoke the matting was drawn aside, just as the light was coming fast, the faint rays of the sun striking horizontally through the soft, grey mist, and lighting it up like a cloud at sunset. The effect was wonderful, for with the first rising of the sun there was a light breeze which lifted the mist, making it rise and float away in wreaths across the tops of the jungle trees, the coming of bright day once more bringing forth a wild chorus of shrieks, pipings, and strange cries from the hidden birds. Mike quickly had a good meal spread, and as soon as the fire was no longer necessary, the men under Sree's direction threw a few jars of water over it, and then took to their oars, the breakfast in the open cabin being finished as the party glided up the beautiful stream. They were now well beyond the parts ever reached by the most venturesome of the boating men of the town and villages around, and in consequence the various birds and quadrupeds displayed but little shyness, the former fluttering near the boat, or perching in little flocks to watch the visitors to this wild region, while the monkeys grew more and more venturesome, ceasing to depute the observations to the old greybeard of the troop, and crowding on the branches, to chatter and stare down, probably seeing human beings for the first time in their lives. "They don't seem to think much of us, Phra," said Harry, who was lying back so that he could look up in comfort at the comical little creatures. "Well, it's quite fair," said Phra; "we don't think much of them. I don't know, though; I envy their strength. Look how easily they make those jumps." "Yes, it would puzzle us. But isn't it ridiculous that they should be so careless, jumping from tree to tree just over the water, where they ought to know that the crocodiles are waiting for them? I daresay we shall see one come down with a splash directly." Harry was quite right: five minutes had not passed before, in the midst of a loud chattering, a low, heavily laden bough snapped, and about a dozen of the little fellows fell scrambling down; but all saved themselves by catching at branches before reaching the water, save one, who went in with a loud splash, but caught at some twigs and leaves which dipped in the surface, and cleverly dragged itself out, to begin scrambling up again amidst a chorus of loud cries, just as the long muzzle of a crocodile was thrust out and snatched back again as rapidly, after receiving full in the side of the head the contents of the doctor's gun. "Brute!" he exclaimed. "What a beautiful place this would be if it were not infested with these savage wretches!--Killed, Sree?" "No, Sahib; I think not. I can see him swimming yonder. The water is clear here." They had another glimpse at the injured reptile, which shot up about fifty yards ahead, beat the water for a few moments, and then disappeared beneath the tangle. No more shooting was done, the voyagers contenting themselves with observing, and finding abundance to take their attention, for at every few yards some curious-looking water-fowl or wader rose from the river side. Then it would be a lovely blue kingfisher or solemn-looking crimson-breasted trogon, while at times a glimpse was obtained of some animal coming down to drink, only to be startled away by the passing boat. Once it was a strange-looking animal with trunk-like snout, which stared for a moment before wrenching itself round, giving just a momentary view of its piebald body, and then rushed through the undergrowth. "We're favoured," cried the doctor. "That was a specimen one ought to have shot." "What for?" said Mr. Kenyon. "It would have been too big and clumsy to preserve. If you shoot, let it be something for the table." The doctor took note of this, and he and the lads finding good opportunities, brought down several large water-fowl, which were plucked by the men not rowing for the evening meal, it having been decided that while on the trip up the river two good meals would be sufficient for each day. Twice over Phra's sharp eyes detected large serpents in the overhanging boughs, their presence being doubtless explicable by the numbers of monkeys travelling to and fro along the edges of the jungle where it was cut by the river. On the second occasion the doctor's gun was raised for a shot, but a sign from the old hunter stopped him. "What is it?" he said, for Sree was pointing forward. "Elephants, Sahib," whispered the man; and then bidding the men to row gently, so as not to make a sound, the boat glided on towards what in the distance looked like the blunt end of the river, so completely did it seem cut off by the sudden way in which it doubled back upon itself, growing wider and shallower at the same time, while from some peculiarity of soil the trees had retired farther from the bank, leaving quite a wide, park-like stretch, through which the stream meandered. But the party in the boat had no eyes for the scenery; their attention was taken up fully, as they turned the bend of the river, by the sight of some ten or a dozen elephants of all sizes indulging in a bath in the now shallow water, wading, wallowing, or squirting it over their backs. It was evidently such a sanctuary that the great animals felt no fear of being disturbed, and the boat and its occupants remained unnoticed, Sree having signed to the men to run it close in under the shore on the right. Here, through the doubling back of the river, they were not above a couple of hundred yards across the intervening jungle from where they had come up and the old hunter had first heard the noise made by the herd. They sat for some time watching the actions of the strange, unwieldy-looking creatures, and would have been content to remain longer had not the largest of the animals, after syringeing himself to his heart's content, trumpeted loudly and begun to wade out of the river, taking a course which, if continued, would have brought him to the shore close to the boat. Wild elephants can be very dangerous if roused; but here there was nothing to fear, for the men could with a few strokes have put the boat into deep water where an elephant was not likely to follow; so in obedience to Mr. Kenyon's order, the rowers rested on their oars and the elephant came on, nearer and nearer, his great head nodding and bowing from side to side, and his eyes fixed upon the surface, till suddenly taking the scent of the travellers, borne by the light air, he stopped short, caught sight of them as he raised his head, and stood as if turned to stone, staring at them for some seconds, before uttering a strange cry of alarm and dashing back, with ears flapping and extended trunk, towards his companions. The first cry of alarm was sufficient, every elephant churning up the water in the endeavour to be first on the farther shore. The party watched till the last beast had disappeared, the first making straight for the jungle and plunging right in through a hole it made apparently in the great wall of greenery, the others following in single line after it, and, according to custom using its footprints, till the biggest, who appeared to be as massive as old Sul, passed through, and the elastic stems and vines seemed to spring back in their places. "Why, Phra," said Harry, "I did not know that we had wild elephants so near. Did you know, Sree?" "Yes, Sahib; I have seen that herd many times, and could lead the King's elephant-catchers to their hiding-place if they were wanted; but they have not been wanted yet." "It is a curious country," said Mr. Kenyon; "we seem to know nothing of it a few miles from any of the rivers." The open part they were in looked so bright and attractive that, regardless of the near neighbourhood of the elephants, it was decided merely to go to the upper end of the shallows where the jungle closed in again, and where a sufficiently umbrageous tree could be found projecting over the river to add to their shelter, and then camp for the night. Here a fire was once more lit, and while the preparations for the evening meal went on, the doctor and the two boys took their guns for a stroll back along the open stretch of grass they had passed. "Don't be long," said Mr. Kenyon. "Which means, don't go too far," replied the doctor. "We shall not. It is only to stretch our legs a bit, for the boat is rather cramping." The intention was good and wise, but the object intended soon proved to be almost an impossibility. The stretch of open land between the river and the jungle looked at a distance much like a fair meadow, and it struck Harry from that point of view. "Just the place for our cricket," he said to Phra, as, shouldering their guns, they stepped off after the doctor. "Mind how you come," said the latter, who was brought to a standstill. "The water has been all over here, and the place is full of cracks and holes. Try back a little your way." "Looks quite right here, sir," cried Harry. "It's as solid as--Oh--Hi! Phra, catch hold of my gun." The boy laid his own piece down, caught at the barrel of Harry's, and pulling hard, his companion, who had sunk up to his knees and was steadily going lower, was able to struggle back. "Oh, here's a mess!" he panted, stamping to get rid of the mud. "You didn't choose the right direction, Hal," said the doctor, laughing. "No, sir," said Harry meekly. "Will you go first?" "Yes, I think I can do better than that, my lad. Let's strike right across here towards where the elephants went out of sight. The ground must be firmer there." The boys prepared to follow, as the doctor led off; but Harry directed a malicious glance at his companion, which seemed to say plainly, "Look out, and see if he doesn't go in." But Harry felt disappointed and ill-used, as well as wet and muddy about the legs, for the doctor strode off steadily for about twenty yards, the boys following over perfectly firm ground. "You should pick your way in a place like this, my lads. It only needs--" _Care,_ the doctor was about to say, but he did not; for all at once, to Harry's intense delight, his leader uttered a sharp ejaculation, and, throwing himself flat on the ground, began to roll over and over, with his gun held upright against his breast, till he was close to the boys' feet, where he sat up, drew the stout hunting-knife he wore at his breast, and began to scrape the mud off one leg. "Was it soft there, sir?" said Harry, with mock seriousness. "Soft!" cried the doctor. "Oh, you're laughing at me, eh? Well, I'm fair game, I must own. Here, step back! quick! both of you. We're sinking." It was quite true, for there was a bubbling, hissing, and gurgling sound arising from among the grassy growth, and the black water began to ooze up among the stems, so that as the boys ran back it splashed up, and the doctor followed, none too soon. "Why, the whole place is a marsh," he said, looking back as soon as the ground felt more solid. "It is just as if the water of the river spread right up to the jungle and this part had become covered with weeds and plants till they were matted together and looked like a meadow." "But," cried Harry, "I want to know how the elephants managed." "There must be a sort of causeway of firm ground somewhere out in the middle there," replied the doctor. "I daresay we should find it so if we went back with the boat to where the great creatures came out of the water." "And we couldn't have the boat now, I suppose," said Harry, glancing in the direction of camp. "No, but it does not matter. We should only find a muddy, elephant path, full of holes." "Sorry I was so stupid, doctor," said Harry. The doctor turned to him sharply and nodded. "Yes, you have me on the hip there, Hal. Take it as a warning to yourself not to be in too great a hurry to condemn other people." Phra smiled. "What are we going to do?" he said. "It's too soon to go back." "Well, we can't walk on this floating green carpet," replied Harry. "Could we get along by the river?" "We could try," said the doctor. "Or go up along the edge of the jungle. We ought to find something worth shooting there." "Let's try the edge of the jungle," said the doctor. "The ground must be firmer there." Striking up to their right, they managed to get about fifty yards nearer the edge of the forest; but then they had to turn back and make for a point nearer the little camp, where two or three huge trees stood out like sentinels in front of the vast army of vegetation packed closely as trees could stand. Here the earth proved to be firm, and for a few dozen yards they managed to progress among the trees at the very edge of the jungle. After that the way was stopped by the interlacing creepers and thorny rotans, and after a few minutes' trial it became evident that without the help of stout men with their parangs to clear the way, further progress was impossible. "Let's go back again," said Harry. "One does get so hot and fagged." "Better keep walking till your legs are dry," said the doctor. "I don't want you down with a feverish cold." "They're nearly dry now," said Harry, "and they'll be quite dry by the time we get back." "Yes," said Phra; "it's farther off than we think for, and will take longer." "Back again, then," said the doctor; "but I do not like to be beaten like this. I wanted to see more of the elephants and their ways." "Come to the big stables, then, Doctor, when we get back. Phra will take you and let you see all there are at home; won't you, Phra?" "Of course, if the doctor wishes to see them." "Much obliged," replied the doctor; "but it's the wild ones I want to study. What's that?" He stopped short, and brought his gun round ready to fire at any danger which might assail them from the jungle. The boys had heard what startled their companion, and cocked their guns. For suddenly there was the quick rush of something behind the dense screen of verdure--a something which seemed to have been watching them, and had darted off as soon as they came near. "Wild pig?" asked Harry. "No, I think it was more like a man," replied the doctor. "What do you say, Phra?" "I think it was a man, but how could a man rush through the jungle like that? We must ask Sree if there are any wild tribe people about here." "There would not be nearer than the mountain region," said the doctor; "but whatever it was has gone. Look, they're making signals for us to come back." The boys looked in the direction of the camp, where a thin mat had been hoisted, flag fashion, at the end of one of the bamboo poles of the boat; and hurrying their steps a little they reached the great tree beneath which the cooking fire had been made, to find the boatmen finishing their rice, and a capitally cooked meal waiting for them in the boat. Sree shook his head at the suggestion of any people being near. "Plenty of wild beasts, Sahib; and I have seen the tracks of a tiger that has been down to the water. There are plenty of monkeys, too, the greybeards and the big, black fellows; but I don't think we should find savage people here in the jungle. It would be a wild boar or a rhinoceros. No, not a rhinoceros; he would not have run away. It might have been a tapir." The evening changed very rapidly into night, and with the darkness came the wonderful chorus of strange sounds from the jungle and banks of the river, the splashings and coughing, barking utterances giving warning that the crocodiles were still plentiful. The fire-flies were even more beautiful there than in the denser portion where the river banks were hidden by great timber trees, for on both sides lower down the low, shrub-like growth was more abundant. The scene was very beautiful, with the star-studded, clear, dark, sky above, and the reflection as it were of another star-spangled heaven in the smooth, gliding water at their feet, while the myriads of fire-flies suggested the existence of another intermediate star sphere in constant motion, now scintillating, now dying out, and again as if floating along the opposite shore like a low cloud of tiny orbs, golden-green, golden, pale lambent, and occasionally ruddier than Aldebaran or some kindred star. There was less disposition for sitting up talking that night, and soon after the fire was well replenished, and its necessity made plain. Phra was the first to call attention to the distant cry, which was exactly that of some enormous cat far away in the jungle. "Calling his mate," said Mr. Kenyon. "Perhaps the tiger whose tracks Sree saw in the soft mud this evening," said Harry. "I suppose he will not come near our fire, or try to get on board. Think we ought to keep watch, father?" "Oh no, my boy. We are floating out here a good thirty feet from the land." "But suppose the boat drifts to the side in the night?" suggested Phra. "It is not probable, for we are right where the stream sets off the shore. We are not likely to be disturbed, boys. There is the proof." Mr. Kenyon pointed to where the men had spread the mats over the horizontal bamboo, and were settling down to sleep. "Yes, that is a pretty good sign," said the doctor; "the men would not take matters so coolly if there were any danger from tigers." "Did the Sahibs hear the big tiger calling?" said Sree, thrusting his head out from beneath the men's awning. "Yes, quite plainly," said Harry. "Think he'll come prowling about the fire, so as to give us a shot?" "No, no, Sahib," replied the man, shaking his head; "he will be too careful." "That was a clever way of putting it, Hal," said the doctor drily. "You did not say, Is there any fear of the tiger's swimming out to us?" "No; why should I tell him that I was a bit nervous?" replied Harry frankly; "even if one does feel a bit scared, I can't help it, can I, father?" "No, my boy; it is quite natural to feel a little nervous, and to make sure that one's gun is loaded and close at hand. But we must get used to these noises. We can't expect to come out here and live in such a wild place without being a bit startled sometimes. Good-night, boys. But you have not fastened down that mat to shut out the night air." "Just going to, father," replied Harry. "I don't think, though, that we shall have so much mist here." The final good-nights were said just as the last murmurs of the men's conversation forward died out, and then all was still, the darkness being relieved by the rays from the fire, which crackled and burned merrily, the light coming quite brightly at times through the interstices of the mats, and then, as the smoke rolled up decreasing again; while after shifting his position to get into a more comfortable attitude, Harry Kenyon drew a long, deep breath, with a touch of a yawn in it, and then told himself that he did not mean to feel in the slightest degree nervous about the strangeness of their position, but was going to have a good, long night's rest. CHAPTER XIX A NIGHT ALARM Sleep comes and sleep goes, and always seems beyond our control. Sometimes the weary one drops off soundly the moment his head has been comfortably settled upon the pillow; at other times, however tired he may have been before going to bed, the very fact of having undressed has so thoroughly wakened him up that the object for which he has come to bed has been completely banished. It was so with Harry Kenyon in some respects that night. He had not undressed, and he had not gone to bed, only made himself as comfortable as he could on a mat pillow two thwarts of the boat, using his hand as a pillow. As comfortable as he could! but it was not very comfortable, for the bottom of the boat was as hard as the one quill which the Irishman put beneath him to try what sleeping on a feather-bed was like. There was too much light in the open cabin, and he could hear the _ping-wing_ of mosquitoes above him in the roof. He shut his eyes tightly, but every now and then he could see that his eyelids looked translucent. The water was making quite a loud, rushing noise against the sides of the boat, and the barkings, croakings, and indescribable noises from jungle and river-bank seemed to be increasing minute by minute. Harry shifted his position a little, and then felt annoyed, for close at hand he could hear a steady, deep breathing which he knew was his father's, and from just beyond, another deep respiration with a faint buzz in it, which was evidently the doctor's breath coming and going through his big, thick, ruddy-brown moustache. "Why can't I go to sleep like that?" muttered the lad. "I'm just as tired as they are, and yet I feel as if I were going to lie awake all night." Harry uttered a sound very strongly resembling the grunt of one of the lower animals, and then resettled himself. "Now I will go to sleep," he muttered. But a quarter of an hour must have passed, and he was as wakeful as ever, while he was quite sure that he had heard the low, mournful cry of the tiger very near. "Asleep, Phra?" No answer. "Phra! the tiger's coming quite near." This in a whisper, but there was no response, for Phra was sleeping soundly. "Oh, how hot it is! I can't hardly breathe," muttered Harry; "and there are those wretched old Siamese snoring under the mat forward as if they were doing it on purpose to keep me awake.--Wish I could get up and go for a walk.--How stupid! It's mad enough to go for a walk when it's broad daylight. I know it's impossible, and yet I get wishing such an idiotic thing as that.--Might sit up and open the mat, though, and watch the fire-flies. "What stuff," he said to himself the next moment; "who's going to sit up all night watching fire-flies dancing about like sparks in tinder? Besides, if I opened the matting it might give some of us cold and fever, and it would be all my fault. Oh, why can't I go to sleep! There never was such an unlucky fellow as I am." He tried turning, but he could not get into a more comfortable position, and he turned back and listened to the splashings in the river coming nearer and going farther away. Once more he began to think of a huge serpent up in the tree swinging itself down, and a faint rustling in the thatch he was sure must be the great reptile's head as it kept on touching the palm leaf matting; and in imagination he saw the forked tongue flicking in and out of the nick in the upper jaw, till a loud tap told him that it was only a beetle inside instead of outside, and it had lost its hold and fallen to the bottom of the boat. "That was all fancy," he said to himself; "but that rustling noise ashore is not. I believe it's some big animal searching about the camp." _Crack!_ "There, I knew it. A buffalo, I believe, and it put its hoof on a dead stick." _Crack, crick, crick, crackle, crackle._ Harry sighed with relief and opened his eyes widely to see how much lighter the interior of the matting and bamboo cabin had become through the fire ashore falling in, and some of the piled-up wood catching and burning briskly. "Now then," the listener said to himself, "what am I going to fancy next?--I dunno," he added, after a pause. "I'm so wakeful, I could fancy anything. I know what I'll do. I'll go and wake old Sree, and get him to sit and talk to me." Harry paused to think again. The old hunter was lying just outside the cabin, and the nearest to it of the men. Then Mike with his currant-dumpling-like face was beside him, and he would not want to wake him too. How was he to manage? If Sree had been sleeping in the side of the boat, he could have stretched out his hand and touched him, as there was no awning there, nothing but some baskets. But the great difficulty was how to get past Phra and his father and the doctor before he could reach the matting, pull it aside, and touch Sree. It seemed impossible. It was very dark now, and there would be three pairs of legs to get over, and he felt sure that he would stumble over them and wake everybody up. How to manage--how to do it--how to get by--how to get by? How to get by? It was so easy. Sree woke up at a touch, and they sat on the top of the cabin and watched the fire-flies--and the blazing fire. They listened to croakings and cries and the low howl of the tiger, which did not seem to be successful in finding his mate, and it was very calm and restful and pleasant out there in the night, only they dared not move for fear the thatch should give way, and let them both through on the top of those sleeping below. And so they sat and whispered and talked about the elephants bathing, and the big one scenting them at last and giving the alarm, and the whole herd disappearing after crossing that green marsh place which let them through when they were walking. There was that strange rush that they heard too, that which Sree said was a wild boar, and then--_bump!_ What was that? It was to Harry Kenyon just as if a boat had thumped up against theirs, and some one with a voice like his own had asked that question. But there was no answer. All was perfectly still in the cabin, while the noises in the jungle and on the river banks were not so loud. It was all dark too, for the fire had burned down, and there was no glimmering light through the interstices of the mats. But he felt that he ought to see that fire, even if it were merely the glowing embers, seated as he was up there on the top of the cabin roof. Absurd! How could he be sitting up there, and with Sree too! They could not have got up there, and he was in his place in the cabin. All that was dreaming. "Then I have been asleep," he said to himself. "I must have dropped off hours ago, and lain here till that woke me. Some one said, 'What was that?' No; I said it to myself, and seemed to hear it." Harry ceased his musings, feeling that he was certainly wide awake now, and as certain that he had been awakened by a bump on the side of the boat, for there was a faint grinding sound as of another boat rubbing up against the side. The boy turned hotter then in the darkness, for there was a low whispering plainly heard, and the first thought which came to him now was that some boat had come to attack them in the night, a boatload of the wild, piratical people who lived by robbing and bloodshed. He had from time to time heard of junks and trading boats being attacked and plundered, but only rarely in their neighbourhood. Certainly, though, this was one, and his hand stole to his gun, which he grasped tightly as with a quick movement he rose to a sitting position so that he might alarm his father. Just then there was a quick, rustling sound as the matting curtain which separated them from the men forward was drawn aside, and with a strange sensation of palpitation in his breast, instead of calling to his sleeping companions, the lad involuntarily cocked both barrels of his gun. The loud _click, click--click, click_ gave the alarm. "Who's that?" cried Mr. Kenyon, springing up. "It is I, Sahib--Sree," came in the familiar voice. "Yes! What is it?" said Mr. Kenyon, and as he spoke the clicking of gun-cocks, in company with a quick movement, told plainly enough that the other two occupants of the cabin were awake, and well on the alert for whatever danger there might be. "Adong has come, Sahib," said Sree, whose voice trembled. "Adong? What does this mean--is it some treachery?" "I fear so, Sahib," said Sree huskily. "And you have come to warn us?" "Yes, Sahib." "Come in here, then. Harry, hand this man a gun and ammunition. You, Sree--there is a boat out there?" "Yes, Sahib; the one Adong came in." "With a party of men?" "No, no, Sahib; he came alone." "Ah, and the men all side against us?" "Yes, Sahib; I suppose all." "Very well; then we must fight. But who is Adong?" "The Sahib knows him: the young one of the two boys who help me hunt for wild things in the jungle." "Oh, that young fellow!" "Yes, Sahib; he looks to me as to a father." "And yet goes against you?" "He go against me, Sahib?" cried the man. "Why, he would lay down his life for me. As soon as he knew, he seized the first boat he could swim to and followed us up the river." "But you said the men were all against us." "Yes, Sahib; as far as I can make out, all the fighting men have risen, and they are killing and burning; and when Adong came after me, they were going in a great crowd with spear and kris against the King's house." "What!" cried Phra wildly, and Harry caught his arm. "Hush!" he whispered; "it may not be so bad. That man may have taken fright." "You hear all this, Cameron?" said Mr. Kenyon hoarsely. "Hear it!" groaned the doctor. "It is what we have always dreaded. And I am here! Oh, Kenyon, my wife--my wife!" Mr. Kenyon drew a deep breath. "Thanks, Sree," he said calmly; "I thought you meant there was danger here. Wake up the men at once." "They are all awake and listening to Adong, Sahib. He had to run for his life. What will the Sahib do?" "Go back at once." "No, no, Sahib," cried the hunter wildly; "it would mean death to you all. They would seize the Prince, and kill him. You must wait till day, and then we will go on right up into the jungle, where you must hide till there is peace again, and you can go back home. We can get food for you, and a hiding-place where the people who come to find and kill the young Prince shall never find where you are." "Mr. Kenyon, you will not listen to this man?" cried Phra wildly; but he received no answer, for just then the doctor gripped his friend tightly by the arm in the darkness which seemed to add to the horror of the terrible situation. "Kenyon," he whispered, "I am weak and ill. I cannot think. This stroke has driven me mad. Act for me, old friend--think for me. Help me to save my wife." Mr. Kenyon's reply was a firm pressure of the hand, but some moments elapsed before he spoke. "Sree," he said at last, "you are a brave, true servant, and your advice is good; but neither the doctor nor I can do as you say. What boat is this that has joined us? A small one, of course?" "Yes, Sahib; it is for two rowers, but it was the only one Adong could get." "It will do. Now listen, for I trust you." "Yes, the Sahib always trusted his servant," replied Sree proudly. "You will take command of this boat that we are in, and I trust to you and your men to fight for and protect your young Prince and my son." "As long as we can fight, Sahib," said the man proudly. "We all love them, and would die for them." "I know it, Sree. Then I trust you to find some hiding-place where they will be safe till this rising is at an end." "Yes, Sahib; but what will the master and the doctor Sahib do?" said Sree excitedly, and without heeding the eager whispering going on close by. "We take the small boat now directly, and go down the river." "But it would be to meet boats coming up, Sahib," said the man excitedly. "You would be running upon bad men's spears." "We have our guns, and shall be prepared," said Mr. Kenyon coldly. "But the little sampan--in the darkness, Sahib. You would overset, and that means a horrible death too." "Then you will ask two men to volunteer to take us." "Adong and I would row you safely back, Sahib," said the man earnestly. "No; I cannot spare you from watching over my son. You and your man, who know him so well, must stay." "Sahib, we cannot spare you and the good doctor Sahib. Pray, pray do not try to go back. It would be only to lose your lives." "Silence, man! We go to save the doctor Sahib's wife." "Ah, yes! the sweet, good lady," sighed Sree. "And the King is our friend; we cannot leave him like this. No more words; obey my orders." "No!" shouted Harry, out of the darkness. "Stop where you are." "Harry!" cried Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, father, I hear; but if the King has been attacked, and--and--you know what I mean," said the boy, choking for a moment, "Phra says he is King and master now, and that this shall not be. We say we won't be treated like children and be sent away to be taken care of while you go down the river to fight." "That is right," said Phra firmly. "Let me speak now, Hal. You are going to save dear Mrs. Cameron from these wretches--these fools, who have risen against my father; we must go too. You are going to try and save your friend, my father, who has never done anything but good for his people." "Yes, and--" "I have not spoken all, Mr. Kenyon," said the boy proudly. "You are going to try and save him. Well, I am his son. Not a man yet, but I can fight; and where should I be but helping to save him? What! Do you want him, if he lives, to be ashamed of the boy who ran away to hide in the woods? Do you want Hal to let his father go alone? Do you think we two could ever look dear Mrs. Cameron in the eyes again if we had been such a pair of cowards as that? No: Hal and I are coming with you, but there are not enough of us to attack and fight with all those wretches. We must try cunning against them, and go to the doctor's bungalow and to the palace by night, and bring those who are waiting for us to the boat. Then we can come back into the jungle to wait till my father goes back again to take his place. Now, Sree, clear away the mats and unfasten the boat; we must start back at once. Cast off the other, it will be in the way." A heavy sigh rose from one occupant of the cabin, a deep groan from another, but not a word of opposition came from either of the elders; and the next minute the men forward were busy rolling up the mats and unmooring the boat, while two crept along outside the cabin to take their oars. It was still intensely dark, for the matting at the cabin sides had not been rolled up, and Mr. Kenyon sat trying to whisper a few words of comfort to the doctor, who seemed completely prostrated by the news, when the former felt a hand laid upon his arm, and he started slightly, for in the black darkness he had not noticed that some one had drawn near. "You are not very angry with me, father?" was whispered. "Angry with you, my boy? No." "Nor with me, Mr. Kenyon?" "Nor yet with you, Phra, my dear lad. No. You made me feel very, very proud; but I think that I ought not to let you run such risks." "God bless you both, boys, for what you have said," groaned the doctor. "Boys? No; you spoke like men, while I sit here feeling weak and helpless as a child. But I shall be better soon--in a few minutes I shall be a man once more, and we must all talk, and plan, and scheme. For Phra is right; it must be done with cunning, as we are so weak. Now please leave me to myself for a few minutes. First tell me, though, are we going back?" "Yes," said Harry, after looking out between the mats; "the boat is steadily going with the stream. The other is floating yonder." The doctor drew a deep breath. "Hah!" he said; "that has taken a weight from my breast. Going back--going to the rescue. Heaven help us! Shall we be too late?" CHAPTER XX A DREARY RETURN Harry was correct: the boat was gliding steadily back with the stream, and Sree was standing right forward in the prow, looking out and uttering warnings from time to time of dangers ahead, in the shape of fallen trees, while he kept on admonishing the men to be content with keeping the boat straight while the darkness lasted, and deferring all attempts at making speed till the day came. It was still very dark, the stars being nearly blotted out by the thin mist; but there were sundry significant hints that morning was approaching, for the scintillation of the fire-flies had ceased, and the chorus of reptile and wandering beast in the depths of the forest was dying away. Leaving Mr. Kenyon and the doctor talking, the boys were standing together right astern beyond the two rowers there, who were too intent upon working their oars to pay any heed to them and their discourse, though as it was carried on in English, they could have made out nothing, had they listened. "I'm glad father wasn't cross," said Harry after several awkward attempts at getting up a conversation, Phra having replied to all he said in monosyllables, as in the present instance. "Yes." "It seemed so queer to get up and contradict his orders, and say we would do as we liked." "Yes," said Phra, with a sigh, and then he added, "but it was quite right, for we both felt that it was like doing our duty." "Ah!" cried Harry eagerly. "So it was. Look here, Phra, old chap, don't you be down-hearted." "I am not going to be till I know the worst." "That's the way to take it; for look here, that Adong would only know that there was gong-beating and spearing and setting places on fire--a regular riot. He would not know anything about how matters were at the palace." "No; he could not," said Phra, with a sigh. "And your father has got plenty of fighting men, who could soon stop a mob." "If they were faithful to him," said Phra, sighing. "Oh well, they would be for certain." "I don't know," said Phra. "I have always been afraid of this. You see, the second king has made friends with the bonzes, and they can talk and preach to the people, and make them believe almost anything about my father." "Because he does all kinds of scientific things," said Harry, "that they cannot understand." "Yes," said Phra; "it is the old story. They are too stupid to grasp the meaning of all he does, and because they cannot understand it, they teach the people to believe that it is all what you English people call 'witchcraft' and wickedness. Oh, I have not patience with the silly babies--they are not men." "I hope we shall have a chance to knock some of their thick heads together. There, you are getting in better heart now about the news." Phra turned upon him sadly. "Are you getting in better heart about poor Mrs. Cameron?" he said. "Oh, Phra!" cried Harry passionately. "Don't." "You tell me to be of good heart about my father and you are in despair about Mrs. Cameron." "Yes, that's right," cried Harry passionately; "but I won't be so any longer, for I don't believe that any of your people, even the very worst of them, would be such wretches as to hurt her." Phra uttered a low groan. "What!" cried Harry. "You do believe they would?" "Our people," said Phra sadly, "are, as my father has said to me, quiet and good and gentle as can be. They always seem merry and happy; but deep down in their nature there is a something which can be stirred up, and then they are like the fierce savages from the mountains yonder. They will do anything terrible then, and these wretches who are trying to place the second king in my father's place know that and have driven them to rise. Hal, we can't tell what may have happened till we get down home; but if they have killed my father, I am king, and I shall pray night and day that I may grow quickly into a man, so that I may kill and kill and kill till I feel that my dear father is avenged. It will be war until I have done my duty there." Harry was silent, as he stood listening and gazing in his companion's face, which had suddenly seemed to start out of the darkness--the face alone; all else was pretty well invisible--and there it was, a strange, pale, ghastly-looking visage, distorted by the agony in the boy's breast, and the deadly determination the pangs had brought forth. Harry shuddered, and for some time the only sounds heard were the murmur of voices in the cabin and the _swish_ of water as the men dipped their oars. "Your father was right," said the English boy at last. "What about?" said Phra hoarsely. "About the Siamese people being so amiable and gentle until they are stirred." "Yes, I see what you mean," replied Phra, "and I suppose it is so, Hal. I feel as if I can see my poor father lying dead and covered with bad wounds given by a set of cowards rushing upon him, and it makes me seem to see blood, and I want to punish them for killing one who has thought of nothing but doing the people good." "There, don't think such things any more," cried Harry. "I won't. It can't be true. I'm going to believe that we shall find him and Mrs. Cameron quite well. Yes; I know how it would be, for your father is such a thorough gentleman in his ways, and so thoughtful. As soon as he heard of there being any trouble, he would either go or send one of the people with a lot of spearmen to protect them, and bring Mrs. Cameron and all the English people into the palace. Now then, what have you got to say to that?" "Yes, I think he is sure to have done that," said Phra, speaking very slowly and gravely. "He would--if he had time; but suppose the first he heard of the trouble was in the mad rush made by his murderers." "Shan't!" cried Harry. "I won't suppose anything of the kind. But I say, it's a pity that we didn't take more notice about what I heard said that day when we were lying in the boat place." "Yes," said Phra; "but I did not think we need mind a few bitter words. Such things have been so often said by the discontented people." "Discontented!" cried Harry angrily; "and a deal they had to be discontented about! They always seemed, from the poorest to the richest, as comfortable and as happy as could be." The morning broke as bright and sunny as ever, but to those on board the boat all was changed. The excitement and delight of the trip, with its constant array of fresh objects, were gone. The birds which flashed out of the trees looked dull of colour; the troops of monkeys bounding through the branches on either side were unnoticed; and the gorgeous displays of flowers that here and there greeted the eyes of the travellers excited no attention. The crocodiles seemed to Harry to be the only things in keeping with their situation, as in a gloomy, despondent way he went to the fore part of the boat to look out for them on a mud bank, or lying, with only their eyes visible on the surface of the water, in some eddy or pool. The constant presence of these loathsome reptiles suggested to him the troubles at the city and its outskirts. And he felt that there would be fighting, with people slain and tossed into the stream, where the crocodiles would gather in swarms; and there were moments when he almost wondered that some strange instinct did not lead the horrible creatures to follow the boat instead of hiding in the dark parts, where the trees hung their branches low down and touching the water. After a time he heard his name called, and he went back to the cabin, where he felt quite hurt and disgusted to see that Mike had prepared a comfortable breakfast, and his friends were waiting for him before beginning. Harry's face must have spoken plainly his wonder at seeing the doctor, so short a time before overcome with grief, looking perfectly calm and serious, and prepared to take his place. His father noticed it, and spoke at once. "Yes, my boy," he said, "we must eat and drink, or the machinery will be useless when we want it most for thinking and acting. Sit down and make a good breakfast." "Oh, father," cried the boy passionately, "I feel as if I could not touch anything." "We all do, Hal," said Mr. Kenyon; "but we may have to fight, and we shall require all our strength in our efforts to save Mrs. Cameron and the King." Harry nodded, took his place, and--there is no other way of describing what followed--ate and drank savagely, acting as if every morsel or draught that passed his lips were to give him strength for what might come. The meal was soon ended, and Mike received his orders to see that the men were refreshed, while the doctor and Mr. Kenyon commenced talking, with the result that the two boys now went right aft and sat together looking up stream. For some minutes neither spoke, and then Harry broke out angrily:-- "It makes me feel mad," he cried. "Yes," said Phra, "and one feels the worse at having to sit here and wait, without being able to do anything." "I didn't mean that," cried Harry angrily; "I mean about sitting and eating and drinking there, just as if I was an animal without any feeling. It's horrible." "Your father was quite right," said Phra; "we do want to be strong." Harry grunted, and turned away his face, to sit scowling at the river, while Phra rested his head upon his hand. "Oh," cried Harry at last, "I should like to kill some one." Phra smiled at him sadly. "Perhaps we shall have to try before long," he said. "I hope so. I should like to help kill all the wretches who have made all this trouble." "Should you?" said Phra, with a faint smile. "But look here, Hal, you will try and help me to save my father?" "Will I?" cried the boy angrily. "Why, you know I will. Here, Phra, let's try and think out some way of getting him out of the palace." "I'm afraid we shall find that he has shut himself up there, and that we cannot get near him." "Well, so long as he is safe we need not mind." They sat on talking and planning together, more for the sake of keeping from dwelling on the great trouble than from any hope of thinking out something feasible, and the day wore on till the boat was drawn up to an opening in the apparently endless jungle. Harry said to his companion that it was a shame, but it was a necessity. Food had to be cooked for the men as well as for themselves, and it was no loss of time, for after a couple of hours' rest the men worked with renewed energy, the boat gliding swiftly down the stream till it became too dark to venture farther amidst the many dangers to navigation. In fact, they had kept on till, in spite of the native boatmen's skill, the light craft was run half over a huge tree-trunk lying out at right angles to the bank, and for a time a terrible capsize was imminent. For the bows were clean out of the river for some distance, and the water began to rush in over the stern, till several of the men crept forward, with the result that the bows went down so suddenly, as the craft balanced on the great trunk, that the water rushed in at the other end, and it seemed to be a foregone conclusion that they would sink. For with a rush and a plunge they cleared the obstacle, gliding over into the deep water, the boat filling to gunwale as she came to a level again, with every one preparing to swim for the nearest shore. But Sree called upon the little crew to follow his example, and they all glided overboard, taking opposite sides, and supported themselves by holding on to the boat. Then, in obedience to calls from Sree, the boys handed the men various articles from Mike's little kitchen arrangements. Those left on board took crock and bucket, and from their united efforts in baling, all danger of sinking was soon at an end, while in a few minutes the men one by one crept back into the boat, where they could bale with more effect. Finally the boat was entirely freed from water, and an opening, which happened to be near at hand, was reached, a fire made for drying clothes, and as wretched a night as could be imagined was spent. But they were all dry and able to start the moment it began to be light, and that day was a repetition of the preceding, and followed by another despondent night, this time, though, one which gave refreshment to all. That next day they knew they would reach the river town, and had to time themselves so as not to get there before dark, in spite of the eagerness for news. But it was hard to contrive everything to their wishes. It had been expected that they would get right back two hours before sunset, and this meant lying up in some creek for that space, while Sree or Adong went forward by land to reconnoitre and bring news of the state of affairs; but it so happened that the tide had not been counted upon, and instead of gliding down with the stream for the latter part of the way, they had to force the boat against an adverse current, so that it became hard work to get to their destination by dark. CHAPTER XXI A HIDING-PLACE Long before the more familiar parts of the river were reached, preparations had been made in the way of seeing that the guns were loaded, though their use would be only in some grave emergency, since it was fully grasped that force would in all probability be of no avail. Clever scheming must be the weapon, though how to bring it to bear would depend upon circumstances. At last they were nearing the part of the river where it was lined with the walls of the great temples, and farther on with boats. In a very short time they would be abreast of the palace and of the little English quarter, Mr. Kenyon's home being farthest away. And now, to the surprise of all, Sree spoke out earnestly, unasked. "If the place is in the hands of the rebels," he said, "the Sahibs would lose their lives directly they landed." "I cannot help that," said the doctor. "I must land as soon as I am near home." "The doctor Sahib will not be doing his best to save his wife," said Sree sternly. "No, Doctor, you must stay in the boat while I land," said Phra. "To be killed at once," said Sree. "No, we will not let our Prince land now. Sahibs, I am like the rest of the people, and I can go ashore without being stopped. You must trust to me to go first and bring news." "I cannot wait; it is impossible," said the doctor. "I must go and find what has happened to my father." cried Phra. And all the time the boat was being urged steadily on by the rowers, nearer and nearer to the river town; but so far there was nothing to suggest danger, for the customary sounds arose like a low murmur from the distance, and a faint glow hung above the river--the reflection from the paper lanthorns hanging from the boats. "All seems to be unchanged," said Mr. Kenyon, breaking a long pause. "Yes; it may be a false alarm," said the doctor. "Tell your men to row faster, Sree, and to stop at the first landing-place beyond the palace." "The Sahib doctor does not see," replied the old hunter. "Something must have happened. Where are the lights?" "Yonder," said the doctor, pointing to the reflection. "Oh, Sahib, those are as nothing," said the old man. "And we can hardly hear the city breathe. We are close there, and we see that faint light and hear that little buzz of voices. It's more like a few insects. When I have come out of the jungle far away, it has been more bright than that and twice as loud. Will the Sahib tell his friend the doctor he must stay and I must go and see?" "Yes, Cameron, Sree is right," said Mr. Kenyon. "Let him go first." "My wife!" said the doctor, in a hoarse whisper so full of despair that a choking sensation rose to Harry's throat as he sat there in the dark. "It means death, Sahib," said Sree plaintively, and the boat glided on, till, rounding a bend, those on board could see that very few lit-up houseboats were visible, and that the light came from the open ground on either side of the palace. While hardly had they grasped that when there was a sudden increase of the faint glow, and the loud, jarring noise of gongs beaten, followed by a scattered firing, the reports sounding loud in the darkness around. A thrill ran through all present, and each drew a deep breath, for it was evident that the danger was very close, and in all probability watchers might be hidden among the bushes of the river bank, whose presence would be made known by the throwing of spears. "The Sahib doctor hears," whispered the old hunter; "there is fighting going on by the palace. He will stay, and let his servant go and see?" "Yes; go," said the doctor huskily. "It is right, Cameron," whispered Mr. Kenyon.--"Now, Sree, what will you do?" "Leave it to me, Sahib," was the reply, and turning to the men he whispered his orders, and all but one of the rowers laid in their oars, while the last just sent the boat gently along under the farther bank of the river where the eddy made the task less difficult, and for the next few hundred yards they glided along under the walls and terraces of the principal Wats or temples, till they drew near to the palace, and Harry laid his hand upon that which came out of the darkness and gripped his arm. "Look," whispered Phra, in a hoarse whisper. "Yes; I see," was the reply, and the two boys strained their eyes to make out what was going on near the palace, where paper lanthorns were gliding here and there, and a low buzz arose as of many voices; but the palace itself, as far as they could make out for the trees, was quite dark, and not a sound arose. The firing had ceased before they drew near, and save the lights moving among the trees, and the buzz of voices, there seemed to be nothing more that they could learn. The boat glided on silently and without challenge, while to all appearances, as far as they could make out in the darkness, there was not another vessel on the river, till they had passed the stone landing-place and reached the other side of the palace, where again a few paper lanthorns were seen moving here and there, and now and again came the faint sound of talking. And now lower down they could just make out the lights of a few boats moored on their side of the river, but only a few, where they should have been packed close together. They were now nearing the bank where the bungalows of the English residents had been erected, and it needed a few passionate, appealing words on the part of Mr. Kenyon to make the doctor refrain from landing. "For aught we know there may be hundreds watching the boat," whispered Harry's father, "and your landing may mean the signal for a shower of spears. Sree, go on with your plans." "Then there must be silence, Sahib." "Yes, of course. Where will you land?" "Yonder, Sahib, and as soon as I have leapt on the bank Adong, who is rowing, will take the boat across again and tie it up." "Yes, and then?" "You will wait. A boat can lie there without being noticed even in the daytime. When I pipe like one of the little herons that fish from the bank, the boat must come over and fetch me, for I shall have news." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Kenyon hastily, while the rest eagerly drank in every word. "You will take one of the double guns?" "No, Sahib; nothing but my kris in my padung. If I take a gun and am seen, I shall seem an enemy and be speared." "Yes; right. And we are to wait until you come back?" "That is so," whispered Sree. "Now, silence. No one will speak. Adong knows." The next moment the prow of the light boat touched the dark bank, and Sree leaped right ashore. Harry held his breath, expecting to hear the rush of feet; but all was still, and the boat went gliding back through the darkness to the other side, where the men made it fast, and then squatted down upon their heels in perfect silence, watching the faint lights across the river. It was a terrible silence, and Harry wondered, as he sat there listening for anything which might give him a clue to the state of affairs, at the change which had taken place during their short absence. When they left, the place was bright with gaiety, and the river fringed with houseboats full of light-hearted people; now all was painfully still, save the murmur from the direction of the palace, while the river glided by, lapping the sides of the boat, and making the boy shudder as he thought of how much it could tell of the secrets hidden beneath its dark waters. All at once Phra started violently, for a loud shouting and beating of gongs arose once more from the direction of the palace. They could see lights, too, moving, as if a party were on their way to make an attack; but the sound of firing recommenced and kept on till the gong-beating ceased, when the lights seemed for the most part to die out. "Those mean attacks being made on the palace, Phra," whispered Harry, "and the firing is from our friends." "Yes," said Phra; "but it is so hard to bear. Hal, I must go across and see." "No," said a voice close to his ear. "You must stay and bear it, Phra, till we get news." "Don't say that, Mr. Kenyon," whispered Phra; "it is so terrible." "Yes, my boy, I know it; but be a man. It is evident that your father and his friends have beaten the enemy off again." "Or been killed," said Phra bitterly. "Oh no, my lad; if the enemy had won, there would have been a burst of shouting, and--" Mr. Kenyon paused, unwilling to proceed. "I know what you were going to say, Mr. Kenyon; they would have set fire to the palace." "Yes; they would have tried to burn the place," said Mr. Kenyon hurriedly. "Hist! a boat is coming." All crouched down lower in the bottom and waited, for there was the splash of oars and the murmur of many voices, suggesting that the boat must be large; and in a short time they could see that it was one of the biggest barges, propelled by many oars, while as the covered-in part loomed up before them in the darkness while passing, the rapid chatter told that it was crammed with men. There was little fear of their being noticed, as the boat lay close up under the bank, its occupants sitting so low that they were pretty well hidden by the side; but Harry held his breath, for he felt assured that these were fighting men on their way to join in the attack upon the palace. But his anticipation of a shower of spears was not realized, and the great barge, probably one of the king's, passed by without noticing them. As soon as the vessel was out of hearing, Harry whispered,-- "Is that full of friends or enemies, Phra?" "Enemies," said the lad bitterly. "If my father is shut up like that, and the palace being attacked, he will have no friends. Oh, how long--how long must I wait before I go to help?" "Patience, my boy, patience," said Mr. Kenyon softly; "we are all as anxious as you; but when we stir it must be to do good, not to increase your father's anxieties." "How could we?" said Phra impatiently. "By placing the son he believes to be beyond the reach of his enemies in a position of danger." "That was just the right thing to say to him, poor fellow!" thought Harry. "I wish I was as clever as my father. Poor old Phra! he can't say anything to that." Harry was right. Phra remained silent, but from time to time, as he sat with his hand resting upon his comrade's arm, the English boy could feel it quiver as if from the pain he suffered. Suddenly there was a fresh burst of shouting from across the river in the direction of the palace, suggestive of the occupants of the boat having joined those they supposed to be the besiegers; and now the party sat anxiously listening for another attack, but they waited in vain. And how long the time seemed that Sree had been away! It was impossible to make any calculation in such a position, but everything had for some time been silent in the direction of the palace, where the lights had gone out one by one, while lower down the river there was not one to be seen, only the twinkling of the fire-flies in the gardens on the other side. Suddenly the silence was broken by the doctor saying aloud,-- "Is he playing us false--has he escaped to save himself?" "No," said Mr. Kenyon firmly, "but speak lower. Sound travels along the river by night." "Sree would not cheat us, Mr. Cameron," said Harry bitterly. "I'll answer for him." "Then why doesn't he return--why doesn't he return?" "Because he has much to do." "But he must have been three hours away," said the doctor excitedly. "I cannot bear this inaction longer. Kenyon, you must have me put ashore yonder." "No," said Harry's father sternly; "I must take the lead here, for all our sakes. The man has his life to look to, and has no doubt had to thread his way among enemies." "He will not come back," said the doctor. "I will wait another half-hour, and then at all costs I will be set ashore." "Be silent, please," said Mr. Kenyon sternly. "Ah, there he is," whispered Harry, for there was a low, hoarse, piping cry from the opposite bank. Adong rose silently to his feet and raised his oar upright, while one of the men forward set the boat free and gave it a good thrust out into the current. Adong lowered his oar silently into the water, not making the slightest splash; but to the astonishment of the little English party, instead of urging the boat across he gave a few vigorous thrusts and drove her back to the bank, squatting down again in his place. "What does this mean?" whispered Mr. Kenyon sternly. "Hist! Boat coming," whispered back the man, in his own tongue. Those who heard him listened, but they could not hear a sound, and at the end of a few moments Mr. Kenyon turned angrily upon the man. "There is no boat," he said, in the man's language. "Row across directly." "No," said the man; "boat coming. Adong hear much farther than the master. Boat coming." Harry thought of the man's life in the jungle, passed in tracking the wild creatures with his teacher, Sree, and felt that his senses would be keener than theirs, so that the boy was in nowise surprised when at the end of a minute the faint, far-off sound of paddling was borne to his ears, and a boat came nearer--a boat propelled by only one oar, and as far as he could make out with only two people in it besides the rower, for he could hear whispering as it passed like a shadow on the dark background in front of where he sat. Adong made no movement till he was satisfied that the boat was out of hearing. Then uttering one word, the men who had held their prow to the bank once more gave a firm thrust, sending it into the current, and Adong sent the boat steadily across the river. "Quicker! quicker!" whispered Phra, for from lower down came the sound of oars being used with furious haste, and voices were heard speaking angrily, while having the tide in their favour the fresh boat came along at so rapid a rate that the one the English party were in had only just time to glide in among some overhanging bushes by the bank, when a good-sized barge passed by so near to them that Harry felt that they must have been seen, though the next moment he knew that the passers-by would have looked upon their boat as one moored to the bank and empty. "Sree!" "I am here, Sahib," whispered the hunter, stepping down to them as soon as the barge was beyond hearing; "that is an enemy's boat, I think, in chase of one which went up before." "Your news, man--your news!" whispered the doctor hoarsely. "I went to the doctor Sahib's house." "Yes! My wife?" "The doctor Sahib's house is gone." "Burned?" "Yes, Sahib, to ashes. There was no one there." "Did you go to the bungalow, Sree?" whispered Harry. "Burnt down to embers, Sahib Harry. Every house belonging to the English masters has been burned down." "But man--man!" whispered the doctor wildly, "what are houses? Our friends, the English people? have you found out nothing more?" "Yes, Sahib Doctor; the ladies were saved by the King and his spearmen. There was a great fight, and they were all taken to the palace. Not one was killed." "Thank God!" groaned the doctor, and a deep silence reigned for a few minutes--a silence Phra respected for the doctor's sake, though he was burning to hear more. At last the lad spoke. "How did you know this?" "From my boy, Lahn. I sought for and found him, my Prince. He saw everything: the fight, the English Sahibs and their ladies taken to the palace, and the houses burned by the people. Lahn is here with me now." "Tell me about my father," said Phra, with his voice trembling and an agonizing pain attacking him for fear lest he hoped too much. "He is safe?" "Safe when Lahn was with the crowd of men at sunset. He is in the part of the palace by the little court where the young Prince's rooms are. The gates are shut, and there is much fighting by the second king's friends, who are trying to get in." "And my father has all his brave spearmen to defend him?" There was silence. "Why do you not speak?" cried Phra angrily. "It is hard to tell, Sahib Phra," said the old hunter sadly. "Lahn tells me that the King's guards fought for him till he and the ladies and the Sahibs were safe in the palace; then at a word from one of the bonzes they threw down their spears and krises in the courtyard, and joined the King's enemies outside the walls." "The traitors--the traitors!" groaned Phra; "and we trusted them so. But tell me, Sree: those lights, the cries, and the beating of gongs to-night, what did it all mean?" "Fighting, Sahib. The King's friends are very few, but some of his servants are with him still, and they beat the enemy off. Spears cannot reach so far as guns. Lahn says fighting like that has gone on all day." "Hah!" ejaculated Phra. "But tell me: you, did you do nothing?" "Yes, Sahib Phra; that made me so long. I went up in the dark to where there are many hundreds of the enemy all about the palace." "But did you try to find a way by which we may get in tonight?" "No, Sahib; the enemy are many, and they watch every place." "But the terrace?" said Phra eagerly. "We could take the boat up there." "Two of the King's barges are there, with many men guarding the landing-place, so that the King and his friends should not escape by the river." "But at the back there, by the elephant houses?" "A hundred men are there." "By the garden?" "It is full of spearmen." "Oh, is there no place?" whispered Phra--"nowhere that we could crawl up unseen?" "The Sahib Prince knows the place better than his servant, and that it is strong. His servant would have tried to climb over the wall, but there were many men everywhere, and he could not get near." "If we could only let my father know that we are near!" said Phra excitedly. "If we could, Sahib," said Sree slowly, "he would command you to escape, and wait till the danger is at an end." "Yes--yes--he would wish me to go, but I cannot. Mr. Kenyon--Doctor--what shall we do?" "We must get help," said Mr. Kenyon promptly. "Phra, my dear lad, we can do nothing alone." "But who would help us at a time like this? The priests and the whole city have risen against my father; who will help us now?" "We must go down to the mouth of the river as soon as it is day, and see if there are any English or French vessels there. They would help us." "Lahn says the river is full of the second king's fighting boats, Sahib, and you could not go down. The boat would be stopped, and you would all be slain." There was silence in the boat till Sree spoke again. "The Sahibs must hide." "Hide?" cried Phra; "where could we hide now? We should be seen, and to please the bonzes the people would give us up." "You must hide in the boat, Sahib Phra," said the old hunter quietly. "What, go up the river again, and get into the jungle?" "No, Sahib; we must be here--close to the palace." "But with all the enemy's boats about, how can we?" said Mr. Kenyon. "By being bold, Sahib," said Sree. "His servant will make the boat look dirty and common with mats where the cabin is, and throw that into the river. The Sahibs must hide beneath the mats; the men can hide their good padungs and sit in the boat and fish and chew." "Yes, yes," said Phra; "no one would notice them. That is good. We must not go away." "But help?" said Mr. Kenyon; "we must get help." "His servant will swim to some boat, Sahib--he will find one, no doubt--and go down the river to try for help." "No," said Mr. Kenyon, "we want you here. I will write on a leaf of my pocket-book, and you must send one of your men." "Yes, Lahn would take it to an English ship if there is one," said Sree, whose voice suggested that he was pleased that he was wanted in the boat. "Lahn is here, Sahib. May he come on board?" "Of course." Sree uttered a peculiar sound, and a dark figure rose from the ground where it had lain flat, and glided down the bank into the boat. "Now across to the other shore where we can hide," said Mr. Kenyon. "No, Sahib," said Sree in a low, earnest whisper; "his servant has been thinking. We will go down to the landing-place at the bottom of the bungalow garden." "Why there?" said Phra excitedly. "Because the Sahib Prince's servant thinks if the cabin is taken down and thrown into the river to float away, the boat can be pushed between the big posts of the landing-place, and will lie under the bamboo floor." "Yes, when the tide's down," said Harry; "but when the tide rises, what then?" "The boat will be pushed close up against the bottom of the floor, and the water will rise a little round it, Sahib." "But we should be shut up like in a trap, Sree, and regularly caught," said Harry. "No, Sahib; the bamboos are split, and only tied down with rotan cane. It would be easy to undo two or three, so that we could pass out, or to leave a little of the boat outside one end, so that there would be room to get out on to the floor." "Well, you are a clever old fellow, Sree," said Harry eagerly. "And now the bungalow is burnt no one will come there." "No, Sahib; they will keep away. Does Sahib Kenyon feel that we should go there?" "Yes, my man, yes. It will be less of a risk, for boats that pass will not think of meddling with the one lying there." That was enough. Sree said one word, and Adong rose from where he had crouched, plunged his oar into the water, and forced the boat downward against the tide, while Sree and the boatmen set to work and cut loose the mats which hung from the cabin roof. These were carefully rolled up by one of the men, while the bamboo rafters were cut away. Then four men stood on the sides of the boat, each by one of the stout uprights, and at the word of command raised the light matting and palm-thatch roof, and heaved it away, to fall edgewise with a splash into the dark river. Ten minutes later the last of the four uprights was thrust overboard, and almost directly after the garden landing-place was reached, and Sree's calculations were put to the test. They proved to be quite correct, for there was just room for the boat to glide in between the bamboo posts; and as to height, the occupants were able to keep upon their seats with a few inches above their heads between them and the joists which supported the bamboo floor. "Ah!" said Phra between his teeth; "we shall be in hiding here." "Yes," whispered Harry; "but I don't think we shall be safe." "I don't know," said his father; "an open hiding-place is often the most secure." CHAPTER XXII DARING PLANS The tide rose but a trifle higher, so that there was no imprisonment such as had been suggested, and the boatmen, after a modest meal of rice, calmly settled themselves down to sleep. But, like his employers, Sree was wakeful, and sat near, ready to answer questions or offer advice. He said that he believed they might stay where they were, unquestioned, for days; and as for provisions, it would be easy for him or one of his men to go here or there about the place and buy food. These minor questions were soon disposed of. The main topic--how to rescue the King and their friends--then took up all their thought and kept them watching and waking hour after hour, a certain equality now seeming to reign, and the boys' suggestions being listened to eagerly by their elders. But everything proposed seemed to be full of difficulties. The first most natural and simplest was to get the besieged away in boats, for the rivers and canals were the highways, the roads through the jungle mere elephant tracks. But this was at once seen to be impossible in the face of the facts that the way to the river was watched, and the large boats in the hands of the enemy. Then there was the plan of escaping by means of the elephants, the whole of which were, according to Lahn, still in their great houses, close to the part of the palace defended by the King and his friends. But supposing it possible that the whole of the defenders could be mounted upon the huge, docile beasts, and could succeed in forcing their way through the crowd of assailants, where could they go? Only into the jungle to starve, for there was no place to which they could flee. It was always the same: they were face to face with the fact that in such a self-dependent place the King, who was all-powerful one day, might be the next weaker and more helpless than the humblest of his subjects. Plan after plan was discussed during the calm silence of that night, when all were in momentary expectation of hearing fresh alarms and attacks; but every idea seemed perfectly futile, and a dead silence fell. Harry was the first to break the silence. "Why don't you propose something, Phra?" he said. "We've been talking all this time, and you've hardly said a word." "I've been listening," said the boy gravely, "and I have thought." "Yes, what have you thought?" "That if we could think of some plan of escape, my father would help you to get all your friends away." "Yes, of course," said Harry, for Phra had stopped. "Well?" "But he would not leave the place himself. I know my father. He would say, 'I am the king here by right, and I will never leave. I would sooner die.'" "I fear so," said Mr. Kenyon. "I can only think of my father," continued Phra; "you only of your friends, and so we think differently." "Oh no," said Harry. "Your troubles are ours, just as our troubles are yours." "That is so," replied the boy; "but I can only think of joining my father to help him defend the palace till he has driven his enemies away." "Phra is right," said the doctor. "We cannot bring our people away--it seems impossible. We must devote ourselves to joining the King and defending the palace against all enemies." "It is good advice," said Mr. Kenyon, "but how can we join them? It seems impossible, too." "We have not tried," said the doctor coldly. "Sree has tried to find a way in," replied Mr. Kenyon, "and he says it cannot be done. Do you not, Sree?" "Yes, Sahib. If we go as we are, your servant and the men could perhaps make the second king and those with him believe that they were friends; but whether by night or by day, if the sahibs try to get there, they will all be speared. It is what the enemy would gladly do." "We could fight," said Phra proudly. "We have guns." "Yes, Sahib Phra, and some of the enemy would be killed, but what are we against so many?" "Ah, what indeed?" sighed Mr. Kenyon. "A dozen or so against thousands upon thousands." "Phra Sahib is right," continued Sree. "He is prince, and should take us to join his father the King." "Yes, but how?" said the doctor. "It can only be by cunning, Sahib," replied the man. "Hist! One moment," said Harry excitedly; "what about the men? The spear-bearers forsook the King; how can we trust these boatmen?" "Because they love and believe in the sahibs," said Sree. "I think we can trust them." "But your two men, Sree?" "My two--Adong and Lahn--Sahib Harry?" said the old hunter with a little laugh. "I have always been like a father to them, and they would follow me, even if it were to be killed." "And you, Sree?" the said doctor bitterly; "why should you be faithful to us?" "I don't know, Sahib," said the man simply; "only that Sahib Kenyon has been like a father to me ever since he brought me back here to my people from among the Indian sahibs, where I had lived for years. He has always been my good, kind master, who fed me when I was hungry, and gave me money to buy clothes. I don't know how it is, but I feel that I belong to him and the young Sahib Harry; and if they said to me, 'Sree, you must die that we may escape and live,' well, it would only be what I should do, and I should be happy. Yes, sahibs, I should die." "I know you would, Sree," whispered Harry, leaning over to grasp the man's hands. "He would, wouldn't he, father?" "Yes, my boy, I believe he would. He has saved my life more than once." "Oh, I believe in Sree, too," said the doctor excitedly. "But those we love are perishing close by, and we are doing nothing." "I know what we might do," said Harry eagerly. "Yes, what?" said the doctor. "Wait till to-morrow night." "Wait till to-morrow night!" echoed the doctor bitterly. "Wait while they perish!" "We don't know but what they can keep the enemy off till then," said Harry, with spirit. "True," said his father quickly; "but what if we wait till to-morrow night?" "Then it would be dark, and we might go and join with the enemy when they make one of their attacks. Then, when they retire, we might fall down as if wounded, and wait close up to the gate." "Yes," said Phra eagerly, "and as soon as the enemy were far enough off we could call to those in the palace that we were friends, and they would open and let us in." "That sounds wild," said Mr. Kenyon, "but it is possible. What do you say, Sree?" "No, Sahib; it would do for me and the men. We could get into the palace that way, but the Sahibs? No. The enemy would know them at once, however dark." "True," said Mr. Kenyon. "It is not possible," groaned the doctor. "We must try by force to break through." "That would mean death to all, Sahib," said Sree in a low, sad voice; "and there would be no help for your friends." "Stop," said Phra. "I think it might be done." "Hist! Sahib Phra; a boat is coming." All listened, but the Europeans once more felt that they had been deceived, till suddenly there was a faint splash, followed by the dull pattering of water against a prow, and this sound came nearer and nearer till a big, dark shadow propelled by quite a dozen oars was seen to glide up the river towards the palace landing-place. They waited till the boat passed out of hearing, and Phra went on. "Harry and I could darken our faces, hands and legs easily enough so as to pass for common people. We did once dress like that. You remember, Hal, when we went right down among the house-boats and no one knew." "Yes, I remember," said Harry shortly. "It would be easy for us," said Phra; "but--" The boy stopped. "Would Doctor Cameron and I disguise ourselves for such a purpose as this? Certainly we would." "Yes, of course," said the doctor huskily. "What about the native clothes--the baju and padung?" "They would be easier to get, Sahib--easier than spears." "Spears?" said the doctor; "we have our guns." "But they would betray us, Cameron," said Mr. Kenyon. "We should have spears for ourselves and men." "There are plenty of guns in the palace," said Phra. "Sree, could we get spears by then?" The old hunter was silent for a while, as if thinking deeply. "How long is it before morning?" he said. "It must be near day-break now," replied Mr. Kenyon. "No, Sahib. Not for two hours yet. There are many spears in the big boats that have gone up to the palace landing-place; and if the men on board are asleep, we might get what we want." "There are sheaves and sheaves in the guard-rooms, Sree, if we could get them." "Yes, Sahib Phra," replied the man; "but that we could not do. If the sahibs will get on to the floor above us and stay there with the men, it is very dark to-night, and Adong and Lahn might go with me in the boat. We could row up very quietly, and perhaps get enough from one of the barges." "Try," said Mr. Kenyon laconically. "You could not hurt if you were careful." Phra whispered a word to Harry. "Yes," he replied. "Father, Phra and I want to go with Sree." "It would be better for him to go alone." "The young sahibs have been trained by me to be silent when seeking wild creatures in the jungle, Sahib. They could help us by taking the spears, if we get any, and laying them in the bottom of the boat." "Why not take two of the boatmen?" "His servant would rather trust the young sahibs," said Sree. "There is no time to discuss the matter," said Mr. Kenyon firmly. "Be careful, boys, and go." Harry's heart gave a big throb, and he gripped Phra's knee. "Ah," whispered the latter; "this is what I wanted. It is doing something to help." "Yes," whispered back Harry. "It is horrible sitting here doing nothing but talk." Even in those brief moments something had been done; the boat had been set in motion, and now glided with the stream from beneath the bamboo platform out at the upper end. Then at a word the boatmen followed the two gentlemen and Mike out on to the platform, and squatted down at once; Adong and Lahn seized oars, passing the cocoa-nut fibre loops over the posts which served as rowlocks, and, with the boys' hearts beating high with excitement, the boat began to glide rapidly and silently up stream with the tide. CHAPTER XXIII THE SPEAR HARVEST The distance was short, and to favour the daring enterprise, the darkness seemed to grow more intense as morning drew near. The banks of the river were invisible as they glided silently along, and the boys were whispering together when Sree suddenly stepped to where they sat amidships. "We speak not when near the tiger's lair," he said softly. "When we go alongside the boat I pick, I shall hold on, Adong and Lahn will go on board; you two will silently take the spears and lay them along the thwarts." "Yes," said Phra, and the old hunter passed on, bare-footed, forward to where Adong was wielding his oar. The two comrades sat straining their eyes, for the barges, they felt certain, were not far ahead, and wondered whether the two boys, as they called them--though they were full-grown men--would succeed in the daring venture; and it was on Harry's tongue to whisper,-- "Oh, I wish we had made Sree send us instead." It was only a momentary thought, before he felt that the two dark, nearly-naked Siamese, as strong, active and silent in their movements as leopards, from long training as hunters, were far better adapted for the task; and he had nearly come to this conclusion when a low muttering reached his ears, and looking to his left, he could just make out something dark which he knew to be one of the barges anchored almost in mid-stream. The next minute he caught sight of the dim glow of a paper lanthorn, and that was on the prow of another barge close in to the palace landing-place; but the boat still glided on, for the keen, owl-like eyes of Adong had seen another of the barges a little ahead. All was wonderfully still, but there was a dull, indescribable murmur in the air which told of sleeping men being near at hand, and a faint, human odour reached Harry's nostrils which endorsed the fact. But he had no time for thinking: the movements of the three Siamese hunters were so rapid. The next minute they were close up to the last barge seen, and the boat quivered a little as Sree made a movement which meant that he had reached over and caught the side. So to speak, the boys listened with all their might, and their ears, made more sensitive by excitement, seemed to magnify sound, and their eyes to have increased power; still the darkness was so intense that they could not see the actions of the men forward and astern. But their sense of feeling had grown so acute that they were conscious of the fore part of the boat rising a little, and then of the hinder portion lifting, each time there being a light quivering and lapping of the water against the sides. "They've got aboard her," thought Harry, whose mouth and throat grew dry. "The next thing will be spears indeed, but a shower sent at Adong and Lahn. Then they will leap overboard with a splash, Sree will push off, and the two boys will swim to us." _"Oh!"_ It was a mental ejaculation, and the boy's thoughts formed this question,-- "Will they think to swim with the tide, for we shall float up stream?" A faint click as of wood against wood interrupted his musings, and then he started, for Phra pinched his leg, the compression of the flesh being painful from the excitement of the giver. Harry responded with another pinch, which to his credit was of a much milder form, and then all was still, while the boys waited on the _qui vive_ for what seemed fully five minutes. All was perfectly still, and Harry strained his eyes so as to make out Sree holding the boat alongside in a position which enabled him to keep it steady, while at the same time he was ready to thrust it right away into comparative, though not perfect, safety, for a well thrown bamboo-hafted spear flies far and with deadly power. "There are none, or they can't find them," thought Harry, but the next moment the bamboo shaft of a spear touched his shoulder, the man who handed it being careful to pass the butt end of the weapon first, and quick as lightning the boy received it and laid it down behind him, reaching up his hands again to feel for another, and becoming conscious at the same moment that Phra was stooping to lay down one he had received. It was not easy to feel the weapons in the dark, but they felt for and received two each, and then there was a pause, while they listened to the _murmur, murmur_ from one of the other great boats, which sounded as if some one was relating a long story in a low tone. Then two more spears were passed down, and two more, it being hard work to lay them alongside the thwarts without making them rattle; and again there was a pause for what seemed to the boys fully ten minutes, before they heard a low, rattling sound, as if several of the bamboo shafts had been laid together against the rail of the barge, and the murmur ceased. Harry held up his hands for another spear, but he reached about in vain. There was no response till the murmur recommenced, when there was another rattle, louder than the first, and again the murmur ceased. But now the butts of two spears touched Harry in the chest, and he seized and laid them down, finding two more waiting. These he grasped and laid down. Then two more, which he also seized, thus taking possession of six in less than a minute; a dull rattling in front telling that Phra was as busily employed, though how many he had obtained it was impossible to tell. The murmur of voices began again, but the two men did not make any sign of returning, and the boys waited with beating hearts, but waited in vain. They raised their hands and felt about overhead, but nothing more was handed to them, and the desire was strong upon Harry to creep to where Sree was holding the boat close against the barge's side, and ask him what he thought; but the feeling that the old hunter was in command, and that the two boys might be only obeying their master's orders, stayed him, and he waited. "Here they are," he thought at last, for there was a movement high up on the side of the barge. He raised his hand again, and as he did so he felt a sharp jerk in the sleeve of his jacket and starting back he knew instinctively that the blade of a spear had been sharply thrust down instead of the butt, and had passed through his jacket, grazing his arm, while the jerk he gave held the blade entangled lightly between his arm and side. "What does he mean by that?" thought the boy as he was dragged forward and nearly off his feet, for he had seized the shaft with both hands. He knew the next moment, for there was a loud shout, the sound of a blow; the spear came free, and something heavy and soft drove him backwards, while a sudden jerking of the boat brought Phra to his knees. The shouting increased, and was responded to from barge after barge, the alarm having spread; but the boat was rapidly gliding across the river, and, turning at the opposite side, began to descend again at a pretty good rate, while a couple of lanthorns could be seen moving about on the barge they had left, and others were being lit as fast as was possible--slowly enough--on the others. It was still too dark to make out what was taking place in their own boat, but it seemed to Harry in the excitement and confusion that only one of the men had dropped in and was rowing forward, while Sree was working the after oar, but with danger so near, he dared not even whisper to Phra, who was close by. Another thing was that he was trying to draw the spear from his left sleeve, in which it was strangely tangled, as if the man who thrust had given it a twist; and, worse still, he had become conscious that his arm and sleeve were wet, a peculiar smarting sensation telling him that he was bleeding freely. "At last!" he said to himself, as he tore out the spear; and then he started, for Sree was leaning over him. "Adong--Lahn?" whispered Harry. "Both here, Sahib. Are you hurt?" "I don't know. Yes--a little." "Put your hand on the place," said Sree. Harry obeyed, and the next moment a broad band was tightening over it. "Now slip your hand away," whispered Sree. Harry obeyed, and the band was drawn tighter and something wrapped round again and again before it was tied. "Don't talk," whispered Sree; "they will follow us, and I must row." He went aft, and put out another oar, helping to send the boat more rapidly along; and it was necessary, for before they had gone much farther, the boys could make out that many more lanthorns had been lit, and a couple of barges were beginning to move, one going up stream, the other coming down after them. But the boat was going very fast now, and not many minutes had elapsed before they were abreast of the garden, and Sree was guiding the craft towards the landing-place. "Are you hurt much?" whispered Phra. "A nasty cut, that's all," was the reply. "Some one stabbed at me with a spear, and I thought it was only one being handed down. Never mind; we've got what we went for. Here, what's the matter?" For Phra had drawn his breath as if in pain. "Nothing much, only that man Adong fell down on me and hurt my back against the seat. Doesn't matter; soon be better. But you--does it bleed much?" "Oh no; it's only like having a big finger cut instead of a little one. I say, do you think they'll find us out here?" "No; they won't think we should hide so close. If they do, we must use the guns." "Well, what success?" whispered Mr. Kenyon. "Got the spears, father," said Harry, with forced gaiety, "but they heard us at last, and one of the barges is coming after us." "Hist!" whispered Sree. "All get in now." Long before the pursuing barge came abreast the party were all lying snugly beneath the landing-stage, and preparations for defence were made, the English and Sree with their guns ready to repel and attack, and the boatmen provided with the keenly-pointed spears. There were breathless moments as the lanthorn-hung barge came steadily along, and every one expected that the crew would turn aside; but there was no check to the rowing, and the fugitives were able to breathe more freely as the lanthorns grew more faint, when the first words said were by Phra,--words which sent a thrill of horror through Mr. Kenyon, for Phra said in a hurried, excited manner: "Here, Doctor, you must see to Harry: he is wounded." "Only--a scratch," said the lad in a strange voice, and then he fell over sidewise. The shock had been greater than he himself believed, for he had fainted away. CHAPTER XXIV THE HELP SEEKER Doctor Cameron satisfied himself that the wound was not bleeding, and a little sprinkling with cold water soon brought the sufferer to, but nothing more could be done till daylight lit up their refuge. Meanwhile they waited anxiously, and ready to sell their lives dearly should they be attacked by the returning barge, Sree having given his opinion that their pursuers would not go very far. He was quite right, for before half an hour had passed the sound of oars came over the water with what seemed to be a regular throb, which grew more distinct as the minutes passed away. And now, to hide the clean, superior aspect of the boat, three or four of the mats, which had been taken down, were roughly torn and damaged, after which they were hung clumsily from the bamboos overhead, the lower part trailing in the water, so that, in addition to the damaged look they gave the boat, they formed a shelter behind which the party waited, weapon in hand. Faint signs of the coming day were visible, and the notes of birds could be heard; but it was still dark enough to help their concealment, for the stars were shining faintly when the barge came in sight and swept by without its occupants noticing the boat in its tiny harbour. But no one stirred till the barge had passed quite out of sight, and then as the daylight rapidly broadened, Doctor Cameron helped his patient to the stern of the boat, and, with Mr. Kenyon and Phra looking on, drew off the boy's jacket and proceeded to examine the wound. "Only a slight, clean cut, Hal, my boy," he said, as he tore up a handkerchief for a bandage, and bound the wound. "It bled freely, but the edges are well together, and it will rapidly heal. How was it?" Harry explained, watching the doctor the while, as he drew out his pocket-book, took needle and silk from within, and neatly sewed up the end of the bandage. "Lucky for you it did not strike you in the chest. There; to-morrow or next day I will put on a little strapping. You need not even carry your arm in a sling." Mr. Kenyon sighed with relief, and then proceeded with the others to examine the weapons Adong and Lahn had handed down from the barge before they were heard and had to make their escape. And now it was seen that the pair had done more than merely obtain the spears, for as they rose from the bottom of the boat and stood stooping in the light which streamed clearer and clearer through every opening, they proudly showed that their lingouties, or waistbands, were stuck full, back and front, of the krises or native daggers in their wooden sheaths. "Capital!" cried Mr. Kenyon, and the two men's eyes flashed with pride at the words of praise bestowed upon them. Even the doctor looked less sombre, and took eager interest in the process of arming their followers, the krises being handed round, and each man apportioned one of the spears, which were now laid neatly along the thwarts of the boat on either side, ready for use. Fortunately there was a sufficiency of food left in the boat to last for a couple of days or more, for it had been well provisioned at starting, so that there was no need to attempt any search for more, and Harry drew Sree's attention to the fact that the fishing bamboos and lines were still untouched where they had been placed across the bamboo rafters. But it was a day of agony for those who had so much at stake. Mr. Kenyon refused to look at the ruins of his home, but Harry could not resist the temptation to creep out on to the bamboo floor and then crawl a short distance up the garden, keeping well in shelter among the bushes till he could see all that was left of the charming, well-tended home. "And all the beautiful specimens gone!" he sighed. "Yes, sir, and all my clothes and treasures in my pantry," said a familiar voice. "You here, Mike!" said Harry, starting. "Yes, sir; the master said I might crawl after you to have a look. Oh dear, dear! burnt to ashes! Why didn't they build the place of stone instead of wood?" "I don't know, Mike. I was too little to have any voice in the matter." "Yes, sir, you was, and precious little too; but oh dear, oh dear! I'm a ruined man. Think it would be safe to go to the tool shed and get a shovel? I see it ain't burnt." "No; we must not risk being seen. But what do you want to do?" "Try and find something among the ashes where my pantry was, sir." "No, you must not go now. What is it you want to search for?" "Honour bright, sir? You won't go along with Mr. Phra and dig for it yourself?" "Dig for _it!_ Is it likely? What is _it?_" "That little old Chinee teapot o' mine as stood on the shelf." "What, that old bit of rubbish, Mike! Why, both the spout and handle were knocked off." "That's so, sir," said Mike, with a queer look; "but the lid was all right." "Pooh! I could buy you a better one for--" "No, you couldn't, Master Harry, because you see there's no chance for spending such money here, so I saved a bit." "Saved a bit?" said Harry. "Yes, sir; there was just a hundred and one silver Chinese dollars in that teapot. Now do you understand?" "Yes, Mike, I understand," said the boy sadly. "But never mind; they'll be safe enough till we've got the mastery over these wretches." "Don't think they'll all ha' melted away, do you, sir?" "They may have melted, Mike, but not away. Perhaps they'll have all run down into the shape of the bottom of the teapot; but if they have, the silver will be worth the money." "Oh, come, sir; there's some comfort in that. I say, Master Harry, are we going to have to fight?" "I think we are sure to, Mike." "Well, I s'pose I am a coward now, sir. I used to be a bit of a dab with my fists when I was your age; not as I was over fond of it; but I've never killed anybody, and I'd rather clean the guns any day than shoot men with 'em. But after hearing all I have, and after seeing what they'll do with spears--for it wasn't that chap's fault that he didn't send that spear through you instead of your arm--and what with the business last night, and the doctor's trouble, and now seeing our house and my pantry turned into just a heap of ashes, it's a bit too much. It makes me want to fight, sir; and if there is any going on, I will." "That's right, Mike. You will stand by us then?" "That I will, Master Harry," said the man, with the tears in his eyes. "I aren't been all I should ha' been as your father's servant, but I am a man, sir, and an Englishman, and Englishmen must stick together out in foreign parts like this." "They must indeed, Mike." "Then I'll be close at your back, Master Harry, wherever you go; and if I gets killed, well, I do, sir, and I leave you all the silver in that old pot." "_Phee--ew!_" "Quick! let's get back," whispered Harry, giving the man a grateful look, and hiding a disposition to laugh; "that was Sree whistled. Some one must be coming along the river." The warning was repeated softly before they reached the landing-place. "Quick, quick!" said Mr. Kenyon, in a loud whisper, and they had only just time to creep down into the shelter when half a dozen large boats were seen coming up the river, each filled with men, whose spear-points glittered in the sunshine; and once more all crouched in readiness to defend their little stronghold, should the boat attract the attention of the enemy as they passed by. But the boats passed on, following in each other's wake, the occupants being too much taken up by the sounds which suddenly arose from the direction of the palace; for just as the first boat was nearly abreast of the landing-stage the sharp reports of guns told that a fresh attack was being made upon it, the first discharges producing a strange excitement amongst the enemy, who began rowing with all their might, so that they soon passed, but without giving much relief to those who watched, for the firing increased, and it was evident that a desperate attack was going on. Then the firing ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the listeners in a frightful state of doubt. For the cessation might just as probably mean that the enemy had forced their way in as that they had been beaten off; and as the silence continued for quite an hour, Harry and Phra moved so as to be close to the doctor, and then gently take his hand. The sound of firing, when every shot may mean the death of a fellow creature, is a strange reviver of hope--a peculiar comforter; but when at the end of that weary hour the firing began again, both Phra and the doctor started up with their faces flushed with eager excitement, and Harry felt ready to shout. "They're not beaten," he said proudly. "The King's too strong, and he drives the wretches back every time. Why, father, when we get to them to-night, they will all be in such good spirits that it will be dangerous for the enemy to show themselves again." "We must be thinking about our attack, Sree," said Mr. Kenyon, without making any reply to his son's outburst. "I am going as soon as it grows dark, Sahib. There is not much to do. A little brown earth to moisten and rub over your hands, arms, and faces." "Yes, yes, that is easy enough; anything will do as it is night; even gunpowder could be used. But the garments? it is of them that I was thinking." "The sahibs will have to use those of the common people, and so many are away from their boats that it will not be long before I can get padungs enough. Those are all that you will need, and be the best things to hide you; for no one would think that you could be sahibs, dressed like that." The rest of the day went sluggishly by, with total cessations of the firing filling the listeners with despair and hope returning whenever it was resumed. At last, after many alarms from passing boats, the sun sank low, and the question of sending off a message to some English vessel in the port had to be decided for Mr. Kenyon had pencilled a few lines containing an urgent appeal for help from any captain into whose hands it might fall, begging that he would at once set sail for the nearest port where a British man-of-war might be found--Hong-Kong or Singapore--and lay before the authorities the critical position in which the tiny English colony was placed, and imploring that steps might be at once taken for their rescue. To deliver this note, a trusty messenger was needed, and a boat. And now there was a feeling of bitter regret that the sampan in which Adong had followed them up the river had been abandoned from the hour the man came on board as being a useless appendage at such a time of peril. But Sree declared that there would be no difficulty in finding one after dark, so part of the trouble was at an end. The question then arose as to who should be the messenger, and Sree now proposed Adong. He would soon find a boat, Sree said, but he thought that some one should accompany him, and that the some one should be Sahib Harry. "I couldn't go," said Harry hastily. "I must stay to help here." "But the young Sahib is wounded; and if he took the letter with Adong, he would be safe." "I don't want to be safe like that," said Harry hastily. "I can't go, father; I must stay with you." "But it is most important that the letter should be placed in some Englishman's hands," said Mr. Kenyon; "and Sree is right, my boy; you would be safe." "Oh no, father," cried the boy excitedly; "there would be as much risk in sending me there as in letting me stay. I may be of some help here; and, besides, I couldn't go and leave you." Mr. Kenyon gave way. The paper was rolled up small, a bamboo was cut, and into one of its hollows the paper was thrust, and then the place was plugged so that it was water-tight, in case the messenger had to swim. Lastly, armed with a kris in his waist-band, and with one of the spears, Adong, who fully appreciated the importance of his mission, proudly took his departure, going off through the garden; for, as Sree said, no one was likely to interfere with such a man as he at a time like that. The little party breathed more freely when the man had gone, for it was like the first step towards a rescue; but in a few minutes there was a short, earnest conversation with Sree as to how his man would manage. "He will journey down the river till he sees a boat that he can take, and then go on, lying up close to the shore when there is danger, and going on down again towards the sea." This decided, the perilous enterprise of joining with some portion of the attacking force was discussed in what was really a little council of war; and it was determined that Sree should assume the character of leader, with Phra as his lieutenant, the rest being followers. How and where they were to join the enemy must, it was agreed, depend upon circumstances. The men were eager to a degree, declaring themselves ready to die so that they might save the King; and as soon as it was quite dark the well-armed party quitted their cramping position in the boat to assemble in the forlorn and deserted garden, the boat being well secured, and left as a place of _rendezvous_ in case of fortune being against them, and as a means of escape in dire peril. Then Sree went away for an hour, and returned, declaring the time had come. In the few words which passed in whispers as they made for the gateway opening on the riverside track leading to the rest of the English bungalows, and beyond that to the palace, it was quite decided that they had nothing to fear in marching boldly onward through the darkness, for their appearance as so many well-armed men going to join in the attack would be quite natural, the second king's army consisting as it did merely of an armed rabble, with which some of the King's half-drilled guards were mixed after they had deserted him in his peril. Of all this Sree in his efforts to spy out the state of affairs had thoroughly convinced himself; the great danger was that Phra or the gentlemen might excite suspicion; but the efforts to disguise them had been most successful, the simplicity of their garb and the coloured skins promising in the darkness and confusion to be enough. Then a few words were addressed by the old hunter to the men, and the adventurers moved out of the gateway, and with beating hearts made for the lights whose reflections could be seen above and through the trees. CHAPTER XXV A DESPERATE VENTURE It was an exciting tramp, but those most concerned in the success marched on with such a display of eagerness as sent a thrill of confidence through Harry, who, for the first part of their little journey, walked beside Phra, the boys talking in whispers about what would probably be done. "It seems very horrid," whispered Harry. "Why, when we go up to the attack, we shall be longing to stick our spears into the wretches who are about us, and all the time we shall have to seem like friends." "You will not be able to do anything but carry your spear over your shoulder," replied Phra. "Shan't I? You'll see. My arm doesn't hurt much now; and if we get fighting, I believe that I shall not feel it at all. Oh, Phra, how I do long to begin! It's the thinking about it all and the waiting that is the worst." "Talk in a lower tone," said Mr. Kenyon in a whisper; "and as soon as we hear the enemy be silent." Phra kept by his comrade's side, and twice over, when voices were heard in front, Sree halted his party, a low, snake-like hiss being the agreed signal. To the great satisfaction of all, the voices came from a couple of parties, apparently, as far as could be made out in the darkness, similar in numbers to their own, and moving in the direction of the palace. Encouraged by this, Sree went on more boldly, and they soon found that the very daring of their enterprise would prove their safety, the attacking force being made up of groups all strange to one another, their only bond being that they were bent on the same errand--the destruction of the palace and overthrow of the King's power, with the massacre of the whites. In fact, as during one halt Sree told Mr. Kenyon, it would be quite possible to join on to any party they liked, their presence showing to the strangers that they were on the same side, and consequently, for the time being, friends. "We can go where we like now, sahibs," said Sree; "and all you have to do is to keep away from any of the lights." Consequently the need for caution was at an end, and, after a short consultation with Phra, Sree determined to go right round to the back of the palace, where he proposed that they should scale the outer wall, cross the garden, and then make for the inner wall near the elephant house, where the great gates were with their sculptured figures. Increasing their pace now, they passed through several groups numbering hundreds; the people, who were non-combatants, gathered in the hope of plunder, giving way at once at the bold advance of the little band of spearmen, and following at a distance for some hundreds of yards before halting, for there in front were the outer walls. Before they reached these, as they loomed up in the darkness, the gloom was cut in many directions by flashes of light, and there was once more the loud, sputtering fire of the defenders, who were still safe and keeping their enemies at bay. The firing seemed to inspire the little party with renewed eagerness, and at a word from Sree they broke into a trot, following an avenue of palms which led right up to the wall, where there was a little, strongly-made gate. Before reaching it, Sree called a halt, and there was a short debate. "The enemy must have broken open the gate," Phra whispered; "and they are in the gardens." "Never mind," said Sree; "we must go on and try to get to the Great Elephant gates." The next minute they found that they were wrong, for the little doorway in the stone wall was fast, but directly after they found that a couple of roughly-made bamboo ladders had been tied and placed against the wall, up one of which Sree crept, Phra mounting the other, followed by Harry, while Mr. Kenyon and the doctor followed Sree. Then the first check came. There was a sharp movement, the staves of spears rattled on the other side, and a voice challenged them with the question where they were going. "To help take the palace, of course," said Sree sharply. There was a laugh. "Over with you, then," said the man who challenged; "but you will not all come back." Sree made a show of hesitating. "What, is it a hard fight?" he said. "Yes; hundreds have been shot down as fast as they tried to climb the gates. What! Are you afraid?" "Afraid? No," said Sree, seating himself on the top of the wall. The man laughed again, and his laugh was echoed by what sounded like a score of companions. "There, don't shirk it," said the man in command. "You must take your chance, and there'll be plenty of loot for those who are first in." "Then why don't you go?" growled Sree. "Because we're ordered to stop here by our leader. Come, over with you." Sree hesitated for a moment or two. "They can't see to shoot in the dark," he said; and calling on his party to follow, he hurried down the ladder on the other side, followed by the rest, and receiving an encouraging cheer from the enemy. Phra stepped to Sree's side and guided the party by the most direct path towards the gates they sought. Naturally it was familiar enough to Harry, but it seemed strange and terrible as they approached the great bronze gates behind which a little party of their friends had evidently entrenched themselves and kept up a fire whenever a party of the enemy dashed up to thrust with their spears through the open work of the barrier. Harry had instant warning of the danger of their position in the bullets which came whistling by, but a word of warning from Sree made the new-comers strike off to the left, where they were out of the line of fire; while now the boy made out, more by the murmuring of voices than by the eye, that the rebels, in two strong bodies, had grouped themselves on either side of the opening for safety, and from one or the other of these a little party kept on dashing up to the front, shouting defiance and trying to alarm the defenders in the hope of driving them back, so that the gates might be climbed. This was evidently the principle upon which the attack had been carried on--a desultory, useless plan so long as the defenders stood firm. In fact, there was no discipline, no cohesion in the attacking force, no mutual dependence; merely the hand-to-hand fighting of a barbarous people, and the result could be heard in the many sighs and groans which came from where the wounded had been carried or had dragged themselves out of the line of fire. There was the humming crowd in the darkness just in front, and a few steps would have taken Mr. Kenyon's party right amongst them; but no one heeded the new-comers, and once more the leaders drew together to consult. "We can do nothing here," whispered Phra. "If we were not shot down by our friends, we could not sham dead. Look there, we should be seen." For now there was a flash of light, and a blazing mass of fire, somewhat after the fashion of a blue light, came flying over the gate, to fall twenty yards outside, and throw up the swarthy bodies of the enemy like so many dark silhouettes, while a rapid burst of shots told the reason for the light, several men having afforded good aim to the defenders, and half a dozen dropping amidst groans and howls of rage. "Yes, it is impossible," whispered Mr. Kenyon in Siamese. "Is there no place where we could climb this wall?" There was no reply for some moments, during which the blue light began to burn out, and a man darted forward to trample upon it, but to his cost, for two shots were fired, and in the expiring, pallid glare the man was seen to stagger a few paces and then fall. A roar of rage followed this proof of the defenders' marksmanship, and another rush was made at the gate by the maddened enemy, not in obedience to any order, but every man acting upon his own impulse; and amidst the roar of voices, the clattering of spears against the bronze ornamentation, and the firing of the defenders, Sree uttered his low hiss, and led the way with Phra away to the left, the latter plunging directly after into a secluded walk close to the wall, where all was completely deserted, and Harry felt that if they only had one of the bamboo ladders they had so lately used, it would be perfectly easy to climb up and drop within the palace courts. Their evasion was either not heeded, or merely looked upon as part of an attempt to turn the defenders by means of a fresh attack; so the little party crept silently along through the bushes which acted as a blind to this part of the wall, above which a portion of the palace rose. A sudden thought struck Harry, and, with his spear sloped back over his shoulder, he pressed on quickly to the front. "Phra," he whispered, as he reached his friend, "the big tree." "Hist! Yes." In another minute they were all halted in the intense darkness close up to the trunk of a huge tree whose boughs spread horizontally in every direction, some overhanging the walls, a place familiar to Harry; but as soon as he had realized Phra's intent he felt convinced that the defenders would have taken steps to do away with so vulnerable a part of their defence. For here it was quite possible to climb up the dwarfed trunk, crawl along one of the enormous horizontal boughs, and drop down into the open space between the wall and the palace. Phra had evidently the same idea; but upon searching round a little, the bushes beneath rustling as he and Sree passed here and there, it was evident that no saw had been at work, and in a whisper Sree announced that he was going first to show the way. "The bough will bend down at the far end," whispered Phra, "and it will not be so far to drop. Here, I will go first; I can climb." Amidst the almost breathless silence beneath the tree, Phra began to mount, and Harry whispered that he would come next, just as a fresh burst of firing, which sounded distant, arose. "You cannot climb, Sahib," whispered Sree; "your arm." "I _will_ climb," whispered back Harry. "Hold my spear." He passed the weapon to the old hunter, and followed Phra right up to the fork, level with the top of the wall; and by that time his comrade had nearly reached the wall, which was a couple of feet below the great bough, when there was a bright flash from a window, the crashing of a bullet through the branches of the tree, and almost simultaneously a loud report. "Don't fire--don't fire! Friends!" cried Mr. Kenyon; but before the words had passed his lips there was another report. "Who is it?" came now. "Kenyon, Cameron, and men to help," cried the doctor. "How are we to know that? Speak again." "Up with you, and over!" cried Mr. Kenyon angrily. "We shall have the wretches round here directly. Quick, boys; get on, and drop!" There was no further opposition; the English was unmistakable, and the two who had been at the window guarding the well-known weak spot, descended from the barricaded window to help the new-comers, welcoming each warmly as he descended. It was close work though, for, hearing the firing, a party of the watchful enemy was attracted to the spot before all were over, the last man and Sree--who had stayed to see all in safety before he crossed the natural bridge--having to halt and engage in a sort of duel with spears in the darkness, when from their crippled position in the tree, matters would have gone ill with them but for the diversion made by the defenders, who fired a little volley from the window, which held the enemy in check till Sree was safe. "What an escape!" whispered Harry, as he caught the old hunter's arm when he dropped into the narrow court. "Yes, Sahib; they came very near to stopping me from joining you; but there, I'm used to such escapes. It is many times that I have been nearly killed. But now some of us must stop here to keep the enemies of the King away, for where we got over they will try to do the same." It was felt that no better way of defending the spot could be adopted than that already in practice, and the two colonists, after warm congratulations had passed between them and their friends, returned to their position at the window, while Phra eagerly led his tiny reinforcement round to the little court by the Elephant Gates, where the small wing of the palace had been fortified as much as was possible, and was being held by the King. CHAPTER XXVI FOR LIFE It is needless to try and describe the meeting between Doctor Cameron and his wife and friends, or that between Phra and his father, the King. They were brief enough, and at a time when any moment they might be called upon to take a final farewell, for the state of affairs was very desperate in the palace, whose defenders were getting worn out by the constantly recurring attacks. The coming then of the reinforcement, trifling as it seemed, was hailed with the most intense satisfaction, giving as it did fresh hope to the defenders when they were beginning to despair. For the palace, with its extended walls, was too big for so small a garrison to defend. In all there were not more than sixty people fit to bear arms, forty being the white colonists, the remaining twenty officers and nobles who had remained faithful to the King, and who had proved that they were ready to lay down their lives in his defence and that of the ladies who had been brought into the palace when the revolution first broke out. Ten minutes after the reinforcements had reached the group of defenders another attack was made; and now from the interior the boys had a view of the way in which the enemy was made to suffer. For the King had cast aside all his quiet, studious ways, and was fighting side by side with his defenders. It was he who had prepared the light grenades by mixing up certain proportions of nitre, sulphur, and antimony, ramming the powder into small vases, which one or other of the gentlemen lit, and then hurled over the gate, throwing the enemy into confusion and giving the little party of marksmen behind a barricade that had been thrown up, a good opportunity for inflicting loss upon the enemy who were thus time after time kept at bay and disheartened, when a combined attack must have been fatal to the defenders of the palace. And now as the two boys watched the firing, they realized more fully how weak were the defences, and how easily the hundreds upon hundreds of rebels swarming outside might have carried them by a brave attack, when, unless they had been able to make a stand in the wing of the palace, the besieged must have been crushed by weight of numbers. Harry had noticed this, inexperienced as he was; but it was further impressed upon him by a whisper from Phra, who stood by him, double gun in hand. "If their leader were to make one bold attack, Hal, we should be driven inside, and then I'm afraid it would be all over." "There are a good many of them," said Harry evasively, "and it doesn't seem nice shooting at people as if they were tigers." "They are tigers," said Phra fiercely. "They would kill us all." "Then we must treat them as tigers," said Harry coolly, "and shoot all we can. Look here, the numbers are not so bad as they appear, because one Englishman is as good as ten such fighting men as these, to put it modestly; and you and your father and some of these here are half English now; so we're stronger than we seem. I say, I don't feel as if I want to know, it's so horrible; but I feel as if I ought to." "To know what?" "When the wretches burned the bungalow, did they--" "Look out!" panted Phra; "they're coming on to break down the gates." Phra was right, for by the light of the paper lanthorns, swinging on high at the tops of spears, a dense crowd of the enemy could be dimly seen surging up towards the opening with a dull, hoarse roar; and a sharp order or two was given by some one who seemed to be in command. There was an order too given on the defenders' side, and as the foe reached the gates and planted rough ladders there to climb up--this being the first time they had been so daring in their attack, those before having been confined to thrusting and throwing spears--a single shot rang out, and then another. These were followed by a volley from about a dozen pieces, but the assailants were not checked. Several fell, but the others came on desperately, and in obedience to a word from Sree the spearmen just brought in marched forward to stand close behind the people firing, and about a dozen more drawn up by the palace joined them. _Crash!_ Another volley, the bullets for the most part passing through the open work of the gates; but still the enemy swarmed on. Just then a dark figure ran back to where the boys stood, gun in hand, ready to fire. "Hal! Phra!" was whispered hoarsely; "if they get through and we are driven back, don't wait to resist, but rush into one of the rooms at once and fire through the open windows. We are all going to retreat there." "Where is my father?" whispered Phra excitedly. "I don't know; I have not seen him for the last few minutes." "Ah! here he comes," cried Phra. "Stand away, boy!" cried the King excitedly, as he ran down the steps from the palace entrance, bearing something in each hand spitting and sparkling like a firework. Phra gave way at his father's command, but rushed after him to be ready to defend him from injury; and, as if from a natural instinct, Harry followed to defend his comrade, till they saw the King stop in front of the gates, over which many of the enemy were climbing, some to reach the ground unhurt, others to fall, shot down. As the King stopped there seemed to be a sea of fire about his head, as he whirled one of the sparkling objects round; then it passed from his hand, formed a tiny arc as it flew over the gate, and fell amongst the crowd beyond. Another volley was fired now; but hardly had the flashes of the pieces darted from the muzzles of the guns before the second fuze, sparkling brightly, flew from the King's hand, forming another arc of scintillating light as it cleared the gates and would have fallen twenty feet or so beyond, but ere it reached the ground there was a blinding flash, a tremendous concussion, which drove the boys back, and a terrific roar. For a few moments there was dead silence, and then from the spot where the first missile had fallen, apparently without effect, there was another roar, followed by a rush of feet, cries, and groans, while from within there were fierce yells and warlike shouts, mingled with the clashing of spears, as about twenty of the enemy, who had succeeded in getting over, made a rush. They were met, though, by the spearmen who had formed up to defend the firing party, and a desperate conflict ensued, not a man surviving the fierce defenders now freshly come upon the scene. A few groans, and the scuffling sound of men on the other side of the gate crawling or being helped away, was now all that could be heard save the peculiar murmur and tramp of the huge crowd of retiring men, startled and checked for the time being by the new weapons of defence which they had encountered for the first time. It was a respite, and after leaving a sufficient guard at the gate and others on the wall, to give warning of another advance, the defenders crowded up to the terrace steps, all talking together and congratulating the King on what he had done. "Go in, half of you at a time, gentlemen, and eat and drink. This has only checked them for the present." "Oh, they won't come back to-night, sir, surely?" cried a voice Harry knew to be the doctor's, though it seemed strangely altered, so full was it of exultation now. "But what were they--shells?" "Only a couple of canisters of powder," replied the King. "It was a thought I had. I made a hole in each, and thrust in a roll of touch-paper." "But, my dear sir, suppose they had exploded before they left your hands?" cried the doctor excitedly. "Ah, then," said the King quietly, "then, Doctor--yes, it would have been bad. I'm afraid I should have been beyond your power to cure. But you must be worn out, Doctor," he added; "pray go in and get some refreshments. You will find the ladies have everything ready in the lower room." "Thanks, sir, no," said the doctor abruptly; "my mind's at rest now, and I want to work. Where are the wounded being placed?" "In my son's rooms, Doctor. Thank you. You are right; but make some one bring you coffee and whatever you require." "Oh, yes, sir, I'll take care," cried the doctor, and he hurried in, while the King turned to Mr. Kenyon. "Ah, now I can speak with you, my friend," he said. "No, no, my boys, you need not go," he added, as Phra and Harry were drawing back. "It is sad work for you, but it is forced upon me. Now, Kenyon, you are fresh, and I want your advice; you know how difficult a place this is to defend. What do you say? Ought we not to retire into this part of the palace now and defend ourselves from there? I have had every window boarded up; we have plenty of ammunition, and the place is well provisioned. There is water too. What do you think?" "I am not a soldier, sir," said Mr. Kenyon gravely. "No, but you are my friend, and it is a relief to hear your voice. Speak." "I may say things that you, sir, would not like." "They will be the words of the man I have known and trusted these many years," said the King--"the man I trust to be a second father to my boy here if I fall." "Then for his sake, sir, I should say--I do not know that I am right, but I speak as I think at the moment--would it not be better to seize the opportunity of retreating now that the enemy have been checked for the present?" "No, Kenyon," said the King firmly; "I have thought of that, but everything is against it. I dislike this bloodshed, though the men who fall are my cruel enemies who are thirsting for our blood; but I am king here, and when I die, my son must be king in my place. I have done nothing but good for my people, and because they have been raised against me by treacherous foes, I will not be coward enough to go." "Your situation is desperate, sir, and there are all my friends here, who, trusting to my advice and to your promises, are now in terrible peril." "It is that, Kenyon, which makes me firmer and more determined to stay. Think, my friend; suppose I say we will retreat. There is the jungle, into which we must take the delicate women. There are elephants enough to bear them all. What about food, and how could we defend them there? We should all be killed." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon; "but the river?" "The enemy is master there, and has all the boats. But even if we had two, we should be at a terrible disadvantage, and could only try to reach some foreign ship. But they would beat us there. No, we want strong walls to fight behind." "You are right, sir," said Mr. Kenyon; "but I would not retreat inside after what has taken place to-night." "We are wearied out with fighting," said the King sadly. "But the enemy is dispirited to-night, and I venture to think that they will not attack again till morning. Better let us who have come freshly try to strengthen the defences by the gate." "Nothing can be done there; better strengthen this part of the palace. There are weak places yet." "Very well, sir; we will do that; and to-night we will watch while you and the others rest. It seems to me too that the powder canisters produced more effect than the firing of all our friends. Why should we not make a mine?" "A mine? I do not understand." "A hollow somewhere in front of the gate, say a dozen yards away; charge it with a small keg of powder, and I think I can contrive a plan for firing it by means of a wire laid underground. The keg, too, will be covered, and the enemy will not know. It would produce a terrible effect when they crowded up to the next attack. The idea is horrible, but it is in defence of all." "It would be ten times as horrible for us to fall, and the poor women to be brutally massacred by these mad wretches. Can you do this, Kenyon?" "I can, sir. I will do it in two places, so that if one fails the other will be sure." "Hah!" ejaculated the King. "Kenyon, old friend, you make me feel strong again, and as if you and the boys have brought me hope in my hour of despair." CHAPTER XXVII THE POWDER MINE "Had a good sleep, Hal?" Harry sat up with a sudden start from the cushioned seat upon which he had been lying in the open hall of the King's palace, to find the doctor grimly smiling down. His second glance was at a great, grotesque, bronze figure looming up over him, and his third at Phra, who was lying on his back with his lips apart, sleeping heavily. "Have--have I been asleep?" he stammered. "Fast as a top, boy." "But--but I thought we were in the boat up in the jungle, and--" "We're here in the palace instead. How's your arm?" "My arm?" said Harry wonderingly; "I don't know." "Not very bad, then, old fellow." "Oh, I recollect now. Here, I'd no business to go to sleep. I ought to have been watching." "No, you ought not; the King told me that he had sent you boys to lie down." "Yes, of course, he did," said the lad excitedly; "but oh, what a shame for us to be sleeping here at such a time! I say, has there been any more fighting?" "Not a bit. The ruffians were sickened by those two boxes of powder they had." "Oh, I am glad. But I say, Doctor Cameron, how is your wife?" "Quite well, Hal. She has gone to lie down for a good sleep." "What, has she been up all night?" "Yes, helping me with the wounded." "Oh, what a good woman she is!" cried Harry enthusiastically. "Right, Hal," cried the doctor merrily. "Bless her! she is." "And I do feel such a lazy pig! You two hard at work all night, and I've been snoring here like old Phra." "So as to be ready to work hard to-day. It's all right, my boy." "I say, doctor, you do look well and jolly to-day; any one would think we were not in trouble," said Harry gravely. "Trouble, boy? I feel as if there was no trouble in the world." "Yes, I understand," said Harry slowly. "You must feel relieved to have got back to Mrs. Cameron and found her safe and well. But I say, do you think we can beat these wretches off?" "Think? No. We are going to do it, my lad." "So we are," cried Harry. "Here, let's wake up old lazy-bones." Boys will be boys, thanks to the grand elasticity of their nature. Over night Harry had felt like a serious man, but the night's rest and the doctor's hopeful words made him feel as full of light-heartedness as if there were not an enemy within a thousand miles. Catching up the first thing near, a peacock's feather from a huge bunch in a massive bronze vase, he went behind Phra's head and gently inserted the quill end between the sleeper's lips. There was no response, so the act was repeated, and Phra's teeth closed with a snap on the quill, which Harry released. Then the boy's eyes opened, and he lay staring at the waving plume standing straight up above him, raised his hand, took hold of it, and gave it a tug, but it was fast. He gave it another tug, discovered that it was held in his teeth, and sat up facing the doctor. "Did you do that?" he cried. "I? No." "Then it was one of Hal's childish games. Oh, there you are! Here: have I been asleep? Yes, father told me to lie down. Oh, tell me, has the enemy come on again?" "No, it's all right, old chap. I say, aren't you hungry?" "Hungry? No. Where is my father. Doctor?" "I don't know; he was with me just now, looking at the wounded." The colour came a little in Harry's cheeks, for the thought struck him that he had not asked after his own father. "How are the wounded, Doctor?" said Phra. "All doing well, my dear boy. Now then, shall I prescribe for you two?" "No, no; we don't want anything," cried the boys in a breath. "Yes, you do, both of you--washing. Go and tidy yourselves up, and by that time there will be a regular comfortable breakfast ready. The ladies and Mike have been busy this hour past. If we are to fight, we must eat." The doctor walked away, and Phra turned to Harry. "If we get over this trouble, Hal," he said solemnly, "I'll punch your head for playing me that stupid trick." "Do, old chap--if you can," cried the boy; "but I say, is my face dirty?" "Horribly. Is mine?" "Well," said Harry, frowning and looking very serious, "one could hardly call it dirty, but there's a black smudge across one cheek, and a dab on your forehead, and three black finger marks on your nose." "Nonsense!" "Quite true, old chap. You must have been painting your face with your gunpowdery fingers." "Come to my bedroom then, and let's have a good wash." Harry followed willingly, for he felt as if the operation would be delightful, and the next minute they were in the young prince's thoroughly English-looking bedroom, though it did not look at its best, for the curtains had been dragged aside, heavy boards nailed across the lower part of the window like a breastwork, and a couple of stout mattresses fixed up within the boards to make them less vulnerable to bullet or spear. But the rest of the room was as it should be, and a quarter of an hour was pleasantly spent with soap, water, towels, and brushes. "Hah!" ejaculated Harry at last; "that was a treat; but I should have liked a regular bath." "Let's whip the rebels first," said Phra, who looked bright and refreshed. "Come and have breakfast." He led the way to the handsome saloon where the table was spread, and Mike was busy arranging a few things and looking clean and smart--even to being fresh shaved--as if nothing were wrong. But the boys only glanced at him, and were directly after being warmly greeted by plenty of familiar friends. For about half the white defenders were gathered there, while the other half were on guard keeping careful watch. There was not a single enemy to be seen, though Sree and two men who had been scouting at daybreak had returned to announce that there were a great many of the rebels in hiding among the bushes and trees just beyond the outer wall, especially outside the grounds, as if to take care that no one should escape from the palace, where they were hemmed in. A minute later the King came in with about half a dozen of the faithful officials, Mr. Kenyon, and the doctor. His Majesty smilingly greeted all his white friends, and crossed then to the boys, with whom he shook hands warmly, after which the excellent breakfast was discussed, during which the King turned to Mr. Kenyon. "We could not fare like this, my friend," he said, "if we took to the jungle or a boat." "No, sir, no," replied Mr. Kenyon quickly. "I spoke last night on the impulse of the moment, but I have since thought that my idea was impracticable. I've been all about this wing of the palace too this morning, and I feel satisfied that we can hold it as long as we like if we do a little more to the defences. I'll talk with you, though, after breakfast." The change from the hopeless despair of the past night was strange, and before long the two boys began to long for an opportunity to leave the table, for the disposition among their friends whom they had rejoined seemed to be one of crediting them with completely altering the state of affairs and making them the heroes of the hour. At last the opportunity came, for the King rose, and those who had breakfasted hurried away to take the places of the guard. "Let's slip out this way," said Harry, "or we shall meet the others as they come in, and I'm sick of it. Such rubbish! Why, it was all father, Sree, and you." "Old Sree deserves pretty well all the credit," agreed Phra. "Let's go and see where he is." They soon found him and Lahn on their way back from the gate, and hurried them in to where Mike had a second breakfast waiting, the old hunter smiling with content at the genuine eagerness the two lads displayed in regard to his comfort. But before they had been there long Mike hurried in from attending on the second party at the King's table, to see that his native friends, as he called them, were all right. "Of course we shall beat the enemy, Master Harry," he said; "but I had a look out from the top of the palace as soon as the sun rose, and you could see hundreds of thousands of them down by the river." "Millions, Mike," cried Harry. "Ah, you may laugh, sir, but there's an awful lot. Seems too many for us to beat, but we've got to do it, I suppose." "Yes," said Sree, smiling, "we have got to beat them; but they will not come on all at once." "How many shots did you fire last night, Mike?" said Harry banteringly. "I didn't count, sir," said the man quietly; "you see, I got so excited. Didn't feel half so scared as I thought I should. Hands trembled a bit first time I pulled the trigger, but they didn't afterwards. I suppose I was too busy." "Didn't you count your cartridges?" "No, sir. I took a belt full, and some in my pockets." "And how many did you bring back?" asked Phra. "None at all, sir." "Michael was between Lahn and the sahibs," said Sree quietly, "and I hope he will fight by our sides the next time the enemy come on. I like to be fighting with a brave Englishman at my side." "Yes, sir; coming, sir," cried Mike, and he ran out of the room, with a very red face. "Did any one call?" said Phra. "No, it was his gammon, so as to get away," said Harry. "I say, Sree, no nonsense. Old Mike didn't fight like that, did he?" "Oh, yes, Sahib; no one could have been more brave and cool. I did not expect it. I always thought he was what you English people call a coward." "I say, Phra, what a shame to laugh at him like that!" "Yes, but you began it." "Oh, that I didn't," cried Harry. "Never mind, we'll go halves; I'll take my share of the blame." "Are you lads in there?" cried Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, father," cried Harry. "You may as well come with me. Ah, Sree, meet me in half an hour's time by the great gates; bring the men who came with us, and we shall want spears." "Yes, Sahib," said Sree, rising. "No, no; finish your meal first, my man. There is plenty of time." The King, with several of his followers, was in the great hall; and after Mr. Kenyon had gone round with the party to the several windows to see what more could be done by way of strengthening them and making more loop-holes for firing from, they were led to the vault-like arrangement beneath, where, dimly lit by slits in the thick wall, the ammunition stored up lay ready to hand. Everything was in good order, and in addition to chests of cartridges--an ample supply--there were two perfectly new stands of rifles, with bayonets attached, while the other end was stacked with provisions, barrels of flour, boxes of biscuits, chests of tea, and bags of coffee and sugar--an ample store, the water supply being furnished from a spigot fitted to a bamboo pipe connected with a reservoir right away in the higher part of the grounds. Two small kegs of gunpowder were carried up into the hall, Mr. Kenyon taking up one and the King the other; but in an instant Harry had relieved his father of his load, and Phra had taken the King's. These being placed ready by the door opening on to the steps, the party, at Mr. Kenyon's request, ascended to the roof, where Harry's father explained his wishes; namely, that an ample supply of food, water, and ammunition should be brought up there ready for use, if at the last they were driven from the ground floor to the rooms above, and from there to taking refuge on the top, each floor forming a stronghold. "And if it comes to the worst, Kenyon," said the King gravely-- "If it comes to the worst, sir," replied Mr. Kenyon solemnly, "we must not let ourselves and those we love fall into the hands of these wretches." "No," said the King, with his eyes flashing. "What would you do?" "I propose, sir," said Mr. Kenyon, "that a sufficiency of the powder be placed ready below, and with that I shall make an arrangement through which, on the firing of a gun by means of a wire brought up here, the place can be blown up, and our enemies perish with us." "Yes," said the King. "Good." Harry and Phra exchanged glances, and then they shuddered. Sree was waiting with the men when they descended to the terrace, where, refreshed by their meal, the second party had assembled, ready for anything that might happen that day; eager also to see what Mr. Kenyon and the doctor would suggest. The first thing done was to send scouts once more to try and find out whether an advance was being prepared. While they were absent, Mr. Kenyon, after explaining to the King his plans, asked for the gates to be opened, so that he and his men could pass out with an advance guard of about twenty, to screen as well as protect them while the mine was prepared. The distance was so short that there was no scruple about the gates being unclosed, though both Harry and Phra looked upon the posting of the guard across the pathway outside the defences as being like a defiance and invitation to the enemy in one, and Harry told his father their thoughts. "Exactly what I thought myself, Hal, but it must be done; and what I hope they will think is that we have become emboldened by the defeat we gave them last night, and have advanced to meet them in fair fight outside." "They will be watching, of course," said Phra. "Yes, and that is why I have placed the men to cover us. No more words. Now to get the mines made as quickly as possible." There was this difficulty in making the mines: to be effective, it was necessary that they should be as near the gates as possible, for there the greater part of the enemy would crowd to the attack; but if they were too close, they might blow down the defences and inflict injury upon their friends; while if they were too far off, they would be ineffective from the attacking party being few. The only thing to be done was to choose the medium way, and the men were set to work to dig two small, deep holes, each capable of holding one of the powder kegs, and in each case the head was taken out before it was laid upon its side. But previously a narrow trench of about a foot in depth was dug, leading from the head of the cask right in through the gates. This finished, stout matting was laid over the keg and a loaded gun placed in the trench, already cocked, so that when the trigger was pulled by means of a wire, the flash from the gun would explode the powder. Then the wire was run through a number of large bamboos such as were used--after boring through the divisions--for water, and these were laid along the trench and through the gateway. The result of this was that when the wire was pulled it would run easily and not be checked by the earth with which the trench was again to be filled, so that, the wire being attached to the trigger of the gun, the mine could be sprung in safety by those within the gates. The preparations took some time, the arrangement of the bamboos causing a good deal of trouble. But all this was satisfactorily overcome at last, the trenches filled and trampled down so as not to betray the danger; the kegs were covered in as well, the ground levelled, and dust and stones thrown over. Nothing remained to be done but to attach the wires to the triggers, lay boards over the guns from beneath the matting which covered the powder to the bamboos, and then fill in and level over the boards. "Who is going to do this, father?" said Harry, who had stood by looking on all through. "Do what?" "Fasten the wires to the triggers." "I am, my boy," said Mr. Kenyon, through his teeth. "But suppose the guns went off?" "I am going to provide against that," said Mr. Kenyon firmly, and he ordered the men who formed the screen and guard to advance fifty paces towards the enemy and away from the mines. "But it will be very dangerous, father." "Very, Hal; and I want careful guard to be kept over the ends of the wires within the gates, so that they shall not be touched. You and Phra had better take that duty." "No, don't send me to do that, father," said Harry in rather a husky tone of voice. "I want to stay and help you." "No one can help me, Hal; no one can do this but myself." "But, father," whispered the boy, in agonized tones, "suppose--" "I will suppose nothing, Hal," said Mr. Kenyon sternly. "It is very dangerous work, and I dare trust no one but myself. Now obey me, and remember that my life is in you boys' hands. No one must touch the end of those wires. Phra, you hear?" "Yes, Mr. Kenyon, but I feel like Hal. We don't like to leave you." "I am going to help the Sahib," said Sree quietly from where he stood, spade in hand. "No, Sree; the task is too dangerous. Go with my son." "The Sahib will want help to fill in the earth over the boards; there is much to do, and his servant begs that he may share the danger with the Sahib." "You know the risk." "Yes, Sahib," said the man calmly. "Then stay." "Hah!" ejaculated the old hunter, in a sigh of satisfaction, and he smiled as Mr. Kenyon held out his hand and took his follower's in a strong grip. Then turning to the men who had helped with the digging: "Follow my son and the Prince inside.--Now, Hal, you know your task." "Yes, father," said Harry, with his brow all in wrinkles and his teeth set; and, leading the way, his first act was to order every one back from the ends of the wires, which he made the men protect by building a ring of big stones around them--stones which had been used to form the breastwork from behind which the defenders had fired. As he looked up from this he saw that his father was waiting and watching; and now seeing that all was ready, he waved his hand to the boys and went down on one knee, Sree standing close by with one foot resting upon his spade. "Why is he left alone, Phra?" asked a familiar voice, for the King had come up to the breastwork to see how matters were progressing. Phra explained, but in the midst Harry interrupted: "It is horribly dangerous, sir, and my father told us to keep every one back in case the powder exploded." "Then why do you stand there with my son in such peril, boy?" "Because I can't leave my father," said Harry, in a choking voice. "Then you, Phra?" said the King. "I cannot leave my friend," said Phra hoarsely. "I forgot," said the King quietly; "and you both have your duty to do in guarding the ends of those wires. Hal, boy, your father is a brave man, and he is doing this to save my kingdom to me and our lives for us all. I too, Phra, my son, feel that I cannot leave my friend." As he finished speaking he turned and walked slowly towards where Mr. Kenyon was still kneeling over his dangerous task; and as the King reached the place it was just as the wire had been successfully looped over the trigger and tied so that it could not slip, when Mr. Kenyon covered his work with a board whose sides rested on two ledges left for the purpose high above the gun. "Fill in, Sree," he said quietly.--"You here, sir? Go back! Go back! I cannot answer for this. The slightest touch, and the powder will explode." "You order me, Kenyon, your friend. I, the King, command you. Go on; finish the other now." "But the danger, sir," said Mr. Kenyon, upon whose brow the moisture stood in great drops. "I will share it with you," said the King calmly. "Go on." Mr. Kenyon seized another spade, and helped in the covering in and levelling of the short piece of trench, while those who watched from the gate were in expectation moment by moment of seeing the earth rent asunder and the three standing before them torn to fragments by the explosion. They were horrible moments, and the two boys could hardly breathe, while their hearts kept up a painful throb, as if unable to fight against the heavy pressure which kept them down. The time seemed, too, so very long, as Mr. Kenyon once more went down upon his left knee and carefully passed the second wire loop over the trigger of the other gun, tied it there with fingers that did not tremble in the least, and then took the board, laid it carefully upon the ledges, and rose to help Sree to throw in the earth and stones. The King had followed them there as well, and stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking proud and defiant--more like a king, Harry thought, than he had ever appeared when upon state occasions he had mounted one of his elephants, a blaze of cloth of gold and jewels, to take his seat in a howdah which was a resplendent throne. "At last!" said Harry, speaking unconsciously, for the heroic deed was done; but there was no triumph in the boy's tones, his voice sounded like a groan; and upon turning to glance at Phra he was startled for the moment, his comrade's face and lips were so clayey looking and strange. Sree had shouldered the tools, and at an order walked slowly back, the King and Mr. Kenyon coming next, the former with his hand resting upon his English friend's shoulder; and as they reached the gateway the boys were startled by the rush of feet behind them. The sounds brought them back to the duty they were set, and darting before the wires, they raised their guns to the "ready," and shouted, "Back!" The sudden movement of the two lads had an instant effect upon the body of armed men, who for days past had been as it were under military rule. They stopped short, but only to raise gun, spear, or cap high above their heads and burst forth into a stentorian cheer, which was echoed by the little body of men fifty yards on the other side of the deadly mines. As his brave defenders cheered again the King bowed, and with a quick movement fell back behind Mr. Kenyon, seeming to thrust him forward to receive the acclamations which rent the air again and again. Then as they passed in amongst the defenders, with Mr. Kenyon's face showing in its marble sternness the tremendous emotion through which he had passed, Harry reached out one hand and touched his arm, to have it grasped and wrung before he went on with the King towards the terrace entrance. "Oh, Hal," panted Phra half hysterically, "don't you feel proud?" "Proud?" cried Harry wildly. "Oh, I wish we were not obliged to stay here. Ah!" he half yelled; "there he is! I must do something. Hi! everybody," he yelped, "three cheers for old Sree." The cheers were given again and again, and when at a sign the guards outside marched back in two parties, single file, one on each side of the mines, the cheering burst forth again, and was kept up till the last man was within, a final roar being given when the gates were shut to and firmly secured. "Beaten, Phra?" cried Harry excitedly, but with something in his throat; "who's going to be beaten? Here, I say, if we were free, do you know what we'd do?" "I should like to go and shut myself in my room and cry," said Phra simply. "Cry?" said Harry, turning angrily upon his comrade; "cry? What, like a great, silly goose of a girl?" "Yes," said Phra gravely; "that's how I feel." "Cry?" said Harry again. "Bah! I feel as if I want to shout." "But your eyes look quite wet, and there's a cracked sound in your voice." "It's with shouting so, and the sun being in one's face." "Yes," said Phra, with a wistful look and a smile. "I know, Hal. But what should we do if we were free?" "Go and hoist the flags on the top of the palace." "Yes," cried Phra eagerly, "we will, and the British colours too." The boys were relieved in an hour's time, when Mr. Kenyon came out with the King to superintend a piece of strong breastwork being built up round the spot where the two wires lay; and when this was done, fresh guards were set. Soon after, another cheer arose from the top of the palace, to be taken up by those in the court below and wherever the defenders were distributed, for the boys had kept their word and hoisted the King's gay, silken standard and the Union Jack side by side. "It seems as if we've frightened the enemy all away, Phra," said Harry, as he shaded his eyes and gazed from his point of vantage in every direction. "Yes," said Phra, who was following his example; "there isn't one to be seen." "Hurrah!" shouted Harry. "But it's a bad sign," said Phra; "they mean to come on again quietly to-night." "Then they'll never see where the ground has been dug," said Harry, "and--oh, I say, Phra, I hope they will not come; it seems so horrid, after all." "But if it's to save our fathers and our friends from a horrible death, I'll pull one of the wires." "Yes," cried Harry, flushing, and with sparkling eyes, "and so will I. But I hope they'll stay away." "Amen," said a voice behind them. Mr. Kenyon had come up with the King, each telescope in hand, and unobserved. CHAPTER XXVIII SAVING THE STORES There was no sign to be made out of anything in the shape of immediate danger from the top of the palace, and the party soon descended to some of the more immediate trouble. For there were the wounded to visit and to try to cheer, encouraging them with hopeful words about the future, Mr. Kenyon laying a good deal of stress upon the possibilities of help coming ere long from outside as the result of his message sent by Adong; and as Harry went through the room turned into a hospital, he could not help noticing the effect of his father's words, and the way in which the sufferers' eyes brightened at the very mention of a British man-o'-war. Then there was another matter to set right. There was an ample supply of provisions in the palace stores, so long as they were not forced by the enemy to keep merely to the one wing; and even if they were, the King had seen that there was a fortnight's provender for all; but there was another little party shut up with them for whom provision had been made, but whose proceedings were so wholesale that it was evident something must be done. A little council of war was held, the King being careful not to wound the susceptibilities of his English friends by taking any steps without consulting them. And as the matter in question was discussed he said,-- "I took care to keep the elephants, thinking that possibly we might have to escape to the jungle, when they would be invaluable for the ladies; but on further consideration it seems that they are only a useless encumbrance to us. They eat enormously, and to-morrow we should have to let them commence upon the stores of grain which we may require for ourselves." "And you propose now, sir, to set them at liberty to shift for themselves?" said one of the gentlemen present. "Yes, they would get their own living in the jungle, and in happier days to come, perhaps, they might be caught again." "It is a pity," said Mr. Kenyon. "Let me see; there are ten, and all magnificent beasts." "Eleven," said Harry promptly. "Yes--eleven," said the King; "and they are the finest that the wild droves supplied. I think we must let them go at once." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon, "and perhaps it is only hastening the loss, for if the enemy gain possession of the grounds and outer court, of course we lose them then." "Yes, they had better go at once," said the King with a sigh, which was echoed by his son, while Harry directed an angry look at his father. "What does that mean, Hal?" said Mr. Kenyon. "I'd sooner go without half my food every day than the elephants should be given up," cried the boy impetuously, "and so would Phra." "I believe you," said the King, smiling; "but even the whole of your daily food would not go far with one of the beasts. They might be turned into the grounds between the river and the outer wall, but it would only be for them to destroy and starve. They must be set at liberty at once while there is an opportunity. The great gate in the outer wall near the river must be opened. Mr. Kenyon, send men in advance to see if the enemy are away from that part too, and then, with a strong party to guard against surprise, we can have them led out, and the gates re-closed." Scouts were sent at once, and a strong guard numbered off, while, as the mahouts had fled with the rest, the task of leading the elephants from their great stables was deputed to Sree and his man, Lahn, and in spite of their sorrow at the magnificent troop being sent off to resume their wild state, the two boys eagerly seized upon the event as a fresh diversion from the troubles by which they were surrounded. Harry was all excitement directly. "Never mind, old chap," he cried; "let the poor beggars go. It's bad enough to feel hungry for any one my size. As for an elephant who eats so much, it must be quite awful." "I don't like Sul to go," said Phra. "I don't either, but cheer up; we shall soon whop the enemy, and make prisoners of Mr. Number Two and the leaders of the riot, and have a good day settling up this little trouble; and then we'll get old Sree and his two boys, and have days and days of elephant catching. Oh, the row will soon be over now." Phra sighed, but he knew the necessities of the case, and joined in the business heart and soul. Sree was as ready to perform this duty as to dig and charge mines, and as soon as the guard was ready, and the scouts had returned to announce that the coast was quite clear, a party went to the elephant stables, where Sree and Lahn went busily to work cutting off the shackles from the great beasts' hind legs, where they stood shaking their heads, waving their trunks, and trumpeting in an uneasy way which announced their desire for more food; while as soon as they were all free, Sree and the boys went to Sul's head, the great beast was ordered to kneel, a ladder brought, and the hunter climbed into the mahout's place. Then at a word the great animal rose and started off, with the others following in a docile fashion, which seemed to suggest that they comprehended what was going on. Harry had provided himself for the occasion, and when the little procession started, he and Phra placed themselves on either side of the great leader's head feeding him with biscuits, his trunk being turned alternately from one lad to the other in search of their offerings as he shuffled away, blinking his eyes and uttering a low "chuntering" sound, as if talking all the time. "He's asking if we're going out after tigers," said Harry, laughing. "Not he," said Phra; "he knows he's going off for a run in the forest, and the others know it too." "Nonsense!" "I don't care: they do," said Phra. "If they didn't they'd be rushing about here and there to begin breaking off and eating the green boughs." The first gate was passed, leading from the court into the outer grounds, and almost in silence the great beasts shuffled along in single file, treading with absurd exactness in each other's steps, while the guard on being overtaken, trotted on in advance till the outer wall was reached, with a couple of men perched on the top of the ponderous gates keeping a look-out. At a word from Sree the great elephant he rode stopped and knelt, extending his trunk for a foothold, so that his temporary mahout could climb down. Meanwhile four men of the guard had leaned their spears against the wall, raised and swung round the massive bars, and then after a great deal of tugging managed to drag open one of the double gates, beyond which lay open paddy fields, and on the other side the wild jungle, the river being away to their right. "Good-bye, Sul," cried Harry, and the elephant turned his trunk for another biscuit. "There you are--the last, perhaps, that I shall ever give you." The elephant turned his trunk under and tucked the biscuit into his huge, wet mouth, then extended his flexible proboscis for more. But there were no more, and the silent, visible request to Phra made in turn was just as unsuccessful. "There, Sree," cried Phra huskily, "tell them to go." Sree took a step forward and repeated a few words in his native tongue, with the result that Sul threw up his trunk and made a peculiar noise, which was responded to by one of the elephants behind, and then he went off with a rush, squealing, trumpeting, and setting up his comical little tail; and the troop followed suit, getting over the ground at a tremendous pace and making straight for the jungle. "Well, it has made them happy," said Harry, looking after the troop wistfully. "Yes, they're glad enough to get away from the poor wretches doomed to be killed," said Phra bitterly. "Doomed to be smothered!" cried Harry sharply. "What nonsense! Look at them. Just like a lot of children let out for a run." "We shall never see old Sul again," sighed Phra. "Not if we stand here like this," replied Harry. "Do you see why the elephants rushed off so quickly just now?" "No. They are glad of their liberty, perhaps, and the chance of getting plenty to eat." "No; they smelt danger." "Danger? Where?" "Out yonder to the left. I caught a glimpse of the tops of spears twinkling in the sun." "Where? I can see nothing." "Because you are not looking the right way. Over there, where there must be a deep ditch between two of the rice fields. Yes, there's a long line of twinkling spear tops. They've seen the place opened and the elephants let out, and they're trying to sneak up along that dyke and rush in before we can shut the gate." "Yes, quick, quick!" cried Sree; and setting the example, which half a dozen followed, amongst them the gate was being pushed to, Harry getting a farewell glance at the troop of elephants as they disappeared through the edge of the jungle. Those who closed the gate were none too soon, for, unseen, another party had crept up close to the now unwatched wall, the scouts having descended as soon as the guard arrived; and just as the distance between the two great leaves of the gates was being reduced to a mere slit, a spear was thrust through. Then _crack, crack_, the edge of the gate caught it and snapped the bamboo shaft in two, the bright, sharp head falling inside. "More help!" shouted Sree, for there was a rush of men to force the gate open again; but the defenders being reinforced, the leaves were held together till one of the huge bars was thrust into its place, and a savage yelling ensued, followed by a little shower of spears which had been darted nearly straight upward and fell amongst the defenders. The weapons of these latter were too valuable to be used in this manner; but while the final efforts were being made to secure the ponderous means of exit, two of the men pulled the quivering shafts out of the ground, and sent them flying back in the same way, repeating the act till a sharp cry from outside told that one of the attacking party had been hurt. "Better run back, sahibs," said Sree now, as the babble of voices outside increased suddenly, telling that the party which had been detected creeping along the dyke had now joined those who came by the wall. "Yes, there's nothing to be gained by staying here," said Phra. "We couldn't keep them back if they had ladders to climb over." Just then there was a shot from the direction of the palace, and the puff of smoke showed where it had been fired. "Fighting begun?" cried Harry. "No," said Phra; "a signal for us to run back. Come on." Phra was right, for their proceedings had been watched from the top of the palace by means of a glass, and hence as soon as the gate had been seen to be secure the signal was fired to call them back. They were met by Mr. Kenyon, glass in hand, as they ran up. "I was watching you from the top there," he said. "Didn't you see the spears as the men came along the ditch?" asked Phra. "No, or I should have sent help at once. Of course I could not detect the men coming up under shelter of the wall. Well, we have done two good things to-day: got rid of those devourers of our stores, and found out that the enemy are hiding about the country beyond the walls." "Think they are on this side too, father?" asked Harry. "I feel sure they are, my boy. They lie all along a loop whose two ends rest on the river's bank, while their boats guard the terrace and landing-place as well. This means fresh attacks as soon as they have recovered from the check they have just received." "But why don't they attack us from some other side--come over the walls?" said Harry. "It does not seem to be their way. Yonder is the main way into the palace, and they commenced by attacking there; but perhaps they will try fresh plans now. I am, with the King's permission, going to strengthen one weak part, though, before night comes." "Which is that?" asked Phra. "The one where we managed to get in," replied Mr. Kenyon. "Here, Sree, are you willing, if I have you well supported, to get up into that tree and cut off all the boughs which project over the wall?" "Yes, Sahib," said the old hunter quietly. "I have thought that it ought to be done." "Yes, and the sooner the better; it will set two men free from keeping watch at the windows overlooking that part of the wall." "Shall I begin now, Sahib?" said Sree. "No; not till dark, and I have not yet made my plans." "Whenever the Sahib pleases," said Sree quietly, "his servant is ready. But why not burn the big tree down?" CHAPTER XXIX THE DOCTOR KEPT BUSY Strict watch was kept on all sides, but no farther sign of the enemy was seen, and towards evening, permission being given, preparations were made for the destruction of the tree. Sree's idea had found favour, but the question was how the task was to be done. Once the fire was started it was felt that there could be no doubt about the tree's fate, it being of a resinous kind; but the task was to get it well alight, for a furnace built against the trunk would have had but little effect, and it was nearly decided that the best way would, after all, be to cut off some of the nearest limbs. An idea, however, struck Harry, as he and Phra came upon a stack of bamboo poles collected there to dry until required for various uses. Harry's idea was that if the poles were passed over the wall and piled round the great trunk as close as possible, and with their thinner portions running up into the tree among the branches, the shape of the stack with the air passages between the tall poles would ensure a sharp draught of air, and a fire if lit would soon become fierce. Mr. Kenyon snatched at the plan, and men were set to work carrying the poles to the wall beneath the tree; then after a careful look round, it was deemed safe for Sree to climb over in company with Lahn, after which men were ready to hand over the poles so as to keep Sree and his boy well employed, the one in the tree, the other at the foot, arranging the poles. Just before sundown this was commenced, half a dozen well-armed men being ready at the window to cover the workers, and bamboo ladders having been placed for their convenience, while torches of resinous wood were lit, waiting to be used. Then, for about an hour, the work went on till darkness set in, and the tree had grown into a strange, unsightly object, while the torches in the yard grew brighter and brighter, till they cast strange shadows of the workers in all directions. Suddenly there was an alarm of the enemy's approach, and no more time was bestowed upon the task. The word was given, and the torches passed over the wall to Sree, who had descended from the tree, and now thrust them in between the bamboos into a kind of chimney which the pile had formed. "Make haste, Sree," cried Harry, who was seated beside Phra on the top of the wall. "Yes, Sahib," said the man quietly. "But the wood does not burn." "No, Sahib; the big bamboos are slow to catch fire, but when they do they will burn fast." "Here, Phra, I'm getting fidgety," whispered Harry. "The rebels must have seen those torches flashing about, and perhaps they're crawling up in the darkness." "Yes, I'm afraid they will be," replied Phra. "How long he is!" "Yes, and it makes my wound throb." "Your wound?" "Yes, I don't know why, but it does. I say, you up at the windows, be on the look out, please, and ready to fire." "All ready," said a voice; "but you'd better make haste with the work, in case the enemy should be coming up." "Yes, yes. Hi! Sree, can't you get that wood to burn?" "Not yet, Sahib; but it soon will." "Where's Lahn?" cried Harry. "I'm here, Sahib." "Sree does not want you now; come up the ladder, and get inside." The man obeyed, scrambling quickly up the rough bamboo steps and passing over the wall, when Phra stopped him. "Wo!" he said. "Stop there, and hold the top of the ladder fast." "Pass up two loaded guns," said Harry, looking down inside. This was done, and Phra and Harry each took and cocked his piece as they sat astride of the wall, facing each other, but with Lahn between them holding the top of the ladder, his keen eyes peering first in one direction, then in the other, where the view was not obstructed by the tree. "Oh, I say, I say!" cried Harry, as the darkness increased, and nothing but a feeble glow appeared through the pile of great grasses. "You have not gone to sleep, have you, Sree?" "No, Sahib," came from below, with a soft chuckle. "I ought to have had some small, dry wood to burn first. It is very slow." "Slow? Oh, it's horrible!" "The Sahib hurries." "Hurries? Yes. Do you suppose I want to sit here till the enemy comes, so as to see you speared?" "It is too dark, Sahib," said the man softly; "they could not see me." "Nonsense! I can see you from up here--your hands and face: the fire shines upon them." "Yes, Sahib; it is beginning now." At that moment Lahn laid his hand upon Harry's breast, while he pointed away to the left with the other, and uttered a low, snake-like hiss. "Men coming?" asked Sree. "Well, I must get the fire to burn now." "Can you see them?" whispered Harry, as he strained his eyesight in the pointed-out direction without result, and then looked down at a little writhing tongue of flame beginning to run up inside the sloping pile of bamboo. "Yes, many men," whispered Lahn, and he hissed sharply twice. "Look out up there," said Harry loudly. "The enemy. Now, Sree, up at once." But at that moment the rough ladder held by Lahn was snatched away, and seemed to fall over against the bamboo pile from the noise that was made, while at the same moment there was a faint, rustling sound, sharp clicks against the side of the palace, and the rattling down of at least a dozen spears, which had been hurled up at the speaker, and passed over the wall. "Down with you from off there," shouted Mr. Kenyon at the window. "We can't fire with you there." Accustomed to obey, the boys threw their legs over the inner side, felt for the ladders, and then crouched down, Lahn following their example. "No, no," he cried, "don't fire; Sree is on the other side." "Oh!" cried Mr. Kenyon. There was a momentary silence, and more spears flew over, evidently directed at the window, a sharp exclamation telling that one had taken effect, the others clattering down again into the narrow court between the walls. "Can't he reach the ladder?" cried Mr. Kenyon. "It is gone," replied Harry; but before he spoke he had laid his gun on the top of the wall, set free the ladder upon which he stood, and was helping Lahn to raise it up so as to pass it over and lower it on the other side, meaning to call to Sree to take advantage of this to escape. But before it was half up they paused, and lowered it quickly down again, for suddenly the result of Sree's long and careful preparation manifested itself. There was a bright flash of flame seen running up the bamboo pile, and by the light it shed the space beyond the wall displayed scores of bright spear points, and double that number of flashing eyes. It was almost instantaneous, for the light died out again, hidden by a dense cloud of smoke; but it had been long enough to show no sign of Sree, and that to lower a ladder down meant to make a way for scores of the enemy to come running up and over the wall. "The other ladder--where is it?" whispered Harry wildly to Lahn. "On the fire," said the man. "But Sree--did you see poor Sree?" "No," said the man, with all the stolid manner of an Eastern. "Said _ciss_, but he did not come." There was another flash, and a fresh shower of spears, followed by a dull red glow through the smoke. Then flash after flash in quick succession, accompanied by what might have been taken at a distance for a confused volley of pistol shots; for now, with a roar, the fire blazed up, rushing rapidly through the bamboos and into the body of the tree, whose green leaves hissed and crackled, and began to blaze brightly, lighting up the gardens beyond the wall, and compelling the defenders at the window to crouch behind their breastwork, beginning to fire sharply now, and driving back the crowding enemy, some of the boldest of whom had run forward to begin pulling down the bamboos where they had not yet caught. In another minute all such attempts would have been in vain, for the fire rapidly swept round in a spiral, the poles cracking with loud reports. Showers of sparks flew up on what appeared to be a whirl of ruddy smoke, while, as the flames roared up as from a furnace, the boughs began to yield to its fiery tongues, which licked up all the moisture, and in an incredibly short space of time the whole tree was one hissing, seething pile of fiercely writhing flames. The heat soon forced the boys to slide down the ladders, and the defenders to shrink from the window, whose breastwork and outer shutters began to blister and crack in so alarming a way that the occupants of the room fetched water to be ready to extinguish the first part that caught. The light was reflected down upon the boys as they laid the ladders close up against the wall, and then turned to look anxiously at the pyramid of flame in such close proximity to the palace, wondering whether Sree's work had not been too well done. But far away and above all other thoughts, was that which struck home in their breasts--had poor Sree fallen a victim to his fidelity and his determination to get the fire well alight before he sought his own safety? The boys hurriedly discussed this in whispers, and then they turned to question Lahn as to the plucking away of the ladder. "Could you see anything?" Harry asked. "Yes, two enemies got to the ladder," said the man in Siamese. "Sree pulled it over into the fire." "And what then?--where was Sree?" The man shook his head. "Don't know," he said. "A big smoke came, and all turned dark." "Do you think Sree was killed?" "No. Sree too clever. Kill the men." They asked no more, for, surrounded as he would be by foes, they could see no chance of the poor fellow escaping; so with their hearts sinking in despair, they remained gazing up at the floating flakes of fire and the spangled wreaths of smoke which whirled up over the palace, while the heat was reflected back upon them with such power that in spite of the rush of comparatively cool air caused by the rising fire and steam, they had to retreat and pass along to the corner where, some twenty yards away, they could stand and watch the burning tree. They could hear nothing of the enemy, and were ready to go round to the terrace entrance; but something seemed to hold them there--a strange, undefined something in the form of hope that Sree might somehow have escaped, and that they might at any moment see his head rise up in the light where the dark top of the wall ran in a hard line. Then, too, there was the excitement about the palace, as the fire waved to and fro and roared louder than ever, while the bigger boughs, as they grew super-heated, burst with loud reports to let out the compressed steam. A dozen times over it seemed certain that the palace must go, for the wooden jalousies and exposed elaborate carvings, kept catching; but a few buckets of water, carefully distributed, extinguished the flames, and it became plain that the enemy had retired to a safe distance, hiding among the trees, for no more spears were thrown and no shots were fired. At last it was evident that the fire had passed its culminating point, and the spectators gazed at a glowing skeleton whose framework kept on falling into the main body of the fire below. At first they were small branches which hardly reached the bottom, but were borne up again to pass away in fresh clouds of what looked like golden snow. Then heavier boughs were burned through and dropped, carrying down with them those below, and so on and on till the trunk, alone stood, with the stumps of branches rising high above the wall, one glowing tower of dazzling light doomed to burn on and on probably for hours, and then, fanned by the wind, slowly smoulder away into so much golden ash. But before this could be achieved, and when it was certain that no danger could accrue to that part of the palace, Phra laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder. "Come," he said abruptly, and he made a sign to Lahn for him to follow. Five minutes later they were at the back of the line of defence, in front of the great, open-work bronze gates; but all was quiet there; no sign of the enemy had been seen, and with the palace between them and the burning tree the boys looked up at it as it stood out against the glow shed by the fire, which lit up the two flags floating side by side, blown out by the soft breeze caused by the rush of hot air rising from the fire. "Let's go in and tell them, Hal," said Phra. "They will be waiting to know." Harry nodded shortly, but said no word, walking slowly into the great hall, where two of the first persons they encountered were Mr. Kenyon and the King. Under the pressure of questions the boys related in simple words all that had occurred, the King listening till they had done, and then standing with wrinkled brow and compressed lip. Mr. Kenyon was the first to utter what sounded like a confirmation of his thoughts in Harry's ear. "Poor Sree!" he said sadly; "as brave a man as ever stepped. I looked upon him as a friend." "Everything a man should be," said the King, endorsing this utterance of the poor fellow's fate: "simple, modest, devoted and true. Kenyon, my friend, we have lost one of our best supporters. He died trying to shield us from the perils which hem us in." "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon, sharply now, as if making an effort to thrust the inevitable behind him. "You are neither of you hurt, boys?" "My arm aches a great deal," said Harry, speaking in a dull, apathetic way. "Ah! Your wound. Let Dr. Cameron see it at once." "Oh, not to-night, father." "To-night, Hal--directly. You have been using it a great deal, and the bandages need loosening because the cut is swollen and inflamed." "And you, Phra?" said the King quietly. "A mere nothing, father." "What, wounded?" cried the King, with a quick change from his calm, grave manner to eager excitement, as he caught his son's arm. "Not a wound, father. A spear whistled by my ear when we were on the top of the wall. I had forgotten it. My ear is a little cut, but it soon stopped bleeding." Hie King uttered a sigh of relief as he thought of what a few inches' difference in the direction would have meant. "Go in with Hal, and ask Doctor Cameron to look to it." "Oh, but father, it is--" "My wish, sir," said the King firmly. "You had both better rest then, for you have done your share of the work." Phra looked a protest, and the King went on: "Unless the enemy attack us in force to-night; then of course you will both come and help. Now, Kenyon, let us go our rounds. This quietness is more startling than an attack. I fear they are planning something fresh." "Very likely, sir," said Mr. Kenyon cheerfully; "but we must scheme in return." They went on down to the barricade by the gate, and the boys sighed wearily as they walked towards Doctor Cameron's hospital room; for the spirit seemed to have sunk down in them just as the fire had fallen after it had reached its height. "What a capital English gentleman your father would make if he dressed like us," said Harry, for the sake of saying something. "Yes, and what a good Siamese noble your father would make if he dressed like some of ours," said Phra, with a faint smile. "All right," said Harry; "that's one each. But I say, it seems very stupid to go to the doctor for such hurts as these." "Yes, we must say the King sent us, or he will laugh." But Doctor Cameron did not laugh: he frowned as he examined Phra's left ear. "A narrow escape, my dear boy; but as we people say, a miss is as good as a mile. Only this is not a miss: the spear blade has cut the lobe of your ear in two. I must put in a stitch or two and draw it together before strapping it up. I'll bathe it directly. All, here's my wife. Bathe this injury, my dear." Phra shrank, but resigned himself directly to Mrs. Cameron's hands, while her husband turned to Harry. "Oh, it's nothing," said the boy. "We shouldn't have come, only father and the King ordered us to show you our awful injuries." "This is worse than you think, my dear Hal," said the doctor sternly. "Your arm is much swollen and inflamed. It would have been seriously bad if you had waited till to-morrow." "Oh," cried Harry passionately; "what do I care? It's horrible; it's too hard to bear!" "What, this?" said the doctor sharply. "This?" cried Harry. "Pish! _No!_--NO! But you don't know. Poor old Sree--poor old Sree, Mrs. Cameron: he's dead--he's dead!" CHAPTER XXX LIKE A BAD SHILLING When they quitted the hospital room, Harry and Phra threw themselves down on one of the long bamboo seats in the hall where they had left their guns, and sat talking dejectedly in a low tone, leaving oft from time to time for a walk out into the still night air to listen whether there were any tokens of an approaching attack; but the place was perfectly still; the glow from the burning tree had nearly died out, and everything was calm and peaceful. After a time the King and Mr. Kenyon returned from their rounds and stopped to speak to the boys for a few minutes, telling them that they had better get a good sleep while they could, and that they had been examining the windows at the other side of the palace, where they had been a good deal burned. "I'm afraid, sir, that was a mistake," said Mr. Kenyon. "It may have suggested to the enemy a means of attacking and destroying us without risk to themselves." "By firing the palace," said the King gravely. "Yes. I thought of that. It is possible, and we must be prepared. Fire is easily mastered when it is small--a jar of water is sufficient; when it grows large, it takes a river." They passed on, talking together, and the boys began and continued recalling the many expeditions they had made with Sree. What a brave man he was! how full of knowledge of animal life in the jungle, and how devoted to them in his simple, unostentatious manner! "Yes, poor old Sree!" sighed Harry; "and now he's gone, and Adong too." "Think so?" said Phra, looking up sharply. "Oh, yes, or he would have been back with help," replied Harry. "Phra, old chap, I never felt so unhappy before in my life. It seems as if it was all over now." "But it isn't," said Phra. "There is so much for us to do." "To help our fathers?" "Yes." Harry sat back in his seat and began to think seriously, for his comrade's words had impressed him deeply, and as he sat there in the darkness of the night it dawned upon him more and more that in life one has to give up self for the sake of others, and that even at the very worst, when there is a disposition to think that one's own sorrows are everything, others have troubles and sorrows too that it is our duty to help and combat. They were vague, disconnected thoughts, which he could not quite put together, but they served to make him feel less miserable, even contented; and then he began to think of the King's words in connection with his father's, and the possibility of the palace being fired by the enemy. What had the King said?--that at the beginning a fire could be extinguished with a jar of water? Consequently Harry sat back making up his mind that as soon as it was light he and Phra would get the boatmen together and plant big jars and bamboo buckets of water in the parts of the palace nearest to the wall--in fact, wherever it seemed possible that firebrands would be thrown in. The natural consequence was that, being fagged out and sitting in an uncomfortable position upon a hard-backed seat, he dropped off to sleep and began dreaming of fire and putting it out with wooden buckets of water which always seemed to be empty when he was about to pour them on the flames. And so the night wore on, without any alarm of attack, and Harry dreaming wearily, starting into wakefulness, and dropping off again to dream of those bottomless buckets which were always empty when they ought to have been full. That constantly repeated dream irritated him, for even while he dreamed he was conscious that it was all imaginative, and that before long he would wake up and find he was dreaming, as he did over and over again, stiff, weary, and ready to make up his mind that he would sleep no more. But the next minute he was off again fast, and the last time in so deep a slumber that the sun was shining brightly when at last he opened his eyes upon Phra seated fast asleep at the other corner of the settee; and then turning his eyes a little to the right as he prepared his lower jaw for a good long yawn, he sat as if turned to stone, his mouth partly open, his eyes staring, and a horrible feeling as of cold water running down his back. For there, so near that he had only to sit up and stretch out his hand to touch him, Sree was squatted upon his heels in the middle of a mat, calmly chewing his roll of betel-nut, lime and pepper leaf, his homely, dark face expanding into a broad smile as he saw that he was noticed. "Sree! Alive!" cried Harry, springing from his seat, his cry rousing Phra, to sit up staring. "Yes, Sahib Harry," said the old hunter quietly. "I ran round to the back of the fire when I had pulled the ladder over and laid it with the bamboos, and then crept in among the bushes, to lie there, for I was nearly dead with the smoke. Then I crawled right away." "But weren't you hurt?" "My face scorched, and my hair burned a little, Sahib; that is all." "Oh, I am so glad, Sree," cried Harry. "You don't--don't--know what we felt last night." There was a slight impediment in Harry's speech as he caught the old hunter's right hand in both his own, an act imitated by Phra on the instant with the left, while the old man stood now looking proud and happy as he glanced from one to the other. "Yes, we thought you were dead," said Phra. "Here, let me go and tell father and the doctor," said Harry. "No, no, Sahib," said Sree. "I saw Sahib Kenyon an hour ago, and he sent me to you. I have been sitting here till you woke up. He said you would be pleased." "Pleased!" cried Harry. "There's a stupid word! That doesn't half mean what I feel. But I say, Sree, have you had any breakfast." "Oh, yes, Sahib; the master gave me plenty." "Tell us more, then. How did you manage to get here?" "Oh, I crawled along like a snake, Sahib," said Sree, smiling. "There are many of the enemy about, but I managed to get by without being seen while it was dark; and when the sun rose, I got up and walked along boldly with a spear over my shoulder, just as if I was one of the enemy, till I was opposite to the great gates where the powder is buried. Then I came straight up to the gate, and the sahibs were going to shoot me, for my face was so blackened by the fire and smoke that they did not know me till I spoke. Then I gave them my spear, and climbed over. What does Sahib Harry want me to do next?" "Fill water pots and bamboo buckets with water, to put in the rooms at the other side." "Ah, yes; that is wise," said Sree. "I thought of that last night, when I saw the windows begin to burn. A little fire can be mastered with a jar of water." "Hullo!" cried Harry. "Did you hear the King say that?" "Oh, no, Sahib; we all say so, because we know how easily our boats catch alight; and if the fire is not put out, it may mean hundreds all along the river." "Then we'll do that at once," said Phra; "only you must get Lahn and the boatmen to help." "But that's my idea, Phra," cried Harry; "I say, Sree, have you seen Lahn?" "Oh, yes, Sahib; he came running up, and then threw himself down to kiss and cry over my feet." "What did he do that for?" said Harry. "Because he was so glad, for he thinks of me as his father." "Now, Hal!" cried Phra; "come on; let's get the water pots put all about at once." "Shan't," said Hal, laughing. "I'm not going to begin till I've had my breakfast. I'm so hungry I could eat old Sree." CHAPTER XXXI COMING HOME TO ROOST That day passed away quietly enough, the enemy making no sign; but scouts reported that they were in hiding in all directions. "They mean to starve us out, boys," said Mr. Kenyon. "Oh," said Harry, "then they'll have to take care that they don't get starved first, for now the elephants are gone I suppose we could live for a month on the grain." It was as if the very mention of the word elephants had been the introduction to what was to come, for just then the peculiar noise known as trumpeting--which is really an agreeable blend in the way of noises, of pig in a gate, the final _haw_, prolonged and intense, of a donkey's bray, and the hoarse crow of a Cochin China cock--came faintly in through the open windows of the hall. Harry ran and looked out to where Sree and Lahn sat waiting and listening. "What was that, Sree?" he cried, as Phra followed him and looked out too. "It was an elephant, Sahib," said the hunter. "Yes, it was old Sul," cried Phra excitedly. "I know," cried Harry, laughing. "They've been and had a tremendous good feed out in the jungle, and now they've all come back." Harry was quite right, as examination proved, for the elephants had been thoroughly well trained, and treated in a way which made them prefer their civilized home to the jungle. So after a few words with Mr. Kenyon the King gave orders that a strong party should go across to the gate and guard it while the animals were admitted. The two boys hastened to join the party, taking Sree with them, when, having learned wisdom from the last time the gates were opened, ladders were placed against the wall, and a good look-out kept, so that no advance could be made along the side ditch or by the wall unnoticed. All being declared clear, and the guard stationed ready on either side, the gate was unfastened, the elephants standing patiently waiting, the trumpeting having ceased as soon as the first man's head appeared above the wall, while directly the gate was being dragged open, Sul thrust his head against it and pushed, making the task particularly easy. But as soon as there was ample room he uttered a peculiar squeak, and shuffled off across the park-like grounds, followed by the troop of ten, all evidently eager to get back to their old quarters, to which they made their way. "They'll want to go off again," said Harry, laughing. "Aren't you glad to see them back, Phra?" "Glad? Of course; it seemed horrible to lose them all. I never expected to see either of them again." "What are you shaking your head at, Sree?" cried Harry, as they waited till the gates were once more secure. "I was listening to what the Sahib said," replied the old hunter. "I am not surprised to see the elephants come back. Once they get used to man, and find he is a friend who feeds them, and treats them well, they do not want to leave him. Some of the mahouts are cruel, and make their heads sore with the goads, but I think kindness is best. I have made friends with the great beasts, often with big ones that the mahouts said were savage-tempered and dangerous. I never found them so." "Not when they were mad?" said Phra. "Oh, yes, then," replied the man. "They are dangerous at times, and it does not do to trust them much. Better let them loose in the jungle." "We might as well have made old Sul stop and carry us back," said Harry. "I say; there were no fighting men anywhere outside; do you think they will come to-night?" "Who knows, Sahib? Perhaps not to-night, but they will come and try to take the place, or they would not be waiting as I saw them this morning. They have some plan in their minds, but we are ready, and must meet them when they come." But there was no sign of the enemy that night, nor the next, and such a state of calm that it was hard to imagine that the palace was still beleaguered. There was no doubt of this, though, for it was only necessary to send out a scout in any direction for him to find bodies of the enemy watching the palace, and ready to check any attempt at escape, if such had been the intention of the besieged. This state of quietude enabled Mr. Kenyon and his English friends to finish several little arrangements for the defence, and the risk of fire was reduced by the amount of water provided for checking the first attempt to destroy the place, if such should prove to be the enemy's design. The earthwork at the great gates, too, was strengthened; for though there was the possibility of the attack being made in another portion of the defences, it seemed probable that it would be made as before. "They're like elephants, Hal," Phra said contemptuously; "they keep to the old track." The halt on the part of the enemy gave the doctor's patients a better chance of amendment, and the spirit that was within made several ready to return to the duties of the defence, each declaring that he would get better more quickly busy with his friends than lying as an invalid in bed, in spite of the gentle ministrations of the ladies, who did everything possible to help the doctor with his charge. Generally speaking, everything now had settled down in the palace to a complete state of routine. Watches were regularly set, including one on the roof, by the flagstaff, whence portions of the river could be seen; and longing looks were constantly cast, in the vain hope of seeing help in the shape of the well-manned boats of some British man-o'-war. Plans too were made as to the provisioning of the little garrison, and arranging that the stores should last as long as possible. This duty, with the care for the health of the place, devolved upon the doctor who proved to be most stern in his insistence upon every one obeying his rules. Harry and Phra took their turns in going on duty, and it fell to their lot to superintend the guard when the elephants were let out and returned from the jungle, the sagacious beasts marching off regularly every morning, and forming a regular path across the grounds to the distant gates, while, strange to state, a whole week elapsed without the enemy again interfering and attempting to gain an entrance at such times. "There is a meaning in it all, father says. They have lost so many men that they have determined to starve us out," Phra said one morning to his companion. "Yes; so my father thinks," replied Harry; "or else it is that they are waiting for reinforcements." "I don't think they would have to wait," replied Phra. "No; depend upon it, they think we shall give up soon, and lay down our arms." "So that they may march in and jump upon us, and then cut off our heads?" Phra's face looked quite old with wrinkles as he gave his companion a sombre look, and then nodded. "Perhaps they would be content, and let you English people off, if you gave up my father and his faithful friends." "And you with them?" said Harry gravely. "Of course." "Can't spare you, old chap. Bah! What are you talking about? If they think anything of that sort, they are more stupid than I thought for. Give up? They don't know what English people are yet. Why, Phra, we shall go on fighting till all the provisions are done, and then we shall make a fresh start." "How?" "By killing one of the elephants and eating him. Let's see; eleven of them. How long would they last?" "Nonsense!" "'Tisn't. Old Mike would cook them so as to make something good, and so that they wouldn't be tough." "Don't make fun out of our troubles," said Phra bitterly. "Why not? they're bad enough, so one needn't try to make them worse." "What I dread is--" began Phra, but Harry interrupted him. "I know; that the enemy won't come and be well thrashed." "No; that the water supply will be stopped. Father wondered that they had not dug up the bamboo pipes and cut that off." "Pooh! Let them. Father and Doctor Cameron talked that over the other night, and they said that near as we are to the river they would find water before we had dug down ten feet, and there would be abundance. Look here, Phra; I've thought over it all, and now the place is so strong we can laugh at the enemy and starve them out. Give up? Why, if it came to the worst, we should shut ourselves up in that wing, and blow away the big passage which joins it to the rest of the palace. Then we should defend it step by step till we were on the roof, and fight there till the last of us was killed. English people would rather die fighting than give up to be murdered by a set of savages like the enemy." Phra was silent. "Well, wouldn't you?" said Harry. "Yes," said Phra gravely. "I suppose I should be horribly frightened, but I should know that it was my duty to fight for my father to the last, and I should fight." "Of course you would, and so should I," cried Harry, flushing. "As to being frightened, well, I don't think we should be a bit. We should feel that shrinky-shanky sensation which makes you shiver and feel hot and cold and wish you were somewhere else, and want to run away, only you wouldn't for the world. I believe everyone feels that at such times--say if any one's drowning, and you don't want to jump in after him, or when there's a tiger or a big snake; but I don't think that's being frightened; that's only natural, because one would jump into the water to save any fellow drowning, or go and do anything. It's only a sort of hanging back before one begins. It can't be regular fright, old chap, because, if it was, we should run, and that we couldn't do. Now, that's real fright: we should be afraid to do that." "You're a queer fellow, Hal," said Phra, smiling. "Am I? Well, so are other English boys, for I suppose I'm like most of them. I don't want to fight. I hate it. It's horrible, but I think I shall not be afraid to fight; but I'm sure I should be afraid to run away." "I hope I should," said Phra thoughtfully, "and I don't want the fighting to begin again; but this miserable waiting day after day for aid to come is terrible. I say, do you think Adong will bring help?" "Not now, I don't. I'm afraid the poor chap has been killed, or he would have come back. He'd have made his way to us, the same as Sree did. I say, I begin to feel as you do--wish it would all come to an end." CHAPTER XXXII IN THE NICK OF TIME Sunset had come. The elephants had returned to the gate, and, being admitted without the sign of an enemy, had tramped quietly to their stables after their hearty banquet upon the succulent, jungle leaves. Then the darkness fell, the evening meal was eaten, the guard set, and after a chat with Sree, the boys went to their beds, to lie down dressed--ready for anything, and dropped off soundly to sleep. In what seemed like ten minutes Harry was awake again, to be conscious of a busy stir in the palace and Sree leaning over him with a hand upon his shoulder. "What's the matter?" cried the boy; "are they attacking?" "Yes, Sahib; there is going to be a big fight, and they are coming on with lights." "Ah!" cried Harry, "at last! Here, Phra!" "I'm ready," was the reply, and a minute later, gun in hand, the boys were out on the terrace, learning that the enemy was coming on in two bodies, their presence having been detected by Sree and Lahn, who were on guard, and whose keen ears had caught the low, rustling sound of their approach. There was no excitement among the defenders, for in obedience to several orders made for acting upon in case of such an emergency, every one had gone quietly to his place, the ammunition chests were thrown open, and arrangements made for keeping all well supplied, while the ladies had hurriedly dressed and gone to their post in the hospital room to wait till the doctor, who was with those who were in consultation on the terrace, should need their services. "Where are the boys?" said Mr. Kenyon suddenly. The answer came from close behind him. "Here, quick!" he said; "take the night glass and go up on the roof. You may be able to make out something of the movements of the enemy. Be back here in ten minutes." Harry and Phra ran off, the glass was obtained, and they made their way to the flagstaffs. It was wonderfully still, not a breath of air perceptible, and the darkness was intense low down, though above the sky was one glorious encrustation of stars. For a few moments nothing could be seen, and they stood listening to a peculiar, murmurous sound from away over the great gates, evidently caused by the movement of a large body of men. The telescope was brought to bear in that direction, but still nothing could be seen, and Harry, who held it, swept it round to the back, where all seemed black too; but suddenly a bright spark darted into the field of vision, then another, and another, and the boy handed the glass to his companion. "Look right over the corner yonder," he whispered. Phra adjusted the glass, but before he had time to make out that which had met Harry's eye the latter uttered a sharp ejaculation. "What is it?" cried Phra. "The river is alive with boats. They're just coming round the bend where the trees are. They all have lanthorns, and it would be a beautiful sight if they weren't coming to destroy this place." "Yes, beautiful," said Phra. "We've seen enough. There's a party coming on with torches behind; the enemy are in the front, and they are coming up to land on the water terrace to attack us at the side." "Come on down," said Harry, drawing a deep breath. "It's going to be a big fight to-night, and we shall have to retreat in here." Their information was carried to Mr. Kenyon, with whom was the King, and, as Harry had said, instructions were given for the defence by the gate to be held as long as possible before a retreat was made to the palace wing; a party was sent round to strengthen the guard in the rooms, the instructions being to think of nothing but extinguishing the fire if it should catch hold, for it was not judged likely that any attempts to scale the wall would be made there. And then as strong a party as could be spared was sent in the direction of the great, stone landing-place in case of an attack being made there, with orders to quickly retire if they were much pressed, so that the strength might be concentrated at and about the palace. The darkness did not seem to interfere with the movements in the least, for every man was familiar now with the dark paths beyond the court, and knew what he had to do, moving with the stern determination to perform that duty even at the cost of his life. The silence now grew more and more painful, and the defenders, who knew but little of what was going on at the back of the palace, their attention being concentrated upon the front or water side, were longing for the suspense of waiting to be brought to an end, so that they might find relief in action, when suddenly there arose a burst of shouting, and a faint glow rose over the roof of the principal building. The great danger foreseen had come, for a body of the enemy bearing burning brands had advanced boldly up to a short distance from the wall, close to the ashes of the burned tree, and begun hurling the blazing wood against the windows within reach. It was so quickly done that it seemed as if a splash of light suddenly darted out of the darkness beneath the wall, quivered for a moment in the air, and then described a curve, passing over the wall, striking against the barricaded window, rebounding, and falling down into the narrow court below. This continued rapidly; and though a glimpse was now and then caught of a dark face with flashing eyes, as the burning brand was thrown, it was so momentary that it was considered waste of ammunition to fire. Harry and Phra had hurried there directly they had given warning, and one of the first orders given was for two of the faithful Siamese to go down into the court and provide themselves with a bamboo bucket of water. Then as fast as the brands flew over the wall, struck the palace, and dropped down, they were seized, and their burning ends quenched. They came fast, striking above, below, and on either side. Some came with a loud rap against the boards nailed up for a breastwork, but few came right in at the open window. Still now and then one better aimed than usual rushed in like a rocket, and the value of the preparation made was evident. If there had been no defenders there, without doubt that portion of the palace would soon have been in a blaze, for the torches thrown had been prepared with some violently inflammable resin, and filled the place with a pungent smoke as they fell. But their time for burning was short. Quickly as they came, there was always some one ready to dart upon them, plunge them into a jar of water, and drop them down into the court. Still, in spite of the ill success of the movement, the brands were thrown in by the men, who darted from the shelter of the wall and back as soon as they had thrown the missile, while the bright glow which rose showed that a party must be busy there getting the torches well alight while others were being thrown. This had been going on for quite a quarter of an hour, the enemy working away with impunity, not one being hurt; and it seemed as if they meant to keep on till the room began to blaze. "This won't do, Phra," said Harry at last; "it's sickening, we ought to fire at the next who runs out." "It would be impossible to hit," said Phra bitterly. "I know," cried Harry. "Back directly." He ran round to the far wing, to find his father, the King, and several more anxiously waiting for the attack to commence upon the gate; for it was evident that a mass of the enemy were waiting, probably for the place to be on fire, before they began their advance, feeling that the blaze would confuse and dishearten the defenders, and make the task comparatively easy. Harry was supplied with that for which he had come, and hurried back to the room, into which two brands came hissing, entering by the window as he ran in by the door. "No, no, Sree," he cried; "don't touch that one," and the hunter rose again while the boy stooped, those who looked on catching a glimpse of a canister as the boy held a fuse to the flame, waited till it began to fizz and spit tiny sparks, and then rushed with it to the window, leaned out, making himself a mark for the next thrower whose torch whizzed by his ear, and then, well calculating his distance, the boy pitched the canister so that it, too, made a curve in the air, emitting scintillations as it flew, and dropped down on the far side of the wall just where the glow arose and formed a halo of light. "There," he cried, "if you're so fond of fireworks, how do you like that?" The words had hardly passed his lips before there was a tremendous concussion, a deafening roar, and the light which arose went out as suddenly as it had come; the glow had gone, and the throwing of the torches was at an end. "Any one hurt?" cried Harry. "No; are you, Hal?" "No, I don't think so. But has that stopped them?" he continued, as he looked out. "Yes, you can hear them running." "They're gone. But oh! I say! there's a big gap blown through the wall." Sree had picked up the still burning torch and now handed it to Harry, who threw it down into the court to make sure; and there plainly enough he could see an opening about four feet wide, offering an easy entrance for the enemy if they came on again. "Here," cried Harry, "all of you follow us; we must go round and be ready to beat them back. We must have some spears as well." The lad's promptness in proposing the right thing at the right moment naturally made him leader, and as he rushed out of the door all followed along the passage and downstairs to the terrace, so that they might run round. But as they ran they became conscious of a sudden roar of voices, coming, though they knew it not, from two directions, and the rattle of musketry began. For the enemy had taken the explosion at the back of the palace and the flash of light as the signal for them to advance; and with a wild burst of cries they came rushing towards the gate and the walls at the sides, provided with ladders, while from the landing-place by the river another column landed from the boats came on with a roar. The noise increased, and volley after volley was fired; but it soon grew desultory and weaker, for, unchecked by their losses, the enemy came on in their determined attack, driving the defenders along the paths leading to the river, and swarming over the gate and walls in a way that the weak force behind the barricade could not resist. Shot, hoarse yell, roar of defiance, and the clattering and ringing of spears, were mingled in wild confusion; and just as Harry and his little party reached the terrace, ready to rush round by the back, it was to awaken to the fact that the little reserve gathered there when he fetched the impromptu shell had rushed forward to assist those by the gate who were being driven back by sheer weight of numbers. "Stand fast!" cried Phra. "Spears, spears!" He set the example of seizing one from a sheaf placed ready by the door; the others followed, and they were able to plant themselves, a little compact body of ten, ready to try and cover their friends, who from the dark paths leading to the water and from the barrier were retreating, fighting hand to hand, their emptied pieces being only of use now as spears, thanks to the bayonets they had fixed. It was all over in the space of a minute. The defenders faced their enemies to the last; for the final retreat up the steps to the terrace was made backwards, as they came closer together till they were shoulder to shoulder, presenting a _chevaux de frise_ of bayonets to the stabbing spears of their enemies, till those first to reach the great doorway were crowded through, carrying those who had tried to cover them in first in spite of their efforts. But Harry in the wild excitement had a clear head. He and his companions, though so few in number, still retained their muskets, and these were loaded. Quick as the thought which occurred to him, he called upon his party to follow, and led the way to the window at the side, one that he had seen carefully provided with a breastwork ready for defenders, though he little thought he was to be one of those who would first prove its value. He saw it now, though; and as the great door was being held by those at bay, all inside now, and the enemy were pressing forward to follow them in, he got his own party crowded at the window. "At the word," he cried, as every musket was brought to bear on the dense crowd not five yards away. There was a momentary pause. "Present--fire!" he roared, and the ten muskets were discharged like one, literally tearing a little alley through the crowd. The effect was so sudden and startling to the attacking party that they fell back with one accord; but only for a few moments. Moments were vital then; and brief as the time was, it had given enough for some of those first driven in to get to and man the window on the other side of the door. Recovering from their surprise, the enemy yelled and rebounded, to come on again, when the sharp word of command was given, and a volley rattled from that side. It was another check, and the two together gave time for the defenders in the great doorway to bang it to, thrust in the bolts, and clang the bars across. "Twenty of you follow me to the upper windows," cried Mr. Kenyon. "You sir, hold those two windows. Fire in turn from each side. Volleys, mind; they have ten times the effect." By this time Harry's party had reloaded, and as with a savage yell the disappointed enemy divided to make for the windows, another volley tore through them. The King had obeyed his friend, and his first step had been to get twenty of his panting followers in a line and order them to load. Then he divided them into two firing parties, ten on either side, to support those at the windows. The fighting already gone through had been magnificent as a discipline, and in an incredibly short time the reserves were ready; and at a word Harry's party, who had been holding the window with bayonets, dropped back to reload, while the fresh ten stepped up and delivered their fire, holding the place in turn with their bayonets till Harry's party had reloaded. The same thing was going on at the other window, while now from the floor above, crash after crash, volley after volley, Mr. Kenyon's party joined in their fire. "Here, Sree," whispered Harry, "my arm has gone bad; you must load for me." There was no reply. "Where's Sree?" cried Harry again. No one had seen him since they fired the first volley, and Harry uttered a groan as he felt sure that the poor fellow must have gone down from a spear thrust. But there was no time to think in the darkness where they were pent up. It was every man's duty to make his ammunition tell upon the seething, savage crowd athirst for their blood, and the volley firing was kept up steadily, the ammunition chests in the middle of the hall being amply supplied in readiness for such an emergency, and every window attacked had its defenders directly. All at once Mr. Kenyon's voice was heard from above. "Where is the King?" he cried. "Here. Are you losing ground up there?" "No, sir, no. My men can keep up their fire there. I came to speak to you," he said in a low voice, but it was close to where the two boys were standing, and they heard every word. "We must do our best," he said, "for the whole country seems up against us. They have cast off all concealment now, and are coming up to the gate in thousands, many of them with lanthorns at the end of their spears. Where are the home-made shells?" "There, in a chest by themselves beneath the great table." "Yes, I know," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am going to throw a few down from one of the upper windows. Oh, if we could have fired those mines!" "The attack was too sudden," said the King. "The poor fellows had not a chance." "I ought to have gone there sooner," groaned Mr. Kenyon. The words had hardly passed his lips when the great hall became light as day for a moment, and then there was a roar like a peal of thunder, making the bamboo sun-blinds rattle and the whole place quiver. "Hurrah!" shouted Harry. "I know. That's Sree!" He did not pause to think how Sree could have been by him so short a time before and down at the barrier then. Even if he had felt disposed to wonder, the thought would have been driven out of his head, for in the midst of the sudden silence which had succeeded the tremendous roar it was repeated--the other mine had been fired, with a report which seemed louder than the first. The silence, both inside and out, was now appalling, and those within ceased reloading, as they waited, wondering what the effect had been upon the enemy, and whether such a catastrophe as that which must have befallen them would be followed by a retreat. But it was the turn of the besieged now to receive a shock, for all at once the faces of those who thronged the court began to be visible in the darkness. In another minute there came flash after flash, showing thousands of gleaming eyes, and a spontaneous yell of savage delight rose up from all around as the light grew brighter. "The palace--at the back!" cried Harry wildly. "Oh, Phra, we oughtn't to have left our posts." "They have come in through the wall and fired the place," said Phra with a groan. "Yes," said Mr. Kenyon coolly; "but half a keg of powder will tear down our connection with the main building, and we can still hold this wing to the bitter end." "What's that? Are they bringing big guns against us?" cried the King. No one replied, but stood listening, as _thud, thud, thud_, at regular intervals there came the reports of heavy pieces, followed by a fresh surprise. All at once there was a bright light from the direction of the river. Then another, which began to light up the trees in that direction, while, with a strange rapidity as the heavy firing went on, blaze after blaze sprang up, and it was now Mr. Kenyon's turn to be wildly excited. "Hark!" he shouted. "Do you hear that?" His answer was a wild burst of cheering from all the defenders present, as if in echo to the faint shouting which came off the river. "Hurrah!" cried Harry again. "Shout, Phra, shout! It's the help at last. It must be men-o'-war boats, and they're firing the enemy's barges as they come." "Yes, Sahib Harry," said a familiar voice. "English sailors with guns in boats, but the place is on fire and burning fast." At least a dozen of the light barges on the river were burning fiercely now, and drifting amongst and setting fire to others; but the firing from that direction had ceased. Then all at once there was a hearty cheer and a volley of musketry, while by the bright light which illumined the courtyard a movement began to be visible amongst the besiegers. In an instant Mr. Kenyon called upon those present, and volley after volley was sent tearing through the crowd moving now towards the gate. In another minute there was a rush from the now lit-up walks leading to the landing, and a strong body of sailors dashed out into the open, formed up in line, fired a fresh volley, and then charged across at the retiring enemy. That was enough. This charge from disciplined men, who came on with a tremendous cheer, broke the neck of the attack, and the crowd scattered and fled, seeking who could be first outside, for the way was clear, the great gates and twenty feet of the wall being completely swept away. A volley or two from the sailors hastened the flight, but no pursuit was attempted, and the men were wheeled round and halted in front of the terrace, their officers advancing to congratulate those whom they had so opportunely relieved; while as soon as a strong party had been stationed at the ruined gates the efforts of every one were directed to the burning palace, the far end of which was blazing furiously. "Look here," said the lieutenant in command of the sailors, "it seems a pity; but if it is not done, the whole place must burn down." "What would you do?" said the King. "Blow up the burning rooms--the farther end," said Mr. Kenyon promptly. "That's it," said the lieutenant. "If you've half a keg of powder, we'll soon manage that, and a few hundred buckets of water will do the rest." It was a pity, but it was like lopping off a diseased limb, and half an hour after another explosion had suddenly shaken down that end of the lightly built palace not a spark was visible. The next morning there was a ghastly array of sufferers lying about the precincts of the palace, but not an enemy to be seen. The great force gathered against the little knot of defenders had melted away. Weapons were hidden, and the spirit of the rebellion seemed to have quite evaporated, so that thousands of those who had been ready to fight desperately in the second king's cause eagerly returned to their daily avocations as soon as the news spread after the defeat that their leader and those who had headed the conspiracy had fled up the country to try and escape to safety in another land. It was while the naval officer in command of the sailors was collecting all the men he could--most of them members of the inimical force, but peaceful enough now--to set to work and remove all the ghastly traces of the late fight, that Harry and Phra came suddenly upon the old hunter and his two men superintending a gang of about twenty Siamese laden with spears and krises, which were being carried into one of the great sheds by the elephant stables. "Why, there's Adong!" cried Harry. "Here, how did you get back?" "He came with the sailors In one of the boats, Sahib," said Sree, answering for his man, who nudged him to reply. "Then it was he who found an English ship to send help?" "Oh, yes, Sahib Phra; but it took him a long time, and he began to fear that he would not find one at last." "Where did he find it?" "Sailing on the sea, and coming to our river, Sahib. He says he could not help being so long." "But how about the firing of those mines, Sree?" cried Harry. "You did that?" "Yes, Sahib." "How did you manage it? You were with us." "I went to a window where there were no fighting men, Sahib, and dropped out to go down to the gate, where hundreds of men were crowding in." "But didn't they stop you?" "No, Sahib; I was not an Englishman, and I played with them." "Played with them?" "Yes, Sahib; I held my arm, and I walked lame, and they said to themselves, 'Here is a brave man who has been wounded,' and they let me go. I knew that the Sahib wanted the powder to go off at a time like that, and I crept to the places where the wires were hidden among the stones. I pulled first one and then the other. It was very horrible, Sahibs, but they were enemies seeking to kill the King and his friends, so it was right that I should fire the mines." CHAPTER XXXIII WHAT FOLLOWED Sree's daring act with the mines, and the coming of the sailors who had burned the enemy's fleet of warboats, combined to completely dishearten the rebels, who fled, to a man; and the next day the people were poling back their houseboats to their old places about the banks of the river, trade was going on, and scores of the King's servants and retainers came flocking in, many of whom had no doubt taken part in the attack upon the palace, but the majority had fled through fear. The wounded were for the most part helped and fetched away, saving the bad cases, which were attended by Dr. Cameron and the surgeon from the ship; and excepting that strong guards were stationed at the levelled gates and the broken wall there was no sign of the effects of the siege twenty-four hours after the enemy had taken flight. The presence of the British war-ship in the river, with her guns and the naval detachment, helped to awe the people; but with the flight of the second king and his party the rebellion died, the hatred of the English colony was forgotten, and Harry felt half angry, half amused, to see the competition which ensued in the course of a few hours among the work-people of the city, who nearly fought for the right to rebuild the bungalows which had been destroyed. To be brief, in a few days the King was more firmly seated upon the throne than ever, for the inimical party had been swept away, and his people vied among themselves to prove who were the most devoted servants he possessed. It was about three months later, and after the departure of the man-of-war, that Harry and Phra were going round the English quarter, where the rebuilding was well in progress, Mr. Kenyon's bungalow most forward of all. "They have worked, Phra," cried Harry triumphantly. "Why, in another fortnight we shall be able to begin housekeeping again. Mike has bought boat-loads of things ready to come in as soon as the place is dry." "Yes," said Phra; "they are getting on fast. These light bamboo-built places are soon raised; but I don't see why you should be in such a hurry. Aren't you comfortable up at the palace?" "Comfortable?" cried Harry. "It would be a shame if we weren't. No one could be nicer than the King." "To his friends," said Phra gravely. "His enemies think differently." "He has no enemies now," said Harry. "No, not now, for the last of those who headed the rising have left the country." "All those who could," said Harry, with a meaning look. "Don't talk about it," said Phra, with a spasm of pain in his face. "We were talking about you coming back here to live. Aren't you afraid of another volcanic eruption?" "N--no," said Harry. "We should be more on our guard if one were threatening." "There will not be another for many years," said Phra gravely. "My father has shown the people what he can do when roused, and he means to be more severe with any who stir up the people against what he does and his favouring of the English. I am sure we shall all be safe for many years to come. Don't hurry to get away from the palace; father wants you to stay--so do I." "Yes, that's very nice, but it isn't home, Phra, old chap, and we English people like to be independent and have our own nests. But I was thinking that if there was another rising in a few years, we should be grown men and able to do better." "You couldn't. Could they, Cameron?" said a voice behind them. "You there, father?" cried Harry, flushing. "Where should I be but in my own home, sir? The doctor and I have just come for a look round. But the museum looks bad, boys." "Yes, father. Phra and I were talking last night about having a turn in the jungle with Sree to begin collecting." "And also about a rebellion in the future, and fighting better when you are men. The doctor and I hope and believe that if there is war again it will be against a foreign enemy, and the people will be joining their wise and progressive King in defending themselves. Eh, Cameron?" "We shall have no more risings," said the doctor decisively, "for the people will never forget the way in which the last was put down. We are like your father, Phra, stronger than ever now." "Let's end here," said Mr. Kenyon. "One such incident as that trouble at the palace is enough in any boy's life." The two elders walked away to meet Mrs. Cameron, who had come down to join her husband; and the boys stood looking at one another. "No more fighting, Phra," said Harry; "but we've got the museum to fill." "Yes; when shall we begin?" "At once," said Harry. "So let's go and find old Sree."